“In the bedroom,” Guy said.
Minnie went into the bedroom. Roman poured glasses of wine. “He’s a brilliant man,” he said, “with all the sensitivity of his much-tormented race.” He gave glasses to Rosemary and Guy. “Let’s wait for Minnie,” he said.
They stood motionless, each holding a full wineglass, Roman holding two. Guy said, “Sit down, honey,” but Rosemary shook her head and stayed standing.
Minnie in the bedroom said, “Abe? Minnie. Fine. Listen, a dear friend of ours just found out today that she’s pregnant. Yes, isn’t it? I’m in her apartment now. We told her you’d be glad to take care of her and that you wouldn’t charge none of your fancy Society prices neither.” She was silent, then said, “Wait a minute,” and raised her voice. “Rosemary? Can you go see him tomorrow morning at eleven?”
“Yes, that would be fine,” Rosemary called back.
Roman said, “You see?”
“Eleven’s fine, Abe,” Minnie said. “Yes. You too. No, not at all. Let’s hope so. Good-by.”
She came back. “There you are,” she said. “I’ll write down his address for you before we go. He’s on Seventy-ninth Street and Park Avenue.”
“Thanks a million, Minnie,” Guy said, and Rosemary said, “I don’t know how to thank you. Both of you.”
Minnie took the glass of wine Roman held out to her. “It’s easy,” she said. “Just do everything Abe tells you and have a fine healthy baby; that’s all the thanks we’ll ever ask for.”
Roman raised his glass. “To a fine healthy baby,” he said.
“Hear, hear,” Guy said, and they all drank; Guy, Minnie, Rosemary, Roman.
“Mmm,” Guy said. “Delicious.”
“Isn’t it?” Roman said. “And not at all expensive.”
“Oh my,” Minnie said, “I can’t wait to tell the news to Laura-Louise.”
Rosemary said, “Oh, please. Don’t tell anyone else. Not yet. It’s so early.”
“She’s right,” Roman said. “There’ll be plenty of time later on for spreading the good tidings.”
“Would anyone like some cheese and crackers?” Rosemary asked.
“Sit down, honey,” Guy said. “I’ll get it.”
That night Rosemary was too fired with joy and wonder to fall asleep quickly. Within her, under the hands that lay alertly on her stomach, a tiny egg had been fertilized by a tiny seed. Oh miracle, it would grow to be Andrew or Susan! (“Andrew” she was definite about; “Susan” was open to discussion with Guy.) What was Andrew-or-Susan now, a pinpoint speck? No, surely it was more than that; after all, wasn’t she in her second month already? Indeed she was. It had-probably reached the early tadpole stage. She would have to find a chart or book that told month by month exactly what was happening. Dr. Sapirstein would know of one.
A fire engine screamed by. Guy shifted and mumbled, and behind the wall Minnie and Roman’s bed creaked.
There were so many dangers to worry about in the months ahead; fires, falling objects, cars out of control; dangers that had never been dangers before but were dangers now, now that Andrew-or-Susan was begun and living. (Yes, living!) She would give up her occasional cigarette, of course. And check with Dr. Sapirstein about cocktails.
If only prayer were still possible! How nice it would be to hold a crucifix again and have God’s ear: ask Him for safe passage through the eight more months ahead; no German measles, please, no great new drugs with Thalidomide side effects. Eight good months, please, free of accident and illness, full of iron and milk and sunshine.
Suddenly she remembered the good luck charm, the ball of tannis root; and foolish or not, wanted it-no, needed it-around her neck. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed to the vanity, and got it from the Louis Sherry box, freed it from its aluminum-foil wrapping. The smell of the tannis root had changed; it was still strong but no longer repellent. She put the chain over her head.
With the ball tickling between her breasts, she tiptoed back to bed and climbed in. She drew up the blanket and, closing her eyes, settled her head down into the pillow. She lay breathing deeply and was soon asleep, her hands on her stomach shielding the embryo inside her.
One
Now she was alive; was doing, was being, was at last herself and complete. She did what she had done before-cooked, cleaned, ironed, made the bed, shopped, took laundry to the basement, went to her sculpture class-but did everything against a new and serene background of knowing that Andrew-orSusan (or Melinda) was every day a little bit bigger inside her than the day before, a little bit more clearly defined and closer to readiness.
Dr. Sapirstein was wonderful; a tall sunburned man with white hair and a shaggy white moustache (she had seen him somewhere before but couldn’t think where; maybe on Open End) who despite the Mies van der Rohe chairs and cool marble tables of his waiting room was reassuringly old-fashioned and direct. “Please don’t read books,” he said. “Every pregnancy is different, and a book that tells you what you’re going to feel in the third week of the third month is only going to make you worry. No pregnancy was ever exactly like the ones described in the books. And don’t listen to your friends either. They’ll have had experiences very different from yours and they’ll be absolutely certain that their pregnancies were the normal ones and that yours is abnormal.”
She asked him about the vitamin pills Dr. Hill had prescribed.
“No, no pills,” he said. “Minnie Castevet has a herbarium and a blender; I’m going to have her make a daily drink for you that will be fresher, safer, and more vitamin-rich than any pill on the market. And another thing: don’t be afraid to satisfy your cravings. The theory today is that pregnant women invent cravings because they feel it’s expected of them. I don’t hold with that.
I say if you want pickles in the middle of the night, make your poor husband go out and get some, just like in the old jokes. Whatever you want, be sure you get it. You’ll be surprised at some of the strange things your body will ask for in these next few months. And any questions you have, call me night or day. Call me, not your mother or your Aunt Fanny. That’s what I’m here for.”
She was to come in once a week, which was certainly closer attention than Dr. Hill gave his patients, and he would make a reservation at Doctors Hospital without any bother of filling out forms.
Everything was right and bright and lovely. She got a Vidal Sassoon haircut, finished with the dentist, voted on Election Day (for Lindsay for mayor), and went down to Greenwich Village to watch some of the outdoor shooting of Guy’s pilot. Between takes-Guy running with a stolen hot-dog wagon down Sullivan Street-she crouched on her heels to talk to small children and smiled Me too at pregnant women.
Salt, she found, even a few grains of it, made food inedible. “That’s perfectly normal,” Dr. Sapirstein said on her second visit. “When your system needs it, the aversion will disappear. Meanwhile, obviously, no salt. Trust your aversions the same as you do your cravings.”
She didn’t have any cravings though. Her appetite, in fact, seemed smaller than usual. Coffee and toast was enough for breakfast, a vegetable and a small piece of rare meat for dinner. Each morning at eleven Minnie brought over what looked like a watery pistachio milkshake. It was cold and sour.
“What’s in it?” Rosemary asked.
‘Snips and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails,” Minnie said, smiling.
Rosemary laughed. “That’s fine,” she said, “but what if we want a girl?”
“Do you?”
“Well of course we’ll take what we get, but it would be nice if the first one were a boy. “
“Well there you are,” Minnie said.
Finished drinking, Rosemary said, “No, really, what’s in it?”