Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

“I’m sorry—I had no idea,” Erica says, moving from her chair to the bed. She reaches across it and touches Wendy’s shoulder, smoothing it lightly but firmly as if she were making pie crust. “Danielle said you were restless, moving around last night, but I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay,” Wendy gasps. ‘It’s just that, Brian, I remembered when. He was telling me that.” She swallows with apparent difficulty. “I mean, like I knew all along he didn’t love me the way I love him, I could accept that, but I never thought he’d—Hey, this is sort of freaky,” she says in a different tone, looking up and focusing on Erica. “I mean, talking to you this way.”

“That’s all right.” Erica is still sitting on the edge of the bed, but she has stopped patting Wendy’s shoulder since it occurred to her that Brian also had patted this shoulder at one time; or rather many times.

“But listen.” Wendy makes an effort to. steady her voice; she swallows hard. “What I hafta ask you is, do you think I could be right? About the baby. I mean, did you ever feel the same about your kids, that their lives are very valuable, more than most, because of their heredity? Not only Brian, you know, but all those judges and people in New England history that he’s descended from. I mean, his kids might grow up to be important people, maybe very brilliant, great human beings.”

“Yes,” Erica admits. “I thought something like that once, when Jeffrey and Matilda were babies.” She does not add that she is almost sure now neither of them will grow up to be great human beings, or possibly even human beings. It would probably seem only one more reason why someone else (Wendy, for instance) should try to reproduce Brian’s valuable genes.

“So you think I should go through with it?”

“I’m not sure,” replies Erica, who is sure but wants to give the impression of reflection, and to marshal her arguments. “It’s a very serious responsibility,” she says. “I mean you can’t just have a baby. That’s only the beginning; it’s a lifetime job. A child needs more than good heredity, it needs a stable family, parents who—”

“But I don’t want to raise it myself,” Wendy interrupts. “I just think maybe I ought to have it, you know?” She sits forward. “There are homes you can go away to; Danielle said last night she might know of one. There was this place out on Long Island a friend of mine in high school went to. They took care of everything and found people to adopt the kid. Do you think it could still be running?”

“I suppose it might be,” Erica admits.

“It would be sort of a drag, because I’d have to stay there for like four or five months. My girl friend said they were always lecturing them and showing them these gross-out films on drugs and VD, and they made her go to church every day and take sewing lessons. But maybe I could work on my thesis some, at least do the reading. The place Sharon went was free, too. That’d be cool if I could find a place like that, so I wouldn’t be ripping off Ma or Brian.”

“You mustn’t worry about that,” Erica says firmly, standing up. “You mustn’t even consider it, Brian can certainly afford to pay for the operation.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“Of course it’s fair.”

“But it’s not his fault; it’s my own stupid fault. There was this all-night party and I missed a day and a half and then I thought I could make up for it by taking two pills at once, because I’m so stupid.” Wendy shows signs of beginning to cry again seriously.

“Please, Wendy. Don’t upset yourself,” Erica begs her. “There’s no use thinking about that now.” These remarks are not effective. “I’m sure it can’t be good for the baby,” she tries.

“No.” Wendy attempts to control her gulping sobs. “Yeh.”

“You’re overtired, that’s what it is. Why don’t you go back to sleep for a while? Danielle’s children don’t come home for lunch, so you can get a good rest. Come on now. Lie down.”

“Okay.” Wendy uncurls and subsides onto the bed, then half rises again. “You know what I want to do. I want to go down to the bookshop,” she announces.

“Bookshop?”

“The Krishna Bookshop. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I want to talk to Zed. Do you know Zed?”

“No,” says Erica, who has not thought of Sandy Finkelstein once since she found Wendy on her porch.

“You oughta meet him, he’s out of this world. I mean like literally. He’s a renunciate; he’s renounced all material goods and possessive relationships. He doesn’t even drink coffee. He’s been on the Path for years. You know, the spiritual Path.”

“I see.” Erica has a vision of Sandy on the Path: it appears to her as a narrow dirt track, overhung with brambles, winding up haphazardly through a steep dark wood.

“He’s helped me a lot, you know. He’s very wise.”

A new and disagreeable possibility occurs to Erica. “Have you told him about all this?”

“Uh uh. I haven’t seen him since I found out for sure. Well, he sort of knows I’m in love with somebody but he doesn’t know who it is. He’s not interested in details like that, only in your spiritual development ... I think maybe I’ll go down there this afternoon and get him to look at my chart.”

“Chart?”

“My horoscope. Zed’s a really heavy astrologer.”

“Please, Wendy, don’t do that,” Erica asks. “I mean, too many people know about this already.”

“But Zed wouldn’t tell anyone. He’s a fanatic about keeping secrets; he’s a double Pisces, with practically all his planets in the twelfth house.”

“All the same, I’d rather he didn’t know. Not yet, anyhow. Please.”

“Well. Okay.” Wendy lies down again with a small sigh.

“Here’s your pillow.”

Erica covers Wendy, lowers the window shade and carries the tray downstairs. The plate is empty now except for a sticky yellow smear and some dark broken crumbs, and there is only a dirty sludge in the mug; but she does not like it any better.

She sets the tray on the kitchen counter and looks at the telephone beside it. Should she call that doctor now and make the appointment? Danielle is probably right: Wendy will go to New York if Erica tells her to. But if she goes only because Erica tells her to, whatever happens there will be Erica’s fault. It is all so difficult, so complicated. If she had refused to speak to Wendy yesterday, as some—perhaps most—wives would have, Wendy would be in Jersey City, and everything would have been over soon one way or another. But it is too late for that now.

Sometimes a miserable refugee cat or dog, abandoned by its owners, appears in your yard. If you keep your door shut until it goes away, nobody will blame you. But suppose you take it into the house, feed it, find it a place to stay. From then on you are responsible.

Of course sometimes the stray cat runs away again, as had almost happened last night. If Wendy had gone then, taken the bus to New York before anything more could be done for her, it would have been distressing, but also a kind of relief. There would have been no more responsibility and blame then for Erica and Danielle—only for Brian. If Wendy had done something awful and stupid (Erica does not think “killed herself”) there would have been unending guilt for him. All the rest of his life Brian would have carried this guilt on his back, like a phantom knapsack full of wet broken bloody rocks. No, no. Even now, she cannot wish him that.

But whatever happens in New York, there will be something in the knapsack. At the best, something halfway between a dead fish and a dead baby. Brian will haul it to campus, into his office and his classrooms; at night he will drag it home again. The ghostly knapsack will be propped against the wall of her sitting room, a dim, uneven canvas shape; later it will be collapsed, almost but never quite empty, in a dark corner of their bedroom; all night, night after night, year after year.