Separate Beds (12 page)

Suddenly Catherine wished she were a snail and could crawl inside her shell. Vicky's voice—utterly innocent, utterly faky—came clearly. “Just a minute, I'll see.”

I'll see? thought Catherine, rolling her eyes behind closed lids. Oh, Lord!

“Catherine?” Vicky called up the stairs.

Behind her Marie whispered, “A silver Corvette, huh? Git going,” and gave her a nudge.

The stairs came up to meet her high heels, and the clicks sounded like gunshots in her ears. In a last panic she thought, I should have washed off the perfume and blotted that glossy lipstick. Damn you, damn you, damn you! What am I doing?

The town idiot would not have been fooled by the obvious lack of activity downstairs. The staged poses, the casually lounging bodies, strategically placed so that each girl could see into the hall from their vantage points in the living room, the Scrabble board on the dining room table with not a wooden letter on it, and every eye in the place trained on Clay Forrester who stood by the colonnade as if framed for display and purchase.

It might not have been so bad if he hadn't dressed up, too, but he had. He was wearing a gray Continental-cut suit that made him look like an ad for some high-priced Canadian whiskey. Catherine set her eyes on the top of his wine-colored tie; it was knotted so perfectly that it stood away from his neck like a crisp, new hangman's noose. She let her gaze move up to the pale blue collar that cinched him just below the Adam's apple, where the bronze tan began.

“Hello,” he said as casually as possible, considering that the change in her that made him feel like her old man's goon had only now smashed him in the stomach.

Oh, Christ! thought Clay Forrester. Oh, sweet Christ!

“Hello,” she returned, trying to make the word as cool as a cucumber sandwich. But it came out wilted by the scorching heat of her face.

Her eyes were different, he thought, and her hair, and she was wearing an understated dress worthy of a travel ad in
The New Yorker.
Looking at her face again he saw that she was blushing.
Blushing.

Catherine saw Clay's Adam's apple move like it was trying to dislodge a fishbone stuck in his throat. She bravely looked him in the face, knowing full well that her own was scarlet, silently warning him not to give away any hint of either surprise or approval.
Please!
But one glance told her it was too late. He, too, was red to the collar. To his credit, he acted as refined as his grooming, all except for one quick glance down at her stomach, followed by a quicker one at the crowd of gawking faces in the living room and dining room.

“Do you have a coat?”

Oh, God, she thought, October and I leave my coat upstairs!

“I left it up—”

But of all the girls, Marie finally did the right thing. She came down at an ungainly half-gallop, bringing the coat. “Here it is.” And without any sign of ill ease, thrust out a hand toward Clay. “Hi, I'm Marie. Don't keep her out too late, okay?”

“Hi. I'm Clay and I won't.” He smiled for the first time, shaking her hand firmly.

Jumping Jehoshaphat! thought Marie, he looks good enough to eat! And that smile. Look at that smile!

So when Catherine reached for her coat, Marie handed it instead to Clay. Correctly trained young swain that he was, he did the proper thing, and Catherine gratefully faced the door as he slipped the coat over her shoulders.

“Have a good time,” Marie said.

“Good night,” Catherine wished them all.

Like a kindergarten class, they all said in unison, “Good night.”

Wanting to disappear into thin air, she reached for the doorknob, but Clay's hand shot around her, forcing her to allow him to open it for her or contest his gallantry before the girls. Catherine dropped her hand and moved out into the blessedly cool October night that touched her scorching skin in sweet relief. But still from behind them, Clay and Catherine could feel the eyes that peered out of every front window of the house.

Following her to the car, Clay caught the smell of a pleasant scent threading from her, heard the tap of high heels on the sidewalk, saw in the beam from the porch light the back of her artfully arranged hair. And although he hadn't intended to, he walked first to her side of the car and opened her door, conscious yet of all those curious eyes, his mind half on them, half on the long legs Catherine pulled into the car.

Indoors, a chorus of giddy sighs went swooning.

Within the car, the atmosphere was so tense and silent even the low rumble of the engine was welcome as Clay turned the key. Carefully, Catherine kept her eyes off him—something about a man and his car and the things he does when he gets into it, moving to start it, touching things on the dash, folding himself into the seat, the way the shoulder of a suit coat ridges high as he reaches for the mirror, disarming things that are too peculiarly masculine for comfort. She kept her eyes straight ahead.

“Where do you want to go?”

She looked at him at last. “Listen, I'm sorry about that in there. They . . . well, they . . .”

“It's all right. Where do you want to go?”

“It's not all right. I don't want you to get the wrong impression.”

“I think the windows still have eyes.” There was a touch of amusement in his tone as he waited, seemingly at ease now with his hands on the familiar wheel.

“Anywhere . . . I don't care. I thought we'd just go ride and sit somewhere in the car and talk like we did the other time.”

The car moved away from the curb and she felt his quick assessing glance and knew he was adding up the dress, the hair, the makeup, the high heels. She wanted to die all over again. Go for a ride, indeed, she could hear him thinking.

“Do you drink?” he asked, taking his eyes back to the street.

She shot him a look, remembering last summer and that wine. “I can take it or leave it. Most of the time I leave it.”

He thought of her father and thought he knew why.

“I know of a quiet place where the music doesn't start up till nine. It should be uncrowded this early and we can have a drink there while we talk, okay?”

“Fine,” she agreed.

He pulled out onto Washington Avenue, heading toward downtown, across the Mississippi River. The silence grew uncomfortable so he reached, found a tape, engaged it in the deck, all without taking his eyes from the road. It was the same kind of music as before, too pulsing for her taste, too lacking in subtlety and musicality. Just a bunch of noise, she thought disparagingly. Once again she reached over and turned the volume down.

“You don't like disco?”

“No.”

“Then you never tried dancing it?”

“No. If I danced anything it would be ballet, but I never had the chance to take lessons. But people used to say I'd make a good ballet dancer.” She realized she was rambling on to hide her nervousness.

He sensed it, too, and replied simply, “They were probably right.” He recalled where the level of her hair had matched his eyebrows.

She considered telling him that her father's beer and whiskey had sopped up all the spare money that might have meant ballet lessons, but it was too personal a comment. She wanted to avoid delving into personalities at all costs.

“Are all those girls back there pregnant?” he asked.

“Yes.”

They stopped for a red light and Clay's face took on an unearthly tint as he looked at her. “But they're all so young.”

“I'm the oldest one there.”

She could sense his amazement, and suddenly she was chattering as fast as if this were a debate she wanted to win. “Listen, they won't believe this isn't a date. They
want
it to be a date. They want it so badly
they
did all of this to me. We were at supper and . . .” And the whole story came tumbling out, all about how they messed her up, then fixed her up as if she were a high priestess. “And I couldn't make them understand they were wrong,” Catherine ended. “And it was awful . . . and wonderful . . . and pathetic.”

So that's why, he thought. “Don't worry about it, okay? I understand.”

“No! No! I don't think you do. I don't think you possibly can! They're making me their—their emissary!” She threw her palms up hopelessly, and related the tale about Francie and the perfume and how she was forced to put it on.

“So you smell terrific and you don't want to?”

“Don't be funny. You know what I'm trying to say. What could I do besides use the perfume, with a kleptomaniac looking at me with big eyes, begging me to make something in her life okay?”

“You did the right thing.”

“I did what I had to do. But I wanted you to know it was out of my hands. When you arrived I wanted to die because I thought you'd think I—I had designs on you.”

By now they'd pulled into a parking lot where a neon sign identified the place as The Mullion. Clay killed the motor, turned to her and said, “All right, I admit it was pretty uncomfortable there for a minute, but just so their efforts won't have been for nothing, you can tell them I said you looked fantastic.”

“That's not what I was fishing for, don't you understand!”

“Yes, I do. But if you make anything more of it by being so insistent, I'll think you really do have designs on me.” Already Clay knew the signs warning of her approaching anger. So, quickly he got out, slammed the door and came to open hers.

And though she simmered from his last comment, she couldn't help wondering, as they crossed the parking lot, why he'd worn that expensive suit.

The Mullion took its name from the series of leaded bay windows facing east across the river. Clay touched Catherine's elbow, leading her to a table placed within a deepset bay which afforded semi-privacy, surrounded on three sides as it was by leaded glass and the night beyond. He reached for her coat, but she held it on like armor, sitting down before he could pull her chair out for her.

He sat down opposite, asking, “What will you have to drink?” He noticed how she now removed her coat by herself and let it fall back over the chair.

“Something soft.”

“Wine?” he suggested. “White?” It was disconcerting that he remembered she preferred white to red. But then, in the early part of the evening on their one and only date, they'd been quite sober, sober enough for him to remember such a thing.

“No, softer. Orange juice—unadulterated.”

He let his gaze drift to her stomach momentarily before looking back up to find her expression unreadable.

“They encourage the drinking of fruit juice there,” she said, enlightening him.

Their eyes met, his rather sheepish, she thought, and she quickly looked away at the lights of automobiles threading their way across the Washington Avenue bridge, creating bleeding, golden shimmers in the water's reflection. Clay surprised Catherine by ordering two unadulterated orange juices. She braved a glance at him, but quickly shifted her eyes away. She couldn't help wondering if the baby would look like him.

“I want to know your plans,” he began, then added pointedly, “first.”

“First?” She met his eyes. “First before what?”

“Before I tell you why I brought you here.”

“My plans should be obvious. I'm living in a home for unwed mothers.”

“Don't be obtuse, Catherine. Don't make me eke every answer out of you again. You know what I'm asking. I want to know what you're planning to do with the baby after it's born.”

Her face hardened. “Oh, no, not you too.”

“What do you mean, not me too?”

“Just that every time I turn around lately somebody wants to know what I plan to do with the baby.”

“Who else?”

She considered telling him it was none of his business, but knew it was. “Mrs. Tollefson, the director of Horizons. She says her job is not to find babies for the babyless, but any way you slice it, that's what she does.”

“Are you planning to give it away, then?”

“I don't consider that anyone's business but my own.”

“Meaning, you're having trouble coming to a decision?”

“Meaning, I don't want you to be part of that decision.”

“Why?”

“Because you're not.”

“I'm the father.”

“You're the sire,” she said, impaling him with a stabbing look that matched her words. “There is a big difference.”

“Funny,” he said in some strangely colorless voice, “but it doesn't seem to make any difference when I think of it.”

“Are you saying you're suffering a fit of conscience?”

“That baby's mine. I can't just wipe it off the slate, even if I want to.”

“I knew this would happen if I saw you. That's why I didn't want to. I don't want any pressure from you to either keep the baby or give it away. The responsibility is mine. Anyway, what happened to the man who offered me money for an abortion?”

“You may recall that I was under a bit of duress at the time. It was a quick reaction. Whether or not I'd have wanted you to go through with it, I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to know what kind of person you are.”

“Well, I'm afraid I can't enlighten you, because I don't know what I'm going to do yet.”

“Good,” he said, surprising her.

The waitress arrived just then with two tall, skinny glasses of orange juice on the rocks.

Clay reached into an interior breast pocket, and Catherine automatically reached for her purse. But before she could retrieve her wallet Clay had laid a five-dollar bill on the tray.

“I want to pay for my own.”

“You're too late.”

The sight of his money being taken away unnerved her.

“I don't want . . .” But it was hard for her to explain what she didn't want.

“You don't want me buying orange juice for my baby?”

She stared at him, unblinking, trying to figure out her motives. “Something like that.”

“The cost of a glass of orange juice doesn't constitute a lifelong debt.”

“Skip it, okay? I feel you're infringing on me and I don't like it, that's all. Taking me out, buying me drinks. Just don't think it changes anything.”

“All right, I won't. But I'll reiterate something that does. Your father.”

“Have you told him—” she began accusingly.

“No, I haven't. He doesn't have any idea you're here. He thinks you're out in Omaha someplace. But he's been making a nuisance of himself in more ways than one, only he's sly enough to stop just short of getting pinned for anything. Now he's taken to sending his—shall we call them—emissaries around to the house occasionally to remind us that he's still waiting for a payoff.”

“I thought he came himself.”

“That was only the first time. There've been others.”

“Oh, Cl—” She stopped herself from uttering his name, began again. “I—I'm sorry. What can we do about it?”

He was very much his lawyer-father's son as he leaned toward her, outlining the situation, his eyes intense, his expression grave. “I am a third-year law student, Catherine. I've worked very hard to get where I am, and I intend to graduate and be admitted to the bar this summer. Unfortunately, I also have to prove I'm morally upstanding. If your father continues his vendetta and it gets to the Board of Examiners that I've fathered a bastard, it could have serious repercussions. That's why we haven't pressed charges against your father so far. And while it has not been stated explicitly, it has been implied that even should I pass and be accepted to the bar, my father may deny me a place in the family practice if I've shirked my responsibility to you. Meanwhile, my mother walks around the house looking like I've just kicked her in a broken leg. Your father wants money. You want your whereabouts to remain unknown. People are pressuring you to give up the baby. A bunch of pregnant teenage girls see you as their hope for the future. What do you think we can do about it?”

The glass stopped halfway to her open, gleaming lips. “Now just a min—”

“Before you get angry, hear me out.”

“Not if you say what I think you're going to say.”

“It's a business proposition.”

“I don't want to hear it.”

Her face became highly colored and her hand shook. She turned her cheek sharply away, not quite hiding it behind a hand.

“Drink your orange juice, Catherine. Maybe it will cool you down and make you listen to reason. I propose that you marry me and we'll—”

“You're crazy!” she snapped, dumbfounded.

“Maybe,” he said coolly, “maybe not.”

She tried to push her chair back but he deftly hooked one foot around its leg, guessing she was preparing to bolt.

“You're really one for running out on unpleasantness, aren't you?”

“You're mad! Sitting there suggesting that we get married! Get your foot off my chair.”

“Sit down,” he ordered. “You're making a spectacle again.”

A quick perusal told her he was right.

“Are you adult enough to sit here and discuss this levelheadedly, Catherine? There are at least a dozen sensible reasons for us to get married. If you'll give me a chance, I'll delineate them, starting with your father . . .”

That, above all, made her ease back into her chair.

“Are you saying he's caused you to get beaten up more than once?”

“Never mind. The point is, I'm beginning to understand why you vowed never to see him benefit from this situation. He's not exactly what I'd call ideal father-in-law material, but I'd take him as a temporary one rather than give him what he wants. If you and I marry, he'll be forced to give up his harassment. And even if the Board of Examiners somehow learns that a baby is due, it won't throw a shadow on my reputation if you and I are already married. I know now that what you said is true—your father is not really interested in your welfare as much as he is in his own. But my parents are.

“I feel like a juvenile delinquent every time my mother throws those censuring looks at me. And for some ungodly reason, my father is right in there with her. They're feeling . . .” He glanced up briefly, then down at his glass “. . . they're feeling like grandparents, reacting as such. They want to keep the baby in the family. They've taken a stand they won't back down from. And as for me, I won't bore you with my emotional state. Suffice it to say that it bothers me immeasurably to think of the baby being given up for adoption.”

“I didn't say I was going to.”

“No, you didn't. But what will you do if you keep it? Live on welfare in some roach-infested apartment house someplace? Give up school?” Again he leaned both forearms on the table, accosting her with his too-handsome, Nordic features set in an expression of worry. “I'm not asking you to consider marrying me without getting something out of it. When I saw you crossing the campus the other day, I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't know you were a student there. What are you using for money?”

She didn't answer; she didn't need to for him to know finances were tight for her.

“It's going to take you some time to get through, isn't it? Even without the baby?”

Again, no answer.

“Suppose . . . just suppose we marry, agreeing in advance that it will be only until I finish school and take my bar exams. Your father will leave both of us alone; you'll be able to keep the baby; I'll be able to get my Juris Doctor; I'll be taken into my father's practice. When that happens you'll have your turn, and I'll pay for your schooling and for the child's support. That's my proposition. From now until July, that's all. And six months after that we'll have our divorce. I can easily handle it, and it is far less damaging to a career than a bastard child.”

“And who keeps the baby?”

“You do,” he answered without hesitation. “But at least I won't lose track of him and I'll see to it that neither he nor you ever has any financial worries. You can keep the baby and finish school too. What could be more sensible?”

“And what can be more dishonest?”

A look of exasperation crossed his face, but she knew that rankled, for he sat back in his chair and studied the lights across the river in a distracted fashion. She went on.

“You told me once that your father is the most exasperatingly honest person you know. What will he and your mother think when they learn their son has deceived them?”

“Why do they have to learn? If we do it, you'll have to agree never to tell them.”

“Oh,” she tossed out casually, knowing her remark was barbed, “so you don't want them to know you're a liar.”

“I'm not a liar, Catherine. For God's sake, be reasonable.” But he ran his fingers through his perfect hair and came forward on his chair again. “I'd like to finish law school and become part of my father's business. Is that so awful? That's the way we've always planned it to be, only now he seems to have lost reason.”

She mused a while, then toyed with her glass. “You never had to worry about your ship coming in, did you?”

“And you resent that?”

“Yes, I suppose in a way I do.”

“Enough to reject my offer?”

“I don't think I could do it.”

“Why?” He leaned forward entreatingly.

“It would require acting talent that I don't possess.”

“Not for long. About a year.”

“At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I have to say it: your parents seem like decent and honest people and it would not settle well with me to hoodwink them just to make things easier for myself.”

“All right, I admit it. It's not honest, and that bothers me too. I'm not in the habit of lying to them, no matter what you might think. But I don't think they're being totally honest, either, by taking the stand they've taken. They're forcing me to own up to my responsibilities, and I am. But, like you, I have a certain kind of life mapped out for myself, and I don't want to give it up because of this.”

“There simply is no way I would marry someone I don't love. I've had a bellyful of living in a house where two people hated each other.”

“I'm not asking you to love me. All I want is for you to think sensibly about the benefits we'd both derive from the arrangement. Let's backtrack a minute and consider one question which still needs answering. Do you want to give the baby up for adoption?”

He was leaning toward her now quite beseechingly. She studied the glass within his long, lean fingers, unwilling to look into his eyes for fear he might convince her of something she did not want.

“That's not fair and you know it,” she spoke in a strained voice, “not after what I told you about the girls and my conversation with Mrs. Tollefson.”

He sensed her weakening and pressed on. “None of this is, is it? I'm no different than you, Catherine, no matter what you might think. I don't want that baby living with strangers, wondering for the rest of my life where he is, what he is, who he is. I'd like to at least know that he's with you, and that he's got everything he needs. Is that such a bad bargain?”

Like a recording she repeated what Mrs. Tollefson had said, hoping to shore up her defenses. “It's a well-known fact that adopted children are exceptionally bright, happy and successful.”

“Who told you that, your social worker?”

Her eyes flashed to his. How easily he can read me, she thought. The waitress approached, and without asking Catherine, Clay signaled to order two more orange juices, more to get rid of the interference than because he was thirsty. He watched the top of Catherine's hair as she toyed with her glass. “Could you really give it up?” he asked softly.

“I don't know,” she admitted raggedly.

“My mother was decimated when she found out you were gone. I never saw her cry in my life, but then I did. She didn't have to mention the word abortion more than once for me to know it was on her mind night and day. I guess I learned some things about my parents and myself since this thing happened.”