Arthur took the shoes and the money back to the cash register. Often he worked the cash register too, and in fact since he now knew the stock, his and Tom’s work was very similar. Arthur put the white shoes in one of their plain brown bags and gave the woman her change. “Thanks, and have a nice day,” said Arthur.
His grandmother had sat down in one of the two chairs of the establishment and was trying on house slippers. She wore her black and white golf shoes with stockings, a cotton skirt and blouse, and Arthur thought, as he often did, that she looked amazingly young, hardly older than his mother.
Arthur said to Tom, “I’d like you to meet my grandmother—Joan Waggoner. Tom Robertson.”
“Well! Arthur’s grandmother! A pleasure, Mrs. Waggoner!”
“How do you do, Mr. Robertson,” Joan replied. “I’ve been admiring your store. It looks human.”
“You’re here on a visit, Arthur told me.”
“Yes, a week or so.—I think I’ll take these slippers. They’re so cozy! I haven’t had anything like them since I was ten years old.”
The slippers were entirely rabbit hide with the fur inside. Tom looked on the brink of making a present of them, but Arthur spread his hands sideways and frowned to convey that his grandmother wouldn’t like that. Arthur took the slippers and the ten-dollar bill his grandmother gave him. The slippers were eight dollars and ninety-five cents.
“How’s Arthur doing? Satisfactory?”
Arthur didn’t hear Tom’s reply. There was a man at the repair counter with a pair of shoes to be half-soled.
That evening during dinner, his grandmother told Arthur that Tom had given quite a good report on him. She added to Richard, “He said Arthur had been quick to learn the stock and hadn’t once been late for work.” She gave Arthur a smile.
“Umph,” said his father.
They were dining at El Chico’s, a rather swanky Mexican restaurant where the food was excellent and the beer came in huge, cold, stemmed glasses. The dinner had been preceded by pink tequila highballs all round, except for Robbie who was now on 7-Ups. For Arthur the dinner was unusual for two reasons. His father had not said grace before they all fell to. Maybe Mexican food wasn’t worthy of being blessed? And his brother’s voice underwent a transformation at the table. When he had sat down, Robbie had said in his squeaky, usual voice, “I don’t know what I want yet. Sure, I know what it means, it’s written underneath in English!” Then during Arthur’s second beer, Robbie said:
“Jeff caught a bass today. Big one. The one I caught was—much littler.”
Arthur noticed the deep tone, and noticed that his mother had almost jumped. “Well, well, a bass,” Arthur said solemnly.
“Is that that the—questionable item I saw wrapped up in newspaper in the fridge?” asked their father.
Robbie was now at the plate-scraping stage of his repast. “Yup,” he replied in the same new voice and reached for another tortilla.
Well, Arthur thought, Robbie was almost fifteen, after all. And he seemed to be growing visibly, like bamboo. Robbie was going to be taller than he. Arthur was a bit envious of that.
On Thursday evening at dinner they had to hear grace said by Richard, and Arthur stole a glance at Maggie’s bowed head. Her lips were serious, her lightly mascaraed eyelids quivered over her closed eyes. At the end, Arthur straightened up and smiled at Maggie, pleased that he had managed not to hear one boring word of what his father had said.
“Have you visited Radcliffe and seen the campus there?” Joan asked Maggie.
Maggie said she had, when her father had gone to a Harvard reunion a couple of years ago. His grandmother talked quite a lot with Maggie and in an easy manner. Maggie looked as beautiful as ever and kept the calm that Arthur so admired, but he thought underneath it she was nervous and that she looked even a little sad. Was that stupid math course bothering her this much? He was aware of a June bug bumping at the screen door between the kitchen and the garage. His mother served the raspberry sherbert dessert. Then there was coffee in the living room. Maggie and his grandmother sat on the sofa.
“Arthur tells me you haven’t decided what your major will be, Maggie,” his grandmother said.
“No. So far, English literature and composition. I know that sounds vague—because what do you do with it afterward? I think—after the first year or during the first year, I’ll make a decision.”
Then Arthur’s father put in a few droning words that made Arthur shrink into his chair. His father didn’t use the word God, but something like the hand of Providence that would guide Maggie into the right path herself. Arthur was aware of Maggie’s shyness for a few seconds at finding herself the center of attention. To Arthur’s relief, she made no reply.
It was hardly 10 when Maggie said she should be leaving. Arthur didn’t mind, because he was going to be alone with her in the car when she drove home and maybe she would want to go somewhere. Maggie thanked his mother, said good night to his grandmother, then to his father. Robbie had disappeared.
Arthur walked out with Maggie, and they got into her car. “Going to play golf with my grandmother?” he asked, smiling. He had heard his grandmother asking Maggie if she played.
“Doubt it. I’m better at tennis. Anyway just now—not much time.” She started driving toward her house.
“Something the matter, Maggie?”
She took a long time to answer. “Oh—I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Tell me now.—What happened?”
Maggie drew her lips back from her teeth, and Arthur glanced at the road ahead to see if they were about to hit something, but the road was clear. Near her house, Maggie turned a corner into a darker street and stopped at the edge. Then she sighed, like a gasp.
“If you want to know—I’m pregnant.”
He stared at her. She was looking down at the lighted dashboard. “Are you sure, Maggie?”
“Positive.”
It was his fault. Arthur felt that a bomb had hit him. Two months ago. Arthur remembered the date, May second. They hadn’t been to bed together since. “Not—not impossible we could get married.” It seemed a simple and happy solution at that instant.
“Don’t be silly, I can’t—and you can’t. Got a cigarette? I left mine at your place.”
Arthur whipped his cigarettes out of his pocket and dropped them on the floor of the car. He lit her cigarette with a slightly shaking hand. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I thought the abortion would do it,” she replied with impatience.
“What abortion?”
“That weekend I went away.” Maggie glanced at him and he saw a flash in her eyes. “I told my parents I was with Gloria at her aunt’s and told Gloria I was with—a boyfriend, and in case my parents phoned her aunt—well, they didn’t. But I went to Indi by myself.”
Arthur felt stunned. “You had an abortion?”
“Yes, the operation and—I paid him, but—I’ve heard of these things. They just don’t do a good job.” Maggie looked through the windshield and drew on her cigarette. “Now you know why I’m nervous. Got to find another doctor.”
“Your mother knows?”
“No.”
Arthur’s heart was beating as if he were running. “I’ll find a doctor, Maggie, don’t you worry. I’ll pay for it. What does it cost?”
“Five hundred. That one did.—I sold a gold bracelet in Indi, and if Mom notices I haven’t got it, I’ll tell her I lost it!” Maggie tried to laugh.
“Son-of-a-bitch doctor in Indi,” Arthur muttered.
“Bum steer from Roxanne, that doctor.”
“Roxanne?”
Maggie reached for the ignition key, then let her hand fall in her lap. “I couldn’t ask our family doctor—Dr. Moodie—for the name of someone who’d do it.”
&nbs
p; Arthur winced. Now he knew why Roxanne had given him a sly look at Ruthie’s party that Saturday. Roxanne must have supposed he knew why Maggie had been out of town. “I’ll find a good doctor, Maggie. I’ll try at the Medical Building tomorrow. Reliable place. How about that?”
“All right, try it.” She was backing around the dark corner. “You won’t say my name, will you? They don’t care as long as they’re paid.”
“I won’t!”
The Brewsters’ living room light was on, and Arthur looked dismally away from the house, fumbled with the door handle and got out. He had wanted to embrace Maggie, but had been afraid she would push him away. “Can I call you tomorrow at noon?” he whispered.
“Twelve-thirty. I’m in that math class till noon.”
Arthur walked into the darkness, frowning, clenching his teeth. Five hundred dollars? Sure! Sell his microscope or pawn it, get his savings out of the bank. And hide the situation from his father! Suddenly Arthur was on home ground, almost. Norma Keer’s light was on. This was not an evening to visit Norma.
The lights were on also at his family’s kitchen window and in the living room. Arthur crept in via the unlocked front door, passed the living room whence came voices and laughter, and went to his own room. He was in pajamas and about to turn his light out, when he heard his grandmother’s tap at the door.
“Yup?” Arthur said.
His grandmother opened the door. “I saw you sneaking in. Just wanted to say I think your friend Maggie is lovely. I thought you’d like to hear that.” She had come in but not quite closed the door. “What’s the matter, Arthur?”
“Nothing!” Arthur said, sitting down nervously on the edge of his bed. He knew he wasn’t going to fool his grandmother, so he added, “Little quarrel. Not important.” He jumped up again. “Sit down, Grandma!” Arthur moved his armchair a fraction and reached for a cigarette. “Like one?”
His grandmother accepted. “And Maggie’s very fond of you, I think.”
“Do you?” said Arthur automatically, politely, though at the same time he felt tears about to pop out of his eyes, and he blinked. “Well, too bad I’m not twenty-two or so—and she weren’t going off for four years. Think of all the older guys she’ll meet in the east. Ha-ava-ad men.”
Joan smiled and adjusted her long black skirt over her crossed legs. “Worry about that—later, maybe. Be happy while you can.” She looked at him with narrowed eyes and drew on her cigarette.
Arthur blinked again. “Anything fascinating happen after I left tonight?”
“No-o. We were talking about Robbie—after he went off to bed.” She laughed a little. “He was switching on the TV and he knocked over the little vase on the table there. So I got a sponge from the kitchen, and it was nothing at all, because nothing broke. But Robbie blew up in a rage as if we were scolding him!”
“I know. He’ll die of apoplexy before he’s twenty.”
“Where’d he pick up this anxiety? Or inferiority?—I don’t remember you teasing him a lot when he was little. You didn’t, did you, Arthur?”
“No, Grandma. Just ask Mom. And now—why does he hang around these older guys? Never kids his own age. I can’t figure him.”
“Mm-m.” His grandmother looked at the ceiling. “’Tis odd that he likes sitting in a rowboat without moving for hours on end.” She laughed again. “Without moving or saying a word, he tells me with a certain pride. And tonight I thought we’d have to give him a sedative. Red in the face—” She lowered her voice, in case Robbie in the next room could hear. Then she got up and kissed Arthur on the cheek. “Good night, dear boy.”
Arthur put out his light and lay face down with his hands clenched in fists under his pillow. What a good show Maggie had put on tonight for his family! It was his fault! Why hadn’t he taken precautions? And Maggie had the bother of it, the shame, the pain, the trouble, the expense, the secrecy! Starting now, he had to help her and stand by her. The difficulty came from other people, the outside world. Tomorrow he couldn’t even tell a doctor Maggie’s name.
9
The next morning just after 9, Arthur was walking down the marble-floored corridor of the Medical Building. He stopped at the white-on-black panel of doctors’ names between the elevators. The Alderman family doctor, Dr. A. Swithers, caught his eye unpleasantly, and so did the name of Dr. F. Moodie, whom Maggie had mentioned. He decided to try a Dr. G. Robinson, because the name reminded him of Tom Robertson, who was decent. Arthur went to the receptionist’s desk, where the girl was quite cool, because he had no appointment.
“It’s just to ask a question. Five minutes—or less.”
The girl telephoned somewhere, then told Arthur that Dr. Robinson’s secretary could speak to him in room 809.
Arthur rode up to the eighth floor. A girl secretary sat at a desk in room 809, and there were four doors in the room, all closed, with doctors’ names on them.
“If it’s short, you can see him now. Your name, please?”
Arthur gave it, and the girl wrote it in a ledger, then pointed to a room behind her.
Dr. Robinson was washing his hands at a basin when Arthur went in. A high, white-sheeted table stood on the left, and there was also a desk in the room. The doctor sat down at the desk, indicated a chair opposite, and Arthur sat obediently.
“What can I do for you?”
“I would like the name of a doctor who can do an abortion—reliably.”
“I see. Yes. Prepared to pay?”
“Yes, sure.”
Dr. Robinson looked about thirty and had a suntan. “Age of the girl or woman?”
“Seventeen.”
“Any health problems? Drug-taking?” he asked with a bored sigh.
“No.”
“Parental consent?”
Arthur’s heart dipped. “I’m sure she could get it. But it isn’t necessary, is it, if she’s over sixteen?”
“Right,” said the doctor, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other. “Unmarried? . . . And how long has she been pregnant? . . . Seven weeks. Yes, I know a doctor who could do it. In Indianapolis.—Dr. Philip Bentz.” Dr. Robinson was writing on a pad. He consulted an address book and copied out something, then tore off the page and handed it to Arthur. “This is for you. But I’ll telephone for you. And the name of the girl?”
“Can you see if Dr. Bentz can do it—soon. Then I’ll give the name?”
The doctor gave a tolerant laugh. “I’m pretty sure he can do it; it only takes a few minutes, even though it means an overnight stay. But look, young man, I can’t spend all day on this; I’ve got to give a name.”
“Stevens,” Arthur said. “Alice.”
“Fine,” the doctor said, wrote it, and stood up. “Phone my secretary around three.”
Arthur had hoped for an appointment, but was afraid of being thrown out if he tried to press the doctor. “Do you know what it’ll cost?”
“Between five and seven hundred. It depends.”
Arthur nodded, and felt white-faced as he and the doctor moved toward the door. Outside, the secretary stopped Arthur and asked him for twenty-five dollars. Arthur had feared even more and had left the house with forty-nine, all he had in cash just now.
As he dropped down in the elevator, it occurred to Arthur that Dr. Robinson was getting a rake-off from Dr. Bentz. Still, Arthur thought he should consider himself lucky on this first try, because he had read about absolute brush-offs that left people in quest of the next doctor.
Arthur cycled homeward, thinking. It might be simpler to pawn his microscope than to sell it at the right price. And he had better count on the doctor’s bill being closer to seven hundred than five, because things were never cheaper for any reason. When he got home, his grandmother was in a corner of the backyard with Robbie, and he heard his mother’s typewriter in his parents’ be
droom. Two hundred and ninety in his saving account, he was thinking, and maybe he’d get two hundred at a pawn shop for his microscope, which had been secondhand when his parents had bought it for him years ago, but they’d paid two hundred and fifty then. His wristwatch was so ordinary, it was a joke to think of hocking it.
He set his microscope on his writing table and removed its beige cloth cover. There was a pawn shop, the only one in town that Arthur knew of, just two blocks from Shoe Repair.
Another thought came, and it was like a black hole into which he dropped: All this would wipe out his proud contribution toward Columbia in September. And so much for his parents’ contribution toward Columbia, if his father ever found out about this. Arthur almost laughed with terror. Would old holier-than-thou Richard demand that he marry Maggie? That she have the baby, because abortions were against God’s will? Well, he could think of worse fates than marrying Maggie!
Arthur could arrive at a figure no higher than six hundred and eighty dollars, as to ready assets, and some of that was hypothetical. He carried the microscope in a plastic shopping bag in his wastebasket, under the pretext of wastebasket-emptying, to the garage, and this worked. He had had to pass his mother in the kitchen. He put the heavy bag in the wire basket at the front of his bike.
“Got time for lunch with us, Arthur?” his mother asked. “Just some baked beans and bacon.”
“Not hungry today, Mom, thanks.”
His grandmother came in, Robbie behind her. “Are you in tonight, Arthur? I’m inviting us all to a film.”
“Thanks, Grandma. I think I’ve got a date with Maggie.” Arthur felt a curious unreality about the scene in the kitchen, as if they were all playacting, except him: Robbie barefoot and topless in khaki shorts that hung so low his navel showed, describing a garden snake that he had just rescued from the cat, a snake two feet long, illustrating with hands apart, though Arthur knew their garden snakes were no more than ten inches long. And his mother, rather silent as she opened two cans of beans, probably already thinking about some kid at the Beverley Home for Children, where she would go in an hour. All the scene needed was his father saying blessing over the beans in a few minutes. Was his father due home? The table hadn’t been set. His father had used to come home once or twice a week for an early lunch with his mother, but lately he didn’t. He now said he often had lunch near his office with some “young person” or “someone in spiritual distress” whom he had met in church. One Sunday his father had stayed after church to meet someone the Reverend Cole wanted him to “counsel,” while Arthur and his mother had gone home in the car. There was always someone willing to drive his father home later.
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