it all out of you.”
“Why couldn’t I just go to a priest? Or a psychiatrist? Why dump all that garbage on Harry?”
“Because we don’t use priests or psychiatrists. We use each other.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Priss-”
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
“He will.”
“But what if he doesn’t? Rhoda, I cut his balls off, don’t you see that? I did the one unforgivable thing to him and I’ll never see him again. I ought to leave.”
“You?”
“I ought to go away from here.”
“Stop it.”
I didn’t stop it. I stopped saying it, but I didn’t stop it inside my head. It kept on going around and around inside me. I was the excess baggage. I was the overweight. I was the nigger in the ointment. I mean in the woodpile. What is it that you have in the ointment? Flies. A fly in the ointment.
I went inside and took another shower. Lady Macbeth, except with me it wasn’t the hands, it was the body. “Here’s the smell of the come still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little snatch.”
Days went by and there was no Harry. My mind invented fates for him. He had met some other girl and had hied himself off to Acapulco with her. He had walked in front of a bus, or leaped in front of a subway, or hanged himself in a closet. He was drunk, lying somewhere in a gutter. He was-he was anywhere but at home where he belonged, and no matter how many showers I took I still felt dirty.
“It’s too late for an abortion, isn’t it?”
“By a couple of months. What kind of talk is that, anyway? You don’t want an abortion.”
“Don’t I?”
“Of course not, Priss. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I don’t want the baby, either.”
“You’ll change your mind.”
“Will I? I don’t think so. What happens if a person has an abortion after it’s too late to have an abortion?”
“She misses her train.”
“Huh?”
“Christ, stop it. I don’t know what happens. Probably the mother dies.”
“Oh.”
“Stop this shit, will you? Do you have any idea what that would do to Harry?”
“How would he find out? I’ll never see him again.”
“You don’t believe that crap yourself.”
“Maybe not. Rhoda-”
“What?”
“I could go somewhere else and have the baby.”
“What’s wrong with the local hospital?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean but I’m damned if I’ll dignify it by taking it seriously.”
“I could just go away.”
“Why?”
“And live somewhere by myself with my baby.”
“Wonderful.”
“It might be best all around.”
“Uh-huh. Harry’ll be somewhere in New York or Acapulco or wherever you’ve decided he is now, and you’ll be somewhere with your baby-where, by the way?”
“I don’t know. Boston. I don’t know.”
“Sensational. You’ll be in Boston with your baby, and I’ll be here with my baby. That’s just what I always wanted, Priss. I mean, I love it here, the woods and the hills and the birds and the flowers, don’t get me wrong. I love it, but the idea of living here all by my lonesome doesn’t appeal to me. I’m not the type.”
“You won’t be alone.”
“Right, I’ll have the kid.”
“And Harry.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll have Harry. Once I’m out of your lives the two of you can be together again and-”
“If you weren’t knocked up I think I might just kick you in the stomach.”
“I can’t help it, Rhoda.”
“Well, you’ve got to help it. You’re being ridiculous and you know it.”
“Maybe, but-”
“Cut it out, huh?”
Somewhere along the line I called Marcia Goldsmith. I don’t know why.
“Miss Goldsmith? You don’t know me, but my name is Priscilla Kapp.”
“Oh?”
“Harry’s wife.”
“Of course, Harry’s wife. How do you do?”
“I wondered if Harry happened to be there, or if you happened to know where he is.”
“He’s not with you? No, I don’t suppose he is, or this conversation wouldn’t be happening. No, I don’t know where he is. I occasionally see him on Wednesdays when he comes to town, if we happen to be working on a book together, but-”
“Uh, Marcia, that is, is it all right to call you Marcia?”
“Be my guest.”
“Because I know that you and Harry, that he sleeps with you on Wednesdays. Pardon me?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I mean, I’m not calling up to do the jealous wife bit or anything. I’m not even calling up to be civilized about it as far as that goes. It’s just that-”
“There’s not really anything to be civilized about, Priscilla. I trust it’s all right to call you Priscilla?”
“Of course.”
“I mean, Harry and I are not in the same league with Heloise and Abelard, you know. It’s just a way of carrying the collaborative process to its logical conclusion.”
“I know all that. Harry told me.”
“Did he really.”
“Yes. The thing is I don’t know where he is, and I just want to make sure that, well, that everything’s all right, and all that.”
“I haven’t seen him since Monday.”
“Oh, you did see him Monday?”
“Yes. He had a suitcase. He didn’t stay long, and I don’t know where he went. I had the feeling that he went back home to Connecticut.”
“Massachusetts.”
“Of course, Massachusetts. I wish I could be more help to you, but I don’t really know anything.”
“I see. If he should happen to get in touch with you-”
“I’ll tell him you called.”
“Yes, I guess that would be best. Tell him I called.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll tell him you called. Any messages?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, then, Priscilla, I’ll just tell him you called.”
“Tell him I love him.”
