Morning (28 page)

Sara ran her hands over the manuscript. White paper, black print. It had taken Fanny a lifetime to accomplish this. Fanny’s fight with fate was all about creating, and so was Sara’s, but in a different way. She had helped Fanny bring her book to the light of day, but it would take a different source of help for Sara and Steve to have a child. It would take that spark, that flash, that gift from nowhere seen, and Sara could have operations and use charts and pray, but still her fate relied on more than determination and persistence; it relied on something beyond her control.

Still. Still, as Fanny said, the meaning of life was not about having babies, but in the present, in wresting what she could from each day she lived.

That night when Steve came home, he brought pizza, and chocolate chip cookies for dessert, and later they made love, gentle, careful, easy love. In the dark deep night Steve lay against her, Sara held him, he was inside her, she enclosed him, they were two halves of a whole, blended and blurred and complete. And Sara thought:
It’s here. It’s
here
.

Dr. Crochett had told Sara that many women got pregnant the first cycle after a laparoscopy, so when Sara’s period started at the end of September she was nearly wild with surprise and grief. But when she called his office, he calmed her, “No, no,” he said, “this doesn’t count, next month is the important cycle, not this month.” She hung up the phone, feeling foolish and weak with relief. She should have known; and after all, it would have been expecting a miracle for her to get pregnant right after the operation, because she had bled for almost a week. And she had taken strong antibiotics for two weeks in order to forestall any infection from the operation—that wouldn’t have been good for a developing embryo. So it was all right that she wasn’t pregnant. Logically it was all right.

She went to Boston to have the stitches removed. Dr. Crochett pronounced her in great shape. “Go home and get pregnant!” he said.

“Should I use the ovulation-indicator tests?” she asked him.

“No,” he said, “don’t bother with all that, don’t even think about it. It will only get you nervous. Just have a great time with your husband. Make love a lot.”

It was the beginning of October. The days glowed. Sara took on as much editing as she could, needing to keep occupied and needing to replenish the money they had spent on the operation.

She spoke with Fanny on the phone several times a week—Fanny had received the galleys of her book for proofreading, and she was getting nervous about its publication. The book was due out in January; the earliest reviews would appear in December.

Caroline and Clark Kendall closed up their ’Sconset house and went back to Florida. Sara felt enormously (and guiltily) relieved to see them go.

The island emptied of tourists. Shops and stores and sidewalks were no longer crowded. Steve had stopped working for Mack and, with two men working for him, had gone into business for himself. He was up and out early and home late and dirty and tired. But he was happy, and Sara was happy for him. And happy for herself.

They made love a lot that month. And it really was love. Sara stopped using the thermometer and didn’t try to make love when she wasn’t in the mood—but she was gratefully aware of the fact that they made love every night during the week she was to
ovulate. After they made love, without even mentioning it, she slipped a pillow under her hips, remembering how Morris Newhouse had held her bottom in the air to help the semen enter her uterus.

The last two weeks of October were golden. Sara biked every afternoon, luxuriating in the sun on her face; in the evenings she and Steve sat by the fire reading or talking. She started to needlepoint another pillow. She felt radiantly happy, in an almost sinfully contented domesticity.

Why was it that the group always got together on exactly the day that signs of her period began?

“I can’t believe I’m so significant or wicked that the universe is conspiring against me this way!” Sara said aloud to the mirror as she got ready for the evening out. She was tense today, tense and worried, and she talked aloud to herself, chiding herself, cajoling herself, trying to control herself: if she didn’t
think
her period was going to start, it wouldn’t start. But there was no doubt that her stomach was bloated and swollen, her breasts were stinging, her spirits had plunged. And this afternoon, when she got out of the shower, she had been horrified to see a splot of blood on her ankle. At first she thought she had cut her leg somehow, then realized what it was, where it had fallen from.

“No,” she said. “No. No.”

She had sunk down onto the floor, knocked out with dismay. Tomorrow was the twenty-ninth day. It looked as if she was going to start her period again. It looked as if she, unlike other women, was not going to be pregnant the first cycle after her laparoscopy. She sat on the bathroom floor, stunned, stupid, unable to think of a reason for getting up.

Finally she put her hand to her crotch, then pulled her fingers away and looked. No blood. No sign of blood. Perhaps—perhaps anything.
Oh, fuck
, Sara thought, perhaps anything at all. Ellie had said that quite often women still bled a little when they were pregnant, and that sometimes women even thought they had had their period when they were pregnant. She did not have to give up all hopes because of that spot of blood.

This thought gave her the courage to go on as normal. She took her time in front of the mirror, putting on her makeup carefully, trying on various clothes. She wanted to get just the right look. Tonight there was a party at the Danforths’ to celebrate Wade Danforth’s birthday, which was today, and Sheldon Jones’s birthday, which was
tomorrow. It was a potluck dinner, everyone was bringing something, and there would be champagne, and since the Danforths had a big house, there would be dancing. A real party. Sara felt that she had often dressed inappropriately for the group’s get-togethers. She often wore a silk dress, which was what she would have worn in Boston, only to find that all the other women had worn jeans or slacks. Tonight she put on a huge loose almost-ankle-length cotton sweaterdress she had ordered from Bloomingdale’s. It was bright red and had big shoulder pads and a boatneck with a plunging V in the back. It was a great-looking dress, sloppy yet elegant, unstudied-looking. She put on a pair of long dangling gold-and-red earrings and lots of makeup.

“There,” she said to her reflection in the mirror, “your body might be hopeless, but it still
looks
good.”

Steve whistled when he saw Sara. And he paid her his ultimate compliment, using the word she allowed herself to interpret in many ways, as “gorgeous” or “beautiful” or “sexy.” He said, “Hey, you look really nice.”

Sara smiled and kissed him, secretly wondering if he would ever in his life tell her she looked anything but nice.

Steve looked nice, too, after he had showered and put on chinos and a button-down shirt and a sweater. The heavy physical work he did kept him in great condition; his stomach was flat, his arms and legs were shapely with muscles. Sara loved the contrast of his civilized clothes on his prize-animal body. And he was so pleasant to be with these days, fun, relaxed, optimistic, and easygoing. She was more in love with her husband now, she knew, than she had been when they were married.

Wade Danforth had brought out all his old 1960s records and before long Wade and Annie were laughing and doing the old hand-jive to Bo Diddley. Sara took off her shoes and danced barefoot. She was glad to see that all the other women had worn dresses or sweaters and skirts. All except The Virgin, who was wearing her usual tight jeans and tighter sweater. The outfit looked strange on her now that she was four months pregnant and her tummy swelled outward just enough to make her look pudgy. Mary sat in the corner most of the evening, talking to friends, shaking her head when asked to dance. Sara noticed that Bill Bennett was paying no attention to his wife; but actually he seemed to be in one of his black moods, avoiding everyone and everything except the kitchen counter where the booze was. Now and then Sara thought about talking to him—after all, she was an editor and he was a writer—but he had never approached her on the
subject. No, she wouldn’t approach him; he was too scary, his dark moods emanating from him like a fog. She forgot about him and enjoyed herself, dancing with Steve and the other men, laughing and joking with the women, dancing again with Steve, drinking the champagne that had been brought for the birthdays.

She had enjoyed herself so much—and had had so much to drink—that when she went to the bathroom and saw that her pants were stained with a heavy flow of blood she felt only impatient, unreal. This hadn’t really happened, her period hadn’t really started, she didn’t even believe it. She was at a party, everyone was happy, she was having fun. She wouldn’t believe it, she wouldn’t let it be. She left the bathroom without taking any precautions against getting blood on her clothing.

Coming down the hall from the bathroom, she was given a tunnel view of Mary Bennett, who was still seated in her corner of the living room, snuggled against the sofa.

Steve was sitting on the arm of the sofa, looking down at Mary. As Sara watched, Mary took Steve’s hand and put it on her rounded stomach. She said something to him. Steve said something to her and smiled. With her hand, Mary moved Steve’s hand upward so that while the greater part of it touched her stomach, part of his hand touched her large swollen breast.

Immediately Steve took his hand away.

Mary smiled at Steve, and Sara, still in the hallway, could see the challenge in the smile. She was surprised that the sexual message Mary was transmitting hadn’t made the entire group turn and stare at her in amazement.

Steve rose from the sofa and walked away.

Mary turned her head and saw Sara coming toward her. Mary’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s or a vampire’s and she did not smile and she did not look away.
She is a witch
, Sara thought.
She is a witch and she is cursing me
. It seemed centuries before she arrived at the end of the hallway and entered the crowded living room.

Everyone was laughing, dancing, talking, but the magic had gone out of the party for Sara and it was with effort that she played her part. She danced until the stickiness between her legs made her realize she would embarrass herself if she didn’t do something. She made her way back to Annie Danforth’s bathroom. Locking the door behind her, she opened the big cupboard in the wall, looking for Tampax or a maxi-pad. She found both, and also found, with a frisson of delight, a First Response kit, a kit used to tell exactly when ovulation will occur.

So perhaps she wasn’t alone. Perhaps Annie Danforth was having trouble getting pregnant, too. Annie was in her early thirties and had no children. She would have to have Annie to lunch; they could drink wine, get confidential. What a relief it would be to know one other woman who was having the same problem! A wave of real relief swept through Sara, counteracting the despair that was rising in her body like a well of tears. Someone else was having a problem. She was not unique, abnormal—she was not so terribly cursed or flawed.

Sara put Annie’s things back in the cupboard. She washed her hands, combed her hair, refreshed her lipstick, stared at herself in the mirror. Did the pain show in her eyes?

When she came back into the living room, she found the party mellowing. Only Jamie and Sheldon were dancing. Everyone else was sitting now, sprawled on the floor or on the sofa and chairs, smoking cigarettes or pot, finishing beer or glasses of champagne. Everyone was there except Steve.

Sara went into the kitchen. No one was there. Even Bill Bennett had disappeared from his guard over the booze.

She went back into the living room, sank down next to Annie, and waited until she had finished talking with Carole to ask, “Where’s Steve?”

Annie yawned. “I was supposed to tell you,” she said. “He took Mary home.” Seeing the look of surprise on Sara’s face, she went on, “Where have you been? We’ve had quite a little drama in the past few minutes. Mary wanted to go home, I think, anyway she went into the kitchen and was talking to Bill, and the next thing we knew Bill was cursing and shouting and we all thought he was going to hit her or something. What an asshole he is. Anyway, he stomped out of here so fast he forgot his jacket. And then Mary asked Steve if he would drive her home; we saw Bill drive off in their car. Steve said he’d be right back.”

“Oh,” Sara said, feeling her voice come small and weak from her throat. “I was in the bathroom. I guess, with the music I didn’t hear—”

Carole leaned forward. “I just hope Bill’s not waiting at home when Mary gets there. He can be such a mean drunk.”

“No, it’s early yet, he probably went off to a bar,” Annie said. “At least I think that’s his pattern. I don’t think Mary’s afraid of him. I don’t think he’s violent or anything. He just says such awful stuff. Poor Mary.”

Carole looked at her watch. “You might think it’s early, but I don’t,” she said.
“We should go home, too.”

Sara looked at her watch. It was just after midnight. She had been in the bathroom for perhaps ten minutes, she thought—the Bennetts didn’t live very far from here, no more than a five-minute drive. Steve should be back any minute.

Annie had risen to see Carole and Pete to the door. Other couples were getting ready to leave now. Women gathered casserole dishes and salad bowls. Sara watched from the sofa as the group clustered in the doorway and, couple by couple, disappeared into the night.

She was left alone with Annie and Wade. She did not need to look at her watch to know that Steve should be back by now.

“God, I’m beat, I’m going to turn in,” Wade said, stretching.

“Go ahead,” Annie said. “I’m just going to clean up a bit.”

“Let me help,” Sara offered, glad for a chance to do something that would make the time pass, so that she wouldn’t be sitting there awkwardly, abandoned. As she carried overflowing ashtrays and empty beer bottles into the kitchen, she thought about asking Annie about the ovulation test but decided against it; it was too late, they were too tired, Steve would surely be back any moment and their conversation would be interrupted. But what was Steve doing? Why wasn’t he back? Damn, why wasn’t he back?