by Linda Wolfe
“I loved him,” Claudia said coolly. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
Bootie shivered and drew a thick towel from the foot of her lounge chair and draped it around her shoulders. “You didn’t. You never did.”
“Of course I did. I do still.”
Bootie let an incredulous sound escape from her throat. Claudia felt out of patience. Her back pain had begun to impinge on her consciousness again and now on top of physical distress she had to cope with Bootie’s being so provocative. She’d been challenging her about Sidney all weekend. And she had no right to do so. She’d never had a deep attachment in her life. Even her daughter seemed of only peripheral importance. All that mattered to her was her painting, and yet she perpetually expressed contempt for everyone else’s relationships.
“You don’t know what love is,” Claudia couldn’t help saying.
“That’s true, but neither do you.” Bootie sounded undisturbed by her criticism. She prided herself on her emotional detachment and often asserted that intimacy was the artist’s greatest enemy. “You’re right about me,” she went on. “But I’m right about you too.”
Claudia stopped listening to her. The ache in her back was sliding into her stomach. Sneaking into it. She felt a dull, surreptitious cramp in the pit of her belly and shut her lips, listening to her body’s signals.
Bootie mistook her silence for encouragement. “If you loved Sidney—if you’d ever loved him—you wouldn’t have avoided him all this time. You wouldn’t be sitting here talking with me right now. You’d be with him, trying to get him into some drug rehabilitation clinic.”
She couldn’t reply. The cramp had deepened, twisting and tightening within her. She was frightened, and thought of telling Bootie what was happening, but Bootie had hurt her feelings. She had had no right. No right to judge. No right to hurt her so. To make her feel pain. Such pain. She clutched the arm of her chair in the darkness.
And then the pain was gone, as unexpectedly as it had come.
“I’m awfully tired tonight, Bootie,” Claudia announced, as soon as she could speak, trying to mask both anger and physical anguish. “I think I’d like to go to bed.”
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Bootie asked.
She shook her head. “Just tired. Beat.”
“Okay,” Bootie nodded, “as long as you’re not mad.”
She managed a relatively convincing smile of reassurance and started up toward the house. But suddenly, as she moved heavily up the lighted flagstone path toward the back entrance, the pain in her stomach came again and this time it was so strong that she nearly doubled over.
The pain was all over her. It was in her throat, her ribs, her very fingertips. She moaned.
Bootie was at her side in a second. “What is it, baby? Are you having contractions?”
She shuddered. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to know?”
“Maybe I should drive you to the hospital.”
“It’s too early. Way too early.” And then she moaned again and clutched at her belly.
“Oh, honey. Oh, baby,” Bootie said. The towel slipped from her shoulders and she wrapped her arms around Claudia. “I’m sorry for what I said before. About you and Sidney. I’m no model of mental health either.”
“It’s okay.” Claudia’s anger at Bootie dissipated. What did it matter now? And then she was groaning. She would have fallen except for Bootie’s arms around her. Bootie held her tightly until she was quiet and then said, “Come on. Get in the car. You’ve got to get in the car.”
His private number was ringing. Awakening, Ben looked drowsily at the lighted dial of his clock and saw that it was 2 A.M. Then he reached for the phone, alarmed. Hardly anyone ever called him on his private number except Claudia and he was sure that she would never have called him at that hour unless she was in trouble. “Claudia, what is it? What’s wrong? Where are you?” he rattled.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m all right. We’re all right.” He heard her but her reply made no sense to him. Tensed for bad news, his brain charging his lips with expressions of anxiety, he stammered out, “It’s so late. Where are you? What is it, darling?”
And then she was saying, “St. Louis General. Oh, Ben, I’m so happy. So lucky. So happy,” and he knew from the exuberance in her voice that she had had the baby. “It’s a boy,” she trilled. “Ezra Samuel Zauber. Oh, Ben, he’s beautiful.”
Understanding at last, he was filled with even greater alarm. “Premature,” he murmured. “Oh, God, I should never have let you go to St. Louis!”
“My doctor said I could. It wasn’t your responsibility. Anyway, no harm’s done.”
“How do you know? What’s the baby’s weight? Who delivered you? I want to speak to him.”
“Oh, Ben, slow down. Talk to me first. Congratulate me. Oh, I was so scared. Tell me congratulations. Tell me it’s wonderful.”
“I don’t know if it’s wonderful. You can’t take premature babies lightly,” he scolded.
She began to giggle. And then he was laughing too and saying, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to sound so pompous. It was just that you got me so worried. Of course it’s wonderful. Of course it is. Provided the child’s all right.”
“He is. He really is.”
“Then tell me what happened. Tell me exactly what they’ve told you.”
“They said they’d have to keep him in an incubator until he reached full weight, but that there was no reason he wouldn’t reach it in a week or so. And that there’s nothing wrong with him. They said I was lucky. Terribly lucky.”
Her happiness was infectious. For a short while he put his professionalism aside and let himself respond fully to her joy, listening to her as she chattered to him in an excited voice he barely recognized as her own. She kept telling him over and over again about the baby’s fair hair and minute but perfect body, and about how Bootie had driven her to the hospital while still in her wet bathing suit, and she kept interrupting herself to say, “It came so fast. So fast. You wouldn’t believe how fast.”
“Premature babies do,” he smiled. “There’s never much warning.”
“I’m glad. Now it’s over.”
“I’m glad for you. I’ve—I’ve never felt so worried in my life as when I first heard your voice.”
“Dear Ben,” she said. “How kind you always are.”
It was only after he had allowed her to talk to him luxuriously and at length that he asked her again for the name of the obstetrician who had delivered her.
“Dr. Peter Michaels. A resident,” she said.
“A resident! My God! Forget about Ezra. You’re lucky you’re alive.” As soon as he spoke, she began laughing again, giddy. He felt immeasurably close to her.
“Look, sweetheart,” he said when her laughter had subsided. “I’ll call Dr. Michaels tonight, and tomorrow I’ll fly out, just to make sure everything’s as okay as you say it is.”
“Oh, no. You don’t need to do that.” Claudia stopped speaking and in the silence that followed he had a vision of her lying in her hospital bed, her gemlike blue eyes radiant and her pale skin flushed and vibrant. “Everything is all right,” she assured him when she resumed speaking. “You’ll see when you speak to Dr. Michaels. And I imagine Sidney needs you much more than I do.”
“Sidney?” Suddenly he felt disappointment invade him. He had forgotten all about Sidney.
“Put him on,” Claudia continued. “I—I guess I’d better tell him about Ezra now too.”
“I’ll tell him for you in the morning. He’s asleep right now.” He paused, annoyed. “It’s hard to wake him when he’s asleep.”
“Please try.”
Resisting, he said quizzically, “I thought you said you didn’t want to speak to him. Not until he gave up the pills.”
“I know, but I feel differently now. I’ve been thinking about it since I got to the hospital. I’ve been thinking how heartless I seem to everybody. To you. To Bootie. To Sidney.”
&nbs
p; “Not to me, Claudia. You don’t. I swear it.”
“But just yesterday you sounded as if you thought I was monstrous for not speaking to him.” She sighed deeply and went on, “When you said that if only I would come and see him, it might help him.”
Remembering, he clutched the phone in frustration, furious with himself for ever having suggested she talk to Sidney.
He had been feeling so intimate with Claudia just now, had been feeling that it was his own son who had just been born, his own wife who had just delivered. All his years of envying others their closeness at the moment of birth had been banished as she talked. But why not get Sidney for her if that was what she wanted? He still believed that once she perceived the full disorder of Sidney’s condition, her fantasies about him would come to an end. And tonight was perfect. If ever Sidney had drugged himself into an impenetrable stupor, it was today, after his disturbing talk with Alithorn. “Hang on,” he said amiably. “All right. It may take a while, but I’ll get him for you. And afterward, I’ll call Dr. Michaels.”
It took him a full five minutes to rouse Sidney and make him understand that Claudia was on the phone with something urgent to tell him. And even once he was out of bed and moving toward the phone in Ben’s room, he seemed more asleep than awake.
His body limp and his mind drifting, Sidney staggered down the hallway. As he walked, he kept repeating, “Who? Who’s it? Wha’s up?” so that by the time Ben sat him down on the bed and put the phone in his hand, he was no longer sorry in the least to be turning Claudia over to her true husband. He was sorry only that she couldn’t see him. Sidney’s arms and legs trembled with agitation, and his trousers, smelling of urine, were damp. But even his voice would be enough to put Claudia off for good. It was husky, hoarse and barely audible. “Suhweehar? Suhweehar?” he was mumbling.
Ben retreated from the room just as he saw great, watery tears begin to spill down Sidney’s ravaged cheeks, and the whole time Sidney was on the phone with Claudia, he himself used the hall phone in Claudia’s behalf. He spoke at length to the resident who had delivered her, and afterward questioned briefly but closely the pediatrician who had first examined the baby. Satisfied that Claudia’s optimistic version of Ezra’s present condition and future potential was correct, he was just hanging up when Sidney came into the hallway. He passed Ben in silence, stumbling toward his own room, his eyes blinded by tears.
On Monday morning Ben could think of nothing but Claudia and Ezra. It was all he could do not to call Claudia the minute he awakened. But it was very early, and it had been close to three in the morning before she and Sidney had finished speaking last night. He had best let her rest, and phone her later, once he got to the office. He himself was exhausted from the emotional excitement of the night, and he could easily imagine her fatigue. Controlling the urge to telephone her, he dressed and shaved and went into the kitchen, planning to make a huge pot of coffee to get himself going.
To his surprise, Sidney too was already awake, and had actually started the coffee. Even more startling, Sidney had shaved. But he had done quite a sloppy job, nicking himself mercilessly. There were tiny beads of blood burgeoning next to his ears, around the cleft on his chin, and all down his scrawny neck. “What were you trying to do?” Ben addressed Sidney sarcastically. “Guillotine yourself?”
Sidney looked abashed. “I was turning over a new leaf,” he said. “In honor of the baby.”
“Baby?” Ben raised an eyebrow quizzically.
Sidney’s eyes blinked rapidly and he frowned. “My son.”
Ben stared at him, his head to one side.
“Claudia had the baby. She called.” Sidney’s lips trembled and then he looked down at the table. “Didn’t she?”
Ben watched Sidney closely, enjoying his confusion, and waited several seconds before leaning across the table and pounding him on the back. “Of course she did. Congratulations.”
Sidney smiled, relieved. “You had me worried, old buddy. For a moment I thought I’d made it all up.”
“Of course you didn’t. I spoke to Claudia too.”
“I thought so. I thought she said she’d been talking to you.”
“Yeah, well. Congratulations.” Ashamed of having teased Sidney over the baby, he stood and moved to the stove, pouring two cups of coffee. “Let’s drink to the kid.” He set a cup in front of Sidney.
“I’ve had some,” Sidney said, rejecting the coffee. “I’ve been up for hours. Thinking.”
“What about?”
“About everything. About Alithorn. About Claudia. About the baby.” He slumped in his chair. “What’s its name? What’d she name it? I forgot.”
“Ezra. After her father.”
“About Ezra,” Sidney went on. “I was thinking that for Ezra’s sake I ought to make some changes.”
Abruptly nervous, Ben got up from the table and busied himself at the refrigerator, searching for some bread to toast. “What kind of changes?” he asked, his back stooped.
Sidney answered him first with a long sigh. Then he said, “I ought to give up the pills.”
Ben’s tension grew acute. He kept his back turned, fearing his face would betray his feeling.
Sidney said in a loud, excited voice, “I’m going to stop taking the pills. I am.”
Ben heard him get up from the table and walk to the kitchen sink. Then he heard him turn on the tap. He couldn’t keep searching through the refrigerator any longer. Couldn’t keep his face turned from Sidney’s all through breakfast. Straightening up, he drew a loaf of white bread out of the refrigerator. But his edgy feeling continued. Trying to open the package, his fingers turned thumbs. He couldn’t undo the paper-wrapped wire that held the bread closed.
Sidney was still running the faucet. Ben stole a glance at him and saw him fill a glass with water and dig down into his jacket pocket.
“I’m going to stop,” Sidney said in the same excited voice he had used earlier. “I swear I am.” Ben saw him take a vial of pills from his pocket, open it and swallow several capsules. “After lunch,” Sidney said, gulping the water.
Ben’s anxiety vanished as swiftly as it had come. He ripped open the package of bread, thrust two slices into the toaster, and plunged down the lever.
“Or maybe tomorrow,” Sidney said, putting away his pills.
By the time the toast came jiggling up, Ben was laughing to himself.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Sidney asked, finally shutting off the water.
Ben shook his head.
“I don’t blame you,” Sidney said. “Why should you? I don’t even believe myself.” He sat down and put his head on his arms and his shoulders began to quiver.
Ben softened. For once, Sidney’s sadness struck him as authentic, rather than maudlin and excessive. There was such a darkness in his mood, such a desperate admission of helplessness, that Ben could no longer generate any bitterness. He stood over Sidney and patted his shaking back.
Claudia too was sad when he spoke to her from his office later that morning. She said she supposed it was postpartum depression, but he suspected it was not because Ezra had been expelled from within her that she was downcast, her exuberance of the night before vanished without a trace. It was because she had at last begun to expel Sidney too. Disconsolate, she said, “Oh, Ben, it was a terrible shock to speak with him. A shock despite everything you’d told me. He sounded so disconnected. So hopeless.”
“I know, darling,” he comforted her. “I’d been trying to prepare you.”
“He just kept muttering and mumbling. I could hardly understand him, except that a few times he swore that for the baby’s sake, he was going to withdraw.”
“I wouldn’t take that too seriously,” Ben said gently. “He said that to me too this morning.”
“And you didn’t think he meant it?”
“No,” he said slowly. “I didn’t. I don’t think he can pull himself together enough to try it. I really don’t.”
At home that
evening, when Sidney began talking about withdrawal once again, he paid hardly any attention to him. He had bought himself a roast chicken for dinner and was busily carving it when Sidney appeared in the entrance to the kitchen and announced loudly, “I’ve figured out how to withdraw.”
“What’s to figure out?” he said, not even bothering to look at him. “Alithorn already told you. And I’ve told you a hundred times. Just check into Downstate.” He had sliced off both drumsticks and now he set them neatly down on a platter.
“I’ll be damned if I’ll do that and give Alithorn the proof he wants about me.”
“There’s no other way.” Bored, Ben began to cut off the wings.
“Yes, there is.” Sidney spoke excitedly, his words racing. “You could supervise my withdrawal. I’d stay in the hall bathroom. That’s a good spot because it has an outside lock. You could open the door at intervals and give me the pills. A smaller amount each time. It would only take a couple of days.”
Concentrating on the task at hand, Ben ignored Sidney and began arranging the wings alongside the drumsticks on the platter. Sidney’s words struck him as bizarre, his scheme a perfect illustration of the bad judgment barbiturates notoriously produced. “Why not lock up the drugs?” he asked after a while, as he might ask a child.
“Because in the beginning I might not have the willpower to follow the schedule. I might try to go out and buy pills.” Sidney continued to speak with pressured intensity. “But if I was in the bathroom, there’d be no problem. Even if I tried to push past you when you opened the door, you could easily force me back inside. You’re so much stronger than I am now.”
Still treating Sidney’s words lightly, Ben tackled the white meat and said offhandedly, “Sounds risky to me. You could have convulsions.”
“Not if we do it right,” Sidney answered. “Not at 10 percent less a day. And if I did have a convulsion, you could raise the barbiturate level intravenously and bring me out of it.”
Despite his pressured speech, Sidney sounded so serious that at last, finished with carving the chicken, Ben turned to look at him. When he did, the carving utensils slipped from between his fingers. Sidney was wearing nothing but a huge towel wrapped around his waist and legs. His chest was bare, the barbiturate rash glaringly red, and his hair was dripping wet.