"Maybe you should see someone. Maybe, what with the move and everything, we've both been under too great a strain."
"No," she said. She got to her feet. When she stood up, it was as if her swollen bladder had to be lifted after her, hauled up an impossible distance. "No," she said again, "you don't understand."
"Then make me understand," he said, looking up at her.
She studied his face, tried to read the truth in his eyes. Was he really pleading with her? Or was it all a monumental con?
"Where did you get that necklace?" she suddenly asked.
She saw him look back down at his desk as though the answer was somewhere among the chaos of papers that covered it.
"It's a long story," he said. "I'll tell you when you've calmed down."
She said nothing. She turned her face to the window, to the fury of the rain against the glass.
"I've got to go," she said.
"You'll get drenched. At least wait until it eases up."
"I can't," she said.
She was at the door when he stopped her, called her name. She turned to face him again. He looked so different to her now, so changed, not Hal at all anymore.
Without another word, she stepped out into the hall.
She hurried to the ladies room—and stayed there fifteen minutes, long enough for him to give up if he'd gone looking for her at the elevators. Maybe it was the crazy thoughts that rush through your head when pent-up urine finally rushes from your body—but as she yanked down her pantyhose and briefs and then let go, she had the queerest feeling that it was Miss Putnam he'd been talking to when she'd caught him murmuring into the telephone.
***
The streets were awash. The instant she stepped off the curb to search the uptown flow of traffic for a free cab, a delivery truck cut in close to her and splashed a wave of water over the front of her dress. She was soaked through—drenched, just as he'd said.
Peggy stood for a moment, limp with feelings of impotence and frustration, like a child in a world of grown-ups who all rode cozily in cabs. Then she gave up and set off to work her way home by subway, drying out by the time she'd made it to the Ninety-sixth Street stop, getting soaked again as she walked the block and a half to her building.
She pressed the button for the elevator, stepping away from the puddle that was forming at her feet and starting a new one just as big. When she got off on eight, she waited until the elevator door had shut behind her, and then she stripped out of her things, dropped her clothes on the vestibule floor, and fished her keys from the bottom of her handbag.
With one naked foot she held the door propped open while she reached back and bundled her wet things under her arm. She left her shoes in the foyer, carried everything else to the little laundry room off the kitchen, and then, shivering slightly, she retraced her steps, cursing Hal when she saw the empty suitcases still lying in the hallway that led to the back. He knew she wasn't strong enough to lift them onto the top shelf of the storage closet. He knew he had to do that for her!
FORGIVE
She used to think she could forgive him anything, forgive him for leaving a million suitcases lying on the floor. But maybe there were some things too terrible to forgive.
She hadn't yet reached the doorway to their bedroom when she heard it—and stopped dead in her tracks. At first she thought it must be the rain, a kind of trick the rain played against the fancy brickwork that bordered he windows. But then, a second later, she realized that neither water nor wind could make a sound like that, and that it was coming from inside the apartment itself.
She stood listening, trying to hear it over the pounding of her heart, the roaring sussuration of her breath.
It was rhythmic, a steady, muted swinging sound, as of something moving relentlessly back and forth in the bedroom. The rocker! It must be the bentwood rocker at the foot of the bed! Yes, that was it—there was someone in there in the rocking chair, someone rocking back and forth.
She crept closer, her toes inching along the bare floor, her naked body inclined as far forward as she dared. When she got as far as she needed to look and make sure, she stopped and held her breath.
She could just see it around the edge of the door frame now, the tip of one wooden arc rising and falling, the toe of a shoe dark against the light field of new beige carpet.
She started inching back, her breath stopped in her chest, her arms crossed instinctively over her breasts.
The telephone in the kitchen! Or no, just get out; don't risk it. The elevator. Ring for the elevator! But she was naked.
She wanted to turn and run, scream, do something fast. She kept moving backward, the tiniest, quietest steps . . .
The voice stopped her. It was a man shouting.
"Is someone there? Pegs, kitten, is that you?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
She sat huddled on the living room couch, clutching her robe around her while Val poured her a second bourbon and continued his explanation. She barely listened. She was glad he was here, but it didn't matter why. Still, he kept listing the reasons—how much he wanted to see their new place, how he'd been so uneasy about the way she and Hal had treated each other in Pensacola. Was something wrong in their marriage? Didn't they both understand what a treasure they had in Sam and how it'd be a damn shame if anything came along to bust things up?
He was worried. He wanted to do what he could. Would money help? Was that the trouble? Maybe they were overextended. He didn't have much, but whatever he had was theirs—and of course, he could always borrow more.
She did her best to reassure him, and she tried to change the subject.
"But how did you get in, Pops? You scared me half to death."
"The super."
"He just let you in? I mean, how could he be sure you were my father?"
"Do I look like a criminal? Besides, he put a good one to me."
Peggy looked up from her drink. "He what?"
"Man said, 'If you're Mrs. Cooper's father, then describe the machine you invented that your grandson's always talking about.' Looks like old Sam's pretty impressed with that contraption." He grinned, reached out his hand and lifted her chin. "Listen, kitten, I just want you to know there's nothing in my power I won't do if you need me."
She'd been holding it in. But the look on his face, the one eye masked by the oval of black, cracked what strength she had left. She let it out, crying as if she'd been practicing for this moment all her life. He petted her and tried to quiet her, but she threw herself back down on the couch and wept until the ache in her chest made her stop.
"How about another hooker of bourbon?"
She shook her head. She felt hollowed out, too weak to speak.
"You want to tell me what's eating you, Pegs?"
Again she shook her head.
"I'm an okay listener, kitten. I've seen some things in my time. I doubt there's anything you could tell me that I haven't seen or heard before."
"No," she said, sitting up, rubbing at her face with the heels of her hands. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," he said. "That's what I'm here for."
"I can't," she said as if she was strangling.
He nodded and touched the top of her head. "Okay if I hang around for a few days?"
She knew if she tried to speak just yet, she'd collapse into tears again. So she hugged him to give him his answer, and then she took his hand and showed him to the room she knew would never be redone as a nursery for a little Abigail or Amanda. Creating a new life wasn't anything Peggy was thinking about anymore.
What she was thinking about was how to save the life of the child she had.
***
It was still drizzling when they left the apartment and went together to get Sam. She wanted it to be a happy time for Val and a happy time for Sam, but every step closer to the school was like a fist closing tighter on her heart.
When they stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting for the doors to swing open and the boys to sta
rt coming out, Peggy studied the faces of the other mothers who stood around with little rain hats and slickers and umbrellas at the ready. She knew none of these people, and she had the feeling she never would. It wasn't like the way it had been when Sam was in nursery school, all the mothers reaching out to each other for friendship and support. These women were different. They seemed so closed in, so shut off from ordinary needs, from simple companionship. Wouldn't most of the ones waiting be first-grade mothers, too? Which ones had sons who also went each morning to face Miss Putnam, to sit in one of the desks Sam had drawn before he'd even seen what they looked like? Would any of them believe her story? Was it something only a mother could take seriously?
Peggy stepped away from her father, moved a bit closer to the woman standing nearest.
"Hi," she said, touching the woman's elbow lightly, "I wonder if I might introduce myself. I'm Peggy Cooper—and this is my dad just up from Florida."
"Potter," Val said, putting out his big, brown hand. "Val Potter. Pleased to meet you."
"Hello," the woman said vaguely. "Are you visiting New York?"
"That's what I'm doing," Val said, smiling broadly, still holding onto the woman's hand.
"That's nice," the woman said, drawing her hand away and facing Peggy again. "You have a boy in first grade, I believe?"
"Sam," Peggy said. "And yours?"
"Yes," the woman said, turning away slightly, as if to check the doors.
"Does he have Miss Putnam?" Peggy said.
"Yes, thank goodness," the woman said, not looking back at Peggy. "I understand she works absolute wonders, whipping the little savages into St. Martin's boys before they get off on the wrong foot."
"You mean she's a lot better than Mrs. Booth?" Peggy said.
The woman turned her face back to Peggy, and then briefly glanced at Val, as if swiftly measuring him in some way. She seemed about to say something, but then she turned away again just as the doors banged open and the first ranks of boys began their joyous descent down the stairs, hands out to test the density of the rain that still fell from an ugly sky.
***
When they got back home, Peggy made cocoa for Val and Sam, then put a plate of Lorna Doones on the breakfast table and sat and listened to their excited exchange. She was comforted for the moment by the craggy timber of her father's voice, by her son's musical chirps of enthusiasm. This surprise visit was going to be as much of a tonic for Sam as it was for her. The unnerved and intimidated little boy she'd taken to school in the morning had vanished under the benign influence of his grandfather's presence.
After a time Peggy got up and called the main number at Manhattan. When she got through to Hal's secretary, she asked for his new direct line and memorized it as the woman recited the numerals.
"You want me to repeat that, Mrs. Cooper?"
"No, that's fine," Peggy said. "Is he available?"
"He's on another call. Would you like to hold or shall I have him get back to you?"
"I'll wait," Peggy said.
She pulled a stool over to the baker's table and sat down, going over the sequence of seven digits until she was sure she had them right.
"You fellas need more cookies?" she called out to the breakfast room. But then Hal came on the line and she never heard their answer.
"I tried you at your office. They said you didn't come in. You feeling any better, Pegs?"
"Yes," she said—because she knew it didn't matter now what she said to him. "Look," she said, lowering her voice, "I'm calling because Pop's here."
"Val? Val's in New York?"
"He wants to stay a few days and I thought you should know."
There was a silence for a time, as if he was considering what this meant.
"Pegs," he finally said, "if you ask me, it's just what the doctor ordered. You talk to Val. You tell him what's got you all upset. He'll set you straight."
She said nothing. She let his statement hang in the air. She waited.
"Pegs?"
"I'm here," she said. "We can put Dad up in the third bedroom. I just thought you should know, is all."
"Well, I think that's great news. You tell him hi for me and say I'll be home in about an hour."
She nodded as if he could see her.
"Pegs? Cheer up, baby. Everything is going to be fine."
"Right," she said tonelessly. "I'll get Pop comfortable and then I'll start fixing dinner."
"No, no," she heard him say, his voice sounding genuinely excited, "you get everybody ready and we'll treat Val to a steak down at Luger's. How's that grab you?"
"That's fine," she said, and then she said good-bye.
***
All the way down to Brooklyn Val kept insisting it had to be his treat, but Hal wouldn't hear of it.
"I fly free. So I'm how many dollars ahead of the game? It some kind of federal offense if I spend a few bucks on my kids?"
"Save your money," Hal said. "The price of Kool-aid's going up."
"It is?" Sam said from his perch on his grandfather's lap.
The men laughed, but Peggy kept to her silence, her face averted to the window as the cab wove in and out of the heavy commuter traffic along FDR Drive.
At the restaurant Hal kept up a steady stream of endorsements about what a great feed Luger's was, the best porterhouse steaks in the country, not to mention the sliced tomatoes, the sliced onions, the incredible rye bread, the home fries, and the pecan pie that was sure as hell coming after they'd stuffed themselves with everything else.
Peggy nibbled at her steak and listened. She'd never heard Hal quite like this before, nervously jabbering about the food that was right in front of their faces when anybody could see that Sam was bored and Val would sooner hear about other things—their new jobs, the apartment, St. Martin's. When the subject finally changed to how Sam was getting along in his new school, Hal interrupted to say he had more good news.
"Sam boy, guess what! Tomorrow, after school, guess who's coming to your new house!"
The boy had a forkful of pie on the way to his mouth. When he looked up to see what his father was so excited about, the food dropped back down to his plate.
"Your teacher!" declared Hal, beaming with pleasure.
"Miss Putnam?" Sam said, swallowing as if the pie had made it all the way.
"How did that come about?" Peggy said through clenched teeth, something sharp and oppressive moving over the area near her heart.
"She called me herself to set it up," he answered glibly, "almost right after you left my office. It's standard procedure at St. Martin's. The teacher calls on all her students some time during the year. It's a nice tradition, I think. Just give her a cup of tea and some cucumber sandwiches, and that'll be the end of it."
"Why didn't you tell me when I called you at your office?" she almost hissed.
He looked at her as if her question was absurd.
"You've got all the time you need to get ready, Pegs," Hal said soothingly, looking to Val as if to signal his conviction that Peggy's behavior was getting more aberrant by the minute.
"The place needs cleaning. I've got to work tomorrow."
"No sweat," Val said. He reached his hand to Peggy's arm and winked at Hal. "You kids can count on me to tidy up. It may come as a big surprise to certain citizens," Val said, moving his hand from Peggy's arm to tweak Sam's nose, "but us old Navy fly-boys can do some pretty fair strafing with a dust rag and a broom."
"We've got a vacuum cleaner," Sam offered helpfully. "A Kirby—right, Mom?"
"What?" Peggy said, her mind spinning with possibilities, the splinter that had by now penetrated her heart shattering into a thousand bright shards of glass.
"A Kirby!" Val bellowed. "Did I ever tell you, boy, what your granddad once did with an old Kirby motor, some baling wire, a couple of GE dimmer switches, a rebuilt Mixmaster, half a dozen lug nuts, and a 1957 Admiral TV?"
Sam looked wide-eyed, waiting.
Hal started laughing, and Val joined him.
Together, they spluttered and roared, laughing and laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks. And at last Sam laughed too, loving the laughter and the joke and these wonderful men, even if he didn't really understand.
Peggy watched them over the lip of her coffee cup, and then she closed her eyes and drank.
CHAPTER NINE
She had the alarm triggered for an hour early. But she was up and into her clothes before it got anywhere near the time it was set for. She took a last look in the bathroom mirror, wet her eyes with more cold water, and crept out of the bedroom. As she eased the door shut behind her, the faint opalescence of the seven scrawled letters still lay smeared across her dazed vision.
FORGIVE
No, Peggy would not forgive. It had passed the point of forgiveness now. Whatever it was, it had to be worse than that, too awful for her even to guess at. She could only grope her way, reach out with her wildest surmise—and even so, what would she have? Nothing. Nothing solid; nothing but suspicions and the aimless insanity of never knowing which one led anywhere near the truth. She would forgive nothing. Instead, she would fight. Yet who precisely was the enemy? It could be even herself.
She tiptoed down the hall to Sam's room, went in, and closed the door. She knelt at the side of his bed, put her head down next to his, blew her breath against his face. Again. Once more.
This time his hand jerked up and flicked across his nose as if a freckle might be tickling him.
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