She laughed, wet-eyed.
“Gee, honey,” he said, “do you know what I’d love to do?”
“What?”
“Tell Minnie and Roman.” He raised a hand. “I know, I know; we’re supposed to keep it a deep dark secret. But I told them we were trying and they were so pleased, and, well, with people that old”—he spread his hands ruefully—“if we wait too long they might never get to know at all.”
“Tell them,” she said, loving him.
He kissed her nose. “Back in two minutes,” he said, and turned and hurried to the door. Watching him go, she saw that Minnie and Roman had become deeply important to him. It wasn’t surprising; his mother was a busy self-involved chatterer and none of his fathers had been truly fatherly. The Castevets were filling a need in him, a need of which he himself was probably unaware. She was grateful to them and would think more kindly of them in the future.
She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her eyes and fixed her hair and lips. “You’re pregnant,” she told herself in the mirror. (But the lab wants another blood sample. What for?)
As she came back out they came in at the front door: Minnie in a housedress, Roman holding in both hands a bottle of wine, and Guy behind them flushed and smiling. “Now that’s what I call good news!” Minnie said. “Congrat-u-lations!” She bore down on Rosemary, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek hard and loud.
“Our best wishes to you, Rosemary,” Roman said, putting his lips to her other cheek. “We’re more pleased than we can say. We have no champagne on hand, but this 1961 Saint Julien, I think, will do just as nicely for a toast.”
Rosemary thanked them.
“When are you due, dear?” Minnie asked.
“June twenty-eighth.”
“It’s going to be so exciting,” Minnie said, “between now and then.”
“We’ll do all your shopping for you,” Roman said.
“Oh, no,” Rosemary said. “Really.”
Guy brought glasses and a corkscrew, and Roman turned with him to the opening of the wine. Minnie took Rosemary’s elbow and they walked together into the living room. “Listen, dear,” Minnie said, “do you have a good doctor?”
“Yes, a very good one,” Rosemary said.
“One of the top obstetricians in New York,” Minnie said, “is a dear friend of ours. Abe Sapirstein. A Jewish man. He delivers all the Society babies and he would deliver yours too if we asked him. And he’d do it cheap, so you’d be saving Guy some of his hard-earned money.”
“Abe Sapirstein?” Roman asked from across the room. “He’s one of the finest obstetricians in the country, Rosemary. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“I think so,” Rosemary said, recalling the name from an article in a newspaper or magazine.
“I have,” Guy said. “Wasn’t he on Open End a couple of years ago?”
“That’s right,” Roman said. “He’s one of the finest obstetricians in the country.”
“Ro?” Guy said.
“But what about Dr. Hill?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him something,” Guy said. “You know me.”
Rosemary thought about Dr. Hill, so young, so Kildare, with his lab that wanted more blood because the nurse had goofed or the technician had goofed or someone had goofed, causing her needless bother and concern.
Minnie said, “I’m not going to let you go to no Dr. Hill that nobody heard of! The best is what you’re going to have, young lady, and the best is Abe Sapirstein!”
Gratefully Rosemary smiled her decision at them. “If you’re sure he can take me,” she said. “He might be too busy.”
“He’ll take you,” Minnie said. “I’m going to call him right now. Where’s the phone?”
“In the bedroom,” Guy said.
Minnie went into the bedroom. Roman poured glasses of wine. “He’s a brilliant man,” he said, “with all the sensitivity of his much-tormented race.” He gave glasses to Rosemary and Guy. “Let’s wait for Minnie,” he said.
They stood motionless, each holding a full wineglass, Roman holding two. Guy said, “Sit down, honey,” but Rosemary shook her head and stayed standing.
Minnie in the bedroom said, “Abe? Minnie. Fine. Listen, a dear friend of ours just found out today that she’s pregnant. Yes, isn’t it? I’m in her apartment now. We told her you’d be glad to take care of her and that you wouldn’t charge none of your fancy Society prices neither.” She was silent, then said “Wait a minute,” and raised her voice. “Rosemary? Can you go see him tomorrow morning at eleven?”
“Yes, that would be fine,” Rosemary called back.
Roman said, “You see?”
“Eleven’s fine, Abe,” Minnie said. “Yes. You too. No, not at all. Let’s hope so. Good-by.”
She came back. “There you are,” she said. “I’ll write down his address for you before we go. He’s on Seventy-ninth Street and Park Avenue.”
“Thanks a million, Minnie,” Guy said, and Rosemary said, “I don’t know how to thank you. Both of you.”
Minnie took the glass of wine Roman held out to her. “It’s easy,” she said. “Just do everything Abe tells you and have a fine healthy baby; that’s all the thanks we’ll ever ask for.”
Roman raised his glass. “To a fine healthy baby,” he said.
“Hear, hear,” Guy said, and they all drank; Guy, Minnie, Rosemary, Roman.
“Mmm,” Guy said. “Delicious.”
“Isn’t it?” Roman said. “And not at all expensive.”
“Oh my,” Minnie said, “I can’t wait to tell the news to Laura-Louise.”
Rosemary said, “Oh, please. Don’t tell anyone else. Not yet. It’s so early.”
“She’s right,” Roman said. “There’ll be plenty of time later on for spreading the good tidings.”
“Would anyone like some cheese and crackers?” Rosemary asked.
“Sit down, honey,” Guy said. “I’ll get it.”
That night Rosemary was too fired with joy and wonder to fall asleep quickly. Within her, under the hands that lay alertly on her stomach, a tiny egg had been fertilized by a tiny seed. Oh miracle, it would grow to be Andrew or Susan! (“Andrew” she was definite about; “Susan” was open to discussion with Guy.) What was Andrew-or-Susan now, a pinpoint speck? No, surely it was more than that; after all, wasn’t she in her second month already? Indeed she was. It had probably reached the early tadpole stage. She would have to find a chart or book that told month by month exactly what was happening. Dr. Sapirstein would know of one.
A fire engine screamed by. Guy shifted and mumbled, and behind the wall Minnie and Roman’s bed creaked.
There were so many dangers to worry about in the months ahead; fires, falling objects, cars out of control; dangers that had never been dangers before but were dangers now, now that Andrew-or-Susan was begun and living. (Yes, living!) She would give up her occasional cigarette, of course. And check with Dr. Sapirstein about cocktails.
If only prayer were still possible! How nice it would be to hold a crucifix again and have God’s ear: ask Him for safe passage through the eight more months ahead; no German measles, please, no great new drugs with Thalidomide side effects. Eight good months, please, free of accident and illness, full of iron and milk and sunshine.
Suddenly she remembered the good luck charm, the ball of tannis root; and foolish or not, wanted it—no, needed it—around her neck. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed to the vanity, and got it from the Louis Sherry box, freed it from its aluminum-foil wrapping. The smell of the tannis root had changed; it was still strong but no longer repellent. She put the chain over her head.
With the ball tickling between her breasts, she tiptoed back to bed and climbed in. She drew up the blanket and, closing her eyes, settled her head down into the pillow. She lay breathing deeply and was soon asleep, her hands on her stomach shielding the embryo inside her.
PART 2
CHAPTER 1
NOW SHE WAS ALIVE;
was doing, was being, was at last herself and complete. She did what she had done before—cooked, cleaned, ironed, made the bed, shopped, took laundry to the basement, went to her sculpture class—but did everything against a new and serene background of knowing that Andrew-or-Susan (or Melinda) was every day a little bit bigger inside her than the day before, a little bit more clearly defined and closer to readiness.
Dr. Sapirstein was wonderful; a tall sunburned man with white hair and a shaggy white moustache (she had seen him somewhere before but couldn’t think where; maybe on Open End) who despite the Miës van der Rohe chairs and cool marble tables of his waiting room was reassuringly old-fashioned and direct. “Please don’t read books,” he said. “Every pregnancy is different, and a book that tells you what you’re going to feel in the third week of the third month is only going to make you worry. No pregnancy was ever exactly like the ones described in the books. And don’t listen to your friends either. They’ll have had experiences very different from yours and they’ll be absolutely certain that their pregnancies were the normal ones and that yours is abnormal.”
She asked him about the vitamin pills Dr. Hill had prescribed.
“No, no pills,” he said. “Minnie Castevet has a herbarium and a blender; I’m going to have her make a daily drink for you that will be fresher, safer, and more vitamin-rich than any pill on the market. And another thing: don’t be afraid to satisfy your cravings. The theory today is that pregnant women invent cravings because they feel it’s expected of them. I don’t hold with that. I say if you want pickles in the middle of the night, make your poor husband go out and get some, just like in the old jokes. Whatever you want, be sure you get it. You’ll be surprised at some of the strange things your body will ask for in these next few months. And any questions you have, call me night or day. Call me, not your mother or your Aunt Fanny. That’s what I’m here for.”
She was to come in once a week, which was certainly closer attention than Dr. Hill gave his patients, and he would make a reservation at Doctors Hospital without any bother of filling out forms.
Everything was right and bright and lovely. She got a Vidal Sassoon haircut, finished with the dentist, voted on Election Day (for Lindsay for mayor), and went down to Greenwich Village to watch some of the outdoor shooting of Guy’s pilot. Between takes—Guy running with a stolen hot-dog wagon down Sullivan Street—she crouched on her heels to talk to small children and smiled Me too at pregnant women.
Salt, she found, even a few grains of it, made food inedible. “That’s perfectly normal,” Dr. Sapirstein said on her second visit. “When your system needs it, the aversion will disappear. Meanwhile, obviously, no salt. Trust your aversions the same as you do your cravings.”
She didn’t have any cravings though. Her appetite, in fact, seemed smaller than usual. Coffee and toast was enough for breakfast, a vegetable and a small piece of rare meat for dinner. Each morning at eleven Minnie brought over what looked like a watery pistachio milkshake. It was cold and sour.
“What’s in it?” Rosemary asked.
“Snips and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails,” Minnie said, smiling.
Rosemary laughed. “That’s fine,” she said, “but what if we want a girl?”
“Do you?”
“Well of course we’ll take what we get, but it would be nice if the first one were a boy.”
“Well there you are,” Minnie said.
Finished drinking, Rosemary said, “No, really, what’s in it?”
“A raw egg, gelatin, herbs…”
“Tannis root?”
“Some of that, some of some other things.”
Minnie brought the drink every day in the same glass, a large one with blue and green stripes, and stood waiting while Rosemary drained it.
One day Rosemary got into a conversation by the elevator with Phyllis Kapp, young Lisa’s mother. The end of it was a brunch invitation for Guy and her on the following Sunday, but Guy vetoed the idea when Rosemary told him of it. In all likelihood he would be in Sunday’s shooting, he explained, and if he weren’t he would need the day for rest and study. They were having little social life just then. Guy had broken a dinner-and-theater date they had made a few weeks earlier with Jimmy and Tiger Haenigsen, and he had asked Rosemary if she would mind putting off Hutch for dinner. It was because of the pilot, which was taking longer to shoot than had been intended.
It turned out to be just as well though, for Rosemary began to develop abdominal pains of an alarming sharpness. She called Dr. Sapirstein and he asked her to come in. Examining her, he said that there was nothing to worry about; the pains came from an entirely normal expansion of her pelvis. They would disappear in a day or two, and meanwhile she could fight them with ordinary doses of aspirin.
Rosemary, relieved, said, “I was afraid it might be an ectopic pregnancy.”
“Ectopic?” Dr. Sapirstein asked, and looked skeptically at her. She colored. He said, “I thought you weren’t going to read books, Rosemary.”
“It was staring me right in the face at the drug store,” she said.
“And all it did was worry you. Will you go home and throw it away, please?”
“I will. I promise.”
“The pains will be gone in two days,” he said. “‘Ectopic pregnancy.’” He shook his head.
But the pains weren’t gone in two days; they were worse, and grew worse still, as if something inside her were encircled by a wire being drawn tighter and tighter to cut it in two. There would be pain for hour after hour, and then a few minutes of relative painlessness that was only the pain gathering itself for a new assault. Aspirin did little good, and she was afraid of taking too many. Sleep, when it finally came, brought harried dreams in which she fought against huge spiders that had cornered her in the bathroom, or tugged desperately at a small black bush that had taken root in the middle of the living room rug. She woke tired, to even sharper pain.
“This happens sometimes,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “It’ll stop any day now. Are you sure you haven’t been lying about your age? Usually it’s the older women with less flexible joints who have this sort of difficulty.”
Minnie, bringing in the drink, said, “You poor thing. Don’t fret, dear; a niece of mine in Toledo had exactly the same kind of pains and so did two other women I know of. And their deliveries were real easy and they had beautiful healthy babies.”
“Thanks,” Rosemary said.
Minnie drew back righteously. “What do you mean? That’s the gospel truth! I swear to God it is, Rosemary!”
Her face grew pinched and wan and shadowed; she looked awful. But Guy insisted otherwise. “What are you talking about?” he said. “You look great. It’s that haircut that looks awful, if you want the truth, honey. That’s the biggest mistake you ever made in your whole life.”
The pain settled down to a constant presence, with no respite whatever. She endured it and lived with it, sleeping a few hours a night and taking one aspirin where Dr. Sapirstein allowed two. There was no going out with Joan or Elise, no sculpture class or shopping. She ordered groceries by phone and stayed in the apartment, making nursery curtains and starting, finally, on The Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire. Sometimes Minnie or Roman came in of an afternoon, to talk a while and see if there was anything she wanted. Once Laura-Louise brought down a tray of gingerbread. She hadn’t been told yet that Rosemary was pregnant. “Oh my, I do like that haircut, Rosemary,” she said. “You look so pretty and up-to-date.” She was surprised to hear she wasn’t feeling well.
When the pilot was finally finished Guy stayed home most of the time. He had stopped studying with Dominick, his vocal coach, and no longer spent afternoons auditioning and being seen. He had two good commercials on deck—for Pall Mall and Texaco—and rehearsals of Don’t I Know You From Somewhere? were definitely scheduled to begin in mid-January. He gave Rosemary a hand with the cleaning, and they played time-limit Scrabble for a dollar a game. He answered the phone and, when it was for Rosemary,
made plausible excuses.
She had planned to give a Thanksgiving dinner for some of their friends who, like themselves, had no family nearby; with the constant pain, though, and the constant worry over Andrew-or-Melinda’s well-being, she decided not to, and they ended up going to Minnie and Roman’s instead.
CHAPTER 2
ONE AFTERNOON in December, while Guy was doing the Pall Mall commercial, Hutch called. “I’m around the corner at City Center picking up tickets for Marcel Marceau,” he said. “Would you and Guy like to come on Friday night?”
“I don’t think so, Hutch,” Rosemary said. “I haven’t been feeling too well lately. And Guy’s got two commercials this week.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, really. I’ve just been a bit under the weather.”
“May I come up for a few minutes?”
“Oh do; I’d love to see you.”
She hurried into slacks and a jersey top, put on lipstick and brushed her hair. The pain sharpened—locking her for a moment with shut eyes and clenched teeth—and then it sank back to its usual level and she breathed out gratefully and went on brushing.
Hutch, when he saw her, stared and said, “My God.”
“It’s Vidal Sassoon and it’s very in,” she said.
“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “I don’t mean your hair.”
“Do I look that bad?” She took his coat and hat and hung them away, smiling a fixed bright smile.
“You look terrible,” Hutch said. “You’ve lost God-knows-how-many pounds and you have circles around your eyes that a panda would envy. You aren’t on one of those ‘Zen diets,’ are you?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? Have you seen a doctor?”
“I suppose I might as well tell you,” Rosemary said. “I’m pregnant. I’m in my third month.”
Hutch looked at her, nonplussed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Pregnant women gain weight, they don’t lose it. And they look healthy, not—”