The second entry was dated Wednesday December 23, apparently written back in Arthur.
All too soon, the trip is over, but no matter what, I’ll have the memory of it. The Guv came through splendidly on the ballet. When I told him I had bought tickets, I could see he was slightly taken aback, but he looked at me calmly for several seconds and finally said, “I can see you really want to go, so of course I’ll come. And I’ll enjoy myself, if for no other reason than I’m with you.” It speaks well for him that he was willing to bend a bit for someone else. And he seemed not only to enjoy it, but also to be able to talk about it with understanding at dinner afterwards. Our dinner conversations during this trip were relaxed and spirited. We are well matched, I think, and the age difference does not seem to be important. It was such a pleasure to be able to eat and talk without constantly looking over one’s shoulder to see if someone familiar had just walked into the room. I did have one brush with getting caught out, though. On Market Street on Tuesday, I was stopped by the Chronicle’s Question Man (who, actually, is a woman) wanting to take my picture and print my answer to the question, “What would you buy a hippie for Christmas?” I told her I was sure I wouldn’t know, and kept walking. Imagine the reaction in Arthur if that had gotten into the paper!
This morning, before we left, I gave The Guv his tie, and to my surprise, he gave me something as well: A pendant on a gold chain, with a single pearl framed by a diamond of gold. It is simple, elegant and beautiful and will go with almost anything. He has excellent taste! The drive home was subdued. I think we had invested so much emotional energy in this trip (and not just the lovemaking) that we were spent. It was a cold, gray drive, but aside from a couple of brief flurries, there was no snow and it was a smooth trip.
The City was so exhilarating and lively that I found myself thinking about what it would be like living there, instead of in my small town. But there was an item in Herb Caen’s column to the effect that Lillian Hellman would be teaching at Berkeley this winter, and had rented an apartment on Telegraph Hill for $800 a month. Eight hundred dollars for an apartment — hard to believe, when I am paying $110 for a two-bedroom house on a small lot in Arthur.
It is late now, and I find myself postponing going to bed. For three nights, I was able to lie with my man all through the night — the first time we have been able to do that — and I can’t bear the thought of sleeping alone. Perhaps the day will come when sleeping together will be a normal occurrence, but the decision must be his, and I can apply no pressure. What a change 24 hours has made: from bliss to melancholy.
Enough! I am going to bed now, whether I sleep a wink or not.
From Christmas to New Year, there was not much of interest in the journal. Charlotte and her lover met twice at the cabin, and she noted, in one passing line, that her father seemed even more worried and haggard at Christmas than he had at Thanksgiving. On January 1, Charlotte reflected:
New Year’s Day — a time for taking inventory and making resolutions. Afraid I haven’t yet gotten to the second part, being occupied, today, with taking a hard look at my situation. How did I get into it? If asked, as a general proposition, whether adultery is either acceptable or permissible, I would say no. Most women would. Yet I have followed the path of Anna Karenina, Emma Bovary, Hester Prynne, and millions of real women whose names will never become household words. The best explanation I can come up with (and I hope I’m explaining, not rationalizing) is that women, as a whole, are more emotional than men and more trusting of their emotions. When we fall in love with a man, that love becomes the guiding truth, the thing that drives out all other considerations. We tell ourselves that because our love is true, our circumstance is somehow different. Re-reading those last three sentences, I am struck by how lame they seem. But the whole point is that it’s not a rational argument — rather, an emotional one. At this moment I am profoundly grateful not to be a Catholic. Having to confess this to some unctuous priest every week would drive me positively batty.
The school year resumed Monday January 4, 1971:
I have decided this year’s senior English class can handle Pride and Prejudice, so today I passed out the paperback copies I had ordered and gave my brief lecture on the importance of understanding character. Time will tell if they get it, but I hope they do, because it is one of life’s most important lessons. The dire consequences of making a bad match and the blessed consequences of making a good one have been much on my mind lately. Darcy and Elizabeth are both complex characters, and theirs is an excellent match. Bingley and Jane are both simple characters, but good, and their match is likewise good. Wickham and Lydia would be an atrocious match, even if he were not so morally flawed, because he is a complex character and Lydia is frightfully simple. The Guv is a complex man who married a simple woman — a caricature, almost — and it has caused him no end of unhappiness.
Two days later, Wednesday January 6:
I told The Guv I couldn’t meet him at the cabin after school today because I was temporarily indisposed, but that was a lie. My monthly visitor is running a bit late. It’s true that we got carried away that last night in San Francisco, and took no precautions. But by then, I should have been safe. I’ve been late before, so I’m not going to worry too much at this point. The whole concept of worrying about it at all is so new to me. Probably it’s nothing.
A week later, on Wednesday January 13, she wrote:
Still nothing, so after school yesterday I called the gynecologist in Adams, where I am not known, and asked if I could make an appointment for late afternoon. The receptionist seemed to understand and got me in today. I think my body was already telling me the answer, and the doctor only confirmed it. He was understanding, and said he could refer me to a doctor in Redding, who is known to take care of the problem for women in my situation. I hope that isn’t necessary, but no matter what happens now, my life has changed. And what I am thinking of most now, is how I am going to break the news to The Guv. I shall take my time on that question. It is important that I tell him in the right way and not give the impression that I am pressuring him.
Then, the following day:
After crying myself to sleep last night, and feeling bad about being so weak, I was awakened by the ringing phone shortly after two o’clock. It was my mother, and she was hysterical — only this time she had a good reason: Father’s car had run off the road, and over an embankment, killing him. I can’t imagine why he would have been out so late at night, and he is normally such a careful driver. But then I thought about how worried he’d been lately, and immediately I felt guilty for being so absorbed in myself that I hadn’t given him more attention, tried to talk to him about what was going on with him. I will never forgive myself for not thinking more of him at a time when he needed my support. After sitting up with mother (and Greg) for four hours, I dragged myself to the high school and sleepwalked my way through the classes. I have arranged for a substitute teacher to cover for me tomorrow. At the moment, I feel simultaneously numb and overwhelmed. It’s as if I’m standing outside my body watching all these things happen to someone else. I have heard of people having nervous breakdowns and never thought it could happen to me, but maybe this is what it is. Off to mother’s now. Perhaps comforting her will do me some good.
The Peninsulas came up again in the journal Wednesday January 20.
Father’s project was approved by the County Board early this morning. I had not been following it as closely as I should have, and there was talk today at the school that the vote was very close and the outcome something of a surprise. I suppose I had been assuming all along that because it was father’s project, it would turn out all right. What I heard today at least explains why he had been so worried the past two months. How sad that he couldn’t know it all turned out well. I miss him terribly. It has been a long time since I was his little girl, but I always felt he was there for me and I could count on him. I wouldn’t want to tell either of my parents about my current predicament, but for
ced to choose between them, I would have gone to father. Mother is becoming more demanding by the day, and I struggle to remind myself that she needs compassion now. There is too much going on!
Saturday January 23, Charlotte and her lover met for the first time since the first weekend in January.
Rendezvous at the cabin this morning, and I broke the news of my condition to The Guv. I had anticipated the possibility that he would not take it well, but was shocked at how badly it went. His face clouded over, and the first words out of his mouth were, “If you think I’m going to leave her because of this, you’re mistaken.” I felt as if he had run a spear through me. Could he really believe I had done this on purpose? Can he have forgotten that he was the one so caught up in passion that Tuesday night in San Francisco that he didn’t want to break for precautions? (Although, to be fair, I didn’t insist.) I tried, in vain, to reassure him that I was putting no pressure on him and that it had been a mistake, but it was as if, the moment I broke the news, we were on opposite sides of a door that had closed between us. I tried to make a dialogue of it, but to no avail, and finally he said, “It’s over between us, Charlotte. I’ll pay to get rid of it, but then that’s it.” At that point, I summoned what dignity I could muster and left. I went home and have no idea what I did the next four hours, but finally decided to try grading my students’ papers on Pride and Prejudice. As I was reading the first one, it dawned on me: The man I thought would be my Darcy turned out to be Wickham instead. I have always prided myself on being a good judge of people, yet when it mattered most, my judgment was spectacularly wrong. What a cruel lesson in humility!
By Tuesday January 26, she had reached a decision.
After thinking of almost nothing else for three days, I have decided to end the pregnancy. I couldn’t bear to have a child and give it away, and if I tried to raise it myself, without a husband, I would lose my job and become an object of scorn in the community. In teaching I have found something I know I am good at, something that allows me to make use of my God-given talents. With that to hold on to, I can have a life worth living. I got the referral to the doctor in Redding, and was able to make an appointment for the morning of Lincoln’s Birthday, Friday February 12th, when we have a school holiday. The appointment is for 9:30, but I will not be able to drive afterwards and will have to go with someone. The question is with whom? I don’t have a close friend to lean on, so will have to ask someone for a favor I may never be able to repay, and trust that person with the greatest secret of my life. Ordinarily, I would feel up to that, but after misjudging The Guv so badly, I am skittish — to put it mildly. Yet it must be done. And whatever it costs, I will find a way to pay for it myself. I will not allow myself to be obligated to The Guv in any way.
Wednesday February 3:
I made a decision yesterday about who to ask, and this afternoon invited Julia Baker over to my house after school. She is a second-year science teacher, probably eight or nine years younger than I, who has always struck me as being level- headed and fair-minded. Also, she is getting married in June and moving to Southern California, so if she can keep quiet for four months, my secret would leave town with her. Finally, when I had poured the tea and told her what I wanted to ask of her, she leaned across the table, put her hand on my arm, and said, “Of course I’ll do it, Charlotte. I did this for my college roommate a few years ago, and I know how much it meant to her.” I had been terribly apprehensive about asking, fearing rejection or condemnation. Instead I got compassion and the gift of a reminder that I am far from the only woman to have gone through this. We worked out the details today, and by the time she left, all was set.
Friday February 12:
Awake at three this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. Was it any wonder? Since four o’clock, I have been sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and looking out at the darkness. It is now 6:30, and Julia should be here any minute now. I am dressed and ready, and the first light is in the eastern sky. I am wearing the pearl pendant and apricot scarf and wonder if I am being sentimental or perverse. Whichever it is, I feel that going into this event, I need tangible reminders of what got me there, and perhaps, with the pendant, a way of having The Guv present in some symbolic fashion. I see headlights up the street. Time to go.
Saturday February 13:
Back home and a bit woozy; I am putting mother off by telling her I have a touch of the flu. The doctor was professional and very kind. When he did his follow-up check on me, he said he hoped some day he would be able to assist at the delivery of a baby I wanted. It was a lovely sentiment, and I’m sure he says that to all his patients, but it has no bearing on me. Already, I can feel mother’s demands irrevocably sucking me into living with her and taking care of her, and, once in that position, any slight hope there might have been of love and marriage is over. At least I will have my work, and can get back to it Monday — or Tuesday at the latest.
“WELL,” SAID EL, “Anything interesting in there?
“Too much,” Gordon replied. “I wouldn’t know where to start.
“You want to tell me about it?”
“I think I should hold off. It wasn’t what I expected, and I need some time to digest it.”
“Fair enough. She gave it to you, after all.”
Gordon looked at his watch. It was five minutes past five. The rain had stopped, and while it was still cloudy, with rumbles of thunder in the distance, the storm appeared to have passed, and the clouds were letting more light through.
“You have any plans for dinner?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s my birthday, so I guess I should do something special.”
“No kidding? Well, happy birthday.”
She gave him a long look. “You’re dying to ask, I can tell, but you’re too much of a gentleman. I’m 49 today. I don’t know why women make such a big deal about age. It’s just a fact.”
Gordon nodded his head slightly.
“You know what I’d really like for birthday dinner?”
“Tell me.”
“You’re a fisherman, right? I’d like you to catch me a trout for dinner.”
“Well, where would I go to catch it?”
“Right here, silly. Just fish from the deck. There are fish rising out there almost every night.”
“All right … sorry to be a spoilsport, but I just realized my rod and gear are back at Stanhope House.”
“I have a rod. Let me go get it.”
She disappeared into the bedroom and returned shortly with a gear bag and a rod inside a case. Gordon took the rod out and examined it.
“Very nice,” he said. “This was hand-made by a guy in Sacramento who had quite a reputation. Don’t know if he’s still doing it or not.”
“Andre bought it when we decided to move here. Think you can catch a fish with it?”
“I can try.”
He put the two halves of the rod together, attached a reel from the gear bag, threaded the line through the rod ferrules and added a leader from the bag. In the bag was a small box of flies that had seen better days. He finally found a size 14 Yellow Humpy that might pass for a terrestrial insect to an undiscriminating trout.
“Can I watch?” she said.
“Only if you promise not to laugh.”
They stepped onto the deck. The air had that clean, hyper-charged freshness that follows a big storm, and Gordon breathed it deeply. He went to the right corner of the deck, where he could back-cast without hitting the house. Working the rod carefully, getting to know its flex and feel, he finally shot a cast 80 feet out into the lake. The fly landed on the water, sat there untouched for several minutes, and slowly drifted back toward the deck. Gordon picked up the line, made another cast to a point 30 degrees left of the first one. As the fly began drifting back to shore, a fish smacked it.
“Fish on!” he shouted. “Not much of one, though.” He quickly reeled in the fish, a six-inch Rainbow, and lifted it out of the water with the rod. Taking the fish in his le
ft hand, he quickly removed the hook with his right hand and dropped the fish in the water, where it swam off in a hurry.
“Go tell your grandpa we want to see him,” Gordon said. El laughed.
“Look,” said Gordon, “this could take a while, and even if I caught a good-size fish, I might not be able to horse it up to the deck like I did that little guy. I had a really nice trout dinner at Año Nuevo Pines Tuesday night. Let me take you there for your birthday dinner.”
“All right. I’m easy.” She looked at her watch. “If we get there before six, we should be able to get right in. Just lean the rod against the house while I get a sweater, and let’s go.”
Gordon carried the rod to where the deck dead-ended against the front of the house and leaned it against the corner, under the overhang. By the time he was back inside, she was ready. They took his Cherokee, and he brought Charlotte’s journal with him in the messenger bag.
The restaurant was busy, so they decided to chance the weather and sit outside, where there were more open tables and fewer people. After the menus were brought, she leaned across the table.
Not Death, But Love (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 3) Page 19
