When she was settled in the car, Hutch leaned in at the window and said, “I have all kinds of good advice to give you but I’m going to mind my own business if it kills me.”
Rosemary kissed him. “Thank you,” she said. “For that and for this and for everything.”
She left on the morning of Saturday, October 16th, and stayed five days at the cabin. The first two days she never once thought about Guy-a fitting revenge for the cheerfulness with which he had agreed to her going. Did she look as if she needed a good rest? Very well, she would have one, a long one, never once thinking about him. She took walks through dazzling yellow-and-orange woods, went to sleep early and slept late, read Flight of The Falcon by Daphne du Maurier, and made glutton’s meals on the bottled-gas stove. Never once thinking about him.
On the third day she thought about him. He was vain, self-centered, shallow, and deceitful. He had married her to have an audience, not a mate. (Little Miss Just-out-of-Omaha, what a goop she had been! “Oh, I’m used to actors; I’ve been here almost a year now.” And she had all but followed him around the studio carrying his newspaper in her mouth.) She would give him a year to shape up and become a good husband; if he didn’t make it she would pull out, and with no religious qualms whatever. And meanwhile she would go back to work and get again that sense of independence and self-sufficiency she had been so eager to get rid of. She would be strong and proud and ready to go if he failed to meet her standards.
Those glutton’s meals-man-size cans of beef stew and chili con carnebegan to disagree with her, and on that third day she was mildly nauseated and could eat only soup and crackers.
On the fourth day she awoke missing him and cried. What was she doing there, alone in that cold crummy cabin? What had he done that was so terrible? He had gotten drunk and had grabbed her without saying may I. Well that was really an earth-shaking offense, now wasn’t it? There he was, facing the biggest challenge of his career, and she-instead of being there to help him, to cue and encourage him-was off in the middle of nowhere, eating herself sick and feeling sorry for herself. Sure he was vain and self-centered; he was an actor, wasn’t he? Laurence Olivier was probably vain and self-centered. And yes he might lie now and then; wasn’t that exactly what had attracted her and still did?-that freedom and nonchalance so different from her own boxed-in propriety?
She drove into Brewster and called him. Service answered, the Friendly One: “Oh hi, dear, are you back from the country? Oh. Guy is out, dear; can he call you? You’ll call him at five. Right. You’ve certainly got lovely weather. Are you enjoying yourself? Good.”
At five he was still out, her message waiting for him. She ate in a diner and went to the one movie theater. At nine he was still out and Service was someone new and automatic with a message for her: she should call him before eight the next morning or after six in the evening.
That next day she reached what seemed like a sensible and realistic view of things. They were both at fault; he for being thoughtless and self-absorbed, she for failing to express and explain her discontent. He could hardly be expected to change until she showed him that change was called for. She had only to talk-no, they had only to talk, for he might be harboring a similar discontent of which she was similarly unaware-and matters couldn’t help but improve. Like so many unhappinesses, this one had begun with silence in the place of honest open talk.
She went into Brewster at six and called and he was there. “Hi, darling,” he said. “How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“All right. I miss you.”
She smiled at the phone. “I miss you, “ she said. “I’m coming home tomorrow.”
“Good, that’s great,” he said. “All kinds of things have been going on here. Rehearsals have been postponed until January.”
“They haven’t been able to cast the little girl. It’s a break for me though; I’m going to do a pilot next month. A half-hour comedy series.”
“You are?”
“It fell into my lap, Ro. And it really looks good. ABC loves the idea. It’s called Greenwich Village; it’s going to be filmed there, and I’m a way-out writer. It’s practically the lead.”
“That’s marvelous, Guy!”
“Allan says I’m suddenly very hot.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Listen, I’ve got to shower and shave; he’s taking me to a screening that Stanley Kubrick is going to be at. When are you going to get in?”
“Around noon, maybe earlier.”
“I’ll be waiting. Love you.”
“Love you!”
She called Hutch, who was out, and left word with his service that she would return the car the following afternoon.
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.