Heart Troubles

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “Look,” he said, “did you call me up two thousand miles to tell me it was time for dinner?”

  “No, of course not, silly,” she said. “I just don’t want to delay your dinner, that’s all. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Mom. Just fine.”

  “Oh, that’s good. How’s your room?”

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  “I mean, what’s it like? Does it have a balcony? I asked for a balcony.”

  “Yes, it’s got a balcony.”

  “Do you have a view?”

  He half turned as though he were not sure of the answer, and looked across the room to the French doors. “Yes,” he said, “you can see practically the whole Caribbean from up here, I guess.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. It must be pretty. How is—everything else?”

  “What do you mean, everything else?”

  “Well, you’ve been down there a week and Daddy and I have both written you. But we haven’t gotten so much as a postcard from you. How is everything?”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean Carol, of course, yes.”

  The young man completed his turn now, and looked at the girl who occupied the other twin bed. She lay, in a wide, bright orange skirt, on top of the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

  “Carol’s fine,” he said.

  “Has she seen the doctor yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he mention any date?”

  “Around the twenty-first of August,” he said. “But Carol says it could be a week earlier or later.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “That’s all. She’s fine. He’s worried about her attitude, that’s all.”

  “Her attitude? What’s wrong with her attitude, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Oh, you know,” he said softly. “It’s been hard on her. The wedding. Everything.”

  “She should be thankful she had a wedding. What’s her doctor like?”

  “Nice,” he said. “An Englishman.”

  “Oh, an Englishman, that’s nice.” There was a pause. “Teddy?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Has she reached a decision yet?”

  “What sort of a decision?” he asked.

  “You know, Teddy. About the baby.”

  “No. She hasn’t decided yet.”

  “Well, I do hope she is going to be sensible about it. Don’t you, Teddy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have all the papers there, don’t you? The ones she has to sign for the adoption business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, try to settle it, Teddy—once and for all—soon. Without any more hysterics. Histrionics, I mean. Under the circumstances it’s unreasonable of her to want to keep the baby. I know her mother thinks so, too.”

  “Oh, have you talked to her?”

  “I should say not. Goodness, it’s impossible to talk to that woman. She gets hysterical over the phone every time I try to discuss anything sanely. No. All I can say is it’s a good thing Daddy and I took things into our own hands, or heaven only knows where you’d both be.” She paused. “By the way, dear, what are you doing about your laundry? Do you have plenty of shirts?”

  “Yes, Mother,” he said wearily. “Yes, Mother. Yes, Mother. Everything’s fine.”

  “Teddy?” his mother said. “I talked to the Dean today. I told him the whole story. All about the little wedding and everything. He was very kind, terribly understanding. You can go back to college next fall if you make up your work this summer. Isn’t that fine?”

  There was a delay in his answering as he reached over and snapped on the lamp that stood on the night stand.

  “Teddy?” his mother’s voice said. “You didn’t answer me about college. Do you want to go back next semester?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure. I guess I do.”

  “Oh, good! I’m glad. But you do see, don’t you, how impossible—how unheard of—it would be for you to go back to college with some sort of baby in tow?”

  “What do you mean ‘some sort’ of baby?”

  “Don’t get huffy, dear. You know what I mean. I mean it’s just too much. You’re not even twenty and you’ve two more years—more than two full years—of college ahead of you. You couldn’t do that and be a parent, too, for heaven’s sake!”

  He made no reply.

  “That’s why the adoption is the only way. And as far as she’s concerned, well, she can just go back to her family while you’re in college.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And then—supposing you did decide to stay married to her—but you probably won’t, because a divorce would be simple enough to arrange. I mean after this thing blows over—”

  He turned, this time cautiously, and looked at the girl lying on the other bed. Slowly, without looking at him or getting up, she reached toward the other night stand on which lay a pack of cigarettes, matches, and an ashtray. She brought these closer to her, extracted a cigarette from the pack, and lighted it.

  “Doesn’t that make sense to you, Teddy? About not staying married to her? I mean, actually, why should you? I remember what you said—what you told me—that night. That night you gave us the news. You didn’t want to marry her. You said so.”

  “Look, Mother,” he said, “can we please skip all that?”

  “Well,” she said, “it’s true. Don’t you forget it. I’ll never forget the expression on your face. And hers! Last week, at the wedding, at the lawyer’s office. Did she look like a happy bride? Well, you’re both lucky, that’s all I can say, to have parents who can understand and afford to get the two of you married and packed off there to avoid the humiliation of a—a baby—arriving five months from now! And I hope you realize how much this little so-called honeymoon of yours is going to cost Daddy.”

  “Mother,” he said, “look, we’ve had this conversation before. Do we have to go over it and over it?”

  “No. I’m sorry,” she said. “How’s the weather been?”

  He sighed. “The weather’s fine.”

  “Have you taken any pictures?”

  “What?”

  “Pictures. You took your camera, didn’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “No pictures.”

  “Well,” his mother said, “I just hope she sees the sense of it. Goodness knows, there’ll be questions—all the rest of her life—if she keeps that baby. And I just know that you don’t care for her.”

  He said nothing.

  “I mean, how could you?” she went on. “After all those years—going steady with her for—how long was it? Four and a half years? And not even a girl we approved of! And I warned you—”

  “Mother!” he interrupted.

  She stopped, and then suddenly said, “Teddy! Is she in the room?”

  He looked at the girl who lay silently smoking. “Yes.”

  “Oh! Why didn’t I think? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, I should have known, you’ve been acting so funny. Well,” she said, “just answer me with yes and no. Would you like to talk to Daddy?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Teddy, please. Don’t be funny. Daddy’s right here.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t. We had enough of talk—that night.”

  “Teddy, you know Daddy didn’t mean some of those things he said. He didn’t mean any of them. He was upset.”

  “I don’t want to go through that again,” he said.

  “He didn’t mean it, dear. That was just Daddy being—well, being Daddy! I mean, you know what great, what wonderful plans he had for you, dear. And it wasn’t as if Daddy hadn’t warned you—”

  “I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “Now, Daddy’s right here, right at my shoulder, ready to talk to you. Now don’t go flying off the handle with him, Teddy. Be nice. Remember that it’s Daddy who’s paying for all this and it isn’t going to be exactly cheap. Now hold t
he wire and I’ll put Daddy on.”

  “If you put him on, I’ll hang up,” he said.

  But his mother had left the phone, and he did not hang up. Instead, he looked at the girl on the bed. His expression was embarrassed, somewhat imploring. She did not seem to see him, but lay, dry-eyed, holding her cigarette loose in one hand, with blue smoke trailing upward toward the ceiling.

  Then his father’s voice boomed halfway across the Caribbean. “Ted?” he said cheerfully. “How are you, boy?”

  His voice filled the room and the girl turned toward the phone and listened with interest, her face grave and thoughtful.

  “Fine, Dad.”

  “Good, good. Good to hear your voice, Son! I guess you talked to your mother.”

  He held the receiver an inch or so away from his ear. “We’ve got a good connection, haven’t we?” he said.

  “Yes. Well, you know your mother. She told the operator here not to bother placing the call unless she could promise us a good connection. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine.”

  There was an awkward, suspended silence.

  “Well, well,” his father said. “How is everything?”

  “Fine.”

  “You got those papers, didn’t you? Those papers from the lawyer?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Don’t lose ’em, Ted. You know—all she needs to do is sign on the dotted line.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you tell her, Ted, that this agency guarantees—I mean they guarantee and triple guarantee to place that kid in a good home. She can rest absolutely assured that, no matter what, that baby will be placed in a good home. They guarantee it.”

  The young man said nothing.

  “So you see,” his father said, “there’s nothing to worry about. You can tell her that. What’s more, I talked to her old man and he agrees with me. Oh, I won’t say it didn’t take a little, ah, persuasion on my part to get him to agree. But he agreed.”

  The girl reacted to this by shutting her eyes and immediately opening them again.

  “Say, he’s a funny duck, don’t you think? Her old man? You knew him, of course. Sure, you must have. But don’t you think he’s a funny duck? Well, I guess he was pretty upset, like we all were. He had some pretty plain and fancy things to say about you, as I guess you can imagine.” His father laughed.

  “I can imagine.”

  “Well, it’ll all be over sooner than you can say Jack Robinson, and, like I always say, we live and learn, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You’ve had your lesson. You had a good scare. And don’t say I never warned you, Ted. But all that’s water over the dam. In every sense of the word. Did your mother tell you she talked to Dean Willis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, say, that’s pretty good, huh? Back in school for the fall semester? Don’t you think so?” There was a silence. The young man used it to fish another cigarette out of his pack and, struggling to hold phone, cigarette, and match book, finally got it lighted. During this, the girl on the other bed reached over and put her cigarette out in the ashtray with a series of slow taps. Then she sat up and brushed a lock of silky brown hair out of her eyes. She put her bare feet over the side of the bed and leaned over, searching for her shoes.

  “Well, Son,” his father said, “no hard feelings. I mean live and let live, okay? I mean you’ve learned your lesson. And you know darned good and well you couldn’t go back to college trundling some teen-aged wife and kid. I mean it’s out of the question and your own common sense should tell you that.” He paused. “Just as long as she signs that paper, see? And the sooner the better. You asked her to, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did she say? Look, if she’s stalling around—look, I mean, see here, Ted, let me talk to her. Put her on the phone, will you? Let me talk some sense into her.”

  The girl found her shoes. They were white, made of canvas. She tied the laces carefully, then stood up. From the other bed, her husband turned and watched her.

  “Ted? You hear me? Put her on the phone.”

  “No,” he said. “No. Never mind that. I’ll have her sign the paper. Don’t worry.”

  “Well, all right, Son, if you think you can handle her,” his father’s voice said. “You do that and you’ll be all right. Now here’s your mother again. She wants to say good night. Good night, Son.”

  “Good night.”

  His mother’s voice came on again, almost immediately. “Teddy,” she said, “I’m afraid we’ve kept you talking way too long. Will you be late for dinner? I hope not. I want you to watch your meals. You remember what I told you about eating fresh vegetables in the tropics, though, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Good. Well, Teddy, good night now. Go down and have a nice dinner. And keep us posted, you know. Not just postcards, but letters. Or call. Call and reverse the charges.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He watched as the girl crossed the room to the French doors and stood, looking out into the night. She stood for several seconds, looking out, then opened one half of the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. From the open door a warm tropical breeze blew into the room, stirring the smoke in the air. He watched her go to one of the two chaise longues—placed there for sunbathing—and sit down. Then, suddenly, the breeze drew the French door shut with a bang.

  “What was that noise?” his mother asked.

  “Carol just went out. The door shut.”

  “Oh, well, good. We can have a little last-minute privacy, then, can’t we? Well, Teddy, I just want you to tell her—to be absolutely firm. To tell her that she must sign those papers and no two ways about it. You see, dear, what really worries Daddy—shall I tell you? What really worries Daddy is that she’ll get the idea she can hold us up—for money. You know, use those papers as a threat, like blackmail.”

  He rested his cigarette on the edge of the night stand and reached up, and held the receiver now with two hands. He sat forward.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Mother,” he said slowly, “listen to me for a minute.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Just listen. That’s all. Listen! I’ve been listening to you for the past half hour and now you can damn well listen to me!”

  “Teddy!”

  “And stop calling me Teddy!”

  “Teddy—”

  “Stop it. Do you hear me? I’m not a baby, do you understand? Listen, I’m going to tell you just exactly what I’ve been thinking the whole time you’ve been talking, both of you!”

  “Now see here, young man—”

  “Quiet. Listen to me. I’m not a baby. Get that through your head. And Carol’s not some cheap gold-digger, either. Look—maybe I hadn’t decided, maybe I didn’t know what I was going to do—up until now. But talking to you and Daddy—talking to you and Father—has sure helped me decide!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Teddy!”

  He stood up, holding the phone. “Listen here,” he said. “Do you realize why we got in this mess? Do you? Do you know that for the whole four years we’ve gone together, Carol and I, you’ve never—not once—done anything? Not even so much as acknowledged her? You refused to get to know her, to meet her folks, to have her to dinner! You weren’t even nice to her, you weren’t even kind! And when I tried to tell you things you never listened. You just said I’d grow out of it or something. Oh, I know maybe I didn’t want to marry her—not so soon, anyway. But now I am married to her. And—look—I’m not going to be shoved around, see—any more! And we’re going to have that baby—and keep it—and stay married—and—”

  “What about college? What about that?”

  “I don’t care about college. I don’t care. If they take me back, they’ll take me back as a married man, with a baby. Do you understand? If they won’t take me back that way, they won’t take me back at all.”
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  There was only the briefest pause; then his mother said, “Who do you think will pay your bills, my dear? Not Daddy. You can be sure of that.”

  “All right; if he won’t then I won’t go back to college at all.”

  “How will you earn a living? How will you get a job?”

  “I’ll—I’ll drive a truck!”

  A tremor came into her voice now. “Teddy, you’re insane. You’re absolutely insane. Haven’t you brought enough disgrace on us? Don’t you see—”

  “Quiet. Just be quiet. You see—there’s one thing you don’t seem to get, Mother, and that’s that I’m in love wih Carol. Do you hear? Oh, I know I was scared at first, when I found out. Who wouldn’t be? We made a mistake. So we’re going to pay for it. But the right way. Not your way. The right way!”

  The silence now on the other end of the wire was longer. Then his mother said in an even voice, “What if we cut off the money right now? Right this minute?”

  “Go ahead!”

  “I’m going to put your father back on the wire!”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, “because this time I will hang up. You see? I’m going to hang up. Good-bye.” He held the receiver for a moment in his hand, then replaced it on the hook. Not with a slam, but squarely.

  He stood there, looking at it, half expecting something to happen, for it to come alive. Then he picked up his cigarette from the edge of the night stand, put it to his lips, inhaled, and blew out a sharp stream of smoke. He stared at the telephone a few moments longer. His expression changed rapidly, running the gamut from anger to something akin to fear, to triumph. Although his twentieth birthday was still two months off, he looked, for these moments, both older and younger. He turned on his heel. “Carol!” he called, and strode toward the door. “Carol!”

  She still sat on the chaise, on the now-quite-dark terrace. As he stepped out and walked toward her, she looked up at him. On the chaise in front of her he saw a pale sheaf of papers, stapled together.

  “I signed the adoption papers,” she said simply.

  He sat down beside her.

  “I signed them,” she said. “Not because of what your parents said. But I sat here thinking and I thought, what business do we have bringing a child into the world? You and I? Two weaklings …”