There are no real spells. Hutch died a natural death, even if the doctors couldn’t give a name to it. Ditto for Donald Baumgart’s blindness. And how, pray tell, did Guy get one of Donald Baumgart’s belongings for the big spell- casting? See, Idiot Girl? It all falls apart when you pick at it.
But why had he lied about the tickets?
She undressed and took a long cool shower, turned clumsily around and around and then pushed her face up into the spray, trying to think sensibly, rationally.
There must be another reason why he had lied. Maybe he’d spent the day hanging around Downey’s, yes, and had gotten the tickets from one of the gang there; wouldn’t he then have said Dominick had given them to him, so as not to let her know he’d been goofing off?
Of course he would have.
There, you see, Idiot Girl?
But why hadn’t he shown himself naked in so many months and months?
She was glad, anyway, that she had thrown away that damned charm. She should have done it long ago. She never should have taken it from Minnie in the first place. What a pleasure it was to be rid of its revolting smell! She dried herself and splashed on cologne, lots and lots of it.
He hadn’t shown himself naked because he had a little rash of some kind and was embarrassed about it. Actors are vain, aren’t they? Elementary.
But why had he thrown out the book? And spent so much time at Minnie and Roman’s? And waited for the news of Donald Baumgart’s blindness? And rushed home wearing his make-up just before Hutch missed his glove?
She brushed her hair and tied it, and put on a brassiere and panties. She went into the kitchen and drank two glasses of cold milk.
She didn’t know.
She went into the nursery, moved the bathinette away from the wall, and thumbtacked a sheet of plastic over the wallpaper to protect it when the baby splashed in its bath.
She didn’t know.
She didn’t know if she was going mad or going sane, if witches had only the longing for power or power that was real and strong, if Guy was her loving husband or the treacherous enemy of the baby and herself.
It was almost four. He would be home in an hour or so.
She called Actors Equity and got Donald Baumgart’s telephone number.
The phone was answered on the first ring with a quick impatient “Yeh?”
“Is this Donald Baumgart?”
“That’s right.”
“This is Rosemary Woodhouse,” she said. “Guy Woodhouse’s wife.”
“Oh?”
“I wanted-“
“My God,” he said, “you must be a happy little lady these days! I hear you’re living in baronial splendor in the ‘Bram,’ sipping vintage wine from crystal goblets, with scores of uniformed lackeys in attendance.”
She said, “I wanted to know how you are; if there’s been any improvement.”
He laughed. “Why bless your heart, Guy Woodhouse’s wife,” he said, “I’m fine! I’m splendid! There’s been enormous improvement! I only broke six glasses today, only fell down three flights of stairs, and only went tap-a- taptapping in front of two speeding fire engines! Every day in every way I’m getting better and better and better and better.”
Rosemary said, “Guy and I are both very unhappy that he got his break because of your misfortune.”
Donald Baumgart was silent for a moment, and then said, “Oh, what the hell. That’s the way it goes. Somebody’s up, somebody’s down. He would’ve made out all right anyway. To tell you the truth, after that second audition we did for Two Hours of Solid Crap, I was dead certain he was going to get the part. He was terrific.”
“He thought you were going to get it,” Rosemary said. “And he was right.”
“Briefly.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come along that day he came to visit you,” Rosemary said. “He asked me to, but I couldn’t.”
“Visit me? You mean the day we met for drinks?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I meant.”
“It’s good you didn’t come,” he said; “they don’t allow women, do they? No, after four they do, that’s right; and it was after four. That was awfully good-natured of Guy. Most people wouldn’t have had the-well, class, I guess. I wouldn’t have had it, I can tell you that.”
“The loser buying the winner a drink,” Rosemary said.
“And little did we know that a week later-less than a week, in fact-“
“That’s right,” Rosemary said. “It was only a few days before you-“
“Went blind. Yes. It was a Wednesday or Thursday, because I’d been to a matinee-Wednesday, I think-and the following Sunday was when it happened. Hey”-he laughed-“Guy didn’t put anything in that drink, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” Rosemary said. Her voice was shaking. “By the way,” she said, “he has something of yours, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No,” he said.
“Didn’t you miss anything, that day?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
“You’re sure?”
“You don’t mean my tie, do you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Well he’s got mine and I’ve got his. Does he want his back? He can have it; it doesn’t matter to me what tie I’m wearing, or if I’m wearing one at all.”
“No, he doesn’t want it back,” Rosemary said. “I didn’t understand. I thought he had only borrowed it.”
“No, it was a trade. It sounded as if you thought he had stolen it.”
“I have to hang up now,” Rosemary said. “I just wanted to know if there was any improvement.”
“No, there isn’t. It was nice of you to call.”
She hung up.
It was nine minutes after four.
She put on her girdle and a dress and sandals. She took the emergency money Guy kept under his underwear-a not very thick fold of bills-and put it into her handbag, put in her address book too and the bottle of vitamin capsules. A contraction came and went, the second of the day. She took the suitcase that stood by the bedroom -door and went down the hallway and out of the apartment.
Halfway to the elevator, she turned and doubled back.
She rode down in the service elevator with two delivery boys.
On Fifty-fifth Street she got a taxi.
Miss Lark, Dr. Sapirstein’s receptionist, glanced at the suitcase and said, smiling, “You aren’t in labor, are you?”
“No,” Rosemary said, “but I have to see the doctor. It’s very important.” Miss Lark glanced at her watch. “He has to leave at five,” she said, “and there’s Mrs. Byron . . .”-she looked over at a woman who sat reading and then smiled at Rosemary-“but I’m sure he’ll see you. Sit down. I’ll let him know you’re here as soon as he’s free.”
“Thank you,” Rosemary said.
She put the suitcase by the nearest chair and sat down. The handbag’s white patent was damp in her hands. She opened it, took out a tissue, and wiped her palms and then her upper lip and temples. Her heart was racing.
“How is it out there?” Miss Lark asked.
“Terrible,” Rosemary said. “Ninety-four.”
Miss Lark made a pained sound.
A woman came out of Dr. Sapirstein’s office, a woman in her fifth or sixth
