Separate Beds

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “No, no, don't vlame yourself, Caffy. It was a long time coming. He said I shoulda been at his trial, and that it was my fault he never got no money outa Clay. Vut the real reason was because you wasn't his. I don't kid myself that's the real reason, and I don't want you to go vlaming yourself.”

  “But I've made such a mess of things.”

  “No, honey. Now you just get that out of your head. You got Clay, and the vavy coming, and with a father like Clay, why, that vavy's vound to ve somevody too.”

  “Mom, Clay and I—” But Catherine could not tell her mother the truth about her future with Clay.

  “What?”

  “We were wondering if when the baby is born, if you're strong enough then, you'd come and stay with us and help out for a couple days.”

  The pathetic excuse for a smile tore at Catherine's heartstrings as her mother sighed contentedly and closed her eye.

  It was the day after Clay and Catherine had shared the same bed, but he'd left her asleep that morning. Returning home in the late afternoon, he was eager to see her.

  She heard the door slam and her hands grew idle, the water splattering unheeded over the paring knife and the rib of celery she'd been washing. He came up the stairs, across the kitchen behind her, and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder.

  “How was she today?”

  A warmth seeped through her blouse at his touch, going beyond skin, beyond muscle, to the core of her. She wanted to turn, take his palm, kiss it and place it on her breast and say, How were you today? How was I? Were we happier for what passed between us last night?

  “She hurt a lot, but they gave her painkillers whenever she asked for them. It was very hard for her to talk with her mouth that way.”

  Clay squeezed her shoulder, waiting for her to turn around, to need him again as she had last night. He could smell her hair, fresh, flower-scented. He watched her hands as water splashed over them and she peeled green, stringy fibers from the celery.

  Why doesn't she turn around, he wondered. Can't she read my touch? She must know that I, too, am afraid.

  Catherine began to clean another rib of celery she didn't need. She longed to look into his eyes and ask, “What do I mean to you, Clay?” But if he loved her, surely he would have said so by now.

  Last night they had been bound together by her vast need for comfort, and by the accident of her pregnancy. At the time that had been justification for the swift siege of intimacy. But he had not said he loved her. Never, during all their months together had he even hinted that he loved her.

  Their senses pounded with awareness of each other. Clay saw Catherine's hands fall still. He moved his fingers to the bare skin of her neck, slipping them behind her collar, his thumb brushing her earlobe. The water ran uselessly now, but Catherine's eyes were closed, her wrists dangling against the edge of the sink.

  “Catherine . . .” His voice was thick.

  “Clay, last night never should have happened,” she got out.

  Disappointments assaulted him. “Why?” He took the paring knife from her fingers, dropped it into the sink and turned off the water. When he'd forced her to face him he asked again, quietly, “Why?”

  “Because we did it for the wrong reasons. It wasn't enough—just my mother's problems and the fact that this baby is yours. Don't you see?”

  “But we need each other, Catherine. We're married, I want—”

  Suddenly she put her wet hands on his cheeks, interrupting. “Cool off, Clay. It's the easiest way, because we are not going to have a repeat performance of last night.”

  “Dammit, I don't understand you!” he said angrily, pulling her hands from his face, holding her by the forearms.

  “You don't love me, Clay,” she said with quiet dignity. “Now do you understand me?”

  His eyes pierced hers, steely gray into dusky blue, and he wished he could deny her words. He could easily drown in her tempting eyes, in her smooth skin and beautiful features with which he'd grown so familiar. He could look at her across a room and want to fill his hands with her breasts, lower his mouth to hers, to know the taste and touch of her. But could he say he loved her?

  Deliberately now he reached to cup both of her breasts, as if to prove this was all that was necessary. Through the smock and her bra he could tell her nipples were drawn tight. Her breath was heavy and fast.

  “You want it too,” he said, knowing it was true, for he felt the truth beneath the thumbs that stroked the crests of her breasts.

  “You're confusing lust and love.”

  “I thought last night you finally agreed with me that it's a healthy thing to be touched, to touch back.”

  “Is this healthy now?”

  “You're damn right. Can't you feel what's happening to you?”

  Stoically she allowed his hands their freedom, and though she could not prevent her body from responding, she would not give him the satisfaction of moving willfully in any way suggesting acquiescence. “I can feel it. Oh, I can feel it, all right. Does it make you feel macho, knowing what it does to me?”

  He dropped his hands suddenly. “Catherine, I can't exist with this coldness of yours. I need more than you put into this relationship.”

  “And I cannot put more into this relationship without love. And so it's a vicious circle, isn't it, Clay?” She looked straight at his face still glistening with water. She respected him if for nothing more than not lying. “Clay, I'm only being realistic to protect myself. It would have been so easy all these months with you to delude myself every time you turned your eyes on me with that certain look that makes me go all liquid, that you loved me. But I know it's not true.”

  “To be loved you have to be lovable, Catherine. Don't you understand that? You never try in the least. You carry yourself like you're wearing armor. You don't know how to return a smile or a touch or—”

  “Clay, I never learned!” She defended herself. “Do you think things like that come naturally? Do you think it's something you're born with, like you were born with your father's gray eyes and your mother's blond hair? Well, it's not. Love is a learned thing. It's been taught to you since you were in knee pants whether you know it or not. You were one of the lucky ones who had it happening around him all the time. You never questioned it but you always expected it, didn't you? If you fell and got hurt, you were kissed and coddled. If you were gone, then came back, you were hugged and welcomed. If you tried and failed, you were told it didn't matter, they were proud anyway, right? If you misbehaved and were punished, they made you understand it hurt them as badly as it hurt you. None of those lessons were taught to me. Instead, I had the other kind, and I learned to exist without your kind. You take all signs of affection too lightly; you set too little store by them. It's different for me. I can't . . . I can't be—oh, I don't know how to make you understand. When something's in short supply its value goes up. And it's like that with me, Clay. I've never had anyone treat me nice before, so every gesture, every touch, every overture you make toward me is of far greater value to me than it is to you. And I know perfectly well that if I learn to accept them, learn to accept you, I'll be hurt far more than you will when it's time for us to separate. And so I've promised myself I will not grow dependent on you—not emotionally anyway.”

  “What you're really saying is that we're back where we started, before last night.”

  “Not exactly.” Catherine looked down at her hands; they were fidgeting.

  “What's different?”

  She looked up, met his gaze directly, then squared her shoulders almost imperceptibly. “My mother told me today that Herb is not my real father. That frees me from him—really frees me—at last. It also gives me even better insight into what happens when people stay in a loveless marriage for all the wrong reasons. I'm never going to end up like her. Never.”

  During the weeks that followed, Clay mulled over what Catherine had said about love being taught. He had never before dissected the many ways in which his parents had shown him
affection. But Catherine was right about one thing: he'd always taken it for granted. He had been so secure in their approval, so certain of their love, he'd never questioned their tactics. He admitted she was right, also, about his placing less value than she upon physical contact. He began to evaluate outward signs of affection by looking at them from Catherine's viewpoint and admitted that he'd taken them too lightly. He began to understand her awful need to remain free of him emotionally, to understand that the idea of loving him loomed like a threat, in light of their agreement to divorce soon after the baby arrived. He analyzed his feelings for her only to find that he honestly did not believe he loved her. He found her physically desirable, but because she had never been demonstrative toward him, it was difficult to imagine he ever would love her. What he wanted was a woman who was capable of impulsively lifting her arms and seeking his kiss. One who would close her eyes against his cheek and make him feel utterly wanted and wanting. He doubted that he could ever achieve with Catherine the kind of free-wheeling spontaneity he needed in a wife.

  They bought a spooled crib and matching chest of drawers. He set it up in the second bedroom where the walls still wore that masculine paper of brown designs, totally inappropriate for a nursery.

  But when the baby was born, who would stay and who would go?

  Her suitcase appeared on the bedroom floor, packed, ready to go at a moment's notice. The first time he came in and saw it, he sank down heavily on the edge of the bed and buried his face in both hands, utterly miserable. He thought about Jill—willing Jill who understood his needs so well, and wished that it were she who was expecting his child. But Jill didn't want babies.

  April Fool's Day came, bringing bursting buds and the redolent scent of moist earth that marks spring's arrival. Catherine was given a lavish baby shower by Angela, whose pleasure over the upcoming arrival of her first grandchild was a burning wound to Catherine.

  Claiborne surprised Catherine by stopping by one afternoon with “a little something” he'd picked up for the baby: a windup swing Catherine knew the baby wouldn't be big enough to sit in until long after she and Clay were apart.

  Ada was back home and called every day to ask how Catherine was. Catherine, grown now to enormous proportions and slothlike slowness, answered, “fine, fine, fine,” until finally after hanging up one day, she burst into a torrent of tears, not understanding at all any more what it was she wanted.

  She awakened Clay in the middle of the night, hesitant to touch his sleeping form.

  “What?” He braced up on an elbow, hazy yet from sleep.

  “The pains have started. They're ten minutes apart.”

  He flung back the covers and sat up on the davenport, finding her hand in the dark and tugging at it. “Here, sit down.”

  She got back up immediately, if clumsily. “The doctor said to keep on the move.”

  “The doctor? You mean you've called him already?”

  “Yes, a couple of hours ago.”

  “But why didn't you wake me?”

  “I . . .” But she didn't know why.

  “You mean you've been walking around here for two hours in the dark?”

  “Clay, I think you should drive me to the hospital, but I don't expect you to stay with me or anything. I'd drive myself, but the doctor said that I shouldn't.”

  Her words caused a sudden stab of hurt, followed by another of anger.

  “You can't keep me out, Catherine; I'm the baby's father.”

  Surprised, she only answered, “I don't think we'd better waste time arguing now. Do whatever you want when we get there.”

  They were greeted in the maternity ward by a young nurse whose name tag identified her as Christine Flemming. It did not occur to Ms. Flemming to question Clay's presence. She assumed he would want to stay with Catherine. And so, he was asked to have a seat in a well-lit room with an empty bed in it. When Catherine returned after being blood-typed, she was having a contraction and Ms. Flemming spoke in soothing instructions to her patient, telling her how to breathe properly and how to relax as much as possible. When the contraction ended she turned to Clay and said, “Your job will be to remind her to relax and breathe properly. You can be a big help.” So rather than try to explain, Clay listened to her instructions, then stayed in the labor room when the nurse left, holding Catherine's hand, reminding her to keep her breathing quick and shallow, timing the length of contractions and the minutes between.

  Soon the gentle-voiced nurse returned and spoke soothingly to Catherine. “Let's see how far along you are now. Try to relax, and tell me if a contraction should start while I'm checking you.” It happened so fast that Clay had no time to gracefully withdraw nor to be embarrassed. Neither was he asked to leave, as he thought he'd be at this time. Instead, he stood on the other side of the bed, holding Catherine's hand while her dilation was checked, amazed to find how appropriate it felt to be included in such a natural way. When the nurse finished her examination she pulled Catherine's gown back down, sat on the edge of the bed and lightly stroked the wide base of Catherine's abdomen.

  “Here comes another one, Catherine. Now just relax with it and count—one, two three . . .” Catherine's hand gripped Clay's like the jaws of a trap. Sweat broke out under his arms while beads of perspiration gathered into runnels on Catherine's temples and trailed into her hair. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was tightly shut.

  He remembered what he was there for. “Open your mouth, Catherine,” he reminded softly. “Pant, pant, little breaths.”

  And through her pain Catherine knew she was happy Clay was there. His voice seemed to calm her when she was most afraid.

  After the pain was over, she opened her eyes and asked Ms. Flemming, “How could you tell it was coming?”

  Christine Flemming had a pretty face with a madonnalike smile and a very patient way about her that made both Catherine and Clay feel comfortable in her presence. Her voice was silken, soothing. She was a woman well-suited to her profession.

  “Why, I could feel it. Here, give me your hand, Catherine.” She took Catherine's hand and curved it low around her stomach. “Mr. Forrester,” she instructed, “put your hand here on the other side. Now wait—you'll feel it when it starts. The muscles begin to tighten, starting at the sides, and the stomach arches and changes shape during the height of the contraction. When it ends, the muscles relax and settle down again. Here it comes; it will take half a minute or so until it's at its peak.”

  Catherine's and Clay's fingertips touched, their hands forming a light cradle around the base of her stomach. Together they shared the exhilaration of discovery as the muscles tensed and changed the contours of Catherine's abdomen. For Clay, it made her pain a palpable thing. He stared, big-eyed, at what was happening beneath his hand. But in the middle of the contraction, Catherine's hand flew above her head and Clay tore his eyes away to her face to find her lips pursed, jaw clenched against the pain. He leaned to soothe her hair back from her forehead, and at the touch of his hand, her lips relaxed and fell open. He spoke his litany again in quiet tones, reminding her, and felt a curious sense of fulfillment that he had the power to ease her, even in the height of her labor.

  “That one was longer than the last,” Christine Flemming said when it was over. “As they get closer, it's more important for you to relax between them. Sometimes it helps to have your tummy rubbed lightly, like this. I like to think that the baby can feel it, too, and knows you're out here waiting to welcome him.” With a gentle palm the nurse stroked the outer perimeter of Catherine's stomach. Catherine's eyes remained closed, one wrist over her forehead, her other hand in Clay's. He felt her grip slacken as the nurse continued those featherlight strokes over her distended abdomen. With a smile, Christine Flemming looked up at Clay and said softly, “You're doing very well, so I'll let you take over for a while. I'll be back in a few minutes.” Then on silent white shoes she was gone and Clay was left to stroke Catherine's stomach.

  He understood things in that time o
f closeness with Catherine, things as deep and eternal as the force of life trying to repeat itself in her body. He understood that nature had planned this time of travail to draw man and woman closer than at any other time. Thus the pain had purpose beyond bringing a child into the world.

  When they took Catherine to the delivery room, Clay felt suddenly bereft, as if his role was being usurped by strangers. But when they'd asked if he'd taken the classes required for fathers to be in the delivery room, he'd had to answer honestly, “No.”

  The University of Minnesota Hospital did not use delivery tables any more. Instead, Catherine found herself placed in a birthing chair, which allowed gravity to pull while she pushed. Christine Flemming was there through the delivery, supportive and smiling, and once Catherine even joked with her, saying, “We're not so smart. The Indians knew this secret long ago when they squatted in the woods to have their babies.”

  The daughter of Catherine and Clay Forrester was born with the fifth contraction in the birthing chair, and Catherine knew before she faded off into blessed sleep—lying flat now—that it was a girl.

  Catherine swam upward through a lake of cotton fuzziness. When she surfaced and opened heavy-lidded eyes, she found Clay dozing in a chair, his cheek propped on one hand. His hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. He looks terrific, she thought through a crazy, disoriented fog. Her mind was still moony and wandering as she studied him. The rhythm of his breathing was lengthened by her drug-induced lethargy. Between pains, hazily she thought, I still love him.

  “Clay?” The word was a little mumbled.

  His eyes flew open and he jumped to his feet. “Cat,” he said softly, “you're awake.”

  Her eyes drifted closed. “Barely. I did the wrong thing again, didn't I, Clay?” She felt him take her hand, felt the back of it pressed against his lips.