“Why didn’t you…I would’ve fitted you for a…” Her father was a doctor.
“She was afraid, Pop. She wanted to ask you at Christmas, but she was afraid.” She had told him this the first day.
“Afraid? I should say.” Her mother’s voice was trembling. “Asking your father for a diaphragm! That would be like asking him for permission to be a prostitute.”
“Come on, Mama. That’s more honest than sneaking around. She’s no prostitute. She made a mistake. She was afraid.”
Her father stepped from behind Peter, glanced at her, but turned to Peter again. “Well, why didn’t she do something about it?”
“Charles!” Her mother was shocked.
“In the right hands, El,” he defended himself, “it’s a perfectly safe operation.”
“She tried to, Pop. She went to a doctor today, but he told her it was too late to be safe.” Peter stopped, thinking. “It would’ve cost her fifteen hundred dollars. This doctor was no quack.”
Connie could see them all now, her father, only slightly bewildered, at the foot of the bed, her mother, angry and disappointed, by the door, Peter at the foot of the bed on the other side, thinking hard. They all seemed to have forgotten she was there. She realized this was Peter’s intention, for had she told them herself, had she answered their first questions, she would have been forced to answer all their questions. She knew she would not have been able to do it. She would have crumbled and they would have jumped on her heavily. Instead Peter had met them for her, had diverted them. By the time they got around to her, they would be tired, gentle, and understanding.
But understanding was still a long way off.
Her mother blazed. “Can you actually stand there and say it’s all right for your sister to sleep around?”
“I told you, she wasn’t sleeping around. She was in love.”
“If she was so much in love, where’s her husband?”
“You can’t base a marriage on a shotgun.”
“In other words, the boy wouldn’t marry her.”
“No. Connie didn’t tell him.”
That silenced her mother for a moment.
“What did the doctor say, Pete?” Her father, his hands locked around the bedpost, stared at the floor.
“Just that she’s pregnant, and it’s too late for her to have anything done.” Peter thought a second. Connie wondered where he would lead them next. “So now she’s told you and you have to help her decide what to do.”
“She didn’t ask us what to do when she got into bed.” Recovered, her mother’s pain was talking now.
Peter scolded her. “That’s a rotten thing to say! She made a mistake. You always loved her. Are you stopping now because something tough’s come along?”
For an instant, the woman looked ashamed, but her pain remained. “I just want to know if she realizes what she’s done. You can’t just go around having babies.”
“When she has five more, you can say something like that.” He looked at Connie. She smiled timidly. He was too busy to see it. “She’s sorry. She knows how serious this is.”
“Are you sure?” Her mother looked at her too. “Connie, do you realize you’ve ruined your life?”
“She hasn’t ruined her life!” he bellowed, pointing his finger at her. “She’s been living alone with this for months. Will you help her or not?”
Her father nodded. “We’ll help her, Peter.” He turned to her mother. “Won’t we, El?”
“Yes.” There were tears in her eyes. “We’ll help her.”
“Good.” Peter backed up, sat on the radiator, and in turn looked at them all. Then, lighting a cigarette, he slipped off into a daze.
Her parents did not know what to do. Connie understood. She was their daughter, but now some adjustment had to be made. Every other single girl in the world might be in the same predicament, but now it was Connie. This was hard for them to accept. It had not been easy for her to accept it herself.
She would have to make an overture now. Looking at her bewildered father, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Her mother sniffled. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
Her mother took a stumbling step toward her. “It’s all right, Connie.” She sat beside her, put her arm around her shoulder, and kissed her. “It’s all right, darling.”
“Don’t worry, Connie.” Her father skirted the bed and rested his hand on top of her head. “Don’t worry now. You hear?”
She looked beyond them to Peter. He did not look at them.
Shortly her parents left her, saying they would talk more with her the next day. Peter remained in the room.
Connie eyed him silently for a few moments, then whispered: “Thank you, Peter.”
“Now I can wash my hands of you.”
“I thought…” She did not finish.
“If you’d done any thinking in the first place, they wouldn’t have to take care of you.”
“I told them I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything.” He stopped, reconsidered. “Listen, something’s wrong here. Not your screwing or even getting knocked up. It’s something else. Look, they’ll help you now. But you can’t let them help you too much. Do you know what I mean?” His eyes were suddenly wild, not with anger, but with frustration. “The hell with it! You have to figure it out yourself.” He stood up and stalked to the door.
“Well, what’s wrong? I’d like to be grateful to you, but you won’t let me.”
“I don’t want you to be grateful!” He looked at her once again before leaving. “This is something you have to get through alone.” He did not slam the door as she had expected.
Alone once more, in the darkened room, a summer breeze blowing cool across her face, the dying hum and rattle of cars passing in the street, the street lamp lighting a square of the ceiling, she thought about what Peter had said, but did not understand. Perhaps this was because she had not yet adjusted to all that was happening. Her life had shifted course so swiftly that she was probably still startled, like a girl with a wind-ripped umbrella who has not yet had time to scurry to a doorway. Even so, she no longer had to worry about Peter. Her parents knew, understood, and would take care of her.
* * *
—
SHE SLEPT for the next fourteen hours. It was not until she floated up from cotton-padded sleep that she realized how tired she had been, how the fatigue of the past months had stacked up inside her like lead bricks. It was eleven. The sun was already baking her room. The one sheet over her was as warm as three winter blankets. Then she discovered she might have continued riding sleep; she had been awakened by a knocking at her door. “Come in.” Her voice was hoarse.
Her mother was dressed, a sad clown’s smile painted on her face. “You were tired.” She saw Connie visoring the sun out of her eyes, went to the window and pulled down the shade. “I’m only waking you up because your father wants to look you over today. How do you feel? Been sick in the mornings?”
For an instant Connie did not understand. And then it was with her again, creeping back from a place where things forgotten are stored. Awake now, she shook her head in answer to her mother’s question. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
The woman sighed. “I know, dear.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Connie’s covered ankle. “You don’t have to say it again. We know. Now we have to decide what to do.” She stared at nothing for a moment. “What do you want to do?”
Connie sat up, propping herself against the bundled pillow. “I don’t know, Mama. Sometimes, I’m so confused I can’t decide whether it’s raining or not.”
“I know.” She hesitated. “Your father and I talked about it this morning. We don’t want to make up your mind for you, but…but we wondered how you felt about giving up the child for adoption.” She waited for an answer
. Connie became aware that she had not thought concretely about such things before, and said nothing.
“We thought that since there’s no possibility of your getting married…there isn’t, is there?”
“No, Mama.”
“Well, Peter was probably right anyway. That’s no foundation for a good marriage.” She stopped, gazing at Connie to see if the girl was listening. “In many ways adoption makes for a better home than the usual. Adoption parents really want their children. We can arrange to give the child to a reputable agency and you won’t have to worry. How does that sound?” The woman looked concerned, perhaps feeling Connie was being too calm.
Her mother sighed. “Something like this could stop your life just when it’s beginning. Let’s say that”—she watched Connie carefully to record her reaction—“this boy and you don’t get married. With a baby, whether or not anybody knew it was…illegitimate, you might not have the chance to meet other boys. And also you want to finish school, don’t you?”
Connie had not even thought of that, but answered quickly: “I guess so.”
“Well, you couldn’t…it would be hard—put it that way—to finish if you had a baby to take care of…even though we’d help you, of course.” Connie knew her mother added the last to show they were not trying to force her to do as they suggested. But she knew too her parents wanted her to give up the baby.
The woman looked a trifle in pain, then blurted: “We just think you’re too young to have a baby!” She looked confused now. “I’m sorry, Connie. Our feelings aren’t important.” She looked sheepish. “Well, what do you think?”
Connie nodded. “I guess you’re right, Mama. I…”
“What, dear?”
“I was just thinking that it’s not very romantic, is it. I mean, trying to decide what to do. You can’t think about…well, things like love and all that. The baby isn’t really mine, is it. I mean, because I’m having it doesn’t mean much, does it. Chig, Peter, and I are yours because you fed us and raised us, not just because you had us. Isn’t that right?”
Her mother had not considered this. “Yes, that’s true, Connie.” Even though Connie agreed with her, she was still troubled. “I know from time to time you’ll regret this, but I promise you, dear, you’re doing the best possible thing. That’s the truth, dear.”
“I know, Mama. It’s just that I’m a little vague…I mean, nothing’s very clear. Sometimes I still can’t believe it.”
“I understand, dear.” She stood up, seeming tired and sad. “You better get dressed now and go to your father’s. I’ll start making some calls…about finding an agency. Would you like to go to California?”
Connie was puzzled. “What for?”
“Why, to have the child. You can stay with your Uncle Henry, and have the child there. I’d come out the last month, of course.”
Connie had not thought of that. Certainly, she could not have the baby in New York, not if she was to take up her life normally after it was born and given away. She would not be able to appear in the street in a month or two. She smiled to herself as she saw acquaintances meeting her, her body draped in maternity clothes; she could see the astounded looks on their faces, hear them stumbling for words. And then the picture turned bleak as she saw, felt herself fumbling for an explanation. “That would be fine, Mama. California would be fine.” She paused, thinking of her uncle, whom she had met only once in her life. “Would it really be all right with Uncle Henry?”
“Of course. He’s very nice.”
“Okay, Mama.” She slid to the edge of the bed and stood, facing her mother, their eyes level, then rushed into the woman’s arms. “I’ll probably say this to you a thousand times, Mama, but thank you.” Her mother seemed tense.
“That’s all right, dear.” She patted Connie’s back.
* * *
—
A WEEK HAD PASSED; everything was arranged. Her uncle was expecting her to fly to California on the following Tuesday. Her mother had contacted an agency in New York, affiliated with another in Los Angeles, that would take the child as soon as it was born. Today, Connie and her mother were going to buy, among other things Connie would need, some maternity clothes.
It had been as good a week as possible. The tenseness that marked the first few days had diminished and she no longer caught her parents casting sad glances at her; there was more laughter in the house.
Peter had not changed. But he did not voice his anger. He said very little to any of them, and avoided Connie completely. A few nights during the week he had disappeared, to come in when the sky was just beginning to gray, creeping up the stairs in a stumbling, drunken attempt to keep from waking them. She hoped it did not have anything to do with her, but still could not entirely put the nagging idea from her mind.
Going past his room, to join her mother, who was waiting to go shopping, she heard him crashing inside and knocked.
“Yeah?”
She opened the door. He was standing barefoot in the middle of the room, a sweatshirt bunched over his head, his arms straight up in the air.
“I just wanted to find out if you wanted anything downtown.”
He remained perfectly still, not moving, not attempting to pull the sweatshirt over his face.
“Peter? We’re ready to go.”
Through the muffling cloth, she heard his answer. “Where?”
“Shopping, silly.”
His head popped through the neckband. “I thought you were going on a God-damned picnic.” He was not joking.
She knew now she should have passed his door. “You know that’s not true, Peter. I don’t feel that way.”
“Then what’s the act for?” He sat down and started to pull on his socks—as if he hated them.
“I’m not acting.” She took a step closer. The room smelled of stale smoke and after-shave lotion. “I’m just trying to make the best of it.”
“There is no best.”
That silenced her for a moment. Then in half-hearted protest: “Of course there is.”
“What?” He finished tying his shoes and straightened up.
She looked at the toes of her loafers. “Well, it’s better for the child to have two parents instead of one, parents who really want it.”
“And you don’t?”
She had been successful in keeping this question unasked. “It just wouldn’t work, that’s all.”
“You’re pretty sure?” He continued to stare at her, his face quiet, blank.
“Pretty sure.” Her stomach began to turn; she had not been this upset in nearly a week. “What are you trying to do to me?” There were no tears in her voice.
He jumped up and waved his hands. “What is it with you that you think everybody’s trying to do something to you?”
“It’s like you’re mad at me because I slept with somebody.”
“Is that what you think? You’re stupider than I thought.”
She screamed at him: “Well, what is it? Why are you so mean to me? I’m sorry I slept with him. I’m not!” She found herself standing toe to toe with him, close enough to feel his breath on her face.
“You’re sure of that too?”
“God damn you, Peter. God damn you! I hope one day you get into trouble and someone treats you like you’re treating me.”
“I won’t be that lucky,” he whispered, smiling.
She wanted to destroy that smile, and slapped at it, leaving a red splotch on Peter’s cheek, almost the outline of her hand. Then the red mark hazed over behind her shimmering tears. He was still smiling, but now a bit foolishly. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
He turned away. “Go shopping.”
She retreated slowly from the room. Downstairs her mother noticed immediately she had been crying, rushed to her, and put her arm around her. “Blue today?”
“No.
” The material of her mother’s suit was scratchy, but she pushed tighter against the woman’s shoulder.
“Well, what, dear?” She dragged out the words as if for an injured child.
“Nothing.”
Her mother knew. She let her go and ran to the foot of the stairs. “Peter! Peter, come down here!”
In a moment, Connie heard his footsteps, hollow and muffled on the carpeted stairs. He came into the kitchen knowing why he had been summoned.
Connie’s mother started before he had settled in his tracks. “I’ve watched you being mean, and spiteful and cruel and uncooperative around her for a week now. I didn’t say anything because Connie seemed to be able to handle it. But now you’ve gone too far. She needs understanding, kindness, and love and I’m ashamed that you’ve been acting this way. What on earth is wrong with you?” She waited for an answer.
He was not upset at all. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“And that’s supposed to mean there’s something wrong with us.” She was getting more angry with each word.
“Listen, Mama, nobody’s interested in what I think. So let’s forget it. I’m sorry I made her cry. That’s the truth. I care very much about Connie. But I just care differently, that’s all. So let’s not confuse it by bringing my ideas into it. I’ll just keep out of it.”
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” She was too mad to let him off.
But Connie had watched his eyes. “Mama, it’s all right. He apologized.”
The woman turned to her. “All right. But, Peter, if you don’t want to help, keep out of the way. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” He left them alone.
“I don’t understand him. He’s never been mean.”
“It’s okay, Mama. Let’s go shopping.”
The ride downtown went by quickly because Connie was thinking about some of the things Peter had made her face. She was not sorry about having made love to someone, but she could not see how this affected her present decisions. She decided again she was doing the best thing.
Dancers on the Shore Page 11
