Hilda and Pearl (20 page)

Two days later she was working alone in her part of the office, retyping a letter on which she had made some mistakes, when she looked up. Later she thought that she must have heard footsteps, but at the time she wasn't aware of them. She knew Nathan was going to be standing there, and so she looked up—but when she saw him, she stared as if she didn't know who he was. He looked exactly the way he had looked the day of the rally, and for a moment she wished it were that day and that the only thing happening was that she and Nathan were going to a rally. Nathan was wearing his dark overcoat, which made him look more old-fashioned than usual. He was not smiling or speaking.

“You came here,” she said.

“You said you had to talk to me.”

“Here?”

“Can you leave for a while?”

“I'll ask.” It was late in the day—after four. She bypassed Mr. Glynnis's office because she knew that Mr. Carmichael, who liked her, would say yes. She told him that her brother-in-law had a problem he needed to discuss with her, and Mr. Carmichael said, “Oh, yes, the fellow with coffee on his trousers.” Pearl got her coat and she and Nathan went into the street. They walked until they came to a little luncheonette and went inside. Nathan ordered coffee, but Pearl said she wanted a malted. She needed strength.

“A malted, of course,” said Nathan. He crossed his arms on the table and stared at her so hard that Pearl, who had taken off her coat and put it around her shoulders, looked down at her sweater to make sure it was properly buttoned. Or maybe he too had noticed her breasts. “I should have talked to you before,” said Nathan.

“It didn't matter,” said Pearl. He thought she just wanted to talk about what had happened that night.

“It mattered a lot,” said Nathan. “Pearl, I want you to know I have nothing but respect for you. And I always will. I could never explain it except by saying that I think you are a very—a very lovely girl. I've been thinking about it, day after day. I know you are not that sort of person.”

“What sort of person?”

“The sort of person who is accustomed to—”

She couldn't understand him. “Accustomed?”

“Pearl, you never did that before. Did you?”

“You mean—make love?” She was so confused she felt shy about saying they'd made love, as if maybe she'd imagined it, and he would be shocked.

“Well, yes.”

“With Mike,” she said quietly, like a child answering a question in school.

“Yes, of course, with Mike—but not with anybody else. I mean, it's none of my business—”

She thought he wanted to know whether she'd been a virgin when she married. “No, not with anybody else.” She thought he wanted to make sure of her.

He accepted his coffee from the waitress and put cream and sugar in and stirred it. “That's what I mean,” he said, a little impatiently. “You're not like that. And I hope I don't—”

“I love you,” said Pearl simply, in answer. Her malted had come. There was a tall glass and a metal container with more malted in it. She always liked that thought, that there would be more when she finished the first glass. It usually made her feel rich, like someone who didn't have to be careful.

Nathan reddened, glancing out the window, where a man in a shabby coat was walking by with a thin dog on a leash. Nathan stirred his coffee some more. Then he looked at her. His eyes were pleading. “Pearl,” he said.

“Nathan, I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't loved you,” she said. “Now, I don't know what we should do exactly. And I have something to tell you—the reason I wrote to you. But please—”

“I understand,” he said.

“What I wanted to talk about?”

“No—I mean, I don't know.”

“Nathan,” she said. She wanted him to be a little different, to speak more definitely. She'd imagined this conversation only two ways. One way, he'd say they should run away together. The other way, he'd want to wait. But now that there was this baby, she didn't see how they could wait. She was a little impatient with him. She didn't know why he kept saying he respected her. She didn't care about that. She drank some of her malted while she thought about what to say. It was comforting—it tasted as if she were a child. But she wasn't a child. “I'm having a baby,” she said.

“Oh, Pearl, that's good,” he said. “Congratulations. I didn't know.”

“Nobody knows.”

“Mike doesn't know?”

“Mike asked me if I was. I told him it was too early to tell. But it's not too early. I'm sure I'm having a baby.”

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“Not yet.”

“But you're sure—that's good, Pearl. I'm glad.”

“Nathan,” she said. It was painful, having to explain so much, so many times. “I'm not sure it's so good. It's your baby.”

“What?”

“It's your baby.”

“But how do you know?” he said. He looked alarmed. “Haven't you and Mike—”

“Oh, sure,” she said. She didn't want him to think she and Mike weren't normal. “But I can tell. A woman can tell.”

“You mean you just imagine it's my baby?”

“No, not that, more than that. I mean, I had to get pregnant sometime, right? Well, I remember—”

“You couldn't be sure,” he said. “How do you know what day it was? You could have gotten pregnant on lots of days. Don't you know that?”

“No, I don't think that's right,” said Pearl, but she wasn't sure, now that he was acting this way, exactly when a woman could become pregnant.

She had had it all worked out. Now she couldn't remember, couldn't explain about having her period the day she'd gone to the dentist but not the week of the rally. He wouldn't believe her.

She drank some more of her malted. It was sweet and rich. “I'm sure,” she said again.

“Well, I don't see how you can be,” he said, and he sounded like a teacher, as if she'd just explained to a teacher that he'd misunderstood her answer on a test, that she had had the right answer all along.

“But—” she said.

“Look, Pearl,” he said. “It happened and I'm not going to deny it. But let's be reasonable here. If you insist you're pregnant with my child, look what's in store for us—for the child, for Hilda, for Rachel, for Mike, for everyone. Mike doesn't know what happened that night, does he?”

“No, of course not,” she said.

“Good,” he said, nodding briskly. “He doesn't ever have to know. It would only hurt him. I'm sorry it happened, I can't explain it, but I can't change it now. Only if you insist that—”

“It's not that I'm insisting,” she said. “It's just the way it is. And I love you. Isn't that important?”

He dropped his balding head into his hands. He had drunk his coffee and pushed away the cup, and his arms were on the table. He looked up at her and said, “Yes, Pearl, it's important. I'm—I'm touched that you say you love me.” And he lowered his face to his crossed arms.

“But you don't love
me
?” said Pearl. She had not drunk much of the malted. The second portion, in the container, was still there. She was angry that he wouldn't look at her. She thought he was only pretending to be overcome with emotion. He looked like a child hiding his eyes while he counted in a game, to give everyone a chance to hide. She stood up.

“Good-bye, Nathan,” she said. Her coat slipped down when she stood up and she had to reach to the floor for it; then she tripped on it. She stuffed it under her arm and ran outside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waitress, her face alarmed, take a step toward her as she opened the door and the cold air rushed in. She began to walk rapidly, not noticing where she was going. She knew she was hurrying across streets without making sure it was safe, but she did it anyway. It was dark now. People who had come from offices were rushing toward subway stations and disappearing down the stairs into the lighted wells. Pearl ran past them. She was crying, and she bumped into a man when she bent her head and wiped her eyes with her hand. She expected him to be angry, but he put his hands on her shoulders for a second, like someone straightening a wobbly ornament on a mantel, and in a kind way said, “Mind your step, Missy,” before he hurried away. He was a white-haired man and Pearl wished she could bring him back and tell him what had gone wrong, why she was crying in the street without a hat or coat. She stopped and put her coat on. She had to figure out where she was and go back to the office. She had not put the cover on her typewriter and straightened things for the end of the day, and she had left her hat there. And there was another reason she had to go back, though she didn't know—didn't quite know—what it was.

She was lost, and she walked two blocks before she saw where she was. She had been going the wrong way. It was a long walk back to the office and she was exhausted, but now she knew what she was going to do there.

When she reached the building she hurried up the stairs. There were a few lights on, but almost everyone had gone. That was good. If the place were altogether empty, it would be even better. Pearl went into her own cubicle, which had no door. She would just take the risk that someone might see her. She took off her coat and hung it up. Then she sat down at her desk. There was the letter that she had been typing. Even the second one was full of mistakes. The sentences seemed like the foolishness of a child. “I remain in hope of your pseedy reply,” she had written. Of course she had meant speedy. She had written the letter herself. Mr. Carmichael had told her what he wanted to say—it was to a supplier of buttons—and she had written it.

Glancing at the letter, she pulled the hairpins out of her head with one hand—a practiced gesture, which she could perform in an instant. For the last few, she steadied the braid as usual so it wouldn't pull the final hairpins out as it fell. Then, a handful of hairpins in her right hand, she let go with her left and the braid dropped heavily to her back. She opened her desk drawer. She started to put the hairpins into the tray where she kept paper clips, but then thought better of it and opened her hand over the wastebasket under her desk.

In the drawer was a pair of old scissors with battered black handles. Pearl held the braid back, pulled to the side, with her left hand. With her right hand reaching up behind her, she began to cut. It was hard to do. The scissors were dull and the angle was wrong. It took a long time before she had cut even halfway across the braid. Then she held it with her right hand and tried to cut with her left, but she couldn't manage the scissors left-handed. Finally she put them back in her right hand and tried to hurry, glancing up a few times. Once she thought she heard footsteps. At last it was done. The braid came away in her hand and she shuddered when she saw it lying on the desk on top of the letter. She reached her hand up and felt her bare neck and the rough ends of her hair. She looked around quickly. On the desk was a manila envelope used for interoffice mail. It had a red fastener and red lines across the front. It had gone to three people and their names were written on it. Someone had brought something in it to Pearl without writing her name on the envelope.

She turned it over. On the other side it was blank. She put the braid in, and she had to stuff it to get it all in. When she tried to write on it, her fountain pen punctured the envelope. She had to pull the braid out again and see it once more, and that was the hardest part. Now she wrote Nathan's name and address—his home address—on the envelope. Then she put on stamps from her desk. She stuffed the braid in again and closed the fastener and sealed the flap with tape. Then she put on her coat. Her hat would look terrible. She had a big square silk scarf, and she tied it over her head. She would have to walk a couple of blocks out of her way to find a mailbox big enough for a package. The one on the corner took only letters.

She put the envelope under her arm and left her cubicle and started down the stairs. Just as she reached the staircase Mr. Glynnis stepped out of the supply room, looking startled. “I didn't know you were still here, Pearl,” he said.

“I'm just leaving,” she said.

“Good night, Pearl.” He stood and watched her as she walked down the stairs, the envelope under one arm, her other hand holding her coat so she didn't trip. Her head was sore. She'd pulled hard to make the hairs tight and easier to cut.

“Good night, Mr. Glynnis,” she said.

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