The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

“You’ll get back to Paris.”

  “Damn right I will,” she said. “As soon as madame is able to stand up and lean against a bar again, I’m on the next flight across the Atlantic. Meanwhile, I’ve been looking for magazine work, but everything is filled up. So I’ve found a dumb job at the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “That doesn’t exactly sound like a bad place to work.”

  “Hey, I’m not a curator. It’s a job in the gift shop. But it is a job. And it will pass the time until Mommy Dearest has healed and I can flee the country.”

  Later that night, over dinner in the apartment, I told Dan about Margy’s change of plans, and how she was almost certain that her mother staged the accident to keep her from leaving.

  “Well, Margy would say something as neurotic as that,” he said.

  “Hey, I thought the same thing when my mom tried to kill herself.”

  “There is a considerable difference between an actual suicide attempt and Margy thinking that her crazy mother deliberately threw herself down a flight of stairs to keep her at home. Then again, having never had direct experience with New York neurotics, I’m not an expert on their brand of craziness.”

  “That’s because you’re so ultrarational . . .”

  He looked at me with surprise.

  “You think I’m ultrarational?”

  “Just a little too controlled sometimes, that’s all.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me . . .”

  “Hang on, I’m not trying to start a fight here.”

  “No, you’re just making comments about my rigidity.”

  “I called you rational, not rigid . . .”

  “Ultrarational . . . which is just about the same as rigid. And, hey, I’m really sorry if I strike you as a stiff . . .”

  “What the hell has gotten into you?” I said.

  “Do I attack your personality? Do I make little asides about your little flaws?”

  “Such as?” I said, suddenly furious.

  “Such as your own damn rigidity . . . the way you always keep yourself so tightly in check, always terrified of maybe putting a foot wrong, or displeasing me, or, God forbid, doing something adventurous.”

  I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.

  “What?” I yelled. “Everything—everything—I have done ever since I’ve known you has been geared toward you . . . your studies, your career . . .”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Hannah. I have never, ever stopped you from doing anything. You’re the one who’s stopped yourself—who refused to go to Paris, who followed me around during the summers . . .”

  “You felt I was following you, like some goddamn puppy dog?”

  “You’re not hearing me. I’m always happy that you are with me. But I know deep down you feel just a little thwarted by being so hemmed in . . .”

  “I have never said I was feeling thwarted . . .”

  “Well, you sure as hell have shown it.”

  “Well, thank you for speaking ‘the truth.’ And while you’re at it, give yourself an A for perceptiveness, and an A-plus for having the most monumental ego.”

  “Ego? Me?”

  “You don’t think I see the ruthlessness behind the Mr. Nice Guy façade?”

  As soon as that was out of my mouth, I regretted it. But that’s the thing about a fight, especially a fight with the person to whom you are the closest, and with whom you never fight: when it gets going—when, out of nowhere, everything suddenly implodes—all sorts of horrible stuff comes tumbling out. And you suddenly find yourself unable to stop yourself from saying . . .

  “You don’t think I see how you always put you and your work first, always?”

  “Shut up,” he said, then grabbed his jacket and charged toward the door.

  “That’s right—run off, don’t face up to—”

  He turned back and looked at me with pure rage.

  “You’re the one with shit to face up to.”

  And he slammed the door behind him.

  I don’t think I moved for around three minutes after he stormed out. I was in shock, wondering: where did all that come from? I couldn’t believe what he had said. I couldn’t believe what I had said. And what shook me the most was the realization that everything said was, in some desperate way, true.

  It’s your own damn fault, said a voice in my head.

  Yeah, but he started it.

  An hour went by, then two, then three. It was now well after midnight, and I was starting to get freaked, because, outside of night shifts at the hospital, Dan never stayed out late.

  I waited up until one a.m., then called the hospital.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist told me, “but Dr. Buchan isn’t on duty tonight . . . no, he’s not been in.”

  There was nothing I could do until he got back here, so I simply crawled into bed, pulled the sheet over my head, and tried to ignore our neighbor playing Grand Funk Railroad at an excessive volume.

  Somehow I finally gave in to sleep—a very light sleep, as I jolted awake as soon as I heard our front door close. I glanced at the alarm clock. Four-thirty a.m. I got out of bed. Dan was in the kitchen, making himself a cup of coffee.

  He looked tired and strained.

  “Where’ve you been?” I asked.

  “Driving,” he said.

  “For seven hours?”

  He shrugged.

  “Where did you go?”

  “New Haven.”

  “That’s . . . a hundred and fifty miles from here?”

  “One hundred and seventy-two miles, if you want to get technical about it.”

  “Why New Haven?”

  “I got on I-95, turned south, and started driving.”

  “What made you stop?”

  “Work. You.”

  “Even though I’ve followed you around like a puppy dog?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Look, why don’t we just accept the fact that it was a fight . . . our only bad fight ever . . . and that a lot of stupid stuff—”

  “Do I disappoint you that much?” I asked.

  “Hardly. And do you think I’m really Mr. Ruthless?”

  “No.”

  He looked up at me and smiled.

  “Then let’s just . . .”

  He reached for me and pulled me toward him. I didn’t resist. He kissed me deeply, his hands suddenly moving all over me. I opened my legs and pressed my groin against his, my tongue now deep down his throat, my left hand gripping the back of his head. We stumbled out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, still locked in an embrace. We pulled off our clothes and he was inside me within seconds. His ardor surprised me. His usual gentleness—and reserve—had suddenly vanished. He was drilling into me with abandon. And though part of me was shocked by the roughness of his onslaught, another part of me liked it—and I responded in kind, digging my nails into his neck, arching my back so he could thrust deeper. I came before he did, the ferocity of my orgasm blocking out all sense of time, place. For a moment or two, I was nowhere—and it was a wonderful place to be. A few moments later, Dan slumped against me, burying his face deep into my shoulder. We said nothing for a very long time. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

  “We should fight like that more often.”

  Dan had to get up around ten minutes later—to shower and shave before starting his six a.m. morning shift. Before leaving, he brought me a cup of coffee in bed, kissing me on the head.

  “Better go,” he said quietly.

  After he left, I sat up in bed with my mug of coffee and tried to keep my growing anxiety at bay: we’d made love right in the middle of my cycle. And I hadn’t been wearing my diaphragm.

  For the next few weeks, I focused my energies on renovating the apartment. My period never arrived. When it was four weeks late, I forced myself to call our local doctor and arrange for a pregnancy test. The next day, I drove down to his office and was handed a glass beaker and directed to the bat
hroom. When I returned with the urine sample, the doctor said, “Call my nurse tomorrow and she’ll give you the result.”

  After the test, I took myself out for lunch, followed by a movie at a cheap fleapit theater downtown. I arrived home around five. Dan had gotten back before me. He was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a bottle of beer, looking unhappy.

  “You’re back early,” I said.

  “You’re pregnant,” he replied.

  I felt myself tense.

  “The nurse from Dr. Regan’s office just rang with the test result,” Dan said. “She said they’d gotten the results early, and figured you wanted the news straightaway.”

  “I see . . .” I said, avoiding his gaze.

  “Congratulations,” he said, “and thanks for letting the father in on the news.”

  “I was going to tell you,” I said.

  “Well, glad to hear it . . . since I was somewhat involved. How long have you known?”

  “I just found out.”

  “You know what I mean. When did you suspect?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “And you kept this from me all this time?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything if it wasn’t true.”

  “Why? Because you were planning to do something about it without me knowing?”

  “You know I’d never do that,” I said. “Of course I’m keeping it.”

  “Well, that’s something. I’m still pretty damn shocked that you didn’t say anything.”

  “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, just in case . . .”

  That was a complete lie. I didn’t say anything because I was too scared to say anything. Even though I knew I’d have the baby—even though I was certain Dan wouldn’t flip out—something in me stopped myself from letting him in on the early news. And the problem was that I really didn’t understand what stopped me from telling him. All I knew was: I couldn’t. Still, he seemed to buy my fraudulent explanation, saying, “You still should have let me know. Like we’re in this together, right?”

  “Of course,” I said quietly.

  “And as long as we’re both happy . . .”

  “It’s great news,” I said, trying not to sound too somber.

  “It’s the best news,” he said, taking me in his arms. I accepted his embrace. I played along, trying to be cheerful at a moment that I knew was momentous, but which (to me anyway) seemed clouded with ambiguity. I didn’t know what to feel.

  Later on, as Dan drank a third celebratory beer and I sipped tea, he made all the appropriate noises about how the baby’s arrival wouldn’t change my work as a teacher, as he was sure we could find someone around here to look after the kid while I was off teaching.

  “I’m going to have to tell the school before I start,” I said.

  “I’m sure they’ll be cool about it.”

  “But one thing,” I said. “I don’t want this news mentioned to anyone in either family for a couple of months—just in case I miscarry before the first trimester.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  But of course I broke my own demand for secrecy by telling my one great confidante. Margy called me one evening while Dan was on a night shift, to let me know that, as her mother had finally hired a part-time nurse to attend to her many needs, she’d flown the coop and had found a small apartment across town.

  “So why haven’t you rushed back to Paris?”

  “Because they’ve made me assistant manager of the museum gift shop—and I know that’s a really lame excuse, but hey, it’s just a temporary job and I’ve signed a year’s lease on the studio, and I know I’m hemming myself in, and blah, blah, blah, blah . . . which is another way of saying that I’m not going to talk about this anymore. What’s up with you?”

  And after swearing her to total secrecy, I let her in on the news of my pregnancy.

  “You’re shitting me,” she said.

  “If only . . .”

  “You going to keep it?”

  “Of course.”

  A silence. I could tell that Margy was fighting the urge to give me advice.

  “Hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “By which you mean you think I’m out of my mind.”

  “You want the truth? Yeah, the idea of being a mother at twenty-two would freak the crap out of me. Because it just isn’t me. Still, I am not you, and I’m sure you’ll be brilliant at it.”

  “But now I’m trapped.”

  “Hon, everybody’s trapped.”

  True, and most of us set the trap that snares us. Or we walk straight into a situation that we know will cause us problems—and do nothing to stop it. I could so easily have dashed into the bathroom for a moment to put in my diaphragm. I could have told Dan to come outside me. But I said nothing, did nothing. And now my destiny was sealed.

  Later that day, I called the headmaster of the school where I was to start teaching in September and explained that I would be having a baby around mid-April of next year. I could actually hear his sharp intake of breath as I broke this news.

  “Well, I certainly thank you for giving me advance warning,” he said. “I presume you just found out.”

  “Yes—and believe me, it was totally unplanned,” I said, sounding stupidly guilty, as if it was his business whether or not it was intended.

  “These things often are,” he said, sounding like he wanted to get off this subject, then adding that he’d have to talk to the head of the Middle School about the implications, and he’d get back to me as soon as possible.

  “Oh . . . my congratulations, of course,” he added drily.

  Thanks a lot. And thanks even more for the letter which came a few days later explaining in a measured, reasoned way why the school would no longer be able to offer me a job this autumn—as the very fact that I would be having a baby in the spring would rule me out of that trimester, and considering that I’d be a first-year homeroom teacher—never an easy escapade, in his experienced opinion—I’d be balancing such hefty new responsibilities with the equally hefty burden of pregnancy blah, blah, blah . . .

  I balled up the letter, tossed it in the trash basket, and thought: That’s me screwed.

  “Can’t you take them to court or something?” Margy asked when I called up to scream about losing my job.

  “Dan’s already looked into that. The fact that they’re letting me go before I even start gives me little comeback. More to the point, there’s nothing on the statute books protecting a woman from unfair dismissal on the grounds that she’s pregnant.”

  “You shouldn’t have told the school.”

  “Lying’s not my style.”

  “You’re just too straight.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real character flaw.”

  “So what now?”

  “Well, there’s a teacher’s course at the University of Rhode Island, just twenty minutes out of town in Kingston. And as the baby’s due in mid-April, they told me I could take my finals next autumn. The other good thing is that they might be able to find me a little substitute teaching—which is kind of crucial, as we’re really going to need some extra money.”

  “You still haven’t told your parents?”

  “It’s top secret until I’m ready to tell them.”

  “Your mother being your mother, I bet she picks up on you being knocked up before you get around to letting her in on the secret.”

  Per usual, Margy was clairvoyant. I had to drive up to Vermont the next day—to pick up a few final bits and pieces from our old apartment, still in storage in my parents’ barn. I hadn’t seen Mom in around six weeks, and as soon as I stepped through the front door, she took one look at me and said, “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

  I tried not to react. I failed.

  “No way.”

  “Then why did you turn chalky when I asked you that question?”

  I dodged an answer—as I suddenly felt a bout of nausea coming on. I dashed down the hallway to the little toilet under the
stairs. I made it just in time. God, how I despised being sick like this. And I knew Mom was going to give me the third degree as soon as I stopped hugging the toilet.

  In fact she didn’t wait that long. Instead, she knocked on the door and asked, “You all right in there?”

  “Must have been something I ate,” I said between retches.

  “Bullshit,” she replied, and thankfully dropped the subject for the remainder of my visit.

  Back in Providence, I killed time by signing up for a swimming course at a local pool, and dedicated an hour every morning to my French books, trying to crack the subjunctive tense and expand my vocabulary. I also volunteered at the local McGovern headquarters and spent ten days sticking leaflets into mailboxes and stuffing envelopes at the Rhode Island campaign headquarters in Providence.

  “You know you’re working for a lost cause,” some big beefy postman told me one day when I followed him to a mailbox on some suburban road.

  “But it’s the right cause,” I countered.

  “A loser’s a loser,” he said. “And I only vote for winners.”

  “Even if they’re crooks?”

  “Everyone’s a crook,” he said, and continued his rounds.

  That’s just not true, I felt like shouting after him. There’s a lot of integrity out there. But I knew it sounded lame—even though I so wanted to believe it was true.

  “What else do we have except our integrity?” I found myself asking Margy when I related this story to her on the phone that night.

  “Our bank accounts?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Hey, can I help it if I am a remorseless cynic?”

  “Cynicism is always cheap.”

  “But at least it’s amusing.”

  “Don’t talk to me about amusing. I live in Rhode Island.”

  “Why don’t you jump the train down here for a couple of days?”

  “I’m only married a couple of months.”

  “Big deal. Anyway, Dan’s working all the time, isn’t he?”

  “It’s not the right moment.”

  “When is the right moment, Hannah?”

  “Let’s not play this old tune again, please.”

  “Hey, it’s your life, sweetheart. And no one’s putting a gun to some cocker spaniel’s head and saying: If you don’t spend a weekend in Manhattan with Margy, we’ll shoot this dog.”