“Don’t worry,” he said and focused on the road ahead, hoping she would do the same. He patted her thigh. “When they see how happy we are, they’ll forget the whole thing.”
David and Isa met them at Christopher’s, where they started with rock shrimp, hearts of palm, a bottle of Pinot Blanc— though Isa, who was usually fond of wine, drank mineral water. She also wore a sari, which was odd. She’d been in the States since high school, and usually she wore loafers and pleated skirts, or jeans and hospital scrubs. She didn’t explain when Margy admired it.
“Feel,” Isa said, holding out the piece that looped over her shoulder. It was apricot silk, bordered in cream, and it glowed against her olive skin. “Isn’t it delicious?”
They talked about David’s new lab, and the progress of Webster’s book (Lake Death: Canary in the Mine). Isa described the grueling regime of her fellowship in cardiology, widening her big black eyes. Margy listened, smiled, and nodded. After the first few awkward moments, seeing David and Isa again, everything seemed to be fine. She didn’t mind that they seldom spoke directly to her. She was used to Webster’s friends. They were scientists, who dealt in facts, and she hardly knew any facts. She found it restful to be with them. She didn’t have to air her opinion of a certain performance of the B-minor mass, or tell witty stories about the Kronos Quartet. She didn’t even have to listen, all the time. And sooner or later someone would ask about her wrists. Decades of daily violin playing had toughened the fingertips of her left hand, made a sore spot underneath her chin, given her the carpal-tunnel syndrome in both wrists, and these were facts to interest Webster’s friends.
She surfaced for a moment. David was telling Webster about a new machine for the analysis of protein chains. Isa pinched the sleeve of Margy’s Italian sweater. “What’s this? Pretty!” she said in mime. Everything was definitely fine.
They moved on to the Fourth Street Grill, for mesquiteseared salmon and shoestrings and chardonnay. Isa still drank mineral water. Finally Webster leaned forward, smiling.
“So, Isa. California appears to have gotten to you. Or is it cardiology?” He held up his glass. “Do you know something about this stuff we don’t?”
Isa smiled, appeared to blush, and told a story about a bypass patient who’d demanded wine with his hospital food, on the grounds that any meal could be his last.
“He’ll probably live to be a hundred. I don’t think there’s very much wrong with wine.” She straightened the fork in the middle of her plate. “Except at certain times.”
She lifted her eyes at David. David nodded. He faced Webster and Margy.
“We have something to tell you, which is maybe a little surprising. We’re with child.”
On the wall above him, safety-orange chipotle peppers and puce eggplants danced in space.
Margy surged across the table. “You are? But that’s wonderful . That’s really wonderful.”
The blood withdrew from Webster’s skin, down his spine and into the chair. He couldn’t look at Margy. The happiest moment of her life, she’d told him once, would be on the delivery table, when she saw her child.
David smiled apologetically. “It took us years to decide to do it. In fact, when we had our first pregnancy scare, we almost jumped out the window. But now that it’s for real, it’s strange. We’re completely glad.”
“But we had no idea,” Margy cried. “Is that why you’re wearing a sari? For maternity clothes?”
Grinning, Isa tugged the sari a little this way, a little that.
“That’s what they’re for. Infinite adjustability, no matter how big you get. You don’t create a country of a billion people with a taste for tight clothes on women.”
Briskly, cheerful as Mozart, Margy asked questions. She wanted Isa to know that it was fine to talk, that she was not upset that Isa was having a baby, while she was not. How did she feel? When was she due? What were her plans?
Webster looked mournfully at David. They’d never talked much, not about their lives. But they could take long runs on Sunday mornings, and sit together sweating when they got back, eating M&M’s by the two-pound bag. David knew what to say at important times. When Webster was first married, he kept showing up at David’s too tired to run, from making love to Margy all night long. “What do you think we’re working out for, man?” David had said and grinned.
Webster tried to move his lips. Did David and Isa lie in bed in the mornings, reading and making love? Did they realize they’d never do that again?
“Do you realize,” he said, “that the highest quality of life the human race will ever achieve is right now, in our lifetime? In places like this, where you can still breathe the air, and this class, which can still afford to buy a house? After us, it will be all decline.”
David’s eyes went slightly crossed. “Geez, is that true? That’s a hell of a thing. So why can’t you get a decent yo-yo anymore?”
Isa leaned forward with merry eyes, touched Webster’s arm. Isa was from New Delhi, and she’d once said she thought America could use a little more population. “What about you two? Eh? Shall we expect an announcement?”
Webster smiled, a fissure in rock. Margy looked at him. So he hadn’t told them, as she’d thought. Did he like the way this felt? Did he realize it was his fault for not telling them?
Isa touched her arm, wheedling. “I know that coy look. Hmmmm? You’re already trying, aren’t you? Temperature in the morning, dots on a chart?”
Beside her, Webster shuddered, like a glass about to shatter from a high-pitched sound. Margy lifted her chin.
“We’ve decided not to.”
Isa’s hands drifted down to the table. “You’ve what? But you can’t do that. How could you decide a thing like that?”
Her eyes protruded at Margy, bright examining lights coming on inside. Margy uncrossed her arms from in front of her chest and made her hands relax at her sides. You never knew what Isa was noticing. She’d noticed some odd things herself. Since coming back to Webster, she’d noticed she didn’t like to sit or walk or even lie in bed without an arm crossed on her chest, gripping the elbow on the other side. When she tried to do without it, the front of her body felt amorphous, as if it were ballooning out, swelling and swirling like a soggy cloud, and only a steady arm could keep it in.
Isa waved her hand. “You’ll change your mind. What are you worried about, your career?”
Margy could not explain. It wasn’t her career. She had a low chair in one of the world’s best orchestras, and if she never got any farther than that, it would be fine. It wasn’t even exactly Webster anymore. Lately he had said he didn’t want to do it, no, and it would ruin what they had together now, which was awfully good, and since the earth was already buried in plastic diapers, it would be selfish to produce another child, but she could do it if she really wanted to, and now she wasn’t sure she really did. Leaving Webster, she had learned an awful fact, that he was the one she wanted, and now she needed to lie with her head on his chest, while he soothed her like a baby. If they had a baby, Webster would hold the real baby instead, and when she wanted to put her head there he might say, “Pardon me, but you see I’ve got this real baby here. And would you mind cleaning the bathroom?”
He felt for her hand, and it was hot and dry, as if she had a fever. He gave her a glance that meant she didn’t have to answer, but she didn’t look at him. She tossed back her hair.
“Webster doesn’t want to,” she said. “And the choice does not mean much, does it, if the answer always has to be yes?”
Isa pressed her lips together, black eyes bulging wide. David tipped his head back, gazing at Webster as if he were a little too far off to see. He was not, Webster noticed, wearing a tie.
They drove up the hill toward Walnut Square, planning to end with coffee-chocolate mousse and Meyer-lemon tart at the Chez Panisse Café. The evening had grown chill as cold white fog slid in, falling over the last mauve light like a lid. In Walnut Square, they had to park several blocks fro
m Chez Panisse. Walking, they continued to talk, sometimes a little self-consciously, a little artificially, as they broke down to single file or stepped out into the street to avoid a homeless person, while pretending not to notice they were being asked for money.
“Of course,” Margy said, stepping off the curb in her high heels, avoiding a suntanned man in a dirty quilt, “you won’t even have to have amnio, will you? You’re so young.” Margy was thirty-five, and Isa at most was thirty-one.
“Spare change?” said the man.
Isa strode along with a relaxed expression, one end of the sari floating behind her like a wing. “Oh, no. I’m going to have it. It’s always a good idea with geriatric pregnancy.”
Webster stepped around the suntanned man, avoiding his eyes, and David followed him. Ever since Margy’d told them, David had stayed near him, shoulder almost touching his, not saying anything but letting Webster know he understood. Webster walked beside him in grateful silence.
“Geriatric?” Margy said. The edge of the sari almost brushed a car, but she caught it as she stepped back onto the sidewalk. “Who are you trying to kid?”
Isa laughed and looked at her. “I’m old enough to be a grandmother in some parts of the world.”
A big black man with red eyes blocked their path. “I’m homeless and I’m hungry and it’s my own fault. If you could lay a five on me—no, okay, then God bless.”
They parted to stream around him and re-formed. A few steps farther on, a blond man in a button-down shirt held up a sign, “Disabled Vet.” When they didn’t stop, he shook it frantically, grimacing and weeping. In a doorway, on a pile of bedding, a gray-haired Chinese couple sat with their backs to the sidewalk, the man exhaling acrid smoke, the woman cradling an ornate platter on her lap.
Margy fell back, depressed. She couldn’t give them money without making a scene, because Webster carried all the cash when they went out. He liked to know how much they’d spent, and she didn’t like to lug a purse. He was yards ahead of her now with David and Isa, and if she wanted even a quarter she’d have to interrupt.
Isa turned, called gaily back, “Besides, I want to know everything. I want a laparoscope, full time, so I can watch the whole thing. But all I have so far is the sonogram. All I know is that it looks like a salamander.”
David hooked his arm around her neck and raised his eyebrows over her head. “Oh, yes, exactly like a salamander. There was this gray blob, see, and this black blob, and the gray blob wiggled a couple of times. Sounds like a salamander to you, doesn’t it?”
Isa slugged him on the shoulder with her fist.
Webster waited for Margy, but she didn’t seem to see him as she passed. Her face had an expression he’d seen before, a damaged look. I have been denied, it said. Clenching his teeth, he followed behind her. What did he care if she ignored him? Why in hell should he mind?
He should never have let it happen to him, marriage. It was like all those other awful relations, brothers and sisters, parents and children, the way it wired your tender parts to someone else’s whim. He had enough electrodes on his balls before he met her, thank you very much. Why would anyone volunteer for any more?
A young man stood on the curb ahead, with a rip in the seat of his pants exposing a buttock to the air, the skin chapped raw and red. The four of them passed him in silence. Margy stopped, touched Webster’s arm, let David and Isa get ahead.
He stared at her coldly. “What?”
She held her palm out, whispering, “Give me some money.”
He touched his pocket. The wallet was in front, where the pockets were deeper, and he could feel it riding on his thigh. “What for?”
“Just give it to me,” she said impatiently.
He’d heard that tone before. You are acting like a child, she used to say in fights. Grown men do not act like you. She’d left him for a guy who looked about fifty, pudgy, soft in the middle—but mature.
He started to walk toward David and Isa, who turned to watch. Hooking his elbow like an anchor, Margy tried to slide her hand into his pocket. He caught her wrist, kept his voice down.
“Not now, Margy.” Releasing her, he walked ahead.
She was aware of many things. That she should let it go, that she’d be sorry if she didn’t stop, and that she would stop if she had not been drinking wine. But she seemed to be propelled by something large and fierce, reaching through her like a puppeteer. Catching up to Webster, she restrained his wrist, and plunged her hand into his front pocket.
He did not resist. Lifting his arms away from his body, he made clear who was causing the trouble. She skipped a few steps up the block, worked the money out of the billfold, and tossed the wallet back. She walked away, head down.
He scooped the wallet off the sidewalk. She had taken all the cash. The pores of his face felt cold. He’d broken sweat. On his toes like a prairie dog, he watched her go. Was it going to be like last time, when she had patted his arm? Don’t worry, someday someone else will love you? He felt the sweat slide down his chest.
David’s big hand fell on his shoulder, gripped his trapezius. “Hey, pal. Everything all right? What’s going on?”
Their rickety metal chairs sat on the sidewalk, in front of a cavernous café across the street from Chez Panisse. David and Isa had steered him there, so they could watch for Margy. At the other tables, street people hunched in tattered sweaters, stocking caps and gloves with missing fingers, trying to warm their hands around glass mugs.
Isa shivered, rewound the top layer of her sari. David took off his tweed jacket and held it while she slid in her arms. She flattened the lapels over her neck and did not thank him. Sighing, she looked up and down the street.
“I thought you two were through with things like this?”
David gave her a warning look. She smoothed the jacket’s cuffs.
“You’d think it would be enough for her, the way you took her back, after what she did.”
“Isa,” David said. He picked up his cup, held it in front of his mouth.
“That was more than some men would have done.” She gave David a sideways stare. “I’d hate to see what would happen if I tried something like that.”
David’s elbows barely touched the table top.
She tugged at the sari under the jacket. “I really would. What would happen if I tried something like that?”
His face settled like slag. “Are you sure you want to talk about that?”
Webster looked away, trying not to listen. On the curb across the street, the man with the hole in his pants stood waiting for a light to change, though he was in the middle of the block. Up the sidewalk behind him, Margy strode, swinging her arms. She looked fresh and relaxed and innocent, as if she’d just gone off to milk the cows.
Snapping his fingers, the man whirled. He charged toward Margy, averting his eyes. His hair was matted like a bird’s nest, and a shining stream flowed from his nose, clotting in his beard. Snapping his fingers again, he spun back to his spot on the curb.
Margy passed him slowly. She didn’t have much money left. She’d given a five to the red-eyed man who asked for it, and a ten to the disabled vet. She tried to give a twenty to the Chinese couple, but the woman waved her hands and shook her head. She left a wad of ones on the bedroll, hoping the man would pick it up. Her last two ones she gave to the suntanned man, and a ten to an old black woman she hadn’t seen before. All she had left now was the twenty.
The man on the curb continued to remember errands he’d forgotten in the opposite direction. Margy fingered the sleeve of her sweater. It was rose-gray silk, shot with shimmering threads, and all she had to tie around his waist.
She held out the twenty. He looked at Margy serenely and did not take the bill. Gingerly she reached for his wrist, turned up the palm, curled his fingers over it. Pointing at his bottom half, she waved her fingers up and down. He had a musty smell, like a wild animal.
“That’s twenty dollars, for new pants. Don’t lose it. Okay?”
He did not look at the money. When she walked away, he still stood with his hand raised to the level where she’d let it go.
She spotted Webster and the others across the street. They didn’t wave, but she knew they could see her as she crossed. David and Webster sat close together, while Isa slumped, staring down into her cup.
Margy got a chair from one of the other tables. No one spoke for several moments.
“Well,” said Isa, putting down her cup. “So, Margy. How’re your wrists?”
Webster was driving, and too fast.
“Get in,” he said, yanking open the passenger door, after David and Isa dropped them at their car. Margy leaned back, trying not to watch the road. The fog had vanished, and ahead the bridge was a necklace of cold white stars against black sky. Across the water, San Francisco shimmered, yellow lights molding over rolling hills, like a lolling female body in gold lamé. Bright streaks dangled away from it, undulating with the waves.
Webster leaned across her, jerked open the glove compartment, and threw maps out on the floor. Margy clutched the handle on the door. “What do you want? I’ll look, you drive!”
“What do you think I want? The bridge is a buck!”
Angels Go Naked Page 15
