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 28th, 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 29th 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 29th, 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
