This was like waiting in a hospital while someone died. Maybe she will die, Joyce thought. Mary Jean's fears, which had been merely irritating up to this point, suddenly took on life and substance. They do die sometimes, Joyce thought.
There was no sound from the inner room at all. She sat down in the corner beside the window and concentrated on hating men. If a man put his hand on me I'd kill him, she thought with vicious pleasure. She thought about her father, whom she'd never seen and didn't know anything about. Sometimes when she was younger she used to wonder about him—whether he was a neighbor boy or somebody's hired man or maybe a salesman, whether he died or went away, whether he ever even knew he had fathered a child. Then she quit wondering because there didn't seem to be much point in it; Aunt Gen wasn't giving out any information—had told the young-widow story about Mimi so often she almost believed it herself by this time. Now Joyce hated him, that unknown boy, along with the rest of his sex. He had got Mimi into trouble and left her to fight her way alone in a world that was hard on women, a world where men betrayed women's trust and deserted them.
She thought about the skinny black-haired boy on the beach, and his anger and hurt pride when she refused him. He wouldn't have cared if something like this happened to her; he might even have bragged about it. She knew how boys talked about girls when there weren't any older people around. Of course, she admitted, girls talk too, but that's different.
She remembered, against her will, Irv Kaufman. That was one thing she really wanted to forget. What it was like—and then the kindness and regret in his voice. If he had come into the room at that moment she would probably have killed him.
She hated Bill, too, with his freckles and grin and cocky walk. Hating was good. It made her feel strong and warm. She smiled, not pleasantly. They'll never catch me that way.
Wonder how long it takes. They scrape you with a little knife, or something. What happens if she gets an infection or bleeds to death. What do they do then? Dump the body in an alley or out on a country road, so the cops can't find out who did it?
Oh, stop making up detective stories. She picked up a magazine and began to turn the pages.
Someone moaned. There was the current of a voice, low, but no words that she could make out. She sat still, waiting for some indication of what was going on in there, half expecting the doctor to appear at the door. But nothing happened.
It was over an hour before the door opened, and then it was Mary Jean who came out. She was dressed, and her hair was combed and her lips freshly reddened. That surprised Joyce, who somehow expected the suffering to show. Dr. Prince followed her. He had taken off his jacket, his shirt sleeves were rolled to the shoulder, and he looked tired and heavy-eyed.
"She'll be all right," he said to Joyce. "She's had a slug of penicillin to prevent infection. Get her right to bed and keep her there for a couple days. And look, there's a phone at that shack of Stell's. If she starts to hemorrhage, or if her temperature goes above one hundred, call me at home." He sounded conscientious, like a doctor talking to the mother of a child who'd had tonsillectomy. She still found it hard to believe he had done this thing. Still, there was the two hundred dollars. "She's had food poisoning," he added with a small, dry smile.
Wonder how his wife feels about this. Does she know? Do they talk about it, go over the budget together and decide which bills to pay with the money?
"She'll start some time during the night," Dr. Prince finished.
"But I thought it was all over."
He didn't answer that "Mind, call me if you run into any trouble."
She couldn't imagine being in any more trouble than they were in right then. She took Mary Jean's arm as they started downstairs, but Mary Jean pulled away. A small dim light burned in the deserted foyer. Mary Jean shoved the plate-glass door open, leaning against it as if it were heavy, and they came out into the chilly night air. Scotty was waiting at the wheel of his cab, cap pulled down over his eyes. He opened the door for them. "Everything okay?"
"Sure."
"Let's hit the road."
They drove out of town by the back road Bill had taken the night of the blanket party. Memory made Joyce shiver, but if it had any associations for Mary Jean she gave no sign. She sat very still, looking straight ahead. After two or three miles they left the gravel road and turned off on a narrow trail that wasn't really a road at all. just a place where cars had gone, long grass standing up between two wheel tracks. Mary Jean stirred and said, "Gonna be sick," and Scotty stopped the car at once, as though he had expected this, and helped her out. When she was through vomiting she stood for a moment leaning against a tree, wiping her mouth on her coat sleeve. "Hysterical," Scotty said helpfully. "It’s the worry."
"Like to lie down," Mary Jean whispered. "My head feels funny."
The shack, Stella Chivari's shack, was set in a little clearing surrounded by second-growth timber and bushes. It was a little summer cottage, like people at home built along the riverbank for weekend fishing trips. A cane-seat rocker stood on the front stoop. Indoors, the circle of Scotty's flashlight traveled over a couple of wicker chairs with beat-up cretonne cushions, a davenport with one broken spring sticking up through the leatherette seat, a small stand that held a telephone and a kerosene lamp. Scotty scratched a match on the sole of his shoe, lifted the glass chimney, and a ring of soft yellow light sprang forth and widened. Joyce, standing beside him, picked up the phone and was reassured by the hum of the dial tone, promising contact with the outside world in case of any of the emergencies she vaguely pictured and acutely dreaded.
Behind a semi-partition was a sagging double bed freshly made up, an apple-crate cupboard with dishes and canned goods behind a cloth curtain, a three-burner kerosene stove on a small table. Scotty checked the supplies. "Pump out back. Rest of the conveniences, too. Stell, she keeps this place in pretty good shape." He grinned, eyes dark and gleaming under the cracked visor of his leather cap. "You might meet Stell's boss sometime. He helps run that female school of yours. Type his letters daytimes and sleep with him nights, that's what I call earnin' it the hard way."
Mary Jean sat down on the bed and put her head down between her knees. "I'll see you later," she said, muffled.
Scotty nodded. "Sure, that's all right."
"Fifty bucks," Mary Jean said when the door closed behind him. "For that he could say thank you."
Joyce was surprised. She had been taking it for granted that Scotty was helping them out of the goodness of his heart, the way neighbors do when someone's in trouble. Grow up, she told herself severely. Nobody does anything for nothing. Except me—I was born to be the fall guy. She helped Mary Jean pull off her clothes and get into bed. Mary Jean's forehead was cold but her face was beaded with sweat and the back of her blouse, between the shoulders, was soaked through and stuck to her skin. She lay flat in the middle of the swayback bed with her eyes shut. Joyce said, "Was it very bad?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
That was a switch, anyhow. "Is it all right if I go out and look the place over?"
"Go ahead."
She forgot the flashlight, but moon silver lay over the path and the tangle of weeds and bushes in the back yard. There was an old-fashioned backhouse with a crescent cut in the door, such as some of the farmers around home still used. The pump was at the corner of the house, set in a cement slab. From here she couldn't see the lake, but the air felt fresh and cool on her cheeks. Crows stirred in the treetops, cawing sleepily. She thought it would be fun to come out here in the daytime, or with a bunch of girls for a weekend. The time of slumber parties and Scout camp lay a long way behind her, a lost land of innocence. She went back into the house.
Mary Jean was lying still, staring at the ceiling. She said dully, "It'll start some time in the night. He gave me some pills to take if it gets too bad."
"It'll be all right."
"If it gets too bad, you call the doctor. I don't want to die.”
"Look, quit worrying.
"
Mary Jean's face didn't change, but tears spilled over her eyelids and ran slowly down her cheeks. "I've killed my baby," she whispered.
"It was only a little clump of cells like in the biology book."
"Yeah, I know. Don't pay any attention to me."
Joyce lay on the davenport, her legs pulled up because it was even too short for her five-two, and her body curled around to avoid the broken spring. Her back and legs ached with fatigue and tension, and her eyes hurt. I have to stay awake, she admonished herself, staring at the lamp's flame, which she had turned down to a thread. The chimney was already getting smoky, and the furniture made giant shadows on the walls. I have to keep awake. Suppose it doesn't work? She shut her eyes for a second, to rest them.
It was almost morning when she woke, to the sound of somebody groaning. She sat up, trying to figure out where she was and what was happening. "What's matter?"
Mary Jean's upper lip was pulled back so that her teeth showed. Her pajamas were soaked through with sweat. In the yellowish light from the lamp the circles under her eyes were black. "I think I'm going to die," she said. She pulled her knees up convulsively.
Joyce turned the lamp up, so that a streamer of soot blacked the chimney. This wasn't something you saw in a movie or read about in a book; this was really happening right here and now. Her hands shook. Men, she thought. I wouldn't let a man touch me, not if I lived a million years. Aloud she said, "Don't be scared, I won't let anything happen to you."
Chapter 12
Mary Jean was being unreasonable. She should have been jumping up and down and yelling with joy because she was out of trouble, not lying in bed like a doll with all the stuffing out of it, bawling, shaking her head and refusing to answer when you asked her what was the matter, refusing to eat after you'd stood over the damn smoky oilstove for an hour trying to fix up something appetizing. "Do you hurt anywhere?"
"I'm all right." Mary Jean lay on her back, crying without sound or change of expression. The tears ran down her cheeks and trickled coldly into her ears and the edge of her hair. "Let me alone," she said in a weak voice.
Joyce sighed. "Look, you couldn't have had it."
"I know it."
They had been over and over this. Joyce looked around the cabin to see what still needed doing. She had already swept the floor, driving clouds of dust ahead of the broom, and washed the breakfast dishes.
It was a fine crisp day; goldenrod mixed with the weeds in the back yard and there was a sprinkling of brown-eyed Susan along the barbwire fence that bounded it. Oak leaves were sailing down silently in the windless air. Joyce threw her shoulders back and took a deep breath. It was quiet out here, like on the farm. The first quiet place she'd been in for quite a while. The solitude rested her, but also made her feel uneasy. She wasn't sure whether she liked it or not. She stood for a moment in the sunshine, planning her day.
Almost eleven. She was hungry already. Be some point to cooking if Mary Jean would eat instead of turning her face away as if the thought of food repelled her. It might be fun to cook if you had somebody to cook for. I wish I had a man and a bunch of kids, she thought; they'd come in from work and school all hungry and tired out and I'd have supper on the stove. The wish, primitive and unexpected, rose to the surface of her mind from some place where it had been simmering. She quickened her steps as if she might walk away from it.
For the last two days she hadn't thought about anything much except Mary Jean and her danger; when she stopped working with her hands for a moment the sickening fear of exposure rose in her, so she kept busy. All through the first day, when Mary Jean lay half asleep under the mingled influence of pain and aspirin, moaning now and then, tossing when a cramp struck, she had been obsessed with the dread that something might still go wrong. She stayed by the bedside, not knowing what to do and yet afraid to turn her back. Then, when the pains let up and they were sure the operation had been successful, she was too weak with relief to look farther than the next chore.
It was surprising how much work there was, keeping house in a place like this. Simply fixing meals took a lot of planning, in a place without electricity or running water.
It was the first time she had ever taken the responsibility for running a house. She wondered how Aunt Gen did it, even with electrical appliances. Aunt Gen had time for PTA and church doings too, she reminded herself, pushing back her hair and leaving a sooty smudge on her forehead.
She opened the cans of food and dumped them into sauce pans, lit the round burner of the kerosene range, and stood back as the flame flared orange-and angry almost to the ceiling. There was always this nervous moment before it settled down to a clear, hot blue circle. She burned her finger on the edge of the pan and said, "Oh, damn!" in a heartfelt way. Mary Jean stirred but didn't say anything. She ignored her tray when it was fixed, simply lay there with tears running down her face and making little damp blisters on the pillowcase.
I'm going to call the doctor, Joyce decided. It can't be good for her, all this bawling, and it sure isn't helping me any.
She took her plate out to the front porch, which was just a square of boards measuring about five feet each way, and sat down with her back against the house wall and her legs stretched out in front of her. Food tasted fine out here in the fresh air—delicious canned beans, wonderful vienna sausage. She wiped up the juice with a piece of bread and peeled back the foil from a Hershey.
Chewing, she tried to sort out her thoughts. What was happening back at the college? Was there really such a place? Could you drive a few miles down the road, steer through a shopping center, and actually be there? Open a door without anyone stopping you, walk up stairs that were familiar to the feet, go into your own room and find your stuff there? She doubted it. Maybe it was only a movie she'd seen and remembered, solid brick buildings set among trees and a stone library with ivy growing up around the windowsills and long tables with drop-lamps above them. The gym, floor marked off in black lines and circles for basketball, high, wire-screened windows, skeletal rows of bleachers. At this moment girls she knew were taking notes on the Renaissance, practicing "Panis Angelicus" in the auditorium for next Sunday's chapel. It seemed unlikely.
Edith Bannister seemed unreal too. She had expected the thought of Edith, when she finally got around to it, to be sharp with hurt. She had not, in fact, supposed that she could possibly be away from Edith three days without missing her acutely. She had been too busy and worried to have time for loneliness, up to now, but she hadn't doubted that it was lying in wait for her as soon as she had a chance to pay some attention to it. Now she thought about Edith, and there was no reality in it. All she got was a flat two-dimensional picture.
She shut her eyes and tried to remember Edith's voice, the deepened and roughened timbre of it in their moments of closeness. All she got was the sleepy cawing of crows in the tops of the oak trees, resting through the hot part of the day before they fanned out over the countryside in search of their evening meal. She tried to conjure up the remembered pressure of Edith's body against hers and the soft firmness of her flesh under searching hands. But it wasn't real. It was a story she'd read someplace. What was real was this sunshine on the back of her neck and the splintery roughness of boards under her palm.
But I love her, she thought. She opened her eyes on stalky weeds and almost bare trees. A sparrow hopped up to the edge of the porch and stood looking at her, its head cocked. She threw out the crumbs of her meal, but the gesture alarmed the bird and it flew off. She got up a little stiffly and went into the house, picking up Mary Jean's untouched dishes. Mary Jean was lying with her face to the wall; Joyce couldn't tell whether she was crying or sleeping.
She called the doctor's house number. He wasn't there. A calm, satisfied voice—a wifely voice—said that he was at the hospital and did she care to leave a message? She hadn't counted on this. Half a dozen times in the last two days she had lifted the receiver and listened to the humming, comforted that if things really w
ent badly wrong there was help for her. Now she felt cheated. She left her name, hesitating, tried to frame a message that would mean something to him and nobody else, and gave it up. She felt that he had to come; she couldn't stand any more of this. She could have cried like Mary Jean, she was so tired, but it would have been too silly.
She jerked the sheets straight and said, "We're going back pretty soon, you know. You better straighten up and start thinking up a good story for Abbott."
Mary Jean said, "Oh, to hell with Abbott."
Joyce put the dishes in the pan with a lot of unnecessary rattling and took them out to wash under the pump—sanitary or not, it was easier that way. She couldn't help thinking that she could have gone through Mary Jean's operation, if she had to, with a lot less fuss.
When the doctor did come he wasn't alone, and that surprised her too. A young man was driving the car, a boy really, not much older than she was. At the sight of him she felt self-conscious and somehow ashamed, perhaps because her slacks were wrinkled and her blouse dirty and she hadn't set her hair. He didn't seem to be aware of her embarrassment. He slid out from under the wheel and stood looking around. "My nephew," Dr. Prince said proudly. "He'll have the practice when I'm too old to work, likely. No—" as she moved towards the house—"you young people stay out here and get acquainted. I'll call you if I need you."
So she was alone with a strange boy and the whole outdoors, and nothing to say. She looked at him. He was slim and flat-hipped; naked from the waist up, as if he'd been showering or taking a nap when his uncle called him; the hair on his chest was curly yellowish-red, but his head bristled with bright red that would have curled if the barber hadn't practically scalped him. He had freckles and narrow gray-green eyes. She didn't know whether she liked his looks or not. "My name's John," he said. "You live out here?"
Whisper Their Love Page 10
