Doctor's Wife (21 page)

    “Once we’re in the States,” he said, “there’ll be no
problem renewing the visa. We’ll simply apply for you to stay on as
an immigrant. It can be done.”

    He sees our lives in terms of movement, of having
enough money to go some place, of getting visas and jobs, of making
a new start together. Yet he always offers me a chance to back out.
Money in a New York bank in my name, a return ticket and no
recriminations, “if you change your mind, Sheila.” Yesterday he
said, “You never can force people, not really. In the end they do
what they have to do.” But do they? I can’t bear to think of giving
him up. If he felt the same way about me, would he ever say the
words “if you change your mind, Sheila”? Maybe. He’s young, he’s
American, he’s a man. He hasn’t made the mistakes I have. He’s not
afraid, as I am. If he worries about Kevin coming after us, he
never shows it.

    “Are you asleep?” he said. “Are you listening?”

    “Of course I’m listening. How much did you say it
will cost to pay my fare to New York?”

    “Oh, about four hundred dollars.”

    “And the same to come back here?”

    “Right.”

    “And how much money do you actually have?”

    He laughed, and kissed her forehead. “So, you’re
after my money.”

    “No, seriously. How much do you have? Two thousand
dollars? Five thousand? Or what?”

    He was silent for a moment, counting. “I suppose I
have about five thousand altogether. Somewhere in that area. I have
about two thousand in cash and traveler’s checks, and the rest is
in a savings account at home.”

    “Then you can’t afford to spend that much on
me.”

    “What better way is there to spend it? Besides, I’m
going to make money in Vermont. You’re speaking to the next acting
manager of Pine Lodge.”

    “I have some money, too. Shares. They’re worth
nearly two thousand pounds, I think.”

    “So we’re rich,” he said. “Turn around and let me
lie up to your back.”

    Obediently she turned and felt him move in behind
her, felt his penis stiffen. He kissed her on the nape of her neck
and then, as he began to fondle her breasts, his fingers on her
nipples, she heard a siren cry out, far below in the night traffic.
Excited, she turned to him, taking his penis in her hand.

    •

    Later, in the middle of the night, the telephone
rang. She woke, startled, as it pealed loud in the night quiet. She
got up in a rush, grabbing her raincoat, pulling it on as she ran
into the living room. As she groped for the table light, she felt
her leg wet and, when she found the switch, saw a trickle of
menstrual blood running down her inner thigh. She turned in panic,
pulling a wad of Kleenex from the box on the table, then seized the
receiver, as though it were her enemy. “Hello?” She heard the
silence of an open line. “Hello?” she said again.

    “Mum, is that you?”

    “Danny? Are you all right? What’s the matter? Is
your father all right?”

    “Yes.”

    “Danny, how did you get this number? Is your father
there?”

    “He’s asleep.”

    “Well, what is it? Danno, what
is
it?”

    “Nothing. I want to talk to you.”

    “But it’s the middle of the night.”

    “Is it true you’re not coming home?”

    “Who told you that?”

    “Uncle Owen was here tonight. I heard him telling
Dad.”

    “What did he say?”

    “He said you told him you’re not coming back. And
that you’re going to New York to live with an American.”

    “Does your father know you heard this?”

    “Yes, he does. I asked him about it.”

    “Oh, my God,” she said. “And how did you get my
number?”

    “I found it right here beside the phone. Dad’s been
ringing you for days. Don’t you even know that?”

    “Danny, listen to me. This is not something I’m
going to talk to you about on the phone.”

    “Why not? Are you going to leave us, or aren’t
you?”

    “Look, Danny, this is a grownup matter. I’m sorry
but it’s too hard to explain. Now, I’m going to say good
night.”

    “So, you
are
going to run away. I think
that stinks. It stinks, do you hear me, Mum? It stinks.”

    He was crying, she could hear him. “Oh, Danno,” she
said, “listen, don’t cry. Don’t worry, please. Listen, I’ll ring
you up tomorrow or Monday, all right?”

    “What do you want to go to America for?” He was
bawling now, childishly. “It’s not fair to Dad, so it isn’t.”

    “Now, stop that, Danny. Stop it. Stop that crying.
Be a big boy. Go on back to bed.”

    “It stinks. You stink!”

    He hung up the receiver there, far away. She could
imagine him, barefoot, in his pajamas, his cheeks apple red with
angry rubbing, smeared with the oil of his tears. Her child, the
child she remembered always that day he was photographed in his
first suit of clothes, in a tiny gray flannel jacket and short
trousers, standing at the top of the stairs at home, waiting to
come down when Kevin said he was ready, a smile on his fat little
face, drunk in his baby pride. She waiting at the bottom of the
stairs, Kevin snapping pictures. And at the last step Danno ran to
her, hugging her, her only son, his little arms tight about her
neck. She turned from the phone and found Tom Lowry waiting in the
darkened entrance to the living room.

    “Was that your kid?”

    “Yes.”

    He came to her. “Poor Sheila.”

    “It’s all right.”

    “Did your husband get him to phone?”

    “No, it was his own idea.”

    Again she felt the blood trickle down her inner
thigh. She turned from him and went alone into the bathroom. But
later, when she came back to bed, he was waiting. In bed he held
her, his arms around her, holding her until he believed she was
asleep.

    Chapter 15

    • She was asked to put her handbag on the table. The
United States Marine guard inspected its contents and then she and
Tom went out across a very French courtyard to enter a room marked
PASSPORT OFFICE. The office, like the building, seemed French
rather than American, but beyond the waiting area she saw a large
American flag, impeccably clean, impressively displayed, so that it
seemed more like the symbol of a religion than a national banner.
For a moment she was caught up in a premonition of what America
would be like, a clean, flag-waving country whose people spoke in
voices foreign yet familiar, people whose habits seemed strange but
who were, in an odd way, like relatives, for they were the true
denizens of that Other Place she had gone into dark picture houses
to watch all her life. And there was something of this strange
dichotomy in the manner of the consular officer who called her to
the desk and questioned her, something avuncular yet ominous in
this pleasant-faced man with his aviator-style glasses who went
over the visa application form, asked her about her husband’s
occupation and if she was going on a regular or charter flight. She
had made out a statement, saying she was visiting a friend who had
invited her, giving Tom’s sister’s name and address, and explaining
how she had a son and a husband in Ireland and would return in two
weeks. The consular officer read it carefully, as she waited, sure
in her heart that his disturbingly friendly manner would soon turn
to cold dismissal. But nothing of the sort occurred. After a few
more questions, her form and photograph were put in a folder and
she was told to take a seat. Shortly afterward she was called back
to the desk. Her visa application had been processed and her
passport was stamped with the visa. It was after two o’clock when
they walked out of the office in the rue Saint-Florentin, and
suddenly Tom whooped like a madman.

    “We did it, we did it!” he said. “Man, was I scared
there’d be some foul-up.”

    “But you said it would be easy.”

    “And it was. Wow, it was great. But, Jesus,
supposing they’d said they had to check with your husband. That’s
what scared me. But never mind. We got it. That’s a good omen.”

    She kissed him.

    “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re going to celebrate.
We’re going to go up to Le Drugstore and I’ll buy you an American
lunch. Hamburgers and beer.”

    “All right. I’ve never seen you so happy.”

    “Well, why not. It’s happening, isn’t it. I was so
scared when I watched you at that counter. Still, I guess your
being married and with a husband and child, that helped.”

    He flushed as he said it. “Sorry. Well, you know
what I mean.”

    “Yes, of course,” she said. “I saw the consul look
at my wedding ring. I’m sure it helped.”

    But he was still embarrassed, still flushing. “It’s
just— look, I know what you’ve had to go through. Your kid phoning
you Saturday night. I get scared sometimes that all of that will
get to you. And then, today, I saw you apply for the visa. Oh,
Sheila, it’s going to be great. You’re going to love it in Vermont.
Look, I don’t know how to say this, but I’m grateful that you
decided for me.”

    She kissed him. “Shut up.”

    But half an hour later, as they sat in the
glassed-in terrace of Le Drugstore, he seemed to want to talk about
it again. “You know, I don’t feel
guilty
about taking you
away. I suppose I should. But I don’t. I just feel so grateful—to
you, to the embassy, to everyone. It’s as if this is my
birthday.”

    She stared through the glass at the Arc de Triomphe
up ahead. On top of the monument, tiny as toys, people were
parading about, peering down at the city below them.

    “What I mean is,” he said, “I don’t know what I’d
have done this week if you’d said you wouldn’t come away with
me.”

    “Look at those people.”

    “Where?”

    “Up on top there.”

    “I was up there once. There’s a fantastic view of
Paris.”

    “How do you get up?” she said. “Climb steps or
what?”

    “No, there’s an elevator.”

    She pushed aside her hamburger. He noticed she had
hardly touched it. “Can we go up there now?” she asked.

    “Why not?”

    “All right, then. Let’s go as soon as you’re
ready.”

    •

    Four tourists talking Dutch with the loud confidence
of people who know their conversation is not understood crowded
into the small elevator with them, for the trip to the top of the
Arc de Triomphe. When they emerged on
a
surface of white
stone and walked to the edge of the plinth, she saw that there was
no safety rail. Below, like the spokes of a wheel, the avenues
spread out from this central hub.

    “Isn’t it great?” he said.

    She looked down the Avenue de la Grande-Armée and
then over at Sacré-Coeur and the Eiffel Tower. “It’s like a
cemetery. The buildings are like gravestones.”

    But he did not seem to hear. “In New York the great
view is from the Empire State Building. Imagine. Next week you and
I could be standing up there, looking down at Central Park and the
Hudson River and the U.N. and all of it. Let’s do that, okay?”

    “I’ll miss Paris.”

    “If you get homesick for Paris, would you settle for
Montreal? It’s only about an hour from where we’ll be in
Vermont.”

    She moved closer to the edge of the parapet, leaning
over, looking down. She sensed him come up behind her.

    “I wonder, do many people jump?” she said.

    “It wouldn’t be hard. Why in hell don’t they put up
a guard rail?”

    She sat down on the stone plinth, dangling her legs
over the parapet. Her hands gripping the edge of the plinth, she
leaned out, staring at the tiny figures far below. She leaned
farther.

    “Sheila? That’s scary. Come on back.”

    She leaned out, her vision blurring. She felt his
hands grasp her shoulders. She caught her breath and leaned back
against his legs. “Aren’t you scared of heights?” he asked.

    “I used to be. Terribly.”

    “Come on. Get up.”

    She eased her legs back and stood, dusting her
skirt. “I’m sorry. Let’s go down, then.”

    Chapter 16

    • Mrs. Milligan put a slice of rhubarb pie on a
plate, placed a small silver cream jug beside it, then took the
tray into the den. He had hardly touched his pork chop and
potatoes.

    “Ah, Doctor, have you not eaten your chop? It was a
lovely one, too. The butcher kept it for me special.”

    “Is Danny asleep?”

    “Yes, he went right off.”

    “He took the pill?”

    “Aye, I gave it to him myself. Now, ate your dinner.
Go on.”

    “No, I’ve had enough.”

    “I’m just going to have to give it to Tarzan.”

    Tarzan, hearing his name, rose up from the rug, his
ears forward, his thick bushy tail clumping against the coffee
table.

    “Well, Tarzan looks hungry enough, don’t you, boy?”
his master said.

    “Oh, he’d ate till he burst, that dog,” Mrs.
Milligan said, picking up the dinner plate. She put the rhubarb pie
down in its place. “Now, try a bit of this. I made it myself.”

    “All right. And what about coffee?”

    “I’ll be in with it in a minute, Doctor.”

    Tarzan’s eager Alsatian eyes went from Mrs. Milligan
to his master and, suddenly, received the sign. Making token jumps
at the tray, he followed Mrs. Milligan down the back passage to the
kitchen.

    Kevin Redden listened to her go. Does she know
anything? Did Danny say anything to her? He had warned him to hold
his tongue. He looked at the television set. On the screen
contestants in a ballroom-dancing contest: an English plumber in
white tie and tails swept his evening-gowned partner across a
sprung, polished floor to the strains of the Anniversary Waltz.
Mrs. Milligan came back in and put down a tray with his coffee.
Except that it was not coffee, it was a coffee pot filled with hot
water, and instant in a coffee jar. Sheila would not have allowed
that: instant served in the jar. “Will that be all, Doctor?”