Mary McCarthy

by Mary McCarthy

  By the end of the week, a new, unexpected factor had assumed control of the situation: inertia. Martha felt like a blob of matter decreed by the laws of physics to continue in its existing state of motion unless some outside force interfered. Waking in the mornings to know, even as her eyes opened, that nothing had changed, she promptly fell asleep again. In her dreams, she saw luscious images: white pitchers of milk and sheaves of the reddest roses. The delicious lassitude that was taking hold of her was presumably a symptom of pregnancy. She wanted to do nothing but sleep and let nature take its course. The need for decision lost its urgency. It was surprisingly easy not to think about the problem. And if she simply forgot about it and let the days glide by, as they were doing, she would find that it had all been settled for her. Nature, physiology, would take it out of her hands. She had only to announce, one of these mornings, that she was pregnant, to acquire the status of a privileged person. She would not be allowed to worry; the doctor, John, his relations would see to that. She would be carried resistlessly forward, as if on a litter, to childbed—a sensually tempting vision. She was not afraid of labor, and she liked the swollen looks of pregnant women, even the dresses they wore. Her hips were fairly wide, for a small girl; she was healthy. It would all be simple and normal. The lawfulness of the whole picture had a special charm for Martha.

  The obstacles in the path were too great, the other way. How could she have an abortion without John’s finding out? In the first place, she had no money. In the second place, she had not the faintest notion, any more, of how to set about finding an abortionist. There had been a drive against them since her last operation. Some girls, she knew, got their psychiatrists to certify them for a legal abortion, but she had never been to a psychiatrist. And how was she to go to Boston to start looking for an abortionist? John would want to know why. She did not even dare go to the doctor here in New Leeds to find out whether she was really pregnant. Somebody would be bound to see her in the doctor’s office. The next thing, John would hear. An actress she had played with was said to start herself miscarrying with a hatpin, but the thought made Martha quail. She did not have a hatpin, and in her present state of lethargy it seemed as difficult to procure one as to procure the services of an abortionist. Even if she got one, she would not know how to use it.

  She felt completely helpless and aware of her dependency on John. If she could only tell John, he would get her whatever she needed: a hatpin, ergot, a psychiatrist, a curettage. But the one thing she was certain of was that she must not do this, not even if she were dying. If everything urged her to have the baby, it was because, if she did nothing, he would never know. The deceit practiced on him would be for his own protection. And if she were to have an abortion, it would be his child she would be murdering, in all probability—the very child she had been yearning for. The word, abortion, coming from her, would blast his faith in human nature. And of course he would guess the reason.

  The marvel was that, so far, he had noticed nothing, so far as she could tell. He was full of gentle attentions because he thought she was absorbed in her play. This innocent chivalry was why he must never find out. He was too fastidious; his soul would never recover if he knew. He would not mind the act itself so much as the grotesque fact of pregnancy following on it: the horrible mess, the afterbirth, so to speak, of the act. He could not conceive that she would not have taken precautions. His strictness could not bear even small lapses in her, slips of memory. A lapse on this scale would send his whole world sliding into troll-land. If it had been anybody but Miles that she had slipped with, it would not have mattered so much. But he had saved her from Miles in the first place. Miles, for John, was the Other; that was how they had construed him together, studying his traits with wonder, as if in some old Book of Monsters. And for her to have lain with him, breeding, was a sort of hideous perversion, like sleeping with your wicked uncle.

  To Martha, as the person involved, it did not look quite that way, even now. True, she would much rather not have slept with Miles, but she could not pretend that the act itself awoke any deep remorse in her. In its consequences, it was horrible, but in essence it was only rather ludicrous, a misadventure. She still could not believe that having slept with Miles could make any difference to the true reality, which was her life with John. This true reality, surrounding her at every moment in the routines of their household, seemed to affirm that nothing could change: if she would only shut her eyes and forget, the bad dream would go away.

  Yet all the while the moral part of Martha knew that she would have to have an abortion because all her inclinations were the other way. The hardest course was the right one; in her experience, this was an almost invariable law. If her nature shrank from the task, if it hid and cried piteously for mercy, that was a sign that she was in the presence of the ethical. She knew this also from the fact that she felt no need to seek advice; what anyone else would do under the circumstances had no bearing. The moral part of her seemed to square its shoulders dissociating itself from the mass of weakness that remained. It was almost a social question, she observed with a wan interest: the moral part of her would stop speaking if she did not do what it commanded. But how, she cried out, weeping. How am I to do it, all by myself? There was no answer. The rest of her, the low part, apparently, was supposed to devise the methods. The lawgiver was impractical, a real lady, disdaining to soil its hands, leaving the details to its servants. Martha could have laughed aloud, except for the pride and awe she felt in the acquaintance. She would not have guessed she had so much integrity. In the midst of her squirming and anguish, there was a sensation of pleased surprise.

  The first step, she told herself, would be the easiest: merely going to the doctor, which would not commit her to anything. But she kept delaying. As long as she put it off, she could still live in hope and go to sleep at night, half-expecting her period in the morning. Several numb days passed before she found herself in the local doctor’s consulting room, having complained to John of peculiar pains in her stomach. At once, she was sorry she had come. The old office she remembered had been redone, in a modernistic style, with chromium and pebbly fabrics and paintings by the local artists. She sat facing the doctor across a blond wood desk. His voice was too loud; she had to ask him to lower it, because John was waiting outside. And right away the explanations began. She had to tell this stout, coarse young man with gold-rimmed glasses that she thought she might be pregnant but that she did not want her husband to know yet. He examined her perfunctorily and took a sample of urine to send away to the laboratory for the rabbit test. She could come back in three or four days. “Three or four days!” cried Martha. “In New York, they let you know in twenty-four hours.” A boundless irritation with New Leeds swept through her. It was not modern, only modernistic, like this awful furniture. “Can’t you tell me yourself?” She longed for the old doctor, now resting in the cemetery, who used to treat dogs and had no traffic with laboratories. “Why, it’s as big as an orange,” he always said, when the young wives came to him to learn whether they were pregnant. “Not at this stage,” said the young doctor. “I would only be guessing.” “What’s your hurry?” he went on jocosely. “You’ll have a good seven months to wait.”

  He became very ruffled when she asked him for some medicine. “Medicine?” he exclaimed. “We don’t give medicine for what you’ve got in there.” He gestured at Martha’s stomach. She had to explain to him, patiently, that she was pretending to have pains “in there,” so as not to upset her husband, who did not want a baby, and that if she had pains in her stomach, it would be reasonable for him to give her medicine. “Colitis,” she suggested. “Let’s say I have colitis. You could give me some bismuth.” But the doctor seemed upset by Martha’s capable manner; she sounded as if she knew his trade better than he did. “I can’t give you bismuth when there’s nothing wrong,” he objected. “Pink pills, then,” said Martha. “The old doctor up here always gave pink pills.” “I don’t have my own pharmacy,” the youn
g man replied coldly. Martha was getting angry. “What do you give people who have imaginary illnesses?” she demanded. “You must have something.” Imaginary illnesses, nowadays, he said, were treated with psychology. He evidently thought she was crazy, but in the end, he gave in and wrote her out a prescription for a mild sedative; her nerves, he acknowledged, were on edge.

  What Martha disliked most, during the next few days, was playing the part of a semi-invalid. John’s concern was an awful reproach to her; she was reminded, uncomfortably, of how annoyed she had been with him when he had cut his hand. The cut had healed badly, leaving a jagged scar, so that he had a poor opinion of the doctor. It was all she could do to keep him from sending to Trowbridge for another doctor to examine her. This kindness and solicitude, so undeserved, tempted her to reveal everything. She hated to see him deceived in a person, even if it was herself. But when her tongue stirred, to tell him how wrong he was to love her, her lips remained sewed up, as if by a darning needle. And, as she told herself, there was still a chance that she was mistaken.

  But of course she was right. She nodded when the doctor told her and was aware of a certain melancholy satisfaction even as her limbs turned icy, sweat broke out on her forehead, and the room reeled and went black. “Nervous strain,” she murmured, gripping the cold metal arms of the chair. The doctor had jumped up, to help her to the bathroom. “I’m not going to throw up. I never throw up when I’m pregnant.” She blinked the tears from her eyes. He wiped her forehead. All at once, she found herself talking. He was stupid and he could not help her, but she had to tell someone what she was going through. The doctor listened to her account; he seemed less shocked than startled. He had no idea of who she was, evidently; she did not name Miles but spoke only of a “man.” The doctor slowly polished his glasses. “And how many times did this happen?” “Only once—I told you,” said Martha. “I believe in marital fidelity.” The doctor nodded. His portly pink face grew thoughtful. “When was this in relation to your last period?” He looked at the sheet of paper where he had written out the case history. “A day or two after it.” The doctor rubbed his jaw. “It seems like you’re in the clear, then,” he commented. “The chances are a thousand to one against your conceiving at that particular time. You say you had relations with your husband afterward, during the month?” Martha nodded. “The chances are a thousand to one that it’s his child you’re carrying there.” He pointed to Martha’s stomach. “Are you sure?” said Martha. Hope surged up; she leaned forward. “We’re never sure,” said the doctor. “Now and then we get a woman whose ovulation picture is different. You understand, you can’t conceive until there’s an egg there to be fertilized. That doesn’t happen till around the middle of the month, as a general rule.” “But how do I know I’m not an exception?” said Martha. “You don’t know,” said the doctor. “But the chances are that you’re not. Go ahead and have your baby. Forget about the other man. He doesn’t count, statistically.”

  Martha sighed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself,” she confessed. “I feel sure it isn’t his, somehow.” “Well, go ahead then. You’re a healthy, normal young woman; you ought to have an easy time. You and your husband want children, you say.” “I did,” said Martha sadly. Her shoulders slumped. There was nothing he could tell her that she had not told herself, without avail. He could not give her certainty, only probabilities, which were no help in the lonely instance. She was listening now merely from politeness. “Go ahead, then,” he repeated, trying to infect her with his optimism. “You’re not in love with this other fellow?” “God, no,” said Martha. The doctor laughed at her vehemence. “You’ve got nothing to worry about then. Your husband will never know, unless you tell him. This other man won’t know. No psychological complications.” “You forget about the child,” said Martha, abruptly. “I would never have a normal attitude toward it, myself. I couldn’t, not knowing. Don’t you see?” The doctor frowned and straightened a photograph on his desk—his wife and children. “No,” he said. “Even if this had happened later, toward the middle of the month, my advice to you would be the same. Don’t mess around with an illegal operation. They’re dangerous. Your case isn’t as unusual as you seem to think. It happens to lots of women, respectable women too. A few drinks; husband’s away. . . . You know. They go ahead and have the baby and everybody’s happy.”

  Martha looked skeptical. “I don’t see how they can be,” she said. “Not knowing. Even if it’s a thousand to one.” “Why do you want to ‘know’ so much?” said the doctor, wonderingly. Martha threw out her hands in a helpless gesture. “I just do,” she said. “It seems natural to me to want to know. How would you feel if your wife had a child and you weren’t sure whose it was?” “I wouldn’t think about it,” said the doctor, flushing, as if he were uncertain, underneath. He brought his pale fist down lightly on the desk. “You think too much; that’s the trouble with you.” Martha smiled. “Is that your diagnosis?” she said. “Absolutely,” said the doctor, with more assurance. “What do any of us know when it comes down to it? Even in medicine. It’s all a mystery. Why are we here? What does it all mean?” He made a vague, swinging gesture with one arm. “Heredity, what do we know about it?” he continued. “Mendel. Darwin. Then some scientist over in Russia tells us that acquired characters can be transmitted. Better not to worry about it. Live your life. ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’ ” “ ‘A little learning,’ ” corrected Martha, automatically. She glanced curiously at the doctor. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he knew the Coes. He was not at all a bad sort of person, she decided. He was certainly trying to be kind to her. Yet he took it for granted that she should be willing and able to practice a lifelong deceit on her trusting husband. “You honestly don’t understand how I feel about this?” she said in a troubled tone. The doctor shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “And I don’t think your husband would either,” he added, in a brusquer voice. “He wouldn’t approve of you having a dangerous operation. A criminal operation. You could go to jail.” Martha got up. The thought of John steadied her. “No,” she said. “You’re wrong. He would feel just as I do.” Love made her radiant. “So what will you do?” said the doctor, rising too. “I don’t know,” admitted Martha. “Naturally, I’m scared to death. I’ll have to find someone . . .” “I can’t help you, you know,” he said stiffly. “Remember, if you get in any trouble, I advised you against it.” “I know that,” said Martha. “You’ve been very kind, listening.” “You don’t realize how lucky you are,” he burst out. “What if you weren’t married? Then you’d have something to worry about. Think it over.”

  He opened the door to the waiting room. John was not there; he had gone off to get the car checked. Martha sat down with an old copy of Collier’s and thought of what the doctor had said. She knew what he meant by his last remarks. Next to her, on one of the straight chairs, sat the girl who used to work in the notions shop, big with child. She had been swelling up, month after month, in full sight of the post-office loungers and the old women sitting in their windows on the main street. It was not an unusual case in New Leeds. Every year produced its quota of unmarried mothers. In a few weeks, this girl would go away to have her baby, under the auspices of a charity in Trowbridge, and then she would be back, stolidly pushing her baby carriage down the main highway, while one of the idiots, bearing a special delivery, skipped along beside her, cackling and gabbling. The ceiling of her ambition, if she could not bear the town’s impassive scrutiny, would be to board the infant at the local baby farm, a run-down bungalow with a long rickety porch, across from the iceman’s, which advertised its business by a long clothesline of diapers flapping in the wind. There the babies could be visited, unseen by anyone but the iceman’s incurious family.

  Martha sighed, avoiding the girl’s eyes, which rested, without expression, on Martha’s pale, neat hair and gray cloak and polished black walking shoes. The girl did not detect a sister under the skin. It was st
range, Martha reflected: these girls seldom considered adoption, except within the family, with a married brother or sister. The idea of escape did not even present itself; they accepted what had happened to them without making any resistance. Beside her, Martha felt guiltily exotic to be even thinking of an abortion. “Behave so that thy maxim could be a universal law.” The quixotic thought occurred to her that she owed this girl an abortion if she was going to have one herself. But it was not so easy as that. The girl’s figure boldly announced that it was far too late. And, in any case, to get the money for herself would be as much as Martha could manage. To indicate fellow-feeling, she smiled affectionately at the girl, who smiled back shyly, disclosing a missing tooth.

  Twelve

  MARTHA’s hopes had been pinned on Dolly. She could not help thinking that fate had arranged for Dolly to be here, now, when she was needed, instead of off somewhere in Europe. The last abortion Martha had heard of had cost six hundred dollars, but that was in New York; she felt sure she could do better in Boston. Five hundred was as much as she dared ask Dolly for, in any case, since she did not know how or when she would be able to pay it back. Even that much, she feared, might make Dolly gulp a little, for Dolly, though inured to being borrowed from, was scaled, Martha knew, to the small loan. Dolly would be horrified to hear the price of an abortion, just as she used to be shocked to hear what Martha paid for her dresses during the period when Martha was acting. She would feel it was one of Martha’s extravagances. Nevertheless, she would have to be asked. If Martha shrank from it, as she drove along the road to Dolly’s cabin, it was not because she expected refusal, but simply from shame at what she would have to reveal. She was going to tell Dolly the truth.