Rosemary’s Baby

Six

As bad as it had been before, that was how good it was now. With the stopping of the pain came sleep, great dreamless ten-hour spans of it; and with the sleep came hunger, for meat that was cooked, not raw, for eggs and vegetables and cheese and fruit and milk. Within days Rosemary’s skullface had lost its edges and sunk back behind filling-in flesh; within weeks she looked the way pregnant women are supposed to look: lustrous, healthy, proud, prettier than ever.

She drank Minnie’s drink as soon as it was given to her, and drank it to the last chill drop, driving away as by a ritual the remembered guilt of I-killed-thebaby. With the drink now came a cake of white gritty sweet stuff like marzipan; this too she ate at once, as much from enjoyment of its candylike taste as from a resolve to be the most conscientious expectant mother in all the world.

Dr. Sapirstein might have been smug about the pain’s stopping, but he wasn’t, bless him. He simply said “It’s about time” and put his stethoscope to Rosemary’s really-showing-now belly. Listening to the stirring baby, he betrayed an excitement that was unexpected in a man who had guided hundreds upon hundreds of pregnancies. It was this undimmed first-time excitement, Rosemary thought, that probably marked the difference between a great obstetrician and a merely good one.

She bought maternity clothes; a two-piece black dress, a beige suit, a red dress with white polka dots. Two weeks after their own party, she and Guy went to one given by Lou and Claudia Comfort. “I can’t get over the change in you!” Claudia said, holding onto both Rosemary’s hands. “You look a hundred per cent better, Rosemary! A thousand per cent!”

And Mrs. Gould across the hall said, “You know, we were quite concerned about you a few weeks ago; you looked so drawn and uncomfortable. But now you look like an entirely different person, really you do. Arthur remarked on the change just last evening.”

“I feel much better now,” Rosemary said. “Some pregnancies start out bad and turn good, and some go the other way around. I’m glad I’ve had the bad first and have gotten it out of the way.”

She was aware now of minor pains that had been overshadowed by the major one-aches in her spinal muscles and her swollen breasts-but these discomforts had been mentioned as typical in the paperback book Dr. Sapirstein had made her throw away; they felt typical too, and they increased rather than lessened her sense of well-being. Salt was still nauseating, but what, after all, was salt?

Guy’s show, with its director changed twice and its title changed three times, opened in Philadelphia in mid-February. Dr. Sapirstein didn’t allow Rosemary to go along on the try-out tour, and so on the afternoon of the opening, she and Minnie and Roman drove to Philadelphia with Jimmy and Tiger, in Jimmy’s antique Packard. The drive was a less than joyous one. Rosemary and Jimmy and Tiger had seen a bare-stage run-through of the play before the company left New York and they were doubtful of its chances. The best they hoped for was that Guy would be singled out for praise by one or more of the critics, a hope Roman encouraged by citing instances of great actors who had come to notice in plays of little or no distinction.

With sets and costumes and lighting the play was still tedious and verbose; the party afterwards was broken up into small separate enclaves of silent gloom. Guy’s mother, having flown down from Montreal, insisted to their group that Guy was superb and the play was superb. Small, blonde, and vivacious, she chirped her confidence to Rosemary and Allan Stone and Jimmy and Tiger and Guy himself and Minnie and Roman. Minnie and Roman smiled serenely; the others sat and worried. Rosemary thought that Guy had been even better than superb, but she had thought so too on seeing him in Luther and Nobody Loves An Albatross, in neither of which he had attracted critical attention.

Two reviews came in after midnight; both panned the play and lavished Guy with enthusiastic praise, in one case two solid paragraphs of it. A third review, which appeared the next morning, was headed Dazzling Performance Sparks New Comedy-Drama and spoke of Guy as “a virtually unknown young actor of slashing authority” who was “sure to go on to bigger and better productions.”

The ride back to New York was far happier than the ride out.

Rosemary found much to keep her busy while Guy was away. There was the white-and-yellow nursery wallpaper finally to be ordered, and the crib and the bureau and the bathinette. There were long-postponed letters to be written, telling the family all the news; there were baby clothes and more maternity clothes to be shopped for; there were assorted decisions to be made, about birth announcements and breast-or-bottle and the name, the name, the name. Andrew or Douglas or David; Amanda or Jenny or Hope.

And there were exercises to be done, morning and evening, for she was having the baby by natural childbirth. She had strong feelings on the subject and Dr. Sapirstein concurred with them wholeheartedly. He would give her an anesthetic only if at the very last moment she asked for one. Lying on the floor, she raised her legs straight up in the air and held them there for a count of ten; she practiced shallow breathing and panting, imagining the sweaty triumphant moment when she would see whatever-its-name-was coming inch by inch out of her effectively helping body.

She spent evenings at Minnie and Roman’s, one at the Kapps’, and another at Hugh and Elise Dunstan’s. (“You don’t have a nurse yet?” Elise asked. “You should have arranged for one long ago; they’ll all be booked by now.” But Dr. Sapirstein, when she called him about it the next day, told her that he had lined up a fine nurse who would stay with her for as long as she wanted after the delivery. Hadn’t he mentioned it before? Miss Fitzpatrick; one of the best.)

Guy called every second or third night after the show. He told Rosemary of the changes that were being made and of the rave he had got in Variety; she told him about Miss Fitzpatrick and the wallpaper and the shaped-all-wrong bootees that Laura-Louise was knitting.

The show folded after fifteen performances and Guy was home again, only to leave two days later for California and a Warner Brothers screen test. And then he was home for good, with two great next-season parts to choose from and thirteen half-hour Greenwich Village’s to do. Warner Brothers made an offer and Allan turned it down.

The baby kicked like a demon. Rosemary told it to stop or she would start kicking back.

Her sister Margaret’s husband called to tell of the birth of an eight-pound boy, Kevin Michael, and later a too-cute announcement came-an impossibly rosy baby megaphoning his name, birth date, weight, and length. (Guy said, “What, no blood type?”) Rosemary decided on simple engraved announcements, with nothing but the baby’s name, their name, and the date. And it would be Andrew John or Jennifer Susan. Definitely. Breast-fed, not bottle-fed.

They moved the television set into the living room and gave the rest of the den furniture to friends who could use it. The wallpaper came, was perfect, and was hung; the crib and bureau and bathinette came and were placed first one way and then another. Into the bureau Rosemary put receiving blankets, waterproof pants, and shirts so tiny that, holding one up, she couldn’t keep from laughing.

“Andrew John Woodhouse,” she said, “stop it! You’ve got two whole

months yet!” They celebrated their second anniversary and Guy’s thirty-third birthday; they gave another party-a sit-down dinner for the Dunstans, the Chens, and Jimmy and Tiger; they saw Morgan! and a preview of Marne.

Bigger and bigger Rosemary grew, her breasts lifting higher atop her ballooning belly that was drum-solid with its navel flattened away, that rippled and jutted with the movements of the baby inside it. She did her exercises morning and evening, lifting her legs, sitting on her heels, shallow-breathing, panting.

At the end of May, when she went into her ninth month, she packed a small suitcase with the things she would need at the hospital-nightgowns, nursing brassieres, a new quilted housecoat, and so on-and set it ready by the bedroom door.

On Friday, June 3^rd, Hutch died in his bed at St. Vincent’s Hospital. Axel Allen, his son-in-law, called Rosemary on Saturday morning and told her the news. There would be a memorial service on Tuesday morning at eleven, he said, at the Ethical Culture Center on West Sixty-fourth Street.

Rosemary wept, partly because Hutch was dead and partly because she had all but forgotten him in the past few months and felt now as if she had hastened his dying. Once or twice Grace Cardiff had called and once Rosemary had called Doris Allen; but she hadn’t gone to see Hutch; there had seemed no point in it when he was still frozen in coma, and having been restored to health herself, she had been averse to being near someone sick, as if she and the baby might somehow have been endangered by the nearness.

Guy, when he heard the news, turned bloodless gray and was silent and self-enclosed for several hours. Rosemary was surprised by the depth of his reaction.

She went alone to the memorial service; Guy was filming and couldn’t get free and Joan begged off with a virus. Some fifty people were there, in a handsome paneled auditorium. The service began soon after eleven and was quite short. Axel Allen spoke, and then another man who apparently had known Hutch for many years. Afterwards Rosemary followed the general movement toward the front of the auditorium and said a word of sympathy to the Allerts and to Hutch’s other daughter, Edna, and her husband. A woman touched her arm and said, “Excuse me, you’re Rosemary, aren’t you?” -a stylishly dressed woman in her early fifties, with gray hair and an exceptionally fine complexion. “I’m Grace Cardiff.”

Rosemary took her hand and greeted her and thanked her for the phone calls she had made.

“I was going to mail this last evening,” Grace Cardiff said, holding a book-size brown-paper package, “and then I realized that I’d probably be seeing you this morning.” She gave Rosemary the package; Rosemary saw her own name and address printed on it, and Grace Cardiff’s return address.

“What is it?” she asked. “It’s a book Hutch wanted you to have; he was very emphatic about it.” Rosemary didn’t understand.

“He was conscious at the end for a few minutes,” Grace Cardiff said. “I wasn’t there, but he told a nurse to tell me to give you the book on his desk. Apparently he was reading it the night he was stricken. He was very insistent, told the nurse two or three times and made her promise not to forget. And I’m to tell you that ‘the name is an anagram.’ “

“The name of the book?”

“Apparently. He was delirious, so it’s hard to be sure. He seemed to fight his way out of the coma and then die of the effort. First he thought it was the next morning, the morning after the coma began, and he spoke about having to meet you at eleven o’clock-“

“Yes, we had an appointment,” Rosemary said.

“And then he seemed to realize what had happened and he began telling the nurse that I was to give you the book. He repeated himself a few times and that was the end.” Grace Cardiff smiled as if she were making pleasant conversation. “It’s an English book about witchcraft,” she said.

Rosemary, looking doubtfully at the package, said, “I can’t imagine why he wanted me to have it.”

“He did though, so there you are. And the name is an anagram. Sweet Hutch. He made everything sound like a boy’s adventure, didn’t he?”

They walked together out of the auditorium and out of the building onto the sidewalk.

“I’m going uptown; can I drop you anywhere?” Grace Cardiff asked.

“No, thank you,” Rosemary said. “I’m going down and across.”

They went to the corner. Other people who had been at the service were hailing taxis; one pulled up, and the two men who had got it offered it to Rosemary. She tried to decline and, when the men insisted, offered it to Grace Cardiff, who wouldn’t have it either. “Certainly not,” she said. “Take full advantage of your lovely condition. When is the baby due?”

“June twenty-eighth,” Rosemary said. Thanking the men, she got into the cab. It was a small one and getting into it wasn’t easy.

“Good luck,” Grace Cardiff said, closing the door.

“Thank you,” Rosemary said, “and thank you for the book.” To the driver she said, “The Bramford, please.” She smiled through the open window at Grace Cardiff as the cab pulled away.

Seven

She thought of unwrapping the book there in the cab, but it was a cab that had been fitted out by its driver with extra ashtrays and mirrors and handlettered pleas for cleanliness and consideration, and the string and the paper would have been too much of a nuisance. So she went home first and got out of her shoes, dress, and girdle, and into slippers and a new gigantic peppermint-striped smock.

The doorbell rang and she went to answer it holding the still-unopened package; it was Minnie with the drink and the little white cake. “I heard you come in,” she said. “It certainly wasn’t very long.”

“It was nice,” Rosemary said, taking the glass. “His son-in-law and another man talked a little about what he was like and why he’ll be missed, and that was it.” She drank some of the thin pale-green.

“That sounds like a sensible way of doing it,” Minnie said. “You got mail already?”

“No, someone gave it to me,” Rosemary said, and drank again, deciding not to go into who and why and the whole story of Hutch’s return to consciousness.

“Here, I’ll hold it,” Minnie said, and took the package-“Oh, thanks,” Rosemary said-so that Rosemary could take the white cake.

Rosemary ate and drank.

“A book?” Minnie asked, weighing the package.

“Mm-hmm. She was going to mail it and then she realized she’d be seeing me.”

Minnie read the return address. “Oh, I know that house,” she said. “The Gilmores used to live there before they moved over to where they are now.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been there lots of times. ‘Grace.’ That’s one of my favorite names. One of your girl friends?”

“Yes,” Rosemary said; it was easier than explaining and it made no difference really.

She finished the cake and the drink, and took the package from Minnie and gave her the glass. “Thanks,” she said, smiling.

“Say listen,” Minnie said, “Roman’s going down to the cleaner in a while; do you have anything to go or pick up?”

“No, nothing, thanks. Will we see you later?”

“Sure. Take a nap, why don’t you?”

“I’m going to. ‘By.”

She closed the door and went into the kitchen. With a paring knife she cut the string of the package and undid its brown paper. The book within was All Of Them Witches by J. R. Hanslet. It was a black book, not new, its gold lettering all but worn away. On the flyleaf was Hutch’s signature, with the inscription Torquay, 1934 beneath it. At the bottom of the inside cover was a small blue sticker imprinted J. Waghorn & Son, Booksellers.

Rosemary took the book into the living room, riffling its pages as she went. There were occasional photographs of respectable-looking Victorians, and, in the text, several of Hutch’s underlinings and marginal checkmarks that she recognized from books he had lent her in the Higgins-Eliza period of their friendship. One underlined phrase was “the fungus they call ‘Devil’s Pepper.-

She She sat in one of the window bays and looked at the table of contents. The name Adrian Marcato jumped to her eye; it was the title of the fourth chapter.

Other chapters dealt with other people-all of them, it was to be presumed

from the book’s title, witches: Gilles de Rais, Jane Wenham, Aleister Crowley,

Thomas Weir. The final chapters were Witch Practices and Witchcraft and Satanism.

Turning to the fourth chapter, Rosemary glanced over its twenty-odd pages; Marcato was born in Glasgow in 1846, he was brought soon after to New York (underlined), and he died on the island of Corfu in 1922. There were accounts of the 1896 tumult when he claimed to have called forth Satan and was attacked by a mob outside the Bramford (not in the lobby as Hutch had said), and of similar happenings in Stockholm in 1898 and Paris in 1899. He was a hypnoticeyed black-bearded man who, in a standing portrait, looked fleetingly familiar to Rosemary. Overleaf there was a less formal photograph of him sitting at a Paris cafe table with his wife Hessia and his son Steven (underlined).

Was this why Hutch had wanted her to have the book; so that she could read in detail about Adrian Marcato? But why? Hadn’t he issued his warnings long ago, and acknowledged later on that they were unjustified? She flipped through the rest of the book, pausing near the end to read other underlinings.

“The stubborn fact remains,” one read, “that whether or not we believe, they most assuredly do.” And a few pages later: “the universally held belief in the power of fresh blood.” And “surrounded by candles, which needless to say are also black.” ,

The black candles Minnie had brought over on the night of the power failure. Hutch had been struck by them and had begun asking questions about Minnie and Roman. Was this the book’s meaning; that they were witches? Minnie with her herbs and tannis-charms, Roman with his piercing eyes? But there were no witches, were there? Not really.

She remembered then the other part of Hutch’s message, that the name of the book was an anagram. All Of Them Witches. She tried to juggle the letters in her head, to transpose them into something meaningful, revealing. She couldn’t; there were too many of them to keep track of. She needed a pencil and paper. Or better yet, the Scrabble set.

She got it from the bedroom and, sitting in the bay again, put the unopened board on her knees and picked out from the box beside her the letters to spell All Of Them Witches. The baby, which had been still all morning, began moving inside her. You’re going to be a born Scrabble-player, she thought, smiling. It kicked. “Hey, easy,” she said.

With All Of Them Witches laid out on the board, she jumbled the letters and mixed them around, then looked to see what else could be made of them. She found comes with the fall and, after a few minutes of rearranging the flat wood tiles, how is hell fact met. Neither of which seemed to mean anything. Nor was there revelation in who shall meet it, we that chose ill, and if he shall come, all of which weren’t real anagrams anyway, since they used less than the full complement of letters. It was foolishness. How could the title of a book have a hidden anagram message for her and her alone? Hutch had been delirious; hadn’t Grace Cardiff said so? Time-wasting. Elf shot lame witch. Tell me which fatso.

But maybe it was the name of the author, not the book, that was the anagram. Maybe J. R. Hanslet was a pen name; it didn’t sound like a real one, when you stopped to think about it.

She took new letters.

The baby kicked.

J. R. Hanslet was Jan Shrelt. Or J. H. Snartle.

Now that really made sense.

Poor Hutch.

She took up the board and tilted it, spilling the letters back into the box.

The book, which lay open on the window seat beyond the box, had turned its pages to the picture of Adrian Marcato and his wife and son. Perhaps Hutch had pressed hard there, holding it open while he underlined “Steven.”

The baby lay quiet in her, not moving.

She put the board on her knees again and took from the box the letters of Steven Marcato. When the name lay spelled before her, she looked at it for a moment and then began transposing the letters. With no false moves and no wasted motion she made them into Roman Castevet.

And then again into Steven Marcato.

And then again into Roman Castevet.

The baby stirred ever so slightly.

She read the chapter on Adrian Marcato and the one called Witch Practices, and then she went into the kitchen and ate some tuna salad and lettuce and tomatoes, thinking about what she had read.

She was just beginning the chapter called Witchcraft and Satanism when the front door unlocked and was pushed against the chain. The doorbell rang as she went to see who it was. It was Guy.

“What’s with the chain?” he asked when she had let him in.

She said nothing, closing the door and rechaining it.

“What’s the matter?” He had a bunch of daisies and a box from Bronzini. “I’ll tell you inside,” she said as he gave her the daisies and a kiss.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She went into the kitchen.

“How was the memorial?”

“Very nice. Very short.”

“I got the shirt that was in The New Yorker, “ he said, going to the bedroom. “Hey,” he called, “On A Clear Day and Skyscraper are both closing.”

She put the daisies in a blue pitcher and brought them into the living room. Guy came in and showed her the shirt. She admired it.

Then she said, “Do you know who Roman really is?”

Guy looked at her, blinked, and frowned. “What do you mean, honey?” he said. “He’s Roman.”

“He’s Adrian Marcato’s son,” she said. “The man who said he conjured up Satan and was attacked downstairs by a mob. Roman is his son Steven. ‘Roman Castevet’ is ‘Steven Marcato’ rearranged-an anagram.”

Guy said, “Who told you?”

“Hutch,” Rosemary said. She told Guy about All Of Them Witches and Hutch’s message. She showed him the book, and he put aside his shirt and took it and looked at it, looked at the title page and the table of contents and then sprung the pages out slowly from under his thumb, looking at all of them.

“There he is when he was thirteen,” Rosemary said. “See the eyes?”

“It might just possibly be a coincidence,” Guy said.

“And another coincidence that he’s living here? In the same house Steven Marcato was brought up in?” Rosemary shook her head. “The ages match too,” she said. “Steven Marcato was born in August, 1886, which would make him seventy-nine now. Which is what Roman is. It’s no coincidence.”

“No, I guess it’s not,” Guy said, springing out more pages. “I guess he’s Steven Marcato, all right. The poor old geezer. No wonder he switched his name around, with a crazy father like that.”

Rosemary looked at Guy uncertainly and said, “You don’t think he’s-the same as his father?”

“What do you mean?” Guy said, and smiled at her. “A witch? A devil worshiper?”

She nodded.

“Ro,” he said. “Are you kidding? Do you really-“ He laughed and gave the book back to her. “Ah, Ro, honey,” he said.

“It’s a religion,” she said. “It’s an early religion that got-pushed into the corner.”

“All right,” he said, “but today?”

“His father was a martyr to it,” she said. “That’s how it must look to him. Do you know where Adrian Marcato died? In a stable. On Corfu. Wherever that is. Because they wouldn’t let him into the hotel. Really. ‘No room at the inn.’ So he died in the stable. And he was with him. Roman. Do you think he’s given it up after that?”

“Honey, it’s 1966,” Guy said.

“This book was published in 1933,” Rosemary said; “there were covens in Europe-that’s what they’re called, the groups, the congregations; covensin Europe, in North and South America, in Australia; do you think they’ve all died out in just thirty-three years? They’ve got a coven here, Minnie and Roman, with Laura-Louise and the Fountains and the Gilmores and the Weeses; those parties with the flute and the chanting, those are Sabbaths or esbats or whatever-they-are!”

“Honey,” Guy said, “don’t get excited. Let’s-“

“Read what they do, Guy,” she said, holding the book open at him and jabbing a page with her forefinger. “They use blood in their rituals, because blood has power, and the blood that has the most power is a baby’s blood, a baby that hasn’t been baptized; and they use more than the blood, they use the flesh too!”

“For God’s sake, Rosemary!”

“Why have they been so friendly to us?” she demanded.

“Because they’re friendly people! What do you think they are, maniacs?”

“Yes! Yes. Maniacs who think they have magic power, who think they’re real storybook witches, who perform all sorts of crazy rituals and practices because they’re-sick and crazy maniacs!”

“Honey-“

“Those black candles Minnie brought us were from the black mass! That’s how Hutch caught on. And their living room is clear in the middle so that they have room. “

“Honey,” Guy said, “they’re old people and they have a bunch of old friends, and Dr. Shand happens to play the recorder. You can get black candles right down in the hardware store, and red ones and green ones and blue ones.

And their living room is clear because Minnie is a lousy decorator. Roman’s father was a nut, okay; but that’s no reason to think that Roman is too.”

“They’re not setting foot in this apartment ever again,” Rosemary said. “Either one of them. Or Laura-Louise or any of the others. And they’re not coming within fifty feet of the baby.”

“The fact that Roman changed his name proves that he’s not like his father,” Guy said. “If he were he’d be proud of the name and would have kept it.”

“He did keep it,” Rosemary said. “He switched it around, but he didn’t really change it for something else. And this way he can get into hotels.” She went away from Guy, to the window where the Scrabble set lay. “I won’t let them in again,” she said. “And as soon as the baby is old enough I want to sub-let and move. I don’t want them near us. Hutch was right; we never should have moved in here.” She looked out the window, holding the book clamped in both hands, trembling.

Guy watched her for a moment. “What about Dr. Sapirstein?” he said. “Is he in the coven too?”

She turned and looked at him.

“After all,” he said, “there’ve been maniac doctors, haven’t there? His big ambition is probably to make house calls on a broomstick.”

She turned to the window again, her face sober. “No, I don’t think he’s one of them,” she said. “He’s-too intelligent.”

“And besides, he’s Jewish,” Guy said and laughed. “Well, I’m glad you’ve exempted somebody from your McCarthy-type smear campaign. Talk about witch-hunting, wow! And guilt by association.”

“I’m not saying they’re really witches,” Rosemary said. “I know they haven’t got real power. But there are people who do believe, even if we don’t; just the way my family believes that God hears their prayers and that the wafer is the actual body of Jesus. Minnie and Roman believe their religion, believe it and practice it, I know they do; and I’m not going to take any chances with the baby’s safety.”

“We’re not going to sub-let and move,” Guy said.

“Yes we are,” Rosemary said, turning to him.

He picked up his new shirt. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said.

“He lied to you,” she said. “His father wasn’t a producer. He didn’t have anything to do with the theater at all.”

“All right, so he’s a bullthrower,” Guy said; “who the hell isn’t?” He went into the bedroom.

Rosemary sat down next to the Scrabble set. She closed it and, after a moment, opened the book and began again to read the final chapter, Witchcraft and Satanism.

Guy came back in without the shirt. “I don’t think you ought to read any more of that,” he said.

Rosemary said, “I just want to read this last chapter.”

“Not today, honey,” Guy said, coming to her; “you’ve got yourself worked up enough as it is. It’s not good for you or the baby.” He put his hand out and waited for her to give him the book.

“I’m not worked up,” she said.

“You’re shaking,” he said. “You’ve been shaking for five minutes now. Come on, give it to me. You’ll read it tomorrow.”

“Guy-“

“No,” he said. “I mean it. Come on, give it to me.”

She said “Ohh” and gave it to him. He went over to the bookshelves, stretched up, and put it as high as he could reach, across the tops of the two Kinsey Reports.

“You’ll read it tomorrow,” he said. “You’ve had too much stirring-up today already, with the memorial and all.”