by Alison Lurie
7
Three Telephone Conversations
1.
“HELLO.”
“Mrs. Tate? This is Dr. Bunch.”
“Oh, hello, Dr. Bunch. I wanted to see you, but your nurse said you were going away this weekend, she suggested I call Dr. Keefe, but I don’t really know him, and the problem is ...Well, the problem is we have a friend, a graduate student at the University; it’s her I’m calling about actually. You see, she’s in trouble.”
“Trouble? What type of trouble?”
“I mean, she’s found out she’s pregnant ...And she’s just terribly unhappy about it. You see, she’s studying for a degree, and if she has a baby she’ll have to leave school, and her whole future will be disrupted. So she came to me, today, and I thought you might have some idea about what she could do. You might know where someone in her condition could go, or someone who could help her.”
“Hm. Well. Has this pregnancy actually been medically confirmed?”
“Oh yes. She’s had a test. With a rabbit—”
“Hm. Of course this is a difficult experience, a shock—”
“Yes, it’s very—”
“—and probably there hasn’t been time for you to seriously consider how very wrong, not to say hazardous—”
“I know it’s hazardous, Dr. Bunch; that’s the whole reason I’m calling you. You see I have to find someone decent and competent to help her, because if I don’t she’ll probably go to some awful quack abortionist in Jersey City or somewhere, she might do anything, really, she’s so depressed, so exhausted, miserable—”
“How old are you, Erica?”
“Forty, last month, but I don’t see—”
“And how many children do you and Professor Tate have?”
“Two. I know what you’re going to say, you’re going to say that this child deserves to be born as much as they did. But when a child is unwanted, when it just interferes with everyone’s life—”
“Please listen to me for a moment, Erica. You’re a relatively young, healthy woman. You and your husband have a secure income and only two children. You’re upset now about this pregnancy, you think that you don’t want another baby, perhaps that you’re too old—”
“But I’m not—”
“—or possibly your husband doesn’t want it—”
“Dr. Bunch, it isn’t—”
“—or both of you, but believe me, I’ve seen many cases of this kind, and in my experience these late children, these ‘little afterthoughts’ as I call them, are often in the end the greatest source of satisfaction of all to both parents. Now, I suggest that you make an appointment for next week with my—”
“Dr. Bunch, listen! You think it’s me who’s pregnant, but I’m not, really. It’s this student—”
“If it’s a student, why doesn’t she go to the Corinth clinic?”
“Because they won’t help her at the clinic. She’s already been there, and they—”
“If you’re not personally concerned, Mrs. Tate, I frankly don’t understand why you would want to involve yourself in something like this. Abortion is not only against the law in this country, it’s a serious crime, and you’re proposing to make yourself an accessory to a crime. Why should you take any such responsibility? This student, if she exists, must have a family, friends—And how about the father? Isn’t he able to help? Would he be willing for example to marry her? Who is the father?”
“What?”
“Who is the father of this baby?”
“Uh I don’t know him. I mean the girl, my friend, doesn’t know who the father is. It might be anyone of several people; students, you know. There’s nobody she can really go to, except for money that is. I mean you don’t have to worry about that, about money. If you could help her, I’m sure—”
“You’re asking me to perform an illegal operation, is that right?”
“I’m not asking you to perform it. I’m just asking you to recommend—”
“Mrs. Tate. In my eighteen years of practice, nineteen next July first, I’ve had many, many patients come to me with this same problem. Most of them have claimed they were just asking for a recommendation, and almost all of them begin by saying they are inquiring for a friend—”
“Dr. Bunch—”
“—when it is quite obvious to me from everything they say that there is no ‘friend.’ Do you have any tranquilizers in the house now, Erica?”
“No, I—”
“Well then, I’m going to write a little prescription for you; I’ll call it in to the Country Corners Drugstore, and it should be ready for you to pick up in about an hour. I want you to take one every four hours; and then tomorrow morning, when you feel more yourself, when you’re calmer, you can telephone this office and make an appointment for next—”
“But I’m already myself. I don’t need a tranquilizer, I’m quite tranquil, considering everything, but I’m honestly not expecting a—”
“I can’t discuss this matter any more with you, Erica. I have other patients waiting.”
“But, Dr. Bunch!”
“Good-bye, then. Don’t forget to pick up that prescription.”
2.
“Brian Tate here.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. Where have you been?”
“I was out of the office. What is it? Is something the matter?”
“You’re asking me if something is the matter? That’s funny, really.”
“Erica, please. I’ve had a difficult day. Tell me what you called about, if it can’t wait until I get home.”
“It can’t wait, because you’re not coming home today. That’s what I’ve been calling you about, to tell you not to come here. I’ve packed your Gladstone bag, I put in two shirts and an extra pair of slacks and—”
“What do you mean, you packed—”
“—and your shaving things and some underwear, and I already took it up and left it in the office with Mrs. Wells. I told her you were leaving town and you would pick it up later.”
“Now wait a minute. What do you mean, leaving town? I’m not going anywhere until the APSA meetings next month.”
“I don’t care where you’re going. I don’t care anything about you, or what you do any more, I just don’t want you to come here, that’s all.”
“Now listen, Erica. Try to get control of yourself—”
“I have got control of myself. I’ve got a good deal more control of myself than—”
“Erica, look, I’m leaving the office now, and I’ll be home as soon as—”
“If you come anywhere near this house, I’m going to tell The Children everything you’ve done.”
“The Children, what do you mean tell—”
“Because I think they’re old enough to know. And please don’t start again on the apologies and excuses. Don’t tell me this time how important I am to you and how I have to learn, to forget and forgive and not act irrationally and brood about events in another less important separate area of your life which didn’t mean anything. I’ve heard enough of your political speeches, and so has Wendy.”
“Wendy?”
“Yes, Wendy. In case you want to know, she came to lunch here today.”
“Oh, hell.”
“You didn’t think she would do that, did you? You thought she would just get out of Corinth quietly and obediently, not asking for anything, not blaming you for what you’ve done to her, and to me. And she probably would have, that’s what’s so awful, and terrible.”
“Wendy was there at the house? When did she leave? Was she going to New York?”
“No, to New Jersey.”
“New Jersey?”
“Yes, she has friends there. You mean you didn’t even know where she was going?”
“No, I—”
“And you didn’t care. You thought you could throw her out like an old pair of pajamas you were through sleeping in, and you weren’t going to concern yourself with where she went or what happ
ened to her. You didn’t care whether she might be dead by this time next week.”
“Dead! What do you mean, dead?”
“And don’t bother to put on that concerned public voice. You know quite well what I mean. You know what the statistics are on illegal operations in Jersey City, you read that article in the Village Voice, but you don’t care. As long as she leaves your sphere of operations and doesn’t bother you any more, you don’t care.”
“That’s not true. I’ve spent all afternoon trying to find Wendy, trying to help her. I’ve been at the bank taking out money, I’ve been to the bus station, to her apartment, and all over town, all over the campus looking for her, calling her friends, for Christ’s sake, I’ve been doing everything I can—”
“Everything you can? You want me to believe that for months you’ve used this girl like a pair of dirty pajamas, and now, suddenly, today—”
“Erica, please listen to me! I didn’t know about any of this until today. I didn’t know Wendy was pregnant until I got a letter from her at the office, this noon.”
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe that.”
“Well it’s true, whether you believe it or not. And I didn’t tell her to leave town, that was her idea, I didn’t know anything about her plans, I didn’t think she was going to go to you and make trouble—”
“Wendy didn’t come here to make trouble. She came because she wanted to apologize to me, because she at least has some sense of guilt, some sense of decency, and since she thought I already knew all about her—”
“How could she think that? I never said anything that could make her think—At least, not since last spring. Erica, listen. I’m coming home now, and we can work out—”
“I don’t want to work out anything with you.”
“All right, if you feel that way now, I can understand that, but at least we can talk—”
“And I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t know why I’m talking to you now, it’s a waste of time talking to someone who does nothing but lie and make excuses.”
“Erica, please listen—”
“If you really want to do something, Brian, you might try to find a decent doctor who would be willing to help Wendy. And don’t bother calling Dr. Bunch. I already tried him.”
“You mean someone in New York.”
“New York, or Corinth, or Albany or Boston or Puerto Rico, it doesn’t matter.”
“But there’s no point in that, Erica. Even if I could locate someone, I still can’t get in touch with Wendy. I don’t have her telephone number in New York, I mean New Jersey.”
“I know how to reach her.”
“You do? Good, give me the number.”
“I’m not going to give you anything. Wendy doesn’t want to speak to you, anyhow.”
“But—”
“If you find a doctor, you can call me. Otherwise, I don’t want to hear from you again.”
“But Erica! ... Erica? ...Are you there? Don’t hang up ... Oh, shit.”
3.
“799-0579.”
“Leonard? This is Brian Tate.”
“Well, good evening; Brian. Are you in the city?”
“No, I’m in Corinth.”
“Ah, Corinth. And how is everything up there? How is my ex-wife, and my ex-children?”
“They’re well, as far as I know; I haven’t seen them recently—”
“And how are you, and all your relatives?”
“Fine, thank—Well, not so fine, actually. Something’s come up, that I wanted to consult you about.”
“Of course. Listen, Brian, can I call you back in about half an hour? I have a friend here now.”
“Yeh, all right—No, wait a minute; I’m not at home.”
“Not at home? Where are you, then?”
“I’m at a motel.”
“A motel, in Corinth?”
“Well, just south of Corinth. I believe it’s in Hesiod, actually. It’s called the Twin Birches Motel.”
“You’re in a motel, hm. It sounds like you’ve got a problem.”
“Yeh.”
“All right, give me your number.”
“It’s—No, I’ll call you back. I’m in a pay phone.”
“In that case, maybe you’d better tell me about it now. Inez, honey, could you excuse me a minute? This is an old friend calling from Corinth, and he’s got a problem ...No, you don’t need to leave, just move over to the other side of the bed so I can reach the phone a little better ...Okay. So what’s up there? What are you doing in a motel, did Erica throw you out?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact she did.”
“That surprises me. I would have said it wasn’t in Erica to do anything so vulgar, so obvious, so lower-middle-class. But we live and learn. And why did she throw you out?”
“Well, it’s complicated. I don’t want to go into the whole thing now, I just ...
“Was it for the obvious, vulgar reason?”
“What? I’m afraid I don’t understand you. I’ve had a hell of an exhausting day.”
“Let me put it this way. I take it you’re not alone now.”
“What? Oh no, that’s all right, no one can hear us.”
“I mean, there’s somebody with you, isn’t there? Not in the phone booth, in the, what was it, Twin Bitches Motel.”
“Twin Birches. No, I’m here alone.”
“I see. Excuse me. I mean, I don’t see. You’re not drunk, by any chance?”
“Not as far as I know. I wish I was drunk. That’s an idea. Maybe I should get drunk.”
“All right, Brian, hold on. I’m listening to you ...So what’s your problem?”
“It’s—Leonard, can your girl friend hear me?”
“I don’t think so. She’s not listening, anyhow; she’s reading Art International.”
“It’s—You know I’m counting on your discretion about this.”
“Yeh, all right. Go ahead.”
“I mean, if what I’m going to tell you should get out, if it was known around the university, it would really screw things up for me.”
“It won’t get out. Don’t worry.”
“The thing is—Couldn’t you ask her to go into the other room for a few minutes?”
“There is no other room. You’ve seen this apartment, haven’t you? I can’t afford two rooms on what my ex-wife leaves me. Do you want me to ask her to go into the bathroom?”
“No; never mind. You know, Leonard, I want you to understand that I wouldn’t have called you if I wasn’t really up against the wall, or if I had any other way of getting the information. You understand that, don’t you?”
“For shit’s sake! What information?”
“I don’t want to relate the whole history. What I wanted to ask you. What I called about, is. I need to locate an abortionist.”
“I see ...Well, you surprise me more and more. Hold on. Let me think a moment ...How soon do you need this information?”
“As soon as possible. There’s a chance the, uh, girl might do something rash, she’s in kind of a disturbed state now of course, she’s very young, quite emotional ...
“Very young. A student?”
“No. A graduate student.”
“Well, congratulations ...It’s not going to be all that easy, you know. I’ve never had this particular problem myself, touch wood. I’ll have to make inquiries.”
“All right. But you can find someone?”
“I don’t know yet. I think I might be able to get you a name. But it’ll cost you.”
“I have some money. I already went to the bank this afternoon.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred dollars.”
“Better make it a thousand.”
“A thousand?”
“If you don’t want any mess. I can probably lend you the rest, if you need it.”
“No. That’s not necessary. I—”
“Your time is up, please signal when through.”
“All right ... I
don’t need any money, thanks.”
“Okay. Can you call me tomorrow morning, say about ten, at the university?”
“At the university?”
“You have my number, don’t you, it’s—”
“I have it, I only wondered—”
“Your time is up, please signal when through.”
“All right, goddamn it! I was saying, I wondered if your switchboard girl might—”
“Forget about that. This isn’t Corinth, nobody here cares how many students you knock up. And try to relax, friend, okay? It’s not World War III.”
8
“HOW IS EVERYTHING?” ERICA asks in a low anxious voice, coming into Danielle’s house and shutting the door behind her against the morning frost and damp thin mist.
“All right.”
“Where’s Wendy?”
“Still asleep.” Danielle gestures toward the ceiling, toward her spare room, where Wendy has been staying since yesterday afternoon. Erica had first thought of keeping her at home until she felt better and the arrangements for her operation had been made. But Erica’s house is not a good place for Wendy. First, because it contains Jeffrey and Matilda. Meeting them would certainly be upsetting to Wendy—and still more upsetting for the children if they were to learn who and what Wendy was—something she might very easily reveal by mistake in her present state.
Even more dangerous was the possible reappearance of Brian. Erica had told him to stay away, but there is no guarantee he will do so. It was very likely that he would suddenly decide to come home to get clean shirts or argue his case. This would be bad enough if Erica were there; worse if Wendy were alone. Brian has already done her serious emotional damage, and might do more. But Erica could not stay home with Wendy night and day; she had to shop for groceries, buy Matilda a Halloween costume for tonight, deliver two drawings to the Community Art Show and Jeffrey to the dentist. At Danielle’s, however, Wendy would be safe from Brian; and Danielle’s children would be incurious, since there was often some old acquaintance or student of their mother’s staying in the spare room.
