By Saturday night, with the new phone number in service and the wires, mail, and occasional press inquiries answered, I could sit back and relax and let Hortense do me a steak, which she did. But she seemed oddly withdrawn. After awhile I asked: “What’s the trouble? Have I done something?”
“Yes, I guess that’s it.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you, all in due time.”
But it wasn’t until we were tucked into bed and she was in my arms that she whispered: “Lloyd, I’m pregnant.”
“Well! I did do something, didn’t I?”
“I got the lab report yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you until you were out from under some of the pressures that have been plaguing you.”
“The rabbit died, huh?”
“They don’t use a rabbit now. There’s some other test that’s more certain. Positive, it said.”
“How do you stand on time?”
“On time? What do you mean ‘on time’?”
“How far gone are you?”
“With the life we lead, it’s pretty hard to tell. But two or three weeks seems about right. Maybe three. No more than four.”
“Then there’s plenty of time.”
“For what?”
“Surgery, I would assume.”
She lay still for a long time without saying anything. “I would have to think about that,” she said finally.
“And in the meantime? What’s permitted?”
For a moment, she drew a blank, then: “Oh that! Why, everything... not only permitted; it’s required. He needs it — or she does, whichever — for... encouragement. Psychological normality. What you make me feel, he feels, too, of course — or she does.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“You sweet goof.”
The next day she didn’t go into town. She sat around with me, first by the window, looking out, then by the fireplace where I had built a fire because the heat hadn’t come on yet. Besides, it was chilly outside. And when she wasn’t doing any of these, she would walk around the apartment. That night, again in my arms, she said: “I’m not going to have it done.”
“The abortion?... Well, it’s up to you.”
“I was warned when I had my miscarriage that if I ever had an abortion, it could mean the end of me — not my life but my capacity to have children. And I want this child. Deep down in me, I’ve been wanting it, wanting to have one by you. That’s what’s made me so careless — with that damned pill. Now you know, I wasn’t really careless. I just hated it, hated the purpose of it.”
“Then that’s that.”
“It is, Lloyd. It has to be.”
“How can they be so sure?”
“You mean the doctors? Of what it would do to me? Lloyd, nothing is really sure about a woman’s internal works. They explained it to me, I guess — with pictures and diagrams and all sorts of warnings about having a natural birth and not letting them do a Caesarian. I suppose I understood it. Anyhow, it convinced me that once this happens to me, I have to go through, or else. But you want me to have it, don’t you?”
“Have what? The child?”
“The abortion.”
“Give me a minute to think what I mean.” At the end of a very long minute I said: “I want you to talk to Mr. Garrett — about a divorce.”
“That’s just what I don’t want to do.”
“It’s what you have to do.”
“Lloyd, who says I have to?”
“God says so, Hortense. At the end of nine months, minus two, three, or four weeks, an eight ball will roll over us so big it’ll mash us flat — unless by then you’re divorced and we can be married honestly, as we are in all ways right now, except the one way that’ll do our child some good.”
“But why can’t I wait? Why do I have to rush?”
“I’ve just told you. In nine months, minus—”
“But, Lloyd, we have a triangle here — you, me, and him. He’s up to something, too! Why can’t I wait him out? So he comes to me. So he brings the subject up.”
“The subject of divorce?”
“Of course! What else?”
It had a deep, crafty sound, but to my mind wasn’t deep and not in any way crafty. It was simply, I thought, putting her head in the sand, hoping that if she did nothing, things would turn out all right. Because I loved her, however, I pretended to buy it big, telling her: “O.K., then, so be it. At least we know this much — something goes on up there.”
“Up where, Lloyd?”
“Wilmington. Hortense, he knows. He has to know. We know he knows. O.K., then, we take it from there. Why is he being so nice? What is he up to, anyhow?”
“That’s it! That’s what I mean, Lloyd!”
So, O.K., we wait him out. He has to break cover eventually.”
“You know what they say that about?”
“I’ll bite. What?”
“Tigers.”
17
So we were in business, and just to make it official, I named an “executive committee,” three members of our board, to ratify my decisions and, of course, draw moderate salaries. I called Davis and got his acceptance — his enthusiastic acceptance, I might add. But in regard to him, one funny thing happened. By this time I was making weekly trips to see Mr. Garrett, and one day he said to me: “Davis was in — happened to be passing through and dropped in to pay his respects.”
“Oh? Well, he’s an old-time bureaucrat. They polish their apples... always. It’s automatic with them. ‘Corridor politicians,’ they’re known as.”
“He’s after your job, Lloyd.”
“He’s what?”
“Bucking for director.”
“He is an old-time bureaucrat, isn’t he? What did he say, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Nothing. I go by the look in his eye. But if I can see it, you can see it, and my reason for mentioning it is: don’t be upset. Use him. Let him scheme his head off. Your job is safe, whatever he does.”
“Well... thanks.”
“He’s an oily son of a bitch.”
“With me, he acts like a brother.”
“Don’t trust brotherly love too much.”
Davis was in his midfifties, above medium height, slim, well-conditioned, and gray, with a quick, eager smile, as though what you just said was the most profound thing he had ever heard. He had a way of taking off his glasses and studying you two-eyed with a stare much more intimate than a four-eyed stare would have been. Sam Dent fixed him up with an office, but he was underfoot all the time, dropping in on me with bright and cheerful news about how long he had been a fan of mine, from back in my college days to my days playing football.