Morning (32 page)

She had no idea how long she had been sitting there when the doorbell rang, so near to her—just a few steps across the hallway to the front door—that she almost screamed. It was the mailman with a small special delivery package from Julia.

“Open immediately!” it said in bright red letters on the brown wrapping paper.

Sara thanked the mailman, then carried the parcel to the dining room table and sat down with it. Inside a small box she found a tiny oval rock, a not particularly pretty or unusual one, and a plastic sandwich bag filled with tiny brown—what? Nuts? Seeds? Dry oatmeal? She unfolded Julia’s note.

In the seventeenth century, they believed that “The seeds of
Docks
tyed to the left arme of a woman do help Barrennesse.” I looked it up in the dictionary—“dock” is one of several coarse weeds of the buckwheat family. Then I remembered that my mother—and you know what an intellectual snob she is—took wheat germ for a long time trying to get pregnant with my brother. So this mishmash is wheat germ mixed up with ground buckwheat noodles—the closest I could get to buckwheat seeds. I wonder why it should be tied to the
left
arm.

The pebble is for you to use in the bath. “To cure sterility, in Shetland in the nineteenth century, a woman washed her feet in running water in which an egg-shaped pebble was placed.” So tie this stuff to your left arm, put the stone in your bathtub, take a nice long bath, and there you are, all knocked up. I’ll bet my medicine works at least as well as Dr. Crochett’s hanky-panky.

I love and adore you even if you are insane, and I’ve sent a decent Christmas present to you and Steve in a separate package.

Love, Julia

Sara studied the box. For the first time, here were some ancient cures for infertility that she could actually do something with. She’d never tried to find wolf pizzle, and she’d never sit over a bowl of steaming garlic—but this she could do.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, standing up suddenly, wild with energy. For she had had a thought—why stand in a bathtub with this one egg-shaped stone when she was so close to the ocean, which had to hold billions of egg-shaped stones. All those pebbles. Why there must be more than billions—in the ocean there must be trillions, more than could be numbered, more than all the stars in all the galaxies!

Hurrying, she dressed warmly, piling a wool sweater over a flannel shirt and leg warmers over her jeans. With a piece of Christmas ribbon—she paused a moment, considering just which color was right, and decided on green, of course, for fertility, for life—she tied the baggie of wheat germ around her left upper arm. Then, careful not to knock it off, she pulled on her parka. She jammed a wool cap on her head, pulled on her thickest gloves, grabbed up a pair of wool socks, slipped into her boots, and ran out to the car.

There could be people at the Jetties Beach, or at least out in the harbor, scallopers and fishermen going out or coming in. She headed to Surfside Beach on the Atlantic Ocean side of Nantucket. And she was in luck—no one else was there. She ran down the long slope of sand to the water’s edge. It was not windy today, so that the waves seemed to dawdle in, taking their time, lolling about on the sand. Good. She wouldn’t have to worry about being knocked over or dragged under.

Sara kicked off her rubber boots and walked into the water. The cold was so intense and painful that it was like putting her feet against burning irons. Immediately she felt the instinct to jump back, to jump out, but she gritted her teeth and walked farther into the waves. She leaned over and, taking Julia’s pebble from her pocket, tossed it into the water next to her feet. She stood there then, letting the icy waves surge around her feet and ankles. She looked out at the navy blue waters to the horizon, then up to the winter-pale sky where the sun rolled overhead like a primitive god, hurting her eyes with its glare.

“All right,” she said aloud. “Here I am. Look.” The ocean was calm today, but even so the waves rolled with noise, a steady booming that drowned out everything else.
“I said here I am!”
Sara shouted.
“With my egg-shaped rock and my docks tied to my left arm and all my prayers aimed at every single generative force in this whole fucking universe! So do something! Give me a break!”

She began to shiver. Her feet hurt unmercifully. In the warmer months, after a few moments in the water, one got used to the relative cold—but this was too cold. This was painful.

Perhaps if she walked. The quote Julia had sent said “washed.” All right. Although she had no soap—but there was sand, the old primitive matter for washing. Pushing up the sleeves of her parka and sticking her gloves in her pocket, she leaned over and scrubbed at her feet with the sand, with small egg-shaped pebbles. Her hands contracted with the cold.

Standing up again, she noticed a portly woman bundled in layers against the winter wind, walking along the beach toward her, her black Lab dog dashing and yelping joyfully.

Shit
, Sara thought. She felt intruded upon.

“Are you all right?” the woman called, approaching Sara.

Actually, no
, Sara wanted to reply.
Actually I’m insane, demented, absolutely berserk
.

“Just fine,” Sara called back cheerfully. Sticking her hands in her pockets, she turned in the opposite direction and strolled along casually, kicking at the water with her feet as if she were wading in August warmth. She racked her brain but could think of no rational explanation to give the older woman for standing barefoot in the freezing water, so she just went splashing on, until finally she was shaking with cold.

She stepped out of the water then, sat down on the sand, and drew on her wool socks. Oh, the ecstasy of warmth. She looked out at the ocean.
All right
, she spoke silently to the ocean, to the natural force that ruled the ocean and all other universal forces.
I’ve done my part. Now you do yours
.

When she got home, she took a long hot bath and drank cups of hot herbal tea, trying to ward off a cold. And when Steve got home for lunch, she attacked him. She made him gobble his lunch, then dragged him into the bedroom and attacked him. It could still happen, the timing could still be okay. He staggered off to work, exhausted but happy. Sara lay in bed, full of his seed, and fell asleep.

“I’ve got a wonderful Christmas present for you, but you’ve got to leave the house to get it,” Sara said to Fanny. They were sitting in her blue living room, an applewood fire blazing next to them, the animals nearly comatose from the heat.

Fanny set her teacup down gently in its fragile saucer. “Sara,” she began.

“No, I won’t take no for an answer,” Sara said. “It’s a beautiful day, the streets and stores are glorious with Christmas decorations, and you are coming with me if I have to wrestle you from this house.”

“What an inelegant image,” Fanny said, smiling, faintly.

Sara could tell that Fanny was displeased. Really pissed, though she’d never use that word.

“Fanny, you’re going to England next month. Now really, be sensible. Do you think you’re going to waltz out the door, onto a plane, and through all of London when you haven’t left this house for four years? You’ll be so shocked—so disoriented—it would be crazy. You’ve got to go out a few times before then, test the water, get used to it. Now come on, you know I’m right.”

“I can’t go out today. My hair is a disaster,” Fanny said. A tiny strain of petulance streaked her graceful voice.

“I know,” Sara said. “But you can put a hat on over it. And that’s part of my gift—we’re going to get you a new hairstyle. We’re going to a beauty salon.”

Fanny rose, indignant. “My hairstyle is perfectly fine. There is
nothing
wrong with my hairstyle. I’ve had it for years.”

Sara was silent, letting the expression on her face say: Precisely. That’s just the point.

Fanny began to do her slow, fluttery pacing around the room. She changed tactics. “Sara, dear, this
is
thoughtful of you. I can certainly see that. And undoubtedly you are right. I
should
go out a bit before I go to England. Like practicing. And I will. But not today, not so suddenly. You’ve rather sprung this on me, you know.”

“Fanny,” Sara said, “
you
know it wouldn’t have worked any other way.”

Now Fanny was trembling with anger. “And it is not working now!” she said. “I will go out of this house when
I
decide to, not under anyone’s pressure.”

“There’s more news about
Jenny’s Book
,” Sara said. “Interesting news. Quite a bit, actually. And I won’t tell you until you’re at the hairdresser’s with me.”

“Fine,” Fanny said. “Don’t. I can always call my agent.”

“He won’t tell you. No one will tell you. I’ve talked to them all and they agree with what I’m doing and they’ve promised not to tell you.”

Fanny flushed with anger. She turned her back on Sara and walked toward the door at the far end of the room. When she turned back to Sara, she had tears in her eyes. “This is blackmail,” she said.

“So, call the police,” Sara said cruelly. “You would have to let them come in the door to talk to you, to
see
you.”

Fanny turned her back again. Sara rose, went toward her a few steps, and said in a conciliatory voice, “Fanny, please. Think a moment. If it’s this hard for you to go out with me, just to a hairdresser, just think how hard it will be to go to England. You’ll be paralyzed; you won’t be able to go. You’ll miss everything. Fanny, this is like—like learning to walk again. You’ve got to take this first step.”

“All right,” Fanny said, her voice low. “Let me go change my clothes.”

Sara knew that if she let Fanny out of her sight she would probably barricade herself in her bedroom for the next twenty years.

“No,” she said to Fanny. “You’re fine. Your dress is fine, your makeup is fine. All you have to do is put on your coat. I rented a car in Hyannis and drove up here so that you wouldn’t have to deal with a taxi driver. Just me, then the beauty salon, filled with women who no matter what their age couldn’t hold a candle to you.” As she spoke, she could almost see the tension ebb from Fanny’s body. “Fanny, I know just how you should have your hair cut.”

“Cut?” Fanny asked, her hand reaching for her hair. “Why should I have my hair cut?”

“Because you look like you’re ready to sing opera,” Sara said. “You have beautiful thick hair, but when you wear it piled up like that, you look older than you should. Grandmotherly. I’ve even talked with the hairdresser about you, and we’ve agreed on something that would be marvelous for you.”

“I can’t have my hair cut short,” Fanny said, her confidence returning slightly on the wings of her inexorable powers of judgment. “It would not be sensual, feminine, to have my hair cut short.”

“It won’t be
short
,” Sara promised. “It will be elegant. Not faddish, though. Classic. Even sexy. But very simple.”

Fanny came back into the room. She put her hand up to her hair. “I haven’t had my hair styled in
years
,” she said.

“Remember how luxurious it is?” Sara said seductively. “How good it feels to have someone else wash your hair and massage your scalp? This is a very good hairdresser we’re going to, the best.” She was close enough to Fanny now to reach out and gently take her hand. Fanny’s hand was silky and plump. Carefully, as if she were leading a wild colt who would bolt at any startling movement, she urged Fanny toward the living room door and out into the hallway.

There stood the gruesome Eloise. For one wild moment Sara feared that Fanny would fling herself at her housekeeper, crying for protection, while Sara attempted to wrestle her away.

Instead, Fanny said, calmly, as if she were asking for more tea, “I’d like my coat, Eloise. The mink. Please find my gloves, too. The brown suede lined with cashmere. I’m going out.”

Except that her eyes bugged out of her head, Eloise expressed no surprise. She only nodded and, eyes bulging, went off to fetch Fanny’s things. Fanny looked at Sara, and to Sara’s immense surprise, Fanny snorted, the only way she could let out her suppressed laughter. So Sara knew it was going to be okay. Fanny was going to be okay.

Sara had parked the rented sedan right in front of Fanny’s house. Fanny made her way to the car with her shoulders hunched forward and her head bowed nearly into her chest, as if she were a criminal averting her face from a hungry press. Once in the car, however, she seemed to relax. After adjusting her scarf so that it curved in concealment around her face, she turned her head toward the window, then faced front.

“I’ll never forgive you for this, you know,” Fanny said as Sara started the car.

Sara grinned. “Yes, you will,” she said. She tried to keep the triumph from her voice. “I think you will.”

After that they rode in silence—until Fanny began to notice the sights they were driving past. “Oh, look at that,” she said. And, “Oh, I had forgotten that.” And, “The river looks like gunmetal today.” Sara knew Fanny was not talking to her. She was talking to no one, she was expressing delight and amazement at the buildings, trees, railings, churches, colleges, bridges, parks, sidewalks—all the outside world that she had not seen for four years.

Chapter Eleven

“God, Sara, look at you,” Steve said.

It was New Year’s Eve. They were getting ready for a huge party that the group was going to at a local hotel and restaurant, a champagne dinner at nine and then dancing in the hotel’s grand lobby.

Steve had worked late, because it was sunny and warm, then come home exhausted and fallen asleep for a few hours. Now he was just coming from the shower, naked, his hair damp, smelling of shaving lotion.

Sara was standing by the bedroom dresser, putting her earrings on. She was wearing a dress that her sister had worn in college, when dresses like this were called “semiformal.” It was an old-fashioned dress that had come back into style and would always be alluring: simple black taffeta, strapless, with a full poofed skirt that swung just below her knees. The waist was very tight. The top was very low, so that her breasts swelled upward from the curving bodice. She was wearing high black heels and rhinestone earrings that fell in sprays from her ears. No other jewelry. It was a fabulous look, and she knew it.