by Lois Battle
“Hey, as Barbara Ehrenreich said, if men knew they’d have to go nearly a year without a drink or a cigarette, or even an aspirin—they’d classify pregnancy as a sexually transmitted disease and abortions would be treated like emergency appendectomies. Cheers.” She chugalugged her drink, looked out at the water. “It’s so pretty and peaceful here. Don’t think I could ever move away from New York, but it sure felt good taking off the winter clothes as we drove south. Gloves and hat off by the time we reached Petersburg, peeled off the coat just outside of Raleigh, felt like Gypsy Rose Lee in slow, slow motion.” She took another sip of her drink, studied Cam from the corner of her eye, and gave up the small talk. “Why don’t we go back to the house and do the test? I still don’t think you’re pregnant, but . . .”
“Don’t give me the stress lecture.” Cam stopped the swing’s motion, rested her head on the back of it, and closed her eyes. “I bolted out of the store because I thought I recognized the woman at the cash register. I think she was in my high-school English class. I think her daddy was a preacher or something and she was the one who thought it was okay to make Hester Prynne wear the Scarlet Letter.”
“Shit, you’re really losing it. Even if she had been,” Reba said reasonably, “what are the chances she’d remember you?”
“When you live your whole life in a fifty-mile radius, you remember. It’d be all over town tomorrow morning.”
They rocked again, four, five times, swaying gently back and forth, thankful for the slight breeze, warmed by the sun. “So were you?” Cam asked, eyes still closed.
“Was I what?”
“You said you’d had a pregnancy test when you were in college.”
“Mmmmm.”
“I knew you’d been with men before. But I didn’t know . . .”
“It was in my senior year. The fact that I’d never been to bed with anyone was my guilty secret. There was this guy in the peace movement. Remarkably unremarkable, as I recall. Even though I had a smart mouth, I think he guessed I was still a virgin. Ah, the thrill of conquest. But I was open for it. Wanted to think I was desirable. Wanted to think I was normal. Went to bed with him for the first time after a peace march. Well, you remember how those things were—being in a like-minded crowd, all that electricity, the ego trip of feeling you were brave. It was sexy. Very sexy.”
“Never for me,” Cam told her. “I always thought I was going against everything my father’d taught me.”
A couple strolled by, nodded, and said hello. “So,” Reba waited until they were out of earshot, “Jerry and I started—I don’t know what you’d call it—it wasn’t a love affair. No tender words, no exchange of secrets or gifts, no candlelight dinners. It was more like when my uncle threw me into the swimming pool when I was a kid and told me that if I didn’t panic, I’d get the hang of it. But I never did get the hang of it with Jerry.” She drained her cup, looked around for a trash can, placed the cup on the ground, and lit a cigarette. “We kept on for about six months. I mean, this wasn’t a Movie of the Week, I didn’t get pregnant after a one-night stand with an evil seducer.”
“So?” Cam said after pause.
“He didn’t even want to come to the doctor with me. The sex had happened to us, but the consequences only happened to me. I’ve never felt that alone or that powerless before or since. And scared! You know abortion wasn’t legal then. I was sure I was going to either die or go to jail. Or both.”
“How come you never told me?”
“If you are pregnant, which I sincerely doubt,” Reba said, ignoring the question, “Sam would never treat you like that. Sam’s a gentleman.”
“You sound like my mother. It’s not about Sam being a gentleman. Sam’s been married since he was twenty-one and he’s already raised two kids.”
Reba considered, then nodded. “If you are pregnant, I’ll come with you.”
“Thanks, kiddo. If that’s what I decide to do, I’ll be in touch.”
“I mean, you don’t have much of a choice. Because, what about—?”
“Money? Insurance? My job? Finding a bigger place to live? Getting someone to care for a baby while I work?”
“Those are good questions. And then there’s your age, if you’ll pardon another splash of reality.”
“Funny, though, that you should say I don’t have much choice.”
“I didn’t mean . . . I know you’ve always been pro-choice....”
“Yeah. And now that I may have to make the choice . . .” She got up and stood for a moment, arms still crossed over her breast, looking out at the water.
“I don’t suppose you’ve told your mother?” A quick look was enough to answer that question.
“Josie’s got a ninety-three-year-old mother with Alzheimer’s, one of her best friends is in the hospital, my sister Lila is about to blow a gasket, though she doesn’t realize it yet, my other sister, Evie, is a complete ditz, and my uncle Dozier, who’s the only one Mama can rely on, is going up to Columbia with Aunt Edna to visit their kids. I think she’s got enough to cope with right now, don’t you?
“You know it’s funny. Mama was never really comfortable talking to me about sex, but when I was about fifteen, she said, ‘If you’re ever in trouble, come to me.’ I guess I’m in trouble. Deep trouble. Well.” She shook her head, sniffed, and looked up at the sky. The sun had gone behind the clouds and there was a fecund, marshy whiff in the air that signaled rain. “If you’re through with that cigarette, let’s saddle up, Tonto, and get back to the ranch.”
Josie’s car wasn’t in the driveway, and even Mrs. Beasley was out when they returned, but she and Reba went upstairs without speaking, wincing at every creak of the treads, and let themselves into the bedroom. Reba sat on the bed, pulled off her boots, took the package from the drugstore out of her purse, and began to read: “Results in five minutes. Do not use after the expiration date on the side of the package and blah, blah, blah.” She slit the cellophane at the top of the package with her fingernail, opened the box, slid out the instructions, and scanned them. “Says you can use it any time of day but it’s most accurate if used first thing in the morning.”
Cam was already unzipping her jeans. She put out her hand. “I’m doing it now.”
“Of course you are.” Reba handed it over, peeled off her socks, and pretended a deep interest in her toenails as Cam went into the bathroom. Thinking she heard a sound in the hall, she moved soundlessly to the door, put her ear to it, then turned the lock and stood quiet as a burglar. She could hear the crinkle of the outer wrapper being torn off, then a moment’s hesitation—she guessed that Cam had started to throw the box into the wastebasket, then thought better of it—then the softer sound of the foil being removed from the test stick. A long beat. No sound from the hall, but Reba was so spooked she was sure someone was on the other side of the door. The sound of urine hitting water in the toilet bowl seemed unnaturally loud. She thought about what she’d just read in the instructions: “If there is ANY blue line in the heart-shaped window next to the control window on the test stick, the result is positive and you are probably pregnant.” Why had the idiot manufacturers decided to make it a heart-shaped window? “Hey, Cam,” she called softly once she’d heard the toilet flush, “hey, come in here.” Five minutes was going to be a very long time. “This tree outside the window. What kind of tree is it?”
“I think it’s a chinaberry, but I don’t really know. My mother could tell you.” Cam pressed her forehead to the window. It felt soothingly cool as a smattering of raindrops flew against it. “Mama even knows the Latin names for things, and Mawmaw could walk through the woods and name every tree and plant and tell you which were edible. I never learned things like that.”
Reba looked at her watch, tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. They stood side by side watching as the rain fell faster, blurring the view of the garden. Five minutes was a very long time. “Guess you could go look now,” she said finally.
“Mmmm.” Cam turn
ed, shivering, her expression vague but intent, as though she were listening to far-off music. “Hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” she muttered as she went into the bathroom.
It was only a matter of seconds before Reba heard Cam call her name, but long enough for her to think about the nature of time—how it could stretch so that minutes seemed interminable, weighing on you so that you seemed to suffocate, how your fate could be changed in a heartbeat. Standing at the bathroom door, she could see the plastic test stick lying on the tiled countertop, next to a bowl of potpourri, a bar of cucumber soap, and an embroidered guest towel. The little heart shape was definitely blue.
Eleven
IT HAD RAINED on and off throughout the night, washing the streets, soaking the earth, turning the gray Spanish moss greenish. By mid-afternoon, as Lila’s Volvo approached her mother’s house, the sun was out in a chalky-blue sky, a warm Lady wind tempered the chilly air and shook droplets from the overarching live oaks onto her windshield. She heard a horn honk a happy Ta-da-ta-dada, checked her rearview mirror, saw nothing, then realized that Dozier’s Lincoln was coming toward her, Dozier at the wheel and Edna in the passenger seat. He pulled up alongside and rolled down his window. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
Edna said, “You looked to drive right by. Didn’t you see us?”
Lila rotated her head. “Just tired, I guess. You going up to Columbia now?”
“Getting an early start. Can’t wait to see those great-grandchildren.”
Edna held up a camera. “Dozier gave me this last night. It’s supposed to be idiot-proof. It really feels like Christmas now that we’ve got young’uns again. I’m going to shoot ’em all.”
“That’s a great idea,” Lila said, smiling at her own joke, and, to cut off any further gabble about cute kiddies, “Orrie and the kids will be coming over later. I wanted to come early and bring the presents”—she inclined her head toward the backseat filled with shiny gold and white boxes—“and see if I could give Mama a hand.”
“Your mama’s got a full house already,” Edna told her. “That Mrs. Beasley’s got a migraine so Josie’s playing nursemaid to her, and Cuba’s sewing machine busted so she came over to use Josie’s. She’s in there with a couple of her grandchildren, ripping away on some wild-looking outfit for her choir. And some friend of Cam’s from New York—gypsy-looking woman—Rita? Rosa?—what’s her name, Dozier?—is there too.”
“Reba Goldens,” Dozier supplied.
“That’s it,” Edna went on in a confidential voice. “I didn’t quite catch the story on her. Seems she was in North Carolina visiting friends and there was some sort of unpleasantness, so Cam invited her here.”
“Yes, Mama told me. But I didn’t get the full story either. You’d think she’d have the sensitivity to realize that this is a family holiday.”
“The more the merrier,” Dozier said. “That’s what holidays are about. Josie doesn’t mind having her. And I know she’s real happy to have all you sisters together again. I think it’s going to be a real good Christmas for y’all, Lila. All right, ladies.” He revved the motor. “I’ve got to get this show on the road.”
“ ’Bye, Lila. Wonderful party the other night,” Edna called as they drove off.
Lila pulled into Josie’s driveway, turned off the ignition, pulled down the visor, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her mouth was pinched, her eyelids heavy, her pupils contracted. No wonder she hadn’t seen Edna and Dozier. She looked as though she were in a blind rage. Which she was. Everything she’d planned for Christmas had been fouled up. She was always compromising, always fitting in with other people’s wishes and other people’s plans, always thinking half a loaf was better than none, and always ending up with the crumbs.
Last night she had felt like a stranger in her own home. She’d hoped that she, Orrie, and the kids would sit down together, finish off the leftovers from the party, and have a talk, but conversation, let alone communication, seemed to be something that only she craved. When she’d told them that they’d be spending the night at Josie’s on Christmas Eve, they’d all acted as though she’d changed the plans just to cause them grief. After muttering “Oh, shit!” under his breath, then amending it to a surly “Whatever” when she’d glared at him, her son Ricky had, as usual, left without saying good-bye. Susan had whined, “Does this mean we’ll have to stay for Christmas dinner, too? And Grandma will fix all that gross food, like turkey and ham, and expect me to eat it?” and flounced off to her room. Orrie had taken a plateful of leftovers and gone into the den to watch TV. Lila’d showered and shampooed her hair, then roamed the house, ending up in the living room, where she’d turned out the lamps and sat, nursing a glass of wine and staring at the blinking Christmas-tree lights. Around eleven she’d gone to bed to read, but found she didn’t have the concentration. She got up and took a sleeping pill. But that didn’t work either. So she lay, book open on her belly, unable either to think clearly or relax, waiting for Nightline to finish so Orrie would come to bed.
But when he crawled in next to her and put his hand on her hip, she grunted and moved away, pretending to be asleep. He turned out the bedside lamp and snuggled up to her back. When he breathed into her ear, she wanted to scream. He’d done that the night he’d asked her to go steady, telling her that a buddy had told him that breathing into a girl’s ear got her hot. She’d told him it just tickled. It had become a standing—or rather a lying down—joke. “Can I tickle you pink?” he’d often ask when he wanted to initiate sex. Twenty-five years, and his repertoire hadn’t changed! But, she thought, when he gave up and rolled to his own side of the bed, she had to admit that she hadn’t done much to expand it.
Sex was never unpleasant, it was just predictable, like the menu at McDonald’s. Orrie, being a creature of habit, found this comforting—or so she supposed—though a couple of years ago he had bought one of those How to Extend Your Orgasmic Ecstasy books and left it on her night table. There was a photograph of authors, Drs. Hollingsworth and Rosenthal, on the back: a married couple (of course), twin Ph.D.s (of course), with very white teeth and such blandly healthy smiles that they might have been offering “100 New Ways to Fix Tofu.” Orrie had highlighted certain passages as though it were a college text on which they’d be tested. Over the next few weeks he’d bought a cheap-smelling musk oil, massaging her back, combing her pubic hair, and sucking on her toes by way of foreplay. At first she’d found it pleasant if a bit silly, but when he’d persisted and she couldn’t come up with some wild response to his variations (Chapter 8: “Polarity Switch. Now for the next step!”), she’d found it downright irritating. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him to stop, but after a few more weeks he’d gotten the message and gone back to the usual routine. He hadn’t seemed to mind. She guessed that he’d bought the book because he’d seen some movie or TV show that had turned him on, or, more likely—he’d guessed her lack of interest but hadn’t been able to talk to her about it.
It was true that she had sex with him out of a sense of duty, but she didn’t feel that was a sacrifice. It was just accepting a certain course of action because it was the best thing to do. A man’s desires were more constant than a woman’s, more closely bound up with his ego, and if a woman wanted her marriage to survive, she had to at least be available.
When they were first married, she’d faked it, but after Ricky’d been born they’d fallen into a satisfactory rhythm both in terms of performance and frequency. She didn’t kid Orrie and she didn’t kid herself. Her body responded and she usually felt good afterward but the same way she’d feel good after a game of tennis or a swim. She’d never in her life felt waves-crashing-against-the-shore, swept-away abandon. Either she was a cold fish, or a lot of people were exaggerating their responses. She suspected the latter. What people expected of sex had a lot to do with the particular time and society into which they’d been born, and her generation put a premium on sex as her mother’s hadn’t. But common sense told you that even a diamond-hard pa
ssion must be worn smooth by decades of cohabitation, and no matter what talk shows, magazines, and psychologists were peddling, marriages didn’t survive because a wife wore black teddies and knew the Kama Sutra.
If there was something missing, she thought as she rearranged herself and pulled the comforter up to her chin, it was something elusive. Spontaneity. Excitement. Risk. But she didn’t think Orrie could grasp such concepts. To Orrie, spontaneity would mean deciding to have hash browns instead of sausage for breakfast. But she could hardly complain that Orrie’d failed her because he’d persisted in the very character traits that had drawn her to him in the first place.
He was everything she’d wanted—steady, quiet, reliable, wealthy. The polar opposite of her father, who’d had such a cluster of negative habits—gambling, drinking and, she strongly suspected (though her mother had never mentioned it), womanizing—that if it hadn’t been for the unique force of his personality, Bear would have been a cliche. Of course Cam had idolized him. Cam had cast him as the warrior who could never be vanquished on the battlefield but had been brought low by family responsibilities, refrigerator payments, and garden catalogues. Of course, Cam hadn’t been there for the last of it. Cam had already taken off for New York by the time Bear had spent entire afternoons slumped in his easy chair, the ice melting in his bourbon, jumping at the slightest sound. Cam hadn’t been there the night the screams and yells had roused her from sleep and she’d felt her way downstairs to see Josie knocked to the kitchen floor, nightdress up over her knees, and Bear, back hunched and eyes crazed as a great ape’s, standing over her. As far as she knew, that had only happened that one time. Josie had never mentioned it—had probably blocked it from her mind—but she, Lila, would never forget it.
No, she had no cause to complain about Orrie. Orrie was faithful. He cared about how she felt, let her do pretty much as she liked, had bought her a house worth half a million dollars. And if he breathed in her ear twice a week, then massaged her breasts, then whispered, “Ready?” before he mounted her, could she complain? She kissed him lightly on the shoulder but was relieved when he didn’t stir. She did love him. She just didn’t want to touch or be touched by him.