Eight
She went to upper Broadway for swordfish steaks and across town to Lexington Avenue for cheeses; not because she couldn’t get swordfish steaks and cheeses right there in the neighborhood but simply because on that snappy bright-blue morning she wanted to be all over the city, walking briskly with her coat flying, drawing second glances for her prettiness, impressing tough clerks with the precision and know-how of her orders. It was Monday, October 4th, the day of Pope Paul’s visit to the city, and the sharing of the event made people more open and communicative than they ordinarily were; How nice it is, Rosemary thought, that the whole city is happy on a day when I’m so happy.
She followed the Pope’s rounds on television during the afternoon, moving the set out from the wall of the den (soon nursery) and turning it so she could watch from the kitchen while readying the fish and vegetables and salad greens. His speech at the UN moved her, and she was sure it would help ease the Vietnam situation. “War never again,” he said; wouldn’t his words give pause to even the most hard-headed statesman?
At four-thirty, while she was setting the table before the fireplace, the telephone rang.
“Rosemary? How are you?”
“Fine,” she said. “How are you?” It was Margaret, the older of her two sisters.
“Fine,” Margaret said.
“Where are you?”
“In Omaha.”
They had never got on well. Margaret had been a sullen, resentful girl, too often used by their mother as the caretaker of the younger children. To be called by her like this was strange; strange and frightening.
“Is everyone all right?” Rosemary asked. Someone’s dead, she thought. Who? Ma? Pa? Brian?
“Yes, everyone’s fine.”
“They are?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Yes; I said I was.”
“I’ve had the funniest feeling all day long, Rosemary. That something happened to you. Like an accident or something. That you were hurt. Maybe in the hospital.”
“Well, I’m not,” Rosemary said, and laughed. “I’m fine. Really I am.”
“It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “I was sure something had happened. Finally Gene said why don’t I call you and find out.”
“How is he?”
“Fine.”
“And the children?”
“Oh, the usual scrapes and scratches, but they’re fine too. I’ve got another one on the way, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. That’s wonderful. When is it due?” We’ll have one on the way soon too.
“The end of March. How’s your husband, Rosemary?”
“He’s fine. He’s got an important part in a new play that’s going into rehearsal soon.”
“Say, did you get a good look at the Pope?” Margaret asked. “There must be terrific excitement there.”
“There is,” Rosemary said. “I’ve been watching it on television. It’s in Omaha too, isn’t it?”
“Not live? You didn’t go out and see him live?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Honest to goodness, Rosemary,” Margaret said. “Do you know Ma and Pa were going to fly there to see him but they couldn’t because there’s going to be a strike vote and Pa’s seconding the motion? Lots of people did fly, though; the Donovans, and Dot and Sandy Wallingford; and you’re right there, living there, and didn’t go out and see him?”
“Religion doesn’t mean as much to me now as it did back home,” Rosemary said.
“Well,” Margaret said, “I guess that’s inevitable,” and Rosemary heard, unspoken, when you’re married to a Protestant. She said, “It was nice of you to call, Margaret. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve never been healthier or happier.”
“It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “From the minute I woke up. I’m so used to taking care of you little brats . . .”
“Give my love to everyone, will you? And tell Brian to answer my letter.”
“I will. Rosemary-“
“Yes?”
“I still have the feeling. Stay home tonight, will you?”
“That’s just what we’re planning to do,” Rosemary said, looking over at the partially set table.
“Good,” Margaret said. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” Rosemary said. “You too, Margaret.”
“I will. Good-by.”
“Good-by.”
She went back to setting the table, feeling pleasantly sad and nostalgic for Margaret and Brian and the other kids, for Omaha and the irretrievable past.
With the table set, she bathed; then powdered and perfumed herself, did her eyes and lips and hair, and put on a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas that Guy had given her the previous Christmas.
He came home late, after six. “Mmm,” he said, kissing her, “you look good enough to eat. Shall we? Damn!”
“What?”
“I forgot the pie.”
He had told her not to make a dessert; he would bring home his absolute all-time favorite, a Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie.
“I could kick myself,” he said. “I passed two of those damn retail stores; not one but two.”
“It’s all right,” Rosemary said. “We can have fruit and cheese. That’s the best dessert anyway, really.”
“It is not; Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie is.”
He went in to wash up and she put a tray of stuffed mushrooms into the oven and mixed the salad dressing.
In a few minutes Guy came to the kitchen door, buttoning the collar of a blue velour shirt. He was bright-eyed and a bit on edge, the way he had been the first time they slept together, when he knew it was going to happen. It pleased Rosemary to see him that way.
“Your pal the Pope really loused up traffic today,” he said.
“Did you see any of the television?” she asked. “They’ve had fantastic coverage.”
“I got a glimpse up at Allan’s,” he said. “Glasses in the freezer?”
“Yes. He made a wonderful speech at the UN. ‘War never again,’ he told them.”
“Rotsa ruck. Hey, those look good.”
They had Gibsons and the stuffed mushrooms in the living room. Guy put crumpled newspaper and sticks of kindling on the fireplace grate, and two big chunks of cannel coal. “Here goes nothing,” he said, and struck a match and lit the paper. It flamed high and caught the kindling. Dark smoke began spilling out over the front of the mantel and up toward the ceiling. “Good grief,” Guy said, and groped inside the fireplace. “The paint, the paint!” Rosemary cried.
He got the flue opened; and the air conditioner, set at exhaust, drew out the smoke.
“Nobody, but nobody, has a fire tonight,” Guy said.
Rosemary, kneeling with her drink and staring into the spitting flamewrapped coals, said, “Isn’t it gorgeous? I hope we have the coldest winter in eighty years.”
Guy put on Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter.
They were halfway through the swordfish when the doorbell rang. “Shit,” Guy said. He got up, tossed down his napkin, and went to answer it. Rosemary cocked her head and listened.
The door opened and Minnie said, “Hi, Guy!” and more that was unintelligible. Oh, no, Rosemary thought. Don’t let her in, Guy. Not now, not tonight.
Guy spoke, and then Minnie again: “. . . extra. We don’t need them.” Guy again and Minnie again. Rosemary eased out held-in breath; it didn’t sound as if she was coming in, thank God.
The door closed and was chained (Good!) and bolted (Good!). Rosemary watched and waited, and Guy sidled into the archway, smiling smugly, with both hands behind his back. “Who says there’s nothing to ESP?” he said, and coming toward the table brought forth his hands with two white custard cups sitting one on each palm. “Madame and Monsieur shall have ze dessairt after all,” he said, setting one cup by Rosemary’s wineglass and the other by his own. “Mousse au chocolat.” he said, “or ‘chocolate mouse,’ as Minnie calls it. Of course with her it could be chocolate mouse, so eat with care.”