Morning

by Nancy Thayer

  Annie kept on talking, but each word only pushed Sara further back into her own loneliness. Now she knew that every time she saw Annie, whose stomach would burgeon triumphantly with new life, with the real child she would be carrying, Sara would be made aware of the contrast between the two of them. She would be the failure.

  What was happening? Why was this happening? Finally Annie left, and Sara, zombielike, cleaned up after their lunch, then went to her bedroom and lay on the bed, stiff with self-hatred and confusion. She didn’t deserve this; she could think of no awful thing she had done in her life that would have brought this on. But fate was clearly turning its back on her, or, worse, singling her out to curse. Her sister, Ellie, was pregnant for the second time. The Virgin, horrid Mary, was pregnant for the third time. The woman at the dry cleaner’s was pregnant, a cashier at the grocery store was pregnant. And now Annie was pregnant. Now Steve and Sara would be the only couple in their group who didn’t have a child. Why? How could this be explained? What could she do? What could she do?

  Well, they could make love tonight. She was ovulating today. She had proof of that. She must hang on to that and be optimistic. She really could not let herself sink into a bog of self-pity. She would be warm and loving to Steve when he came home. Tonight could be the night.

  But when Steve came home, he was tired and irritable. One of his workers hadn’t shown up, and Steve thought they were falling behind schedule on the job. Sara served him a huge helping of lamb stew, which usually put him in a better mood but didn’t work this evening. He was sullen as they ate, and responded to her cheerful chatting with monosyllables. Then, when she was in the kitchen, thinking that it was unfair of him to take his bad day out on her, Steve came into the kitchen with a sheaf of mail in his hands.

  “Jesus Christ, Sara!” he said. “I just looked at the Sears bill. And our MasterCard and VISA. Have you gone mad?”

  Sara dried her hands and turned toward Steve. Oh, Steve, she thought, trying to relay a silent message to him. Let’s not fight. Not tonight. We have to make love tonight.

  “It’s Christmas,” she said. “I got presents for everyone off-island, it’s cheaper than here. We’ve got so many people to buy for—your mother and father, and my mother, and Ellie and her husband and Joey, and Julia and I always exchange gifts, and I wanted to get something for Fanny this year, she’s become so special to me. And then I bought some specialty foods in Cambridge at Cardullo’s for our party this weekend. I can’t find anything like that here.”

  “Well, God, Sara, I just can’t believe you spent so much! Jesus, look at these bills! As if we don’t have enough to pay with our fuel bills in the winter.”

  “Oh, Steve, it’s not any more than we usually pay,” Sara said. “It’s just that it came all at once this year—the bills, I mean. Usually we don’t get hit for it until January, or it’s spread out over two or three months. I was just really organized this year and did all my shopping at once, and all the bills are coming at once.”

  “Well, you should have consulted me before you spent so much money.”

  “Oh, Steve,” Sara replied. “Don’t turn us into a cliché marriage with the husband telling the little wifey what she can and can’t do. I bring in a good amount of money, you know, I work, too. I’ll be paying half of those bills.”

  “Yeah, but Sara, you know I’m strapped these days,” Steve said. He plunked down in a kitchen chair and tossed the mail with such angry energy that some of them flew across the table and onto the floor. “I think you’re really being inconsiderate. I’m not telling you what you can or can’t do, but the least you could have done was to consult me.”

  “But, Steve, you know how you hate buying Christmas presents,” Sara said. “You’re such an old Scrooge about it—”

  “Oh, are we going to call names now? You’re going to call me an old Scrooge? Because I think we have to watch our money? You don’t want to get into the cliché of husband talking to wife about money, but you can call me names. Right? Right?” He was almost shouting at her.

  “Steve,” Sara said, “don’t get so angry. Just because you’ve had a bad day at work, don’t take it out on me.”

  “And you don’t try to get off the subject!” Steve said. “I’m not crabbing about a bad day at work. I’m crabbing about these goddamned bills. Sara, you bought Joey about three hundred dollars’ worth of stuff!”

  “Well, they were on sale,” Sara began. “And they weren’t just for Joey—” She turned away. How could she say what a pleasure it had been for her, to spend the afternoon in the toy department of the huge Sears store on the mainland. She had lingered over dolls with frilly dresses and fire trucks that pumped real water, overstuffed teddy bears with pink ribbons and dollhouses with miniature furniture. She had gazed with longing at the gaily colored educational toys that bloomed like huge plastic flowers in the baby section. She had wanted to buy every single item and take it home and give it to her own baby, her own little boy, her own little girl. She had bought presents for Joey, her nephew, and then, obsessed, she had bought presents for Ellie’s new baby, which would be born in January. Tiny terry-cloth layette sets. Bath blanket and washcloth sets the color of a newborn chick. A silky quilt embroidered with bunnies and elephants and ducks and giraffes. An exquisite pure-white fleece winter blanket with a hood attached. Yes, she had gone mad. She had bought too much. But then, what was too much to welcome a new child into the world?

  Yet she could understand Steve’s point of view. She had been extravagant. She had spent too much. She had gone a little bit nuts. She had bought those things for herself, really. It had been worth three hundred dollars to spend that afternoon legitimately buying baby clothes and toys.

  There was no way to explain all this to Steve without making them both even more miserable because they had no baby of their own.

  “I’ll pay for it all myself,” she said calmly, not looking at him.

  “Oh, Christ, Sara, why not just go ahead and cut my balls off,” Steve said.

  Sara looked at him, shocked. He had never talked to her this way before. But Steve was moving now, shoving his chair away from the table and stomping off into the other room. She heard him grab his coat and slam the front door. She heard the roar of the pickup truck as it went off into the night.

  He had never done this sort of thing before. She had never done this sort of thing before. At the most, during their worst arguments, she was the one who left the room—but only the room. She had flung herself, weeping, from the living room, waiting for Steve to come find her, forlorn, on the bed. Sometimes he had come, sometimes not, and then she had had to swallow her pride and go back into the living room to start up the conversation again.

  But she had never left the house during an argument, and neither had Steve. She felt sick at her stomach.

  She picked up the bills that were scattered across the kitchen floor. They were pretty scary—the bills for Christmas presents; and she had charged the booze and food for the party on her MasterCard; and, mixed in with all the rest, they still owed a thousand dollars for her laparoscopy. At least Steve hadn’t complained about that. He hadn’t said that if she weren’t such a failure as a woman, they wouldn’t have had to pay $2,500 in medical bills. And there were the ovulation test kits Sara had bought, thirty-five dollars apiece. That added up.

  It all added up. It would be hard work fighting their way through the bills, paying them off. She should have been more frugal this year, knowing what a financial and emotional burden Steve’s new business was on him. But they would come out all right, she was sure of that.

  If only he would come home. Sara looked at her watch. It was almost nine-thirty. Her nerves jangled. Only two and a half hours before midnight! Only two and a half hours before the day she ovulated was over. He had to come home, soon, they had to make up, they had to make love.

  Needing to use up her frantic energy, she finished cleaning the kitchen. When, at ten o’clock, he still hadn’t come home,
she could only pace through the house. Where was he? Had he gone off to a bar for a beer? She would hate it if he did that, he never did that, it would be like telling the world they’d had a fight, it wasn’t like Steve. But it wasn’t like him to stomp out of the house like that, either.

  At ten-thirty he came home; his face was somber and drawn.

  “Where have you been?” Sara asked, trying to sound worried but not nagging.

  “I just drove to the beach and sat there listening to the radio and staring at the water,” Steve said. He walked through the hall, tossed his jacket on the stairs, and headed up the stairs to their bedroom. Sara followed.

  Steve talked as he undressed for bed. At least he’s getting ready for bed! Sara thought.

  “I’m sorry I spoke to you that way,” Steve said. “That was vulgar and crude of me.”

  “I do understand about the money,” Sara said. “I can see that I did spend too much. I’m sorry. But now that I’m working full-time for Heartways House—”

  “But don’t you see, Sara,” Steve said, “it’s not right for you to be paying more than half the bills. I can stand it that I’m not supporting you, I’m that liberated, but it just grates on me if you’re going to be paying such a big portion of the bills, and spending so much money without consulting me, as if what I make doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, Steve, I never meant for it to seem that way,” Sara said.

  “I know you didn’t. I know I’m overreacting about the money. But I’ve got expenses I didn’t expect—the insurance premiums for the two men who are working for me are killing me. And the bookkeeping is a real pain in the ass. I’ve got to watch every cent we spend on this house, and if I make any mistakes, it comes right out of my own money. It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, having my own company. Sometimes I think I made a mistake.”

  “Oh, Steve, you didn’t, it’s always more difficult when you start off,” Sara said. “I’m so sorry I spent so much. It was insensitive of me, right now when you’ve got so much on your mind. But it will be okay, Steve, really it will.”

  Now, finally, Steve turned and embraced Sara. He held her to him and ran his hand over her hair. But it was only a gentle embrace, not a lustful one.

  “God,” he said. “I’m beat.”

  He rose, went into the bathroom, came out, and crawled into bed. Sara went downstairs and turned off all the lights, then went back up the stairs, her mind churning. They had made up. But he didn’t seem interested in making love. In the bathroom she deliberated. She could put on a sexy nightgown—but it was cold in their house at night in the winter; they purposely turned their thermostat way down. She always wore her cozy flannel nightgown. Still … she put on a sexy skimpy gown.

  Steve was lying with one arm flung over his eyes. He did not see her come through the bedroom. Sara got into bed next to him and wrapped her arms and legs around him. She cuddled up to him. She knew he must feel her body through the flimsy material of her gown.

  Steve wrapped an arm around her and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Sara, I’m just no good tonight,” he said. “I’m wiped out. I’ve got to get some sleep. I want to get up at six tomorrow. I’ve got to start getting out to the house earlier or we’re going to be way behind schedule.”

  But you have to make love to me tonight! Sara thought in horror. You have to!

  She lay frozen while he reached out, turned off the light, then turned on his side, into the position he always chose for sleeping. His back was to her.

  Sara lay still, but inside she was churning. She was insulted—didn’t her practically naked body have any effect on him anymore? And more important—what was she going to do now? Should she say, Steve, you have to make love to me, I’m ovulating? That would be a real turn-on. But if she didn’t get him to make love to her … She looked at the bedside clock. It was ten forty-three. The minutes were speeding away. What could she do? What should she do?

  She heard Steve snoring next to her. Already he was in a deep sleep. He’d been falling asleep this way almost every night, exhausted from work. She knew she wouldn’t wake him; she couldn’t. It would be too crude, it would make it seem as if she thought of him only as a kind of stud who had to automatically perform and fertilize her. This was not a good time for her to push for anything now; he was already feeling too pressured.

  Steve snored evenly, regularly, sleeping deeply. Sara lay next to him, painfully awake. What a day this had been: Annie Danforth’s happy confession, which had fallen like a bomb on Sara’s hopes for a sympathetic friendship, and then the argument with Steve, and now this, her body waiting eagerly for something that would not happen. She lay awake deep into the night. She knew she would not get pregnant this month.

  In the morning she had trouble waking up. It had been a sleepless night and she was not rested now. Dutifully she made Steve’s breakfast, dutifully she sat down at the dining room table with an Eiffel tower of manuscripts waiting to be read and judged. She drank her coffee. She stared. She drank another cup of coffee.

  “I’ve got to do something,” she said aloud to the empty air. “I’ve got to do something, or I really will go mad.”

  She sat, unable to think of the first thing to do.

  Finally she pulled the manuscripts toward her and began reading. But nothing excited her; they all seemed so dull. She stopped reading—this was not fair to the manuscripts or their writers. She had gotten into such a deadly state that nothing could appeal to her.

  “I want a baby, damn it!” she said, pounding her fists on the table. “Everyone else is getting one. Why can’t I?”

  She rose, restless, and walked through the house. Outside the day glittered with cold. Inside, the air seemed expansive with silence, except for her footsteps, her breath.

  “Well, that’s it, I’ll just sit here and go mad,” she said aloud, and plopped down where she was, on the third stair of the staircase.

  She had no idea how long she had been sitting there when the doorbell rang, so near to her—just a few steps across the hallway to the front door—that she almost screamed. It was the mailman with a small special delivery package from Julia.

  “Open immediately!” it said in bright red letters on the brown wrapping paper.

  Sara thanked the mailman, then carried the parcel to the dining room table and sat down with it. Inside a small box she found a tiny oval rock, a not particularly pretty or unusual one, and a plastic sandwich bag filled with tiny brown—what? Nuts? Seeds? Dry oatmeal? She unfolded Julia’s note.

  In the seventeenth century, they believed that “The seeds of Docks tyed to the left arme of a woman do help Barrennesse.” I looked it up in the dictionary—“dock” is one of several coarse weeds of the buckwheat family. Then I remembered that my mother—and you know what an intellectual snob she is—took wheat germ for a long time trying to get pregnant with my brother. So this mishmash is wheat germ mixed up with ground buckwheat noodles—the closest I could get to buckwheat seeds. I wonder why it should be tied to the left arm.

  The pebble is for you to use in the bath. “To cure sterility, in Shetland in the nineteenth century, a woman washed her feet in running water in which an egg-shaped pebble was placed.” So tie this stuff to your left arm, put the stone in your bathtub, take a nice long bath, and there you are, all knocked up. I’ll bet my medicine works at least as well as Dr. Crochett’s hanky-panky.

  I love and adore you even if you are insane, and I’ve sent a decent Christmas present to you and Steve in a separate package.

  Love, Julia

  Sara studied the box. For the first time, here were some ancient cures for infertility that she could actually do something with. She’d never tried to find wolf pizzle, and she’d never sit over a bowl of steaming garlic—but this she could do.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, standing up suddenly, wild with energy. For she had had a thought—why stand in a bathtub with this one egg-shaped stone when she was so close to the ocean, which had to hold billions of egg-shape
d stones. All those pebbles. Why there must be more than billions—in the ocean there must be trillions, more than could be numbered, more than all the stars in all the galaxies!

  Hurrying, she dressed warmly, piling a wool sweater over a flannel shirt and leg warmers over her jeans. With a piece of Christmas ribbon—she paused a moment, considering just which color was right, and decided on green, of course, for fertility, for life—she tied the baggie of wheat germ around her left upper arm. Then, careful not to knock it off, she pulled on her parka. She jammed a wool cap on her head, pulled on her thickest gloves, grabbed up a pair of wool socks, slipped into her boots, and ran out to the car.

  There could be people at the Jetties Beach, or at least out in the harbor, scallopers and fishermen going out or coming in. She headed to Surfside Beach on the Atlantic Ocean side of Nantucket. And she was in luck—no one else was there. She ran down the long slope of sand to the water’s edge. It was not windy today, so that the waves seemed to dawdle in, taking their time, lolling about on the sand. Good. She wouldn’t have to worry about being knocked over or dragged under.

  Sara kicked off her rubber boots and walked into the water. The cold was so intense and painful that it was like putting her feet against burning irons. Immediately she felt the instinct to jump back, to jump out, but she gritted her teeth and walked farther into the waves. She leaned over and, taking Julia’s pebble from her pocket, tossed it into the water next to her feet. She stood there then, letting the icy waves surge around her feet and ankles. She looked out at the navy blue waters to the horizon, then up to the winter-pale sky where the sun rolled overhead like a primitive god, hurting her eyes with its glare.