“We have another twenty minutes, Doctor.”
She swallowed again.
He smiled. “All these weeks are about to pay off. You’ve gotten what you wanted. We’ve finally made a real breakthrough. I’d like you to hear my confession.”
Dr. Maxwell knew that this time none of it would be lies.
Her insatiable need to learn, the driving curiosity that had propelled her to a scholarship to one of the toughest, most prestigious universities on the East Coast, then through a near-fatal bout of meningitis, then through medical school and a grueling internship, and all the way here, to a plush office on Park Avenue, somehow found its way through her horror.
“Why don’t we start with your real name?” she managed to croak.
Dying to know.
51
“The part’s good and the money’s good enough,” Jubal said to Claire over his glass of wine at the Cafe Caracole on West Fifty-seventh.
Claire took a sip of ice water-no alcohol for her while she was pregnant-and nodded agreement. Jubal’s “almost sure thing” as a soldier in Winding Road had fallen through without explanation, as so often happened in their business; hot could become cold in less than a minute.
Now, undeniably, it made sense for him to accept this role of the helpful and romantic neighbor in As Thy Love Thyself at a theater near Chicago. It was just that right now, especially right now, Claire didn’t like the idea of being alone.
“Who’s going to put on his shoes and run out at midnight to bring me my blueberry muffins?” she asked. During the last few weeks she’d developed a craving for the oversize, shrink-wrapped muffins sold by the deli down the block.
Jubal stared at her, then realized she was joking and laughed, dribbling wine onto his good green tie. He shook his head and dabbed at the wet spot with his napkin, but she knew the tie was probably ruined. Merlot was like grape paint.
“I should have known you were joking,” he said, “but women, all of them, seem to lose a measure of logic during pregnancy.”
“You’re saying we think with our hormones?”
“Pregnant women do. Temporarily. Nothing wrong with that. Mother Nature.”
“Mother Nature makes me want you to stay here in New York, even though I know you’re right. The part’s a real opportunity for you; it suits you.”
“I suit it.”
“Whatever. Our lives can’t be freeze-framed until I deliver, and I’m only into my third month.”
“And it doesn’t even show.”
“No need for bullshit, Jubal. It’s beginning to show too much. I know you should accept this offer. Go to Chicago, do the part, and don’t worry about me-us. I’m still getting by with the help of wardrobe and oughta be able to fake it until the end of your run.”
“Then we can be unemployed together.”
“But with more than enough money to get by, and with bright prospects when we feel like finding day care and going back to work.” Day care. She couldn’t imagine it. Not with her-their baby. But she knew it would come to that someday soon. Other women managed the painful, early parting, the surrender of some of their responsibility for what was so precious to them. She’d be able to handle it when the time came, she was sure. She thought about how that first day must be, the looks, the puckered mouth, the tears, the leaving behind…
Not sure.
“We can both still practice our craft,” Jubal said. “We have to.”
Claire wasn’t positive she still had to, hormones having reshuffled her priorities at least for now, but maybe he’d meant they had to continue acting for financial reasons. She smiled. There was always that, even though right now they had quite a pad and it was growing. But there were expenses, medical bills, decorating the baby’s room; it all added up. At least they had some insurance to cover medical expenses. Not much, but some.
“Too bad we don’t have decorator’s insurance,” she said.
“Huh?”
She smiled. “Just thinking out loud. Not making much sense. It’s a preggy prerogative.”
“Point taken.” He poured more wine. “This bother you? Me drinking in front of you?”
She shook her head no. “I don’t miss it. And it’s not forever.”
“I’ll have to leave for Chicago tomorrow evening. They want to get into rehearsal right away.”
“You’ve only just read the script.”
“I can read it again on the plane. There’s a red-eye to Chicago. I can read instead of sleep.”
“Yeah, then you can be so tired, you’ll fuck up during rehearsal.”
“Not to worry, I have a contract.”
You have phone conversations. “Signed?”
“Well, no, not yet.”
“Thinking with your actor’s hormones,” Claire said.
“Okay, you’ve topped me-I can take it.” He raised his glass. “To the future.”
She lifted her water goblet and they clinked glasses. “Our future.”
Jubal peered around his raised glass at his wife seated across the table from him. Actor’s hormones. She has no idea how grateful I am for this role.
He knew Claire had always underestimated his acting abilities. Of course she wasn’t alone in that.
They drank to the rest of their lives.
Pearl having sex.
Her tiny bedroom hot and humid with the scent of sex.
She’d personally checked with Dr. Liran and knew it was okay; men with hearts like Quinn’s seldom suffered an attack during the sexual act. Better for him than a drink and a cigar, the doctor had said. Pearl sure as hell hoped so.
She’d already been satisfied. Quinn had learned about her fast and knew how to bring out a tenderness in her that even Pearl hadn’t suspected she possessed. He could make the uneasiness and loneliness dissipate, at least for a while. With Quinn she was herself. With Quinn she was reborn.
Pearl was no stranger to multiple orgasms, but she doubted it would be possible this time, though she wasn’t sure why.
Quinn’s weight was heavy on her, even though he was propped on his elbows and knees. The bedsprings were squealing, the headboard banging against the wall. His labored breathing was harsh in her right ear. She adjusted her legs, trying to get more comfortable.
Jesus! What am I doing?
She couldn’t help it. Something about the ceiling fixture directly above held her attention. The fixture was old, metal of some sort, with a stamped floral design that had been painted over so many times it was almost indiscernible. It held two lightbulbs, and if their glare needed softening, it was up to the tenant to buy some sort of shades to fit over the bulbs.
Quinn gasped and his body became rigid. She thought he’d climaxed, but he hadn’t. He began thrusting into her again. And again. It wasn’t that Pearl wasn’t still enjoying it on a certain level (what the hell, it was sex), it was just that by now she was out of the mood.
That fixture has to go. Has to be replaced. Maybe by something on a chain that throws more light. Or a paddle fan with a light kit. There’s an idea.
My God, I’m like that unfeeling woman in the joke who’s trying to figure out during sex what color to paint the ceiling.
Well, maybe not quite that bad.
