by Susan Isaacs
“Maybe he could help her along.”
“Oh, Rhodes.” She rested her head on her brother’s shoulder. “It’s really crummy. He’s driving two shifts on Sundays and he’s so worn out. I’m just afraid when I really start looking pregnant he’s going to feel pressure and just cave in and do what his family wants. Or what he thinks is best for me. But I don’t want a lawyer. I want an actor. He’s so good. Wait till you see him. I don’t want him to waste it. I don’t want to ruin his whole life.” She breathed deeply and exhaled slowly through her mouth. “I did think about having an abortion,” she added. “I thought about it a lot.”
“Could you?”
“No. But I’m scared. It’s too much for him.”
“Why?”
“You’ve seen him. He’s always been the best person in the world. He walks outdoors and the sun comes from behind a cloud. People push each other aside to be the first in line to do something for him. Until now. Until me. His family’s angry with him for not going to law school and probably disappointed because he threw over this wonderfully right girl with the right looks and the right parents for me. It’s not funny. Nick’s always been the family treasure; you don’t know how hard it must be for him. And he’s living in a tenement and he detests it, I know he does; and he’s twenty-one and stuck with a pregnant wife and all his old friends are flying to the Bahamas and going to nightclubs and dating rich girls and—”
“And what? Do you think he’s going to walk out on you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing, just that I would understand if he wanted his freedom. He never thought it would be this rough.”
“You’re a real prize, Jane.” Rhodes pulled his arm from around her and turned to face her. “Is that all you think of him? Ditch the pregnant wife and go nightclubbing with an heiress on each arm?”
“No. But Rhodes, you know what kind of a background he comes from and what he’s like. He’s not used to adversity.”
“A few more months with you and your inferiority complex, dogface, and he’ll know the true meaning of the word. Why don’t you give your husband a little credit for knowing what’s right? It just so happens he’s going to be the father of my niece or nephew, and I’m relying on his genes a lot more than I am on yours. Half of you is cheap floozy actress, and the other half isn’t anything to write home about. I should know.”
“Rhodes—”
“Do you trust him?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better.”
The note arrived two days after Rhodes and Mr. Gray left for Switzerland. It said:
Dear Jane,
Happy birthday, and, in case business doesn’t take me to New York for a while, happy birthday. It was a pleasure seeing you and Nick again. Clarissa and I hope you will use the enclosed to buy something nice for our new baby cousin.
Sincerely,
Philip Gray
With the note was a check for two thousand dollars.
15
MAN’S VOICE: I have with me Professor Ritter of Brown’s English department. Years ago, Professor Ritter directed the production of Hamlet where Jane and Nicholas met while undergraduates. Professor, do you happen to remember that first meeting between the two of them?
PROFESSOR RITTER: I do indeed. It was, if memory serves me, the 1960–1961 academic year and…
—WPRO Radio News, Providence
Cradling her in his arms, Nicholas brought his daughter close to his face and brushed his cheek over hers. “Little baby,” he said into her ear. Her head turned to his voice. They were nearly eye to eye when her mouth discovered his nose. She clamped her lips over the tip of it and began to suck furiously. “Jane, look!” He could not believe that such a tiny mouth could have such power.
Jane, who for five minutes had been trying to control her trembling hands long enough to open the row of tiny buttons on her nightgown, finally succeeded. She reached for the baby. Reluctantly, because he found it soothing to hold her, Nicholas handed her over. Then, although it was against regulations, he slid from the plastic chair and sat next to Jane. The white curtain around her bed was drawn, giving the illusion of a private room.
The baby seemed to find Jane’s nipple without any help; she emitted a small squeak and began to suck. “Isn’t it amazing?” Jane demanded. “It really works!” Her face clouded. “But do you think she’s getting anything?” He nodded. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.” She glanced down at her opened gown. “It would be nice if I had those little marks for ounces.” Nicholas reached out, putting his hand underneath her breast to support it as she nursed. It was warm and damp. She drew away, taking the baby with her. “Nick, please.” She added quickly, “It’s too distracting.”
The baby was less than a day old, but already he wanted them out of the hospital. He was allowed into the maternity ward for only an hour, and already fifteen minutes had been wasted being introduced to her five roommates and helping her back and forth to the bathroom. She said she was fine, but she kept blinking to keep her eyes open, and when she walked beside him her knees had buckled and he’d had to grab her; he suspected the anesthesia had not worn off entirely.
As the baby nursed, Jane’s lids lowered until they closed. Her lashes cast feathery shadows on her cheeks. If they were home in the new apartment, he’d get into bed with them and lie close to her, maybe open a few more buttons and fondle her other breast. What he really wanted to do—he kissed her forehead—what he really wanted to do was suck on her breast. But he knew better than to suggest it; she was easily upset by nearly any proposition beyond conventional intercourse, and he wanted her transition to motherhood to be smooth and happy.
In their second month of marriage, up at Guilderland, he’d tried to get her to try oral sex on a night where she’d tried to beg off intercourse, explaining she had menstrual cramps. In bed, he’d taken her head between his hands and guided it down. In a voice Nanny Stewart had used to persuade the twins to eat mashed turnips—at the same time cajoling and firm—he’d pressed. “Just try it. It’s all right. Come on. Just put it in your mouth.” Jane had torn herself from him with a “No!” surely loud enough to penetrate the flimsy boardinghouse walls. “Quiet!” he’d hissed, but then softened his tone, explaining that there was nothing wrong; it was done all the time.
In truth, only two girls had done it to him. A Pembroker named Rachel Cadman whom he’d dated right before Diana, who’d wanted to preserve her virginity, had ended every date stretched along the front seat of his car with her head in his lap; at least twice a night she’d accidentally crack her head against the steering wheel. Diana hadn’t been that amenable when he’d first brought up the idea, but she’d gone along and obviously knew enough to direct him how to do it to her at the same time.
Persuading Jane became a cause, although he didn’t succeed until months later, and then only because, after pleading, wheedling, and pouting, he’d lost his temper. She was a worthy antagonist only until he raised his voice to her; then she folded. He felt a little ashamed that he manipulated her so callously. He felt more ashamed that, when he held her head between his hands, the feeling of smug triumph was nearly as strong as his arousal, and that in the beginning, when she’d gagged, it had actually fueled his excitement. Still, he didn’t really feel that bad. He didn’t propose it often and with each succeeding time she grew, if not enthusiastic, at least more willing.
During her ninth month, when intercourse was proscribed, he felt she was merely tolerating his caresses. Her hand had sought his penis. He knew she was thinking that the faster she could induce his orgasm, the faster she could get to sleep. When she told him the doctor had forbidden intercourse for six weeks after birth, he sensed she thought of it as a vacation.
She wasn’t frigid. Even though she was so modest, he knew she loved watching him walk around the apartment naked. And he could tell by her breathing, by the hardening of her nipples, by her wetnes
s that he could excite her. But her orgasms were poorly acted. She’d obviously never experienced one, or her performance would have been better. He knew what it felt like; she didn’t have the spasms Diana had, the ones that had gripped him tight and made him come. Afterward, when Jane clung to him, it was not with limp satisfaction but with lack of confidence.
Sometimes her prudishness made him angry. Sometimes he felt selfish making such frequent demands on her. But he loved her and desired her, and he loved being married, loved the combination of dear friend and available woman.
Right now, he’d be glad just to get close to her. The night before had been surprisingly unhappy. The baby had been born at ten, and he’d spent the next half hour in a phone booth calling family. Once he’d seen the baby, though, the nurse shooed him home. The new apartment seemed dead. He’d walked into the nursery and looked at the curlicue designs Jane had stenciled around the door and the perimeter of the floor, at the eyelet-draped Cobleigh bassinette he’d slept in. The secondhand dresser he’d refinished still stood on newspapers. The baby had come two weeks early. The room looked like a stage set.
The rest of the apartment seemed unreal too. If he had thought about it before their marriage—which he hadn’t—he’d have guessed Jane would be a careless housekeeper. He would have been wrong. The kitchen could have passed military inspection. All cup handles pointed to the right. Aluminum-foil-covered dishes were lined up in the refrigerator labeled with small rectangles of masking tape on which she’d written Amer. Cheese 7/22 or Mixed Veg. 7/29. Although she’d been in labor, she’d made the bed. The pillows aligned perfectly and were plumped to the same size and smoothness.
He needed Jane to make it homey. He tried to sleep but missed the giant mound of stomach he’d been bumping into for the past few months. He switched on the light. The room was too still, as if he weren’t there. He wanted Jane. Her mumbling him to sleep had become his lullaby. “Night,” she’d say, and a few minutes later “Sleep tight,” and finally a nearly inarticulate “Did you turn off the gas after you made the tea?” It made him feel peaceful.
He touched the back of her hand. “Jane.”
“Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t sleeping. It’s so relaxing, though. You begin to understand why cows are content.” She peered at the baby. “She’s still at it. Do you remember when I’m supposed to switch her to the other one?”
“I forget what they told you. You can ask the nurse later. Now don’t close your eyes again. We have to think of a name for this kid.”
“John won’t do?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We were going to spend all this week deciding on a girl’s name.”
“Well, we have a half hour. I promised my grandmother I’d call her at nine and tell her the name. She probably wants to get something monogrammed.”
“Probably the baby. If it’s under fifty pounds, she initials it.” Jane stroked the pale brown down on the baby’s head. “What does she look like to you? She looks like a Miranda to me.”
“No.”
“Samantha? Christiana?”
“No exotic names.”
“Those aren’t exotic. How about Gwendolyn?”
“How about Mary?”
“Are you serious, Nick? Just think of it. Mary Cobleigh. It sounds like a barmaid. ‘Alf a pint of yer best, Mary Cobleigh.’ But Maria might not be bad. Maria Cobleigh.”
“Too Catholic.”
“Are you afraid she’ll run away from home and become a nun? I think Maria’s nice.”
The baby had fallen asleep. Her mouth was slack. Nicholas leaned over and touched her lips with his finger.
“How about Tuttle?” Jane offered. “Then we can send her right off to your sisters’ school and she’ll fit right in.”
“I hate that,” Nicholas said. “I kept meeting all these girls named Heywood and Lockhart and they always had dumb-bunny nicknames. Although—”
“Although what?”
“I sort of like Heissenhuber Cobleigh. It has a distinguished ring to it. A fine old name. A noble—”
“If you don’t stop I’ll put Tammy on the birth certificate.”
“I’ve got it, Jane!”
“This should be terrific.”
“Dorothy.”
“Even John would be better than that.” Jane glanced from the baby to Nicholas. “Are you disappointed it’s not a boy? Really and truly.”
“Really and truly, no. I told you it didn’t matter. Come on now. We need a nice, plain, pretty name. Caroline.”
“It sounds like we’re copying the Kennedys.”
“All right. Ann.”
“Ann Cobleigh. A little too simple. Even with an e.”
“Elizabeth.”
“I like that,” Jane said. “But I don’t know. She doesn’t look like an Elizabeth.”
“If you name her Zelda then she’ll look like a Zelda.”
“No, she won’t. Let’s see. You like nice, plain English names.”
Nicholas nodded. “Too bad Jane is taken,” he said. “Now that’s a real name.”
“Let me think,” she said. “Olivia and Abigail are out. And Winifred.” Nicholas stared at the baby. Her nose, which had been squashed flat the night before, had started to take shape, a perfect little button nose. She had the round Tuttle face, the Cobleigh fair skin, and Jane’s wide, full mouth. “I know,” Jane said. “Victoria.”
“Victoria?”
“Victoria Cobleigh. It’s a little regal, but that’s okay. She comes from very good stock. What do you think?”
“You’re not going to call her Tory, are you?”
“No! Maybe Vicky, if she’s athletic and energetic like you. But otherwise just beautiful, elegant, gorgeous, adorable, sweet, cuddly—”
“Victoria.”
The early morning thunderstorm had done little to dissipate the heat. By eleven on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, the sun was shimmering behind thick, melted air. The sidewalk was so hot her feet and calves felt weak and aching, as if they’d come down with a high fever. Central Park offered no relief. The trees were heavy from the rain. Their dark green leaves hung flaccid under the water’s weight, and the whole park seemed in the grip of a miasma. Still, Jane trudged down the path, pushing the carriage toward the playground. The pediatrician had been explicit: the baby goes out unless there’s a blizzard or a hurricane. Victoria, a month old, lay asleep, her legs bare: twigs against the ballooning, diaper-stuffed bottom of her pink sunsuit.
A lone toddler was in the sandbox, poking holes with his finger into the muddy sand. A few other children sat under the lean-to created by the slide, looking dopey from the weather, waiting listlessly to be taken home.
The benches where the British nannies sat were occupied by three whose employers were unfortunate enough not to have planned for the heat wave. They sat, white-bloused, flush-faced, hands resting on the giant perambulators their charges slept in. Nicholas had probably been pushed in one of those infant limousines. Jane thought it funny that, in a year, these servants would deem his own daughter socially unacceptable as a playmate and would, as she’d seen them do, usher their charges to the far right corner of the sandbox and forbid them rides on the seesaw with the low-status children who arrived accompanied by Negro nurses or—even more déclassé—their own mothers.
She tried to recall the lyrics to “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” but it was too hot. The top of her head throbbed. At least the Negro nurses and the middle-class mothers had the sense to stay out of the heat. She sat alone on her usual shaded bench. The slats felt unpleasantly damp and slick, as if some fungus were thriving on them. Every few seconds a drop of water would fall from a leaf and trickle down the back of her neck or her arms. Her cotton dress must have absorbed the humidity; it clung, sodden, to her thighs. A month after the baby, she was still wearing maternity clothes. She’d lost most of the weight she’d gained, but her figure had not gone back to its old shape. She knew she looked ugly and solid, a human rectangle. Beca
use she was nursing, all her old blouses were too tight. She worried that none of her winter clothes would fit and, because they could not afford new ones, she’d be doomed to wear maternity clothes until her next pregnancy. Strangers might smile at her belly for years.
She missed the other mothers. Having been newcomers recently themselves, they’d welcomed her and by her second day in the park were offering her their accumulated wisdom on diaper services and postpartum moodiness. By the end of the first week, she had singled out two women she liked and who she sensed liked her, and she looked forward to her time with them.
But out of the park, the people she saw were Nicholas’s: his family, his friends from the schools he’d attended, one or two people he’d met since he’d started acting. She sighed and searched for the tissues she’d wedged between the mattress and the side of the carriage. Her neck and forehead were slick with sweat.
Nicholas was more at home with law students and stockbrokers than with actors, she’d begun to realize. Although he analyzed his own roles nearly endlessly, he was interested neither in discussions about acting as a craft nor in theater gossip, both of which she found fascinating. Sitting with a group of men talking sports or politics, he sounded like someone else’s husband.
He preferred her company and rarely went out by himself, but when he did it was hardly ever to hang around Downey’s or Sardi’s drinking with other young actors. He sought out the sort of men who’d been in his fraternity at Brown: well-bred and athletic. They all carried their sporting equipment with dash. Jane didn’t find them particularly interesting. Nor were their wives. When the men went off to play tennis or soccer in the park, the wives would talk about summer homes or shoe stores. Even the brighter ones left Jane cold. They consumed novels, plays, and concerts like gumdrops, chewing them for a minute before popping in the next. They all seemed to have spent their entire lives cushioned by money. Not one of them had ever thought twice before making a long-distance phone call.