Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

A silence.

“Okay,” Wendy finally replied, turning back, also smiling. But her smile was not very happy, Brian recalls, and she left soon afterward. Probably he had hurt her feelings.

He had realized this even then, and planned to straighten things out when they next met on Tuesday; but there was an unexpected department meeting. He called the apartment that morning, something he always dislikes doing, and as he feared got only Wendy’s roommate. He left a brief, perhaps brusque message—no doubt hurting Wendy’s feelings again, for she has not called back. It is now Thursday noon, and she has still not called, nor come around to the office.

What he has to explain to Wendy is that his reaction to her baby fantasy was not meant to hurt, but was natural, automatic. He is too old to have any more children (indeed, he sometimes thinks, too old to bear the ones he already has). But if Wendy has daydreams of becoming a mother, that too is only natural. He has daydreams himself: imagining himself nationally recognized as a political analyst; called to New York or Washington, legally and financially free to enjoy life there; to meet someone perhaps, in certain respects, like Wendy. He has entertained these fantasies as often as Wendy hers, and more foolishly—for she will presumably have children someday, but he will never be famous or free. He will have to sit in this same office until he retires, legally and financially bound to Corinth University and to three people toward whom he feels almost nothing now but obligation: a woman who hates him and is having a nervous collapse, and two revolting (in both senses) adolescents. It is the bitterness of this, perhaps, which made him speak hastily to Wendy, whose life is not over. He admits it. He spoke hastily to her, and harshly.

All right, Brian thinks. I hurt Wendy’s feelings. It is up to me to apologize, to point out that I felt no revulsion from her maternal fantasies, only a practical concern that they should not become reality yet. What I should do now is call her up and explain this.

Brian looks at the telephone on his desk, but does not lift it. It is noon, and Wendy is probably at home; but so, unfortunately, is her roommate, Linda Sliski—a skinny, long-haired girl with large hands and feet and a breathy manner, who sometimes trips on mind-expanding drugs. Brian regards Linda with wariness and antipathy, both because of what he knows about her and because of what she knows about him, Wendy insists that Linda is really straight and loyal, that she would never cop out, but he is not convinced. He has a recurrent dread that on one of her trips Linda’s mind will expand so far that his name will leak out through the cracks.

Brian avoids Linda whenever possible. If he sees her approaching him on campus he turns onto another path, climbs unnecessary stairs, or abruptly enters the nearest building. In closed spaces such as the coffee shop, he either pretends not to notice Linda or gives her a rapid, hearty “Hello” and moves off as fast as possible. At his earnest request, Wendy has so arranged it that Linda is always out of the apartment when he comes to lunch. He feels a suspicious dislike of even speaking to her, how ever briefly, on the telephone.

Frowning, tightening, his face, Brian decides to wait until tomorrow, when he will see Wendy, and not to worry about it meanwhile. Yet when he stops in the department office on his way to lunch and recognizes her handwriting on an envelope among the junk mail in his box, his facial muscles loosen in relief.

“Good news, I hope?” asks Helen Wells, the department secretary, observing this relaxation.

“No, just advertisements and bills,” replies Brian. Smiling, he takes his mail back upstairs to read in the privacy of his office opening it, as always, in reverse order of interest.

Now At Last FUNK AND WHANG PUBLICATIONS Bring You What You As An Educator Have Been Asking For ...

Dear Friend of American Liberties: On May 16 of this year C. Daniel Farber was arrested following an alleged sit-in and destruction of property at the Clinton County Draft Board. His bail was set at ...

Dear Brain—

I guess maybe this is the last letter I will ever write you which kind of blows my mind because I figured I would write you and rap with you the rest of my life. Which maybe wasn’t saying so much.

The end of everything as you so firmly said so I’m splitting as you know, and want. I would have dug discussing what it means that it happened, getting into why and how but when I tried to bring up the topic I got such bad vibes from you I couldn’t hack it. Like Professor Frankel said I have sometimes the difficulty in expression. My hangup. I was too psyched yesterday when you didn’t come to take a chance on calling or going to see you in case I might like start screaming and really freak out, which was why I didn’t as undoubtedly you know because you know everything. It took me until this morning to stop being childish and personal and laying the blame on you which was a copout because we both knew and said from the beginning that if I got knocked up it was my responsibility or as it turned out irresponsibility. Anyhow I have to cope now. I got pretty flaky waiting for you to call but finally I accepted that you weren’t going to, that you had decided. If you know everything then you must be right it would have hurt worse to lay it on the line although I still can’t visualize how anything could hurt worse.

I was going to disappear silently like WHOOSH Away Soil and Toil on the TV only I was afraid (and Linda agrees) that if I did you might have some doubts later and get racked up which would be a bad development because the whole idea is for Brian Not To Be Hassled, to be always and more and more calm and productive and together—as much as anybody can be in this American Century—granted that. And to finish your book which will be a beautiful child for you and the world. Don’t regret anything not ever I don’t. I wanted to love completely and give my whole self to you and I got my wish not the way I thought but that’s how it is with wishes. Zed says we all live many different lives and this one is over for me that’s all. I want to say besides, think of me some cold afternoons in your office but I know that’s an ego trip. Don’t think of me just remember how important what you are writing is and now nothing can get between you and it anymore. And take care of yourself.

yours yours yours yours yours

Brian’s first reaction to this document is bewilderment, followed, as he reads on, by great vexation of spirit. How can Wendy have become pregnant? Supposedly, she is on the pill; “what it means that it happened” therefore is that she has lost her balance and carelessly, stupidly, fallen off the pill. Next he is angry at his own stupidity, for not having foreseen this, prevented it; then again at her for not having told him, for having been so stupidly inarticulate.

But after all, Wendy admits these faults. He reads her letter over again and is struck by her admission of weakness, her acceptance of responsibility, her generous refusal to blame or involve him. Believing that he knew what had happened, she has waited for him to speak. Since he has not, she accepts it. Without asking for anything, without making a scene, she declares her intention of leaving town, presumably to seek an abortion (“I have to cope now”).

For a moment he considers allowing the misunderstanding to continue, accepting her generosity silently and letting her go—but only for a moment. To do that would be both morally and practically indefensible—both bad government and bad politics.

Besides, he wants to see her. He must see her, must clear up the misunderstanding, assure himself of her emotional stability and continuing discretion, assure her of his continuing affection, his emotional and moral support—And his practical support. Legal operations cost a lot of money; illegal ones, not covered by Blue Cross, cost even more. Brian can afford to replace Blue Cross, and it is right that he should do so.