by Peggy Webb
Slowly she picked up the calendar on the desk. With a pencil she circled the days.
Brick made some quick mental calculations. It was close to Helen's time of the month. Her pencil slowed, then moved back to the top of the calendar.
She was counting the days. Checking to make sure she was not pregnant.
Brick squeezed the stems of the daffodils so hard, their heads drooped. He'd never told her. Something always sidetracked them.
She laid down the calendar, then turned to stare out the window. Her shoulders sagged.
She didn't want his children. She was still scared he'd run away and leave them. Abandon her with a baby, just as three men had abandoned her mother when she was a child.
How could he possibly tell her that he wanted children more than anything in the world, that he'd wanted children from the day he was old enough to understand where they came from. That even in the orphanage he'd wanted to be a part of a family, to grow up and have a family of his own.
He'd meant to discuss it all in New Hampshire—her fears, his dreams. But they'd always gotten sidetracked.
And now he was afraid to open that subject, afraid to bring any hint of controversy or dissension into a perfect marriage. They had it all— great careers, great friends, and each other.
What more did they need?
He turned on his most charming smile, the one he often used onstage.
"Helen?"
She turned slowly. Her eyes didn't light immediately the way they always did. His heart stood still.
Then she turned on her most charming smile, the one she used to dazzle an audience.
"Brick… sweetheart."
Her pencil clattered to the desk as she hurried across the room to him.
"I brought you flowers. Daffodils. The first ones of spring."
He held out the three flowers with their bruised stems and pitiful drooping heads.
"You're sweet." She handled them reverently, as if they were the most expensive of hothouse roses. "Thank you, precious."
"You're welcome, darling."
She hugged him around the waist, squeezing so hard, he could feel her arms tremble. He glanced across the room at the calendar on top of the desk. Was his wife pregnant? Did she carry his child?
"Helen…"
Slowly she lifted her face to his. Was that the track of tears on her cheeks?
"Yes?"
Tenderly he placed one hand on her cheek. He couldn't bear to hurt her. In the face of her obvious fear, he couldn't bear to say, "I want a child."
Pick a safe subject. Anything.
"Angelica wants us to do a reprise of The Taming of the Shrew."
"Where?"
"Philadelphia."
"When?"
"The beginning of next month."
"What did you tell her?"
"That I'd discuss it with you." He kissed the top of her head, her brow, her cheekbones. "What do you say, beautiful? Ready to be tamed again by your husband?"
She leaned back in his arms, her old sassiness almost restored.
"You can do the taming onstage," she said. "I'll do it offstage."
"Do you promise to use those scarlet ribbons?"
"I promise."
"It's a deal, darling."
"Good." Her smile was real this time.
"Let's seal it."
"Anything in mind?"
"I was thinking about a game… of gin rummy."
"I was thinking about another game… with orange slices and grapes."
"What? No strawberries?"
"You want it all, don't you, Brick Sullivan?"
"Indeed I do, Helen Sullivan."
"Why don't you get comfortable while I go down to the kitchen and get the fruit?"
"I like the way you think, darling."
He stood and watched until she was out of the room and down the stairs; then he hurried to the desk and picked up the calendar. Thirty-three days. Helen was late.
Jubilation filled him, then terror. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt. He tossed it toward the armchair and missed. He kicked off his shoes and stripped off his socks any old way, then left his pants where they fell.
A trail of clothes led to the bed. Stretched out, he tried to relax.
But relaxation was impossible. Disgusted, he left the bed and paced the floor. His mind was a jumble of things he should have said, things he should have done before the wedding. Before they'd left New Hampshire. Before they'd settled into the house in Georgia.
He balled one hand into a fist and smashed it into his palm. He was caught again in a web of his own making, a pretense. Brick and Helen Sullivan. The perfect couple. The perfect marriage. The perfect partners, onstage and off.
It was true. Almost.
Brick was disgusted with himself. He paced to the window, then back to the bed.
The bed. He wouldn't think of anything right now except his wife in the kitchen, slicing fresh fruit.
Already he could smell the oranges, taste the juice as it trickled slowly over her body, taste the sweet nectar of Helen's skin.
"Hurry, my darling," he whispered. He needed to drown his fears in her.
Helen pressed against the kitchen counter and leaned her head against the cabinet. What in the world would she do if she was pregnant?
She pressed her hands flat across her womb as if it already contained her child, as if she were protecting it from all harm.
Scenes from their stay in New Hampshire played through her mind. Onstage during rehearsals she'd told Brick that more than anything she'd wanted his child. What had his response been?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember his exact words. There were none to remember. They'd gotten into a silly argument about little girls wearing frilly dresses to the park.
But he had never said, "I want children."
What if he didn't? He'd said he wouldn't leave her if she had a child, but had he really meant it?
Heavy with uncertainty, Helen got the sliced oranges, then arranged them on a tray with grapes and strawberries. She couldn't bear to discuss the subject of children with Brick, couldn't bear to bring up a subject that might mar and even destroy their happiness.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then wiped away the tear that trickled onto her cheek. Leaning over, she looked at her reflection in the shiny tray. She didn't want any sign of crying to show. She could see none, but just to be certain she rubbed her cheeks until they were pink.
Then she went upstairs with the tray. Smiling. Always smiling.
Brick heard her coming up the stairs. He hurried to the bed, then sprawled out with his hands above his head.
No. That looked too posed.
He stretched out his arms as if he were lounging in a deck chair beside the pool, soaking up the sun. Much better. More relaxed looking.
"Sweetheart?"
She stood in the doorway with her tray full of fresh fruit. Smiling.
He propped on one elbow and grinned at her.
"Mrs. Sullivan, I'd say you have on too many clothes."
"What do you plan to do about it, Mr. Sullivan?"
He arranged his face into ferocious lines, then got up and stalked her.
"The beast plans to devour the lady."
He lunged at her, but she sidestepped.
"No." Laughing, she began to stalk him. "The lady is going to devour the beast, bit by bit, saving the best parts till last."
"What are the best parts?"
She nibbled his ears, his neck, his lips.
"Hmmm. I don't know. I haven't tasted them all. But the ones I've tasted so far have been delicious."
She focused her attention on his mouth once more. He reached for her zipper with one hand and a slice of orange with the other.
He heard her leave the bed before dawn. She was moving cautiously, as if she didn't want to wake him.
Brick lay perfectly still, letting her carry on her charade. The bathroom door opened, and she slipped inside. He listen
ed to the sounds, cabinet door opening, water running, toilet flushing, crying.
Crying?
He started to bolt from the bed, and then he settled back against the pillow, tense. She'd been so careful not to wake him. That meant she wanted to be alone.
It was a clear spring night. The pale light of predawn poured through the French doors. As his eyes adjusted, Brick saw Helen's silk robe hanging on the end of the bed. She was usually so elegant, so organized that even when she went to the bathroom in the middle of the night she slipped into her robe.
Her sobs were soft, indistinct, as if she were trying to muffle them. Helen never cried.
What could be the problem? He'd allow her a few more minutes of privacy, and if she didn't come out, he'd go in to see about her.
Helen's robe took on a rosy glow as the light changed from gray to pink. The fragrance of tea roses drifted up from her pillow.
Brick rolled to her side of the bed, and that's when he saw it… a pale stain on the sheets, a sign that his wife was not pregnant.
Helen was crying with relief because she wasn't carrying his baby. For a moment, his heart hurt so much that he thought he would cry. Then he rolled back to his side of the bed and pretended to be asleep.
Reporters from all over the nation had gathered in Philadelphia to watch the Sullivans reprise their roles of Petruchio and Kate in The Taming of the Shrew. Brick and Helen faced a battery of lights and cameras, their faces arranged in their famous stage smiles.
The questions came at them hot and heavy.
"Will you do the play as Shakespeare wrote it or as you rewrote it in New Hampshire?"
Helen deferred to Brick, smiling.
"Straight Shakespeare this time. Helen and I ad-libbed the play in New Hampshire to fit the occasion." He reached for his wife's hand. "Since the occasion took this time, we see no need to repeat that performance. Ever."
There was general laughter from the reporters.
"Do you plan to do all your plays together?"
Helen laughed. "Brick is not only the greatest Shakespearean actor of our time but is also my favorite leading man. We'll do as many plays as we can together, but no, we won't do everything as a team. Both of us will accept solo engagements."
"What's next after The Taming of the Shrew?"
"Much Ado About Nothing in Dallas," Brick said.
"Together?"
"Yes…" he added. "Together."
"Do you plan to have children to carry on the acting tradition of the Sullivans?"
Helen's hand trembled in his, but her smile held. He kept his too.
"No comment," he said.
The reporters, sensing a real story, wouldn't let it alone.
"Helen, if you do have children, will you retire from the theater?"
"No comment." She kept her voice even, her smile intact.
"Brick, if you have children, will you retire?" This from a female reporter.
"No comment."
He and Helen stood up, signaling an end to the interview.
"Just one more question…"
"Sorry. Helen and I have to get ready for the matinee performance."
He studied his wife as they ducked out. She was as tightly wound as a revival preacher who had faced down a church full of sinners.
Now that the subject had been broached, it would be a good time for the two of them to discuss children. Are you afraid to have my baby, Helen? Afraid I'll run?
As they hurried toward their dressing rooms, the stage manager called out, "Thirty minutes to curtain, Brick."
Thirty minutes was barely time to get into makeup and costume.
The subject of children would have to wait.
FOURTEEN
The thunder of applause roared around them. Helen and Brick took their vows hand in hand as they always did. Before the curtain rang down for the last time, Brick kissed Helen in full view of the delighted audience as he always did.
Philadelphia. Dallas. Chicago. San Francisco. Washington, D.C.
It was always the same. Rehearse. Perform. Take a whirlwind break, filling whatever little time they allowed themselves with a marathon of loving.
No late-night conversations, no soul-baring discussions. There was never any time for that.
It was almost as if they were both sailors drowning at sea, and the only lifeboat available to them was the solid, unsinkable one formed when their bodies joined and their hearts and souls and minds merged.
Helen lost track of the time, lost track of the cities.
Where were they now? D.C. She remembered because they could see the Washington Monument outside their hotel window.
The audience applauded in wild appreciation as Brick kissed her. Still holding her tightly, he whispered in her ear.
"What do you say we blow this joint, baby, and go where we can really let our hair down?"
"How about the zoo?"
The curtain rang down, and the actors milled around them, calling congratulations to one another, making plans to meet next day for lunch or next week to discuss doing a project together, or next month in New York—plans they would never carry out.
"The zoo?" Brick arched one eyebrow at her, grinning wickedly. "You're talking my kind of language. Kinky sex among the wild beasts. It's closed, but maybe we can scale the fence."
"I want to see the pandas."
He cupped her face and held it very still for his inspection.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Yes."
They stood that way for a long time, Brick searching her face and Helen searching his.
Tell him, she thought. Tell him you want children.
He was a wonderful man, intelligent, kind, affectionate, passionate, trustworthy, witty, fun loving. Why couldn't she bring herself to broach the subject closest to her heart?
Because she wasn't sure where it would lead them. That was why.
And she was scared.
Putting on a bright smile that she hoped he wouldn't see was forced, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
"Hmmm. I like that," he said.
"The pandas can wait."
Holding his hand, she raced with him toward their dressing room. They left a trail of clothes across the stage, in the wings, up the short flight of stairs, and down the narrow hallway.
By the time they got to their dressing room, they barely had on enough to be considered decent.
"Good thing nobody was around to see us," she whispered, already in his arms.
"Would it have made any difference to us?" He lifted her hips, wrapped her legs around him, and braced her against the wall.
His heat already invaded her, just as his body soon would. Limp with desire, she leaned her head against the wall.
"You're protected?" he whispered.
Helen bit down on her lip. Even in their most passionate moments, even when she was close to screaming with need, even with his hard heat al-ready pushing against her cleft, he never forgot to ask.
There would be no unwanted children for Brick Sullivan.
"Yes," she said.
His thrust was so deep, she arched like a fish. Impaled. Hooked. Reeled with expert finesse through the dark, stormy seas till she was brought at last to the surface, gasping.
Limp, she wrapped her arms around him, and he carried her to the daybed. They lay tangled together in sweet abandon, napping, occasionally waking to whisper love words, then drifting to sleep until passion overtook them once more.
They made slow, dreamy love in the cramped dressing room of the deserted theater, not caring that a perfectly good bed had gone to waste back at their hotel room.
They had each other, and nothing else mattered.
Brick kissed her cheek and tenderly smoothed her hair back from her face.
"Tears, Helen?"
"It's nothing. Just exhaustion."
He kissed the dampness away, then held her close with his head resting in her hair.
"Tomorrow we'll take the day off and g
o see the bears," he said.
"Pandas."
He laughed. "We'll see the whole damned zoo."
"I see one." Helen grabbed Brick's arm, pointing. "Look. Do you see him?"
"Where?"
"Over there. That little patch of black."
"That's the tree trunk, Helen."
"Oh."
She sounded as disappointed as a little girl. Looked it too. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail, the end sticking through a baseball cap, and she wore no makeup. She wore denim shorts and a T-shirt that said, Everybody has to kiss a few frogs before they find a prince.
She'd kissed him, all right. But had he turned into a prince?
Right now, he felt like a heel. The sun was shining, the weather was beautiful, Helen was happy, and all he could think of was how he'd feel if he had children tugging on his hands saying, "Lift me up, Daddy, I want to see the panda bears."
He glanced around him. There were children everywhere—a little boy in overalls racing with his sister, a cherub with a pink face and yellow corkscrew curls crying over her spilled cotton candy, a devilish urchin with freckles and a cowlick trying to kick an empty soda can with every step he took.
A vast emptiness overtook him.
"Look, Brick." Helen grabbed his arm. "Over there. I'm sure that's him."
It was not one of the pandas, but the movement of a tree limb.
"Do you see him?" she said, her face filled with happy anticipation.
"Yes. I see him."
She was so lovely, so trusting, so wonderful. What was the harm of one more lie?
The smell of gardenia was overwhelming. Brick paused on the brick walkway to enjoy the sweet smell of summer.
At least, that was the reason he gave himself for pausing. The real reason was tucked under his arm, the script for a new off-Broadway production that went into rehearsals the next week. He would play the lead, a man plunged in darkness, stripped of pride by war and illness, fighting his way back to the light.
It was a great role for him, a chance to spread his wings, try something new.