by John Coyne
“But he lost his land! I would think that a man like Delp, whose family has lived right here for generations, wouldn’t be happy just to make a quick profit. It seems to me he’s being forced off the land, and no amount of money can ease that.”
Sara was suddenly furious at Magnuson, and for the first time she wasn’t concealing her feelings from the developer. She moved to brush past him, but he stood his ground and said quietly, “Delp doesn’t give a damn about this farm. It’s always been a losing business for him, just like it was for his old man. None of the Delps have ever amounted to much.
“Besides, he’s not giving up all his land. He wants to keep working. I guess because of that child of his, the young girl who ain’t quite right. So, we’ve hired him as the maintenance man of the Village. He’ll keep his farm house and one or two of the smaller buildings for equipment. The barn itself we’ll make into indoor tennis and squash courts, and the swimming pool, but you’ve seen the plans for that.
“And you people have done real nice,” Magnuson added pointedly. “Even if old Delp does lose his farm, you people with the new administration have yourselves an exclusive country estate. And one of the best views on the Potomac.” He waved once more, sweeping his arm in a wide arc.
From where they stood under the sycamore, they could see the length of the river above Mason Island, and across the water into Maryland. It was a beautiful view, Sara admitted. The trees on the banks of the Potomac were already turning green, and in a few more days most of the river would be lost from sight, hidden behind the thick foliage. But today the bright spring sun sparkled off the cold water.
“And you’re sure I’ll be moving in here by the end of the summer?” This time she spoke pleasantly. She would try harder to get along with the man.
“You have my word, honey.” The grin returned to Magnuson’s round face.
“Thanks, but I’ll hold onto my contract.” She couldn’t be nice; he brought out the worst in her. The only answer was to leave, and she stepped into the sun, saying, “I have to meet the Volts. We’ve planned a picnic.”
“Say hello to them for me, Doc, and it was nice seeing you again.
“Now don’t worry about your new home. Everything is going to be just fine. We’ll have all you bright, young people into Renaissance Village before September.” He kept smiling, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He watched her disappear into the auction crowd, thinking that she was one fine-looking woman with her corn-silk hair, her long legs, and her small, tight ass.
Peggy Volt followed her husband up the slope. They had already left the paved streets and the building site, and were climbing straight through the tall grass toward the ridge of the meadow. They had passed what she thought were perfectly fine picnic spots, but she knew Kevin: he had some mystical place in mind, some perfect location that only he could see with his mind’s eyes. His friends laughed over his secret system, treating it as just a silly idiosyncrasy. But she saw it as manipulation, and resented it accordingly.
Kevin was carrying everything: the wicker picnic basket, the car blanket, and the small ice chest full of wine and beer. She could see the perspiration on his neck, and already the back of his cotton shirt was damp with sweat. His exertion made her feel momentarily guilty, yet she was the one who was six months pregnant and had to struggle lopsided up the steep hill.
Peggy stopped, winded from the steady climb. “Kevin, isn’t this good enough?” she asked. Her face was red from the heat, and she wanted him to look around and see her exhaustion, but he only yelled over his shoulder, “We’re almost at the top. I spotted a place the other day that’s flat and in the shade.” He kept walking, lengthening his stride as he gained the crest of the hill.
The picnic spot was perfect: A patch of ground at the top of the meadow and just inside the stand of trees that edged the field. Kevin always did everything right, and that annoyed her. When they had first started to date, she had been awed by his intelligence and sense of detail; she had not realized then how difficult it would be to live with someone who was nearly perfect.
“Sara will never find us here,” Peggy complained. It was not like her to bitch, but the exhausting climb had put her in a bad mood.
“Yes, she will. I told her where to look.” Kevin calmly set about arranging the picnic area, spreading out the car blanket and opening the wicker basket. “She won’t be here for a while, though; she said she wanted to look around the barnyard for something to buy, and then to stop by her house.”
“Maybe we should’ve tried to buy something.”
“I did,” Kevin answered, setting down a stack of plastic dishes. “I drove out yesterday afternoon when Delp was cleaning out his barns and bought a few of the better items before they were picked over.” He glanced up and saw his wife staring at him. “What is it?” he asked. He slipped his arm around her, but there was little warmth in his embrace. The gesture was calculated and precise, like a military drill.
He was not an affectionate person. Peggy had always known that about him, but she had been attracted nevertheless to his clean Nordic looks. There was a neat efficiency to him that she found irresistibly sexy. He was slim and tall and bald. Even before she had met him, he had begun to completely shave his head.
On the first evening they were at his apartment he had asked her to shave him, using a safety razor and cream. And when she was done, and had wiped his scalp dry with a soft blue bath towel, she was so intoxicated with desire that she made him make love to her there, on the cool, damp tiles of the bathroom.
“What is it?” he asked again.
“Nothing.”
He sat back and sighed, letting her know that her adolescent behavior perturbed him. Then he reached into the wicker basket and finished setting out the food.
Peggy looked down the hill and saw Sara. She was at the last village road, standing at the entrance to a cul-de-sac. She spotted Peggy and waved.
Peggy managed to wave back. Sara would notice that she was crying and blame it on the pregnancy. Everyone thought that was why she had been so moody and tearful these past weeks, and she let them believe that. But the child had nothing to do with her hysteria. It was Kevin who drove her to tears; it was her husband, whom she hated.
“What is it now?” he demanded.
Peggy shook her head, not answering. She raised her head and blew her nose, then wiped the streaking tears off her face. She was looking away from her husband, looking into the dark trees that framed the valley and thinking clearly for the first time in her life. When the baby was born, she would leave Kevin. He could keep the child; she didn’t care. She wanted to be free of him, free of these new friends, and free of this co-op village they all thought was so wonderful and clever and special.
She turned her head and said quickly, “It won’t work, Kevin. I’m going to tell the others.”
“No, you won’t, Peggy.” He didn’t even bother to raise his voice.
“It will work and you will keep your mouth shut. If you do say anything about it, I’ll have you killed. And I mean that, darling.” He smiled, his face half-hidden in the shade of his Eddie Bauer cap.
Sara left the blacktop village street and walked across the field to her house under construction. The sides and roof were built, but the windows and doors were vacant, and the house looked as if it had been bombed out. It was a two-story, frame house with a fireplace in the study and a double garage.
The house was too big for her, and she hadn’t wanted to be tied down to living in the country, but Kevin Volt had lectured her about how necessary it was to make good investments, now that she was over thirty.
Sara stepped on a plank that stretched from the piled excavation dirt to the back door and went into the house. It was cool inside, refreshing after the hot day in the open fields. She could actually feel a breeze through the doors and windows, and she moved from room to room, not seeing the unfinished construction, but envisioning how it would look with all of her things in place.
She did not have enough furniture, she realized, walking slowly through the thirteen-by-twenty living room. Perhaps what she should do was rent out the house and find a one-bedroom apartment somewhere in the District.
She stood still and looked around the huge, empty house and felt the sadness rushing through her. It didn’t have to be this way, she kept thinking. It didn’t have to be this way at all.
It had been snowing all that week in Boston, and again she had put off seeing the gynecologist. It was after one when she finally telephoned him from the Harvard campus, and he told her what she already knew.
She had left the university then and gone out to walk alone across Harvard Yard, plodding through the deep snow, disregarding paths and sidewalks.
There were only a few students outside, and they were like dark shadows moving against the driving storm. On any other time, she would have found the scene charming: the red brick walls, the snow, and the clean white look of the campus. She might even have stopped in the Yard to lean against a black tree and enjoy the scene, for this was when she loved Harvard the most: when it was deserted and snowbound, and seemed to be all hers.
But she didn’t stop. She kept walking aimlessly through Cambridge, past Appleton Chapel, along Quincy, then onto Divinity Avenue, and back to the biological research labs. It wasn’t until she reached the labs that she realized she had been crying.
Inside, she went to the faculty lounge, where she washed her face and put on makeup—something she never did during the day—and only then did she return to her tiny office in the laboratory.
It was the next several hours that counted, she knew. If she could make it through the afternoon without breaking down, without becoming hysterical, she’d be all right. Then she’d be strong enough to tell Sam.
“Hey, Sara, what happened to you?” her graduate assistant called out. “We’re an hour late already with the trials.” He was across the room, standing in among the cages of white mice.
“It’s snowing outside,” she answered back, “haven’t you heard?” She kept walking, carrying her notes and files in one hand, and trying to tie the belt of her white lab coat with the other.
Her office was a small cluttered room at the opposite end of the lab, hidden behind dozens of small metal cages. She made it to her desk and sank down into her seat, almost disappearing behind the stacks of reports, then closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.
“When do you want to run those benzodiazepine trials?” her assistant asked, stepping quietly into the doorway. He was holding a clipboard and jotting down notes.
“Go ahead without me, Terry,” she answered slowly.
He looked up, surprised.
“Hey, are you okay?” Behind his glasses he had a small, cute face, and Sara liked to kid him that he resembled one of the grandfather rhesus monkeys they kept in the laboratory.
“I think so.” She forced a bright smile. “I may be coming down with the Ethiopian flu, or whatever they’re calling it this season, but I’m fine. Where are we on the schedule?”
“I ran that experiment with chlorpromazine and haloperidol this morning on section X-43.”
“And what happened?” Each question forced her to pay attention, to concentrate on her work.
“What we expected. It increased the amount of the metabolites of dopamine in the mice’s brains.”
Sara nodded. “I guess Carlsson was right.” She smiled wryly.
“Then we’ll run the benzodiazepine series?”
“Sure. But not on X-47. I don’t want those mice to have any trace of antipsychotic drugs in their system. We might want to test that group later with meprobamate.”
She stood up quickly and a wave of nausea struck her. For a moment she thought she would vomit right there in the office.
“Sara, hey, sit down.” Her assistant came around the desk and eased her back into the chair. “You’re dead white,” he said, sounding surprised, and pressed his palm against her forehead. “And you have a fever.” Now he was worried. “Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe I should call Sam and have him come get you.”
“No, that’s not necessary.” Sara sat up and brushed his hand away. She was uncomfortably warm and she did not want to be touched. “Would you get me some water, please?”
“Sure.” He was eager to help. “Don’t move!” He hurried from the office, rushing through the long laboratory filled with glass cages of experimental white mice.
Sara relaxed and took deep breaths to regain her composure. It was best, she thought, that he and everyone else at Harvard think it was the flu. At least for now, at least until she decided what to do about the baby.
At six Sam telephoned.
“Still working?” He sounded annoyed.
“I’m afraid so. We ran some new benzodiazepine tests and I …” She stopped apologizing. It was an unspoken agreement between them that they did not have to justify their actions, but the habit was hard to break.
“Well, I was planning to start cooking, but if you’re going to be late, maybe I should just rustle up something for myself. I’m famished.” He sounded put-upon.
“I’ll be home within the hour.” Sara glanced up at the wall clock. “Is there anything you want me to pick up at the store?”
“No, I did the shopping. Traffic is terrible. You’ll probably be caught …”
“I’ll take the bus and leave my car here,” she interrupted quickly, annoyed now at Sam’s petulance. “I’ll be home by seven, a quarter after at the latest.” And then she hung up, her whole body trembling from the confrontation. She was overreacting, she realized, and she knew why. She was afraid of what Sam would say when she told him.
In the end she did take the car. She would tell Sam she’d wasted half an hour waiting for the bus, but the truth was she wanted the car at home in case he became impossible and she needed to get out of the house. She knew she was being paranoiac, but she couldn’t help it. If she knew anything at all about him, she knew what he thought about having kids.
The traffic was as impossible as Sam had predicted, and it took more than an hour to reach Watertown. Even then, Sara had to leave the VW by the high school and walk up Barnard Avenue to their house.
Sara could see him reading in the living room as she tramped across the yard and up onto the porch. She took her time and stamped her feet on the wooden steps, hoping he would come to the front door and welcome her home, but she could see through the windows that he wasn’t moving. When she couldn’t stall any longer, she pushed open the door and barged inside, showering snow in the wide foyer.
“The door!” he shouted, annoyed by the sudden draft of icy wind.
He had eaten; Sara could see the dirty dishes on the end table. He had even opened a bottle of Beaujolais and was finishing it. A full glass of wine reflected the soft light from the table lamp.
She crossed the room, tracking snow on the carpet and stood over him, still wrapped up in her coat and long wool scarf, waiting for his attention. He looked up again, frowning, unsure of what she wanted. Above the scarf he could see only her eyes and cheeks, still red from the raw wind.
“Sara,” he said quietly, “you’re getting everything wet.” He moved his long legs away from her dripping clothes. “What’s wrong, anyway?”
“Sam, I’m pregnant.” Damn, she thought, even her voice sounded guilty.
“Oh, shit!” he whispered. The book in his hands slipped from his fingers.
Sara didn’t move. She stood above him, waiting for him to look up, waiting to see the look in his eyes, but he kept staring off. It took all her strength to keep from breaking down. Finally, he asked, “How long?”
“Six weeks.”
“Well, at least there’s still time.”
“Time for what?” Sara asked, but the cold ball of dread deep in her stomach told her she knew what he meant.
“To have an abortion,” he said calmly, watching her. “I can telephone Greg at the clinic and he’ll set up an appointment for tom
orrow. You have a section to teach in the morning, don’t you? Well, I’ll have Greg arrange for an appointment in the early afternoon. It’s really nothing more than a simple D and C.”
Only then did he stand. He was wearing jeans and he shoved his hands into the back pockets and leaned forward from the waist as he walked. He was very tall, over six feet, but slim and rangy, and he wore large glasses that made him seem like a caricature of a professor.
Sara had never found him handsome, but she was attracted to him nevertheless, fascinated by the way his mind worked, the intensity he could generate. He was the best young researcher at the Med School. She missed the warmth and friendliness she had found with other men, but was drawn to Sam by the sheer power of his intellect.
Now she couldn’t look at him. She stared down at the shabby living room rug.
“You don’t need a child,” he announced. “Not when I’m just beginning a book and you’re finishing up your research grant. It will only complicate our lives.”
Sara shook her head, still unsteady on her feet. She had known he would be difficult, but his cold-blooded response stunned her. It was as if he had stripped her bare before an audience.
She turned away, nauseous again, overwhelmed by his blunt reaction. He had made up their minds as if solving a household dilemma … should they have the porch painted? No, not till she’d finished her research and he’d outlined his book.
“What’s the matter?” he finally asked, seeing the dazed look in her eyes.
“I haven’t decided what to do, Sam.” The answer exhausted her.
“Sara!” he reprimanded. “Let’s be realistic.” His voice had gained its edge once more. “We don’t need a child. I have two years before tenure, and even with a book there’s no assurance I’ll get it, not with all the cutbacks.” He sat again and made a slight display of settling down once more with his book and glass of wine, showing with his deliberate behavior that the discussion was over, his decision final.
