Rosemary’s Baby

Eight

She went to upper Broadway for swordfish steaks and across town to Lexington Avenue for cheeses; not because she couldn’t get swordfish steaks and cheeses right there in the neighborhood but simply because on that snappy bright-blue morning she wanted to be all over the city, walking briskly with her coat flying, drawing second glances for her prettiness, impressing tough clerks with the precision and know-how of her orders. It was Monday, October 4^th, the day of Pope Paul’s visit to the city, and the sharing of the event made people more open and communicative than they ordinarily were; How nice it is, Rosemary thought, that the whole city is happy on a day when I’m so happy.

She followed the Pope’s rounds on television during the afternoon, moving the set out from the wall of the den (soon nursery) and turning it so she could watch from the kitchen while readying the fish and vegetables and salad greens. His speech at the UN moved her, and she was sure it would help ease the Vietnam situation. “War never again,” he said; wouldn’t his words give pause to even the most hard-headed statesman?

At four-thirty, while she was setting the table before the fireplace, the telephone rang.

“Rosemary? How are you?”

“Fine,” she said. “How are you?” It was Margaret, the older of her two sisters.

“Fine,” Margaret said.

“Where are you?”

“In Omaha.”

They had never got on well. Margaret had been a sullen, resentful girl, too often used by their mother as the caretaker of the younger children. To be called by her like this was strange; strange and frightening.

“Is everyone all right?” Rosemary asked. Someone’s dead, she thought. Who? Ma? Pa? Brian?

“Yes, everyone’s fine.”

“They are?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes; I said I was.”

“I’ve had the funniest feeling all day long, Rosemary. That something happened to you. Like an accident or something. That you were hurt. Maybe in the hospital.”

“Well, I’m not,” Rosemary said, and laughed. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

“It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “I was sure something had happened. Finally Gene said why don’t I call you and find out.”

“How is he?”

“Fine.”

“And the children?”

“Oh, the usual scrapes and scratches, but they’re fine too. I’ve got another one on the way, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. That’s wonderful. When is it due?” We’ll have one on the way soon too.

“The end of March. How’s your husband, Rosemary?”

“He’s fine. He’s got an important part in a new play that’s going into rehearsal soon.”

“Say, did you get a good look at the Pope?” Margaret asked. “There must be terrific excitement there.”

“There is,” Rosemary said. “I’ve been watching it on television. It’s in Omaha too, isn’t it?”

“Not live? You didn’t go out and see him live?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Honest to goodness, Rosemary,” Margaret said. “Do you know Ma and Pa were going to fly there to see him but they couldn’t because there’s going to be a strike vote and Pa’s seconding the motion? Lots of people did fly, though; the Donovans, and Dot and Sandy Wallingford; and you’re right there, living there, and didn’t go out and see him?”

“Religion doesn’t mean as much to me now as it did back home,” Rosemary said.

“Well,” Margaret said, “I guess that’s inevitable,” and Rosemary heard, unspoken, when you’re married to a Protestant. She said, “It was nice of you to call, Margaret. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve never been healthier or happier.”

“It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “From the minute I woke up. I’m so used to taking care of you little brats . . .”

“Give my love to everyone, will you? And tell Brian to answer my letter.”

“I will. Rosemary-“

“Yes?”

“I still have the feeling. Stay home tonight, will you?”

“That’s just what we’re planning to do,” Rosemary said, looking over at the partially set table.

“Good,” Margaret said. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Rosemary said. “You too, Margaret.”

“I will. Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

She went back to setting the table, feeling pleasantly sad and nostalgic for Margaret and Brian and the other kids, for Omaha and the irretrievable past.

With the table set, she bathed; then powdered and perfumed herself, did her eyes and lips and hair, and put on a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas that Guy had given her the previous Christmas.

He came home late, after six. “Mmm,” he said, kissing her, “you look good enough to eat. Shall we? Damn!”

“What?”

“I forgot the pie.”

He had told her not to make a dessert; he would bring home his absolute all-time favorite, a Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie.

“I could kick myself,” he said. “I passed two of those damn retail stores; not one but two.”

“It’s all right,” Rosemary said. “We can have fruit and cheese. That’s the best dessert anyway, really.”

“It is not; Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie is.”

He went in to wash up and she put a tray of stuffed mushrooms into the oven and mixed the salad dressing.

In a few minutes Guy came to the kitchen door, buttoning the collar of a blue velour shirt. He was bright-eyed and a bit on edge, the way he had been the first time they slept together, when he knew it was going to happen. It pleased Rosemary to see him that way.

“Your pal the Pope really loused up traffic today,” he said.

“Did you see any of the television?” she asked. “They’ve had fantastic coverage.”

“I got a glimpse up at Allan’s,” he said. “Glasses in the freezer?”

“Yes. He made a wonderful speech at the UN. ‘War never again,’ he told them.”

“Rotsa ruck. Hey, those look good.”

They had Gibsons and the stuffed mushrooms in the living room. Guy put crumpled newspaper and sticks of kindling on the fireplace grate, and two big chunks of cannel coal. “Here goes nothing,” he said, and struck a match and lit the paper. It flamed high and caught the kindling. Dark smoke began spilling out over the front of the mantel and up toward the ceiling. “Good grief,” Guy said, and groped inside the fireplace. “The paint, the paint!” Rosemary cried.

He got the flue opened; and the air conditioner, set at exhaust, drew out the smoke.

“Nobody, but nobody, has a fire tonight,” Guy said.

Rosemary, kneeling with her drink and staring into the spitting flamewrapped coals, said, “Isn’t it gorgeous? I hope we have the coldest winter in eighty years.”

Guy put on Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter.

They were halfway through the swordfish when the doorbell rang. “Shit,” Guy said. He got up, tossed down his napkin, and went to answer it. Rosemary cocked her head and listened.

The door opened and Minnie said, “Hi, Guy!” and more that was unintelligible. Oh, no, Rosemary thought. Don’t let her in, Guy. Not now, not tonight.

Guy spoke, and then Minnie again: “. . . extra. We don’t need them.” Guy again and Minnie again. Rosemary eased out held-in breath; it didn’t sound as if she was coming in, thank God.

The door closed and was chained (Good!) and bolted (Good!). Rosemary watched and waited, and Guy sidled into the archway, smiling smugly, with both hands behind his back. “Who says there’s nothing to ESP?” he said, and coming toward the table brought forth his hands with two white custard cups sitting one on each palm. “Madame and Monsieur shall have ze dessairt after all,” he said, setting one cup by Rosemary’s wineglass and the other by his own. “Mousse au chocolat.” he said, “or ‘chocolate mouse,’ as Minnie calls it. Of course with her it could be chocolate mouse, so eat with care.”

Rosemary laughed happily. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “It’s what I was going to make.”

“See?” Guy said, sitting. “ESP.” He replaced his napkin and poured more wine.

“I was afraid she was going to come charging in and stay all evening,” Rosemary said, forking up carrots.

“No,” Guy said, “she just wanted us to try her chocolate mouse, seem’ as how it’s one of her speci-al-ities.”

“It looks good.”

“It does, doesn’t it.”

The cups were filled with peaked swirls of chocolate. Guy’s was topped with a sprinkling of chopped nuts, and Rosemary’s with a half walnut.

“It’s sweet of her, really,” Rosemary said. “We shouldn’t make fun of her.” “You’re right,” Guy said, “you’re right.”

The mousse was excellent, but it had a chalky undertaste that reminded Rosemary of blackboards and grade school. Guy tried but could find no “undertaste” at all, chalky or otherwise. Rosemary put her spoon down after two swallows. Guy said, “Aren’t you going to finish it? That’s silly, honey; there’s no ‘undertaste.’ “

Rosemary said there was.

“Come on,” Guy said, “the old bat slaved all day over a hot stove; eat it.” “But I don’t like it,” Rosemary said.

“It’s delicious.”

“You can have mine.”

Guy scowled. “All right, don’t eat it,” he said; “you don’t wear the charm she gave you, you might as well not eat her dessert too.”

Confused, Rosemary said, “What does one thing have to do with the other?” “They’re both examples of-well, unkindness, that’s all.” Guy said. “Two minutes ago you said we should stop making fun of her. That’s a form of making fun too, accepting something and then not using it.”

“Oh—” Rosemary picked up her spoon. “If it’s going to turn into a big scene —’She took a full spoonful of the mousse and thrust it into her mouth.

“It isn’t going to turn into a big scene,” Guy said. “Look, if you really can’t stand it, don’t eat it.”

“Delicious,” Rosemary said, full-mouthed and taking another spoonful, “no undertaste at all. Turn the records over.”

Guy got up and went to the record player. Rosemary doubled her napkin in her lap and plopped two spoonfuls of the mousse into it, and another half-spoonful for good measure. She folded the napkin closed and then showily scraped clean the inside of the cup and swallowed down the scrapings as Guy came back to the table. “There, Daddy,” she said, tilting the cup toward him. “Do I get a gold star on my chart?”

“Two of them,” he said. “I’m sorry if I was stuffy.”

“You were.”

“I’m sorry.” He smiled.

Rosemary melted. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “It’s nice that you’re considerate of old ladies. It means you’ll be considerate of me when I’m one.”

They had coffee and crème de menthe.

“Margaret called this afternoon,” Rosemary said.

“Margaret?”

“My sister.”

“Oh. Everything okay?”

“Yes. She was afraid something had happened to me. She had a feeling.” “Oh?”

“We’re to stay home tonight.”

“Drat. And I made a reservation at Nedick’s. In the Orange Room.”

“You’ll have to cancel it.”

“How come you turned out sane when the rest of your family is nutty?”

The first wave of dizziness caught Rosemary at the kitchen sink as she scraped the uneaten mousse from her napkin into the drain. She swayed for a moment, then blinked and frowned. Guy, in the den, said, “He isn’t there yet. Christ, what a mob.” The Pope at Yankee Stadium.

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Rosemary said.

Shaking her head to clear it, she rolled the napkins up inside the tablecloth and put the bundle aside for the hamper. She put the stopper in the drain, turned on the hot water, squeezed in some Joy, and began loading in the dishes and pans. She would do them in the morning, let them soak overnight.

The second wave came as she was hanging up the dish towel. It lasted longer, and this time the room turned slowly around and her legs almost slued out from under her. She hung on to the edge of the sink.

When it was over she said “Oh boy,” and added up two Gibsons, two glasses of wine (or had it been three?), and one crème de menthe. No wonder.

She made it to the doorway of the den and kept her footing through the next wave by holding on to the knob with one hand and the jamb with the other.

“What is it?” Guy asked, standing up anxiously.

“Dizzy,” she said, and smiled.

He snapped off the TV and came to her, took her arm and held her surely around the waist. “No wonder,” he said. “All that booze. You probably had an empty stomach, too.”

He helped her toward the bedroom and, when her legs buckled, caught her up and carried her. He put her down on the bed and sat beside her, taking her hand and stroking her forehead sympathetically. She closed her eyes. The bed was a raft that floated on gentle ripples, tilting and swaying pleasantly. “Nice,” she said.

“Sleep is what you need,” Guy said, stroking her forehead. “A good night’s sleep.”

“We have to make a baby.”

“We will. Tomorrow. There’s plenty of time.”

“Missing the mass.”

“Sleep. Get a good night’s sleep. Go on . . .”

“Just a nap,” she said, and was sitting with a drink in her hand on President Kennedy’s yacht. It was sunny and breezy, a perfect day for a cruise. The President, studying a large map, gave terse and knowing instructions to a Negro mate.

Guy had taken off the top of her pajamas. “Why are you taking them off?” she asked.

“To make you more comfortable,” he said.

“I’m comfortable.”

“Sleep, Ro.”

He undid the snaps at her side and slowly drew off the bottoms. Thought she was asleep and didn’t know. Now she had nothing on at all except a red bikini, but the other women on the yacht-Jackie Kennedy, Pat Lawford, and Sarah Churchill-were wearing bikinis too, so it was all right, thank goodness. The President was in his Navy uniform. He had completely recovered from the assassination and looked better than ever. Hutch was standing on the dock with armloads of weather-forecasting equipment. “Isn’t Hutch coming with us?” Rosemary asked the President.

“Catholics only,” he said, smiling. “I wish we weren’t bound by these prejudices, but unfortunately we are.”

“But what about Sarah Churchill?” Rosemary asked. She turned to point, but Sarah Churchill was gone and the family was there in her place: Ma, Pa, and everybody, with the husbands, wives, and children. Margaret was pregnant, and so were Jean and Dodie and Ernestine.

Guy was taking off her wedding ring. She wondered why, but was too tired to ask. “Sleep,” she said, and slept.

It was the first time the Sistine Chapel had been opened to the public and she was inspecting the ceiling on a new elevator that carried the visitor through the chapel horizontally, making it possible to see the frescoes exactly as Michelangelo, painting them, had seen them. How glorious they were! She saw God extending his finger to Adam, giving him the divine spark of life; and the underside of a shelf partly covered with gingham contact paper as she was carried backward through the linen closet. “Easy,” Guy said, and another man said, “You’ve got her too high.”

“Typhoon!” Hutch shouted from the dock amid all his weather-forecasting equipment. “Typhoon! It killed fifty-five people in London and it’s heading this way!” And Rosemary knew he was right. She must warn the President. The ship was heading for disaster.

But the President was gone. Everyone was gone. The deck was infinite and bare, except for, far away, the Negro mate holding the wheel unremittingly on its course.

Rosemary went to him and saw at once that he hated all white people, hated her. “You’d better go down below, Miss,” he said, courteous but hating her, not even waiting to hear the warning she had brought.

Below was a huge ballroom where on one side a church burned fiercely and on the other a black-bearded man stood glaring at her. In the center was a bed. She went to it and lay down, and was suddenly surrounded by naked men and women, ten or a dozen, with Guy among them. They were elderly, the women grotesque and slack-breasted. Minnie and her friend Laura-Louise were there, and Roman in a black miter and a black silk robe. With a thin black wand he was drawing designs on her body, dipping the wand’s point in a cup of red held for him by a sun-browned man with a white moustache. The point moved back and forth across her stomach and down ticklingly to the insides of her thighs. The naked people were chanting-flat, unmusical, foreign-tongued syllables-and a flute or clarinet accompanied them. “She’s awake, she sees!” Guy whispered to Minnie. He was large-eyed, tense. “She don’t see,” Minnie said. “As long as she ate the mouse she can’t see nor hear. She’s like dead. Now sing.”

Jackie Kennedy came into the ballroom in an exquisite gown of ivory satin embroidered with pearls. “I’m so sorry to hear you aren’t feeling well,” she said, hurrying to Rosemary’s side.

Rosemary explained about the mouse-bite, minimizing it so Jackie wouldn’t worry.

“You’d better have your legs tied down,” Jackie said, “in case of convulsions.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rosemary said. “There’s always a chance it was rabid.” She watched with interest as white-smocked interns tied her legs, and her arms too, to the four bedposts.

“If the music bothers you,” Jackie said, “let me know and I’ll have it stopped.”

“Oh, no,” Rosemary said. “Please don’t change the program on my account. It doesn’t bother me at all, really it doesn’t.”

Jackie smiled warmly at her. “Try to sleep,” she said. “We’ll be waiting up on deck.” She withdrew, her satin gown whispering.

Rosemary slept a while, and then Guy came in and began making love to her. He stroked her with both hands-a long, relishing stroke that began at her bound wrists, slid down over her arms, breasts, and loins, and became a voluptuous tickling between her legs. He repeated the exciting stroke again and again, his hands hot and sharp-nailed, and then, when she was readyready-more-than-ready, he slipped a hand in under her buttocks, raised them, lodged his hardness against her, and pushed it powerfully in. Bigger he was than always; painfully, wonderfully big. He lay forward upon her, his other arm sliding under her back to hold her, his broad chest crushing her breasts. (He was wearing, because it was to be a costume party, a suit of coarse leathery armor.) Brutally, rhythmically, he drove his new hugeness. She opened her eyes and looked into yellow furnace-eyes, smelled sulphur and tannis root, felt wet breath on her mouth, heard lust-grunts and the breathing of onlookers.

This is no dream, she thought. This is real, this is happening. Protest woke in her eyes and throat, but something covered her face, smothering her in a sweet stench.

The hugeness kept driving in her, the leathery body banging itself against her again and again and again.

The Pope came in with a suitcase in his hand and a coat over his arm. “Jackie tells me you’ve been bitten by a mouse,” he said.

“Yes,” Rosemary said. “That’s why I didn’t come see you.” She spoke sadly, so he wouldn’t suspect she had just had an orgasm.

“That’s all right,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your health.”

“Am I forgiven, Father?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. He held out his hand for her to kiss the ring. Its stone was a silver filigree ball less than an inch in diameter; inside it, very tiny, Anna Maria Alberghetti sat waiting.

Rosemary kissed it and the Pope hurried out to catch his plane.

Nine

“Hey, it’s after nine,” Guy said, shaking her shoulder.

She pushed his hand away and turned over onto her stomach. “Five minutes,” she said, deep in the pillow.

“No,” he said, and yanked her hair. “I’ve got to be at Dominick’s at ten.”

“Eat out.”

“The hell I will.” He slapped her behind through the blanket.

Everything came back: the dreams, the drinks, Minnie’s chocolate mousse, the Pope, that awful moment of not-dreaming. She turned back over and raised herself on her arms, looking at Guy. He was lighting a cigarette, sleep-rumpled, needing a shave. He had pajamas on. She was nude.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Ten after nine.”

“What time did I go to sleep?” She sat up.

“About eight-thirty,” he said. “And you didn’t go to sleep, honey; you passed out. From now on you get cocktails or wine, not cocktails and wine.”

“The dreams I had,” she said, rubbing her forehead and closing her eyes. “President Kennedy, the Pope, Minnie and Roman . . .” She opened her eyes and saw scratches on her left breast; two parallel hairlines of red running down into the nipple. Her thighs stung; she pushed the blanket from them and saw more scratches, seven or eight going this way and that.

“Don’t yell,” Guy said. “I already filed them down.” He showed short smooth fingernails.

Rosemary looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“I didn’t want to miss Baby Night,” he said.

“You mean you-“

“And a couple of my nails were ragged.”

“While I was-out?”

He nodded and grinned. “It was kind of fun,” he said, “in a necrophile sort of way.”

She looked away, her hands pulling the blanket back over her thighs. “I dreamed someone was-raping me,” she said. “I don’t know who. Someone -unhuman.”

“Thanks a lot,” Guy said.

“You were there, and Minnie and Roman, other people . . . It was some kind of ceremony.”

“I tried to wake you,” he said, “but you were out like a light.”

She turned further away and swung her legs out on the other side of the bed.

“What’s the matter?” Guy asked.

“Nothing,” she said, sitting there, not looking around at him. “I guess I feel funny about your doing it that way, with me unconscious.”

“I didn’t want to miss the night,” he said.

“We could have done it this morning or tonight. Last night wasn’t the only split second in the whole month. And even if it had been . . .”

“I thought you would have wanted me to,” he said, and ran a finger up her back.

She squirmed away from it. “It’s supposed to be shared, not one awake and one asleep,” she said. Then: “Oh, I guess I’m being silly.” She got up and went to the closet for her housecoat.

“I’m sorry I scratched you,” Guy said. “I was a wee bit loaded myself.”

She made breakfast and, when Guy had gone, did the sinkful of dishes and put the kitchen to rights. She opened windows in the living room and bedroom -the smell of last night’s fire still lingered in the apartment-made the bed, and took a shower; a long one, first hot and then cold. She stood capless and immobile under the downpour, waiting for her head to clear and her thoughts to find an order and conclusion.

Had last night really been, as Guy had put it, Baby Night? Was she now, at this moment, actually pregnant? Oddly enough, she didn’t care. She was unhappy-whether or not it was silly to be so. Guy had taken her without her knowledge, had made love to her as a mindless body (“kind of fun in a necrophile sort of way”) rather than as the complete mind-and-body person she was; and had done so, moreover, with a savage gusto that had produced scratches, aching soreness, and a nightmare so real and intense that she could almost see on her stomach the designs Roman had drawn with his red-dipped wand. She scrubbed soap on herself vigorously, resentfully. True, he had done it for the best motive in the world, to make a baby, and true too he had drunk as much as she had; but she wished that no motive and no number of drinks could have enabled him to take her that way, taking only her body without her soul or self or she-ness-whatever it was he presumably loved. Now, looking back over the past weeks and months, she felt a disturbing presence of overlooked signals just beyond memory, signals of a shortcoming in his love for her, of a disparity between what he said and what he felt. He was an actor; could anyone know when an actor was true and not acting?

It would take more than a shower to wash away these thoughts. She turned the water off and, between both hands, pressed out her streaming hair.

On the way out to shop she rang the Castevets’ doorbell and returned the cups from the mousse. “Did you like it, dear?” Minnie asked. “I think I put a little too much cream de cocoa in it.”

“It was delicious,” Rosemary said. “You’ll have to give me the recipe.”

“I’d love to. You going marketing? Would you do me a teeny favor? Six eggs and a small Instant Sanka; I’ll pay you later. I hate going out for just one or two things, don’t you?”

There was distance now between her and Guy, but he seemed not to be aware of it. His play was going into rehearsal November first-Don’t I Know You From Somewhere? was the name of it-and he spent a great deal of time studying his part, practicing the use of the crutches and leg-braces it called for, and visiting the Highbridge section of the Bronx, the play’s locale. They had dinner with friends more evenings than not; when they didn’t, they made natural-sounding conversation about furniture and the ending-any-day-now newspaper strike and the World Series. They went to a preview of a new musical and a screening of a new movie, to parties and the opening of a friend’s exhibit of metal constructions. Guy seemed never to be looking at her, always at a script or TV or at someone else. He was in bed and asleep before she was. One evening he went to the Castevets’ to hear more of Roman’s theater stories, and she stayed in the apartment and watched Funny Face on TV.

“Don’t you think we ought to talk about it?” she said the next morning at breakfast.

“About what?”

She looked at him; he seemed genuinely unknowing. “The conversations we’ve been making,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“The way you haven’t been looking at me.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been looking at you.”

“No you haven’t.”

“I have so. Honey, what is it? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“No, don’t say that. What is it? What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah look, honey, I know I’ve been kind of preoccupied, with the part and the crutches and all; is that it? Well gee whiz, Ro, it’s important, you know? But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you, just because I’m not riveting you with a passionate gaze all the time. I’ve got to think about practical matters too.” It was awkward and charming and sincere, like his playing of the cowboy in Bus Stop.

“All right,” Rosemary said. “I’m sorry I’m being pesty.”

“You? You couldn’t be pesty if you tried.”

He leaned across the table and kissed her.

Hutch had a cabin near Brewster where he spent occasional weekends. Rosemary called him and asked if she might use it for three or four days, possibly a week. “Guy’s getting into his new part,” she explained, “and I really think it’ll be easier for him with me out of the way.”

“It’s yours,” Hutch said, and Rosemary went down to his apartment on Lexington Avenue and Twenty-fourth Street to pick up the key.

She looked in first at a delicatessen where the clerks were friends from her own days in the neighborhood, and then she went up to Hutch’s apartment, which was small and dark and neat as a pin, with an inscribed photo of Winston Churchill and a sofa that had belonged to Madame Pompadour. Hutch was sitting barefoot between two bridge tables, each with its typewriter and piles of paper. His practice was to write two books at once, turning to the second when he struck a snag on the first, and back to the first when he struck a snag on the second.

“I’m really looking forward to it,” Rosemary said, sitting on Madame Pompadour’s sofa. “I suddenly realized the other day that I’ve never been alone in my whole life-not for more than a few hours, that is. The idea of three or four days is heaven.”

“A chance to sit quietly and find out who you are; where you’ve been and where you’re going.”

“Exactly.”

“All right, you can stop forcing that smile,” Hutch said. “Did he hit you with a lamp?”

“He didn’t hit me with anything,” Rosemary said. “It’s a very difficult part, a crippled boy who pretends that he’s adjusted to his crippled-ness. He’s got to work with crutches and leg-braces, and naturally he’s preoccupied andand, well, preoccupied.”

“I see,” Hutch said. “We’ll change the subject: The News had a lovely rundown the other day of all the gore we missed during the strike. Why didn’t you tell me you’d had another suicide up there at Happy House?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Rosemary asked.

“No, you didn’t,” Hutch said.

“It was someone we knew. The girl I told you about; the one who’d been a drug addict and was rehabilitated by the Castevets, these people who live on our floor. I’m sure I told you that.”

“The girl who was going to the basement with you.”

“That’s right.”

“They didn’t rehabilitate her very successfully, it would seem. Was she living with them?”

“Yes,” Rosemary said. “We’ve gotten to know them fairly well since it happened. Guy goes over there once in a while to hear stories about the theater. Mr. Castevet’s father was a producer around the turn of the century.”

“I shouldn’t have thought Guy would be interested,” Hutch said. “An elderly couple, I take it?”

“He’s seventy-nine; she’s seventy or so.”

“It’s an odd name,” Hutch said. “How is it spelled?”

Rosemary spelled it for him.

“I’ve never heard it before,” he said. “French, I suppose.”

“The name may be but they aren’t,” Rosemary said. “He’s from right here and she’s from a place called-believe it or not-Bushyhead, Oklahoma.”

“My God,” Hutch said. “I’m going to use that in a book. That one. I know just where to put it. Tell me, how are you planning to get to the cabin? You’ll need a car, you know.”

“I’m going to rent one.”

“Take mine.”

“Oh no, Hutch, I couldn’t.”

“Do, please,” Hutch said. “All I do is move it from one side of the street to the other. Please. You’ll save me a great deal of bother.”

Rosemary smiled. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do you a favor and take your car.”

Hutch gave her the keys to the car and the cabin, a sketch-map of the route, and a typed list of instructions concerning the pump, the refrigerator, and a variety of possible emergencies. Then he put on shoes and a coat and walked her down to where the car, an old light-blue Oldsmobile, was parked. “The registration papers are in the glove compartment,” he said. “Please feel free to stay as long as you like. I have no immediate plans for either the car or the cabin.”

“I’m sure I won’t stay more than a week,” Rosemary said. “Guy might not even want me to stay that long.”

When she was settled in the car, Hutch leaned in at the window and said, “I have all kinds of good advice to give you but I’m going to mind my own business if it kills me.”

Rosemary kissed him. “Thank you,” she said. “For that and for this and for everything.”

She left on the morning of Saturday, October 16^th, and stayed five days at the cabin. The first two days she never once thought about Guy-a fitting revenge for the cheerfulness with which he had agreed to her going. Did she look as if she needed a good rest? Very well, she would have one, a long one, never once thinking about him. She took walks through dazzling yellow-and-orange woods, went to sleep early and slept late, read Flight of The Falcon by Daphne du Maurier, and made glutton’s meals on the bottled-gas stove. Never once thinking about him.

On the third day she thought about him. He was vain, self-centered, shallow, and deceitful. He had married her to have an audience, not a mate. (Little Miss Just-out-of-Omaha, what a goop she had been! “Oh, I’m used to actors; I’ve been here almost a year now.” And she had all but followed him around the studio carrying his newspaper in her mouth.) She would give him a year to shape up and become a good husband; if he didn’t make it she would pull out, and with no religious qualms whatever. And meanwhile she would go back to work and get again that sense of independence and self-sufficiency she had been so eager to get rid of. She would be strong and proud and ready to go if he failed to meet her standards.

Those glutton’s meals-man-size cans of beef stew and chili con carnebegan to disagree with her, and on that third day she was mildly nauseated and could eat only soup and crackers.

On the fourth day she awoke missing him and cried. What was she doing there, alone in that cold crummy cabin? What had he done that was so terrible? He had gotten drunk and had grabbed her without saying may I. Well that was really an earth-shaking offense, now wasn’t it? There he was, facing the biggest challenge of his career, and she-instead of being there to help him, to cue and encourage him-was off in the middle of nowhere, eating herself sick and feeling sorry for herself. Sure he was vain and self-centered; he was an actor, wasn’t he? Laurence Olivier was probably vain and self-centered. And yes he might lie now and then; wasn’t that exactly what had attracted her and still did?-that freedom and nonchalance so different from her own boxed-in propriety?

She drove into Brewster and called him. Service answered, the Friendly One: “Oh hi, dear, are you back from the country? Oh. Guy is out, dear; can he call you? You’ll call him at five. Right. You’ve certainly got lovely weather. Are you enjoying yourself? Good.”

At five he was still out, her message waiting for him. She ate in a diner and went to the one movie theater. At nine he was still out and Service was someone new and automatic with a message for her: she should call him before eight the next morning or after six in the evening.

That next day she reached what seemed like a sensible and realistic view of things. They were both at fault; he for being thoughtless and self-absorbed, she for failing to express and explain her discontent. He could hardly be expected to change until she showed him that change was called for. She had only to talk-no, they had only to talk, for he might be harboring a similar discontent of which she was similarly unaware-and matters couldn’t help but improve. Like so many unhappinesses, this one had begun with silence in the place of honest open talk.

She went into Brewster at six and called and he was there. “Hi, darling,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine. How are you?”

“All right. I miss you.”

She smiled at the phone. “I miss you, “ she said. “I’m coming home tomorrow.”

“Good, that’s great,” he said. “All kinds of things have been going on here. Rehearsals have been postponed until January.”

“They haven’t been able to cast the little girl. It’s a break for me though; I’m going to do a pilot next month. A half-hour comedy series.”

“You are?”

“It fell into my lap, Ro. And it really looks good. ABC loves the idea. It’s called Greenwich Village; it’s going to be filmed there, and I’m a way-out writer. It’s practically the lead.”

“That’s marvelous, Guy!”

“Allan says I’m suddenly very hot.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Listen, I’ve got to shower and shave; he’s taking me to a screening that Stanley Kubrick is going to be at. When are you going to get in?”

“Around noon, maybe earlier.”

“I’ll be waiting. Love you.”

“Love you!”

She called Hutch, who was out, and left word with his service that she would return the car the following afternoon.

The next morning she cleaned the cabin, closed it up and locked it, and drove back to the city. Traffic on the Saw Mill River Parkway was bottlenecked by a three-car collision, and it was close to one o’clock when she parked the car half-in half-out-of the bus stop in front of the Bramford. With her small suitcase she hurried into the house.

The elevator man hadn’t taken Guy down, but he had been off duty from eleven-fifteen to twelve.

He was there, though. The No Strings album was playing. She opened her mouth to call and he came out of the bedroom in a fresh shirt and tie, headed for the kitchen with a used coffee cup in his hand.

They kissed, lovingly and fully, he hugging her one-armed because of the cup.

“Have a good time?” he asked.

“Terrible. Awful. I missed you so.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. How was Stanley Kubrick?”

“Didn’t show, the fink.”

They kissed again.

She brought her suitcase into the bedroom and opened it on the bed. He came in with two cups of coffee, gave her one, and sat on the vanity bench while she unpacked. She told him about the yellow-and-orange woods and the still nights; he told her about Greenwich Village, who else was in it and who the producers, writers, and director were. “Are you really fine?” he asked when she was zipping closed the empty case. She didn’t understand. “Your period,” he said. “It was due on Tuesday.” “It was?” He nodded. “Well it’s just two days,” she said-matter-of-factly, as if her heart weren’t racing, leaping. “It’s probably the change of water, or the food I ate up there.” “You’ve never been late before,” he said. “It’ll probably come tonight. Or tomorrow.” “You want to bet?” “Yes.” “A quarter?” “Okay.” “You’re going to lose, Ro.” “Shut up. You’re getting me all jumpy. It’s only two days. It’ll probably come tonight.”

Ten

It didn’t come that night or the next day. Or the day after that or the day after that. Rosemary moved gently, walked lightly, so as not to dislodge what might possibly have taken hold inside her.

Talk with Guy? No, that could wait.

Everything could wait.

She cleaned, shopped, and cooked, breathing carefully. Laura-Louise came down one morning and asked her to vote for Buckley. She said she would, to get rid of her.

“Give me my quarter,” Guy said.

“Shut up,” she said, giving his arm a backhand punch.

She made an appointment with an obstetrician and, on Thursday, October 28^th, went to see him. His name was Dr. Hill. He had been recommended to her by a friend, Elise Dunstan, who had used him through two pregnancies and swore by him. His office was on West Seventy-second Street.

He was younger than Rosemary had expected-Guy’s age or even less-and he looked a little bit like Dr. Kildare on television. She liked him. He asked her questions slowly and with interest, examined her, and sent her to a lab on Sixtieth Street where a nurse drew blood from her right arm.

He called the next afternoon at three-thirty.

“Mrs. Woodhouse?”

“Dr. Hill?:’

“Yes. Congratulations.”

“Really?

“Really.”

She sat down on the side of the bed, smiling past the phone. Really, really, really, really, really.

“Are you there?”

“What happens now?” she asked.

“Very little. You come in and see me again next month. And you get those Natalin pills and start taking them. One a day. And you fill out some forms that I’m going to mail you-for the hospital; it’s best to get the reservation in as soon as possible.”

“When will it be?” she asked.

“If your last period was September twenty-first,” he said, “it works out to June twenty-eighth.”

“That sounds so far away.”

“It is. Oh, one more thing, Mrs. Woodhouse. The lab would like another blood sample. Could you drop by there tomorrow or Monday and let them have it?”

“Yes, of course,” Rosemary said. “What for?”

“The nurse didn’t take as much as she should have.”

“But-I’m pregnant, aren’t I?”

“Yes, they did that test,” Dr. Hill said, “but I generally have them run a few others besides-blood sugar and so forth-and the nurse didn’t know and only took enough for the one. It’s nothing to be concerned about. You’re pregnant. I give you my word.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go back tomorrow morning.”

“Do you remember the address?”

“Yes, I still have the card.”

“I’ll put those forms in the mail, and let’s see you again-the last week in November.”

They made an appointment for November 29^th at one o’clock and Rosemary hung up feeling that something was wrong. The nurse at the lab had seemed to know exactly what she was doing, and Dr. Hill’s offhandedness in speaking about her hadn’t quite rung true. Were they afraid a mistake had been made?-vials of blood mixed up and wrongly labeled?-and was there still a possibility that she wasn’t pregnant? But wouldn’t Dr. Hill have told her so frankly and not have been as definite as he had?

She tried to shake it away. Of course she was pregnant; she had to be, with her period so long overdue. She went into the kitchen, where a wall calendar hung, and in the next day’s square wrote Lab; and in the square for November 29^th, Dr. Hill-i:oo.

When Guy came in she went to him without saying a word and put a quarter in his hand. “What’s this for?” he asked, and then caught on. “Oh, that’s great, honey!” he said. “Just great!”-and taking her by the shoulders he kissed her twice and then a third time.

“Isn’t it?” she said.

“Just great. I’m so happy.”

“Father.”

“Mother.”

“Guy, listen,” she said, and looked up at him, suddenly serious. “Let’s make this a new beginning, okay? A new openness and talking-to-each-other. Because we haven’t been open. You’ve been so wrapped up in the show and the pilot and the way things have been breaking for you-I’m not saying you shouldn’t be; it wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. But that’s why I went to the cabin, Guy. To settle in my mind what was going wrong between us. And that’s what it was, and is: a lack of openness. On my part too. On my part as much as yours.”

“It’s true,” he said, his hands holding her shoulders, his eyes meeting hers earnestly. “It’s true. I felt it too. Not as much as you did, I guess. I’m so God-damned self-centered, Ro. That’s what the whole trouble is. I guess it’s why I’m in this idiot nutty profession to begin with. You know I love you though, don’t you? I do, Ro. I’ll try to make it plainer from now on, I swear to God I will. I’ll be as open as-“

“It’s my fault as much as-“

“Bull. It’s mine. Me and my self-centeredness. Bear with me, will you, Ro? I’ll try to do better.”

“Oh, Guy,” she said in a tide of remorse and love and forgiveness, and met his kisses with fervent kisses of her own.

“Fine way for parents to be carrying on,” he said.

She laughed, wet-eyed.

“Gee, honey,” he said, “do you know what I’d love to do?”

“What?”

“Tell Minnie and Roman.” He raised a hand. “I know, I know; we’re supposed to keep it a deep dark secret. But I told them we were trying and they were so pleased, and, well, with people that old”-he spread his hands ruefully-“if we wait too long they might never get to know at all.”

“Tell them,” she said, loving him.

He kissed her nose. “Back in two minutes,” he said, and turned and hurried to the door. Watching him go, she saw that Minnie and Roman had become deeply important to him. It wasn’t surprising; his mother was a busy selfinvolved chatterer and none of his fathers had been truly fatherly. The Castevets were filling a need in him, a need of which he himself was probably unaware. She was grateful to them and would think more kindly of them in the future.

She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her eyes and fixed her hair and lips. “You’re pregnant,” she told herself in the mirror. (But the lab wants another blood sample. What for?)

As she came back out they came in at the front door: Minnie in a housedress, Roman holding in both hands a bottle of wine, and Guy behind them flushed and smiling. “Now that’s what I call good news!” Minnie said. “Congrat-u-lations!” She bore down on Rosemary, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek hard and loud.

“Our best wishes to you, Rosemary,” Roman said, putting his lips to her other cheek. “We’re more pleased than we can say. We have no champagne on hand, but this I96I Saint Julien, I think, will do just as nicely for a toast.”

Rosemary thanked them.

“When are you due, dear?” Minnie asked.

“June twenty-eighth.”

“It’s going to be so exciting,” Minnie said, “between now and then.”

“We’ll do all your shopping for you,” Roman said.

“Oh, no,” Rosemary said. “Really.”

Guy brought glasses and a corkscrew, and Roman turned with him to the opening of the wine. Minnie took Rosemary’s elbow and they walked together into the living room. “Listen, dear,” Minnie said, “do you have a good doctor?”

“Yes, a very good one,” Rosemary said.

“One of the top obstetricians in New York,” Minnie said, “is a dear friend of ours. Abe Sapirstein. A Jewish man. He delivers all the Society babies and he would deliver yours too if we asked him. And he’d do it cheap, so you’d be saving Guy some of his hard-earned money.”

“Abe Sapirstein?” Roman asked from across the room. “He’s one of the finest obstetricians in the country, Rosemary. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

“I think so,” Rosemary said, recalling the name from an article in a newspaper or magazine.

“I have,” Guy said. “Wasn’t he on Open End a couple of years ago?”

“That’s right,” Roman said. “He’s one of the finest obstetricians in the country.”

“Ro?” Guy said.

“But what about Dr. Hill?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him something,” Guy said. “You know me.”

Rosemary thought about Dr. Hill, so young, so Kildare, with his lab that wanted more blood because the nurse had goofed or the technician had goofed or someone had goofed, causing her needless bother and concern.

Minnie said, “I’m not going to let you go to no Dr. Hill that nobody heard of! The best is what you’re going to have, young lady, and the best is Abe Sapirstein!”

Gratefully Rosemary smiled her decision at them. “If you’re sure he can take me,” she said. “He might be too busy.”

“He’ll take you,” Minnie said. “I’m going to call him right now. Where’s the phone?”

“In the bedroom,” Guy said.

Minnie went into the bedroom. Roman poured glasses of wine. “He’s a brilliant man,” he said, “with all the sensitivity of his much-tormented race.” He gave glasses to Rosemary and Guy. “Let’s wait for Minnie,” he said.

They stood motionless, each holding a full wineglass, Roman holding two. Guy said, “Sit down, honey,” but Rosemary shook her head and stayed standing.

Minnie in the bedroom said, “Abe? Minnie. Fine. Listen, a dear friend of ours just found out today that she’s pregnant. Yes, isn’t it? I’m in her apartment now. We told her you’d be glad to take care of her and that you wouldn’t charge none of your fancy Society prices neither.” She was silent, then said, “Wait a minute,” and raised her voice. “Rosemary? Can you go see him tomorrow morning at eleven?”

“Yes, that would be fine,” Rosemary called back.

Roman said, “You see?”

“Eleven’s fine, Abe,” Minnie said. “Yes. You too. No, not at all. Let’s hope so. Good-by.”

She came back. “There you are,” she said. “I’ll write down his address for you before we go. He’s on Seventy-ninth Street and Park Avenue.”

“Thanks a million, Minnie,” Guy said, and Rosemary said, “I don’t know how to thank you. Both of you.”

Minnie took the glass of wine Roman held out to her. “It’s easy,” she said. “Just do everything Abe tells you and have a fine healthy baby; that’s all the thanks we’ll ever ask for.”

Roman raised his glass. “To a fine healthy baby,” he said.

“Hear, hear,” Guy said, and they all drank; Guy, Minnie, Rosemary, Roman.

“Mmm,” Guy said. “Delicious.”

“Isn’t it?” Roman said. “And not at all expensive.”

“Oh my,” Minnie said, “I can’t wait to tell the news to Laura-Louise.”

Rosemary said, “Oh, please. Don’t tell anyone else. Not yet. It’s so early.”

“She’s right,” Roman said. “There’ll be plenty of time later on for spreading the good tidings.”

“Would anyone like some cheese and crackers?” Rosemary asked.

“Sit down, honey,” Guy said. “I’ll get it.”

That night Rosemary was too fired with joy and wonder to fall asleep quickly. Within her, under the hands that lay alertly on her stomach, a tiny egg had been fertilized by a tiny seed. Oh miracle, it would grow to be Andrew or Susan! (“Andrew” she was definite about; “Susan” was open to discussion with Guy.) What was Andrew-or-Susan now, a pinpoint speck? No, surely it was more than that; after all, wasn’t she in her second month already? Indeed she was. It had-probably reached the early tadpole stage. She would have to find a chart or book that told month by month exactly what was happening. Dr. Sapirstein would know of one.

A fire engine screamed by. Guy shifted and mumbled, and behind the wall Minnie and Roman’s bed creaked.

There were so many dangers to worry about in the months ahead; fires, falling objects, cars out of control; dangers that had never been dangers before but were dangers now, now that Andrew-or-Susan was begun and living. (Yes, living!) She would give up her occasional cigarette, of course. And check with Dr. Sapirstein about cocktails.

If only prayer were still possible! How nice it would be to hold a crucifix again and have God’s ear: ask Him for safe passage through the eight more months ahead; no German measles, please, no great new drugs with Thalidomide side effects. Eight good months, please, free of accident and illness, full of iron and milk and sunshine.

Suddenly she remembered the good luck charm, the ball of tannis root; and foolish or not, wanted it-no, needed it-around her neck. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed to the vanity, and got it from the Louis Sherry box, freed it from its aluminum-foil wrapping. The smell of the tannis root had changed; it was still strong but no longer repellent. She put the chain over her head.

With the ball tickling between her breasts, she tiptoed back to bed and climbed in. She drew up the blanket and, closing her eyes, settled her head down into the pillow. She lay breathing deeply and was soon asleep, her hands on her stomach shielding the embryo inside her.