Secrecy (10 page)

Then he was ashamed. She was, after all, Charlotte’s mother, and she was distraught.

“I’m sorry, Elena. But my brain, what’s left of it, is going in circles. What are we going to do?”

“What do you mean? We’re going to take her to a
doctor, and nobody around here either. We’re going to Boston.”

Yes, of course. Nobody here must ever know, he thought again. Boston’s a good idea. And he said, “I’ll find out tomorrow morning who’s the best. What I’m thinking is, what’s the best path after we see the doctor?”

“Path? An abortion, what else?”

“I don’t like it, Elena. I hate it.”

She was staring at him with total incredulity. “
You
hate it? What about Charlotte? You surely don’t expect her to go through a birth, do you?”

His mind was split. Between the split lay the vacancy of denial. Charlotte, at fourteen. A baby. And that wretch the father. And yet, an abortion—

“Well, answer me, Bill. Do you know what it would do to her life, having a baby to care for at her age? And she certainly”—this was said with a sneer—“certainly couldn’t go on living in Kingsley. A Dawes girl in Kingsley, of all places.”

“What would an abortion do to her life? She would never forgive herself.”

“Maybe. But she showed us both an hour ago that she’s terrified of having a baby.”

“We could all travel to Europe and give it up there for adoption.”

“For God’s sake, Charlotte was raped! Don’t you understand what that means? Can’t you conceive of the humiliation? She would lose her mind, growing that thing for nine months, the spawn of a thug. Might as well hatch a rattlesnake in her belly.”

Bill winced. “But it’s not a rattlesnake, it’s a human child, and it’s not responsible for its father.”

“Listen to me. Are you forgetting that there may be something else wrong with her? What did that doctor say? Oh, why didn’t she call and tell me what had happened to her!” Elena pounded her fist into her palm. “I can understand that she might have been afraid to tell you, but she should have told me.”

“Charlotte has never been afraid to tell me anything.”

“Oh, of course. Don’t you think I know she prefers you? But do you have to rub it in?”

Here we go again, he thought. Even now in the midst of all this. Or perhaps especially now? Anyway, here we go again.

“We had to stop on the drive down to Boston,” Elena said. “She had new pains, very sharp. It felt like tearing, she said, and she began to bleed. Did she tell you?”

“It was evident,” the doctor replied.

He has a dry manner, Bill thought, a surgeon’s, not a bedsider’s manner. Analyze, decide, and cut. I knew before the three of us had walked into his office that it would come to surgery.

Charlotte had been so sick in the car. And Elena had never stopped talking the whole time. It was partly to keep cheer afloat and partly her nervous way. As for himself, having spoken his brief piece, he was now a silent listener, benumbed and dull, sterile as this office. Silent Bill, he thought. That’s what Cliff calls me.

“She fainted just now after I examined her. She’s lying down. We have a problem, Mr. and Mrs. Dawes. The one I suspected.”

“We.” They say that, but it’s not theirs, it’s ours, here in my heart. Ponytail, riding her bike—

“… this is a ruptured tubal pregnancy. I’ve arranged to have her admitted immediately.”

Hospital, Bill thought. It’s in his hands. Charlotte’s body. Her life? The wall is covered with writings in black frames, very serious writings, some in Latin. Citations too:
In honor of your participation
 … He turned around, craning toward more of the same on the other wall, but through the blurring in his eyes it was too hard to read them.

Must collect myself. “It’s definite, then? I mean, excuse me, there’s no doubt in your mind, doctor?”

Stupid question. He said “immediately,” didn’t he?

“No doubt, Mr. Dawes. Charlotte has exquisite pain upon abdominal palpation, pain radiating to her shoulders and the side of her neck.”

Exquisite pain. Queer language these doctors use. Exquisite paintings or workmanship, you say, not pain.

“It is an acute emergency, so that solves your argument about abortion. No more moral dilemma between the two of you.” The doctor stood up. “You can take her now. It’s only six blocks to the hospital. I’ll be over there shortly.”

Everyone stood up. How long have we been here? Bill wondered. All day or five minutes?

Through tears Elena asked, “Is it, I mean, can she,
do people die? I heard, ectopic pregnancy, sometimes they—”

“Mortality rates have fallen dramatically.”

The doctor pats her shoulder near where the curls touch her crisp collar. Even he, formal, desiccated, and grave, cannot resist.

“In fact, they have fallen almost to nothing. Notice I said ‘almost.’ ”

We notice. We go out.

At first there was the dim sound of voices in the distance, far at the end of the hall, or in another room. Then the sound neared and, clarifying, broke into separate voices, Elena’s answered by another woman’s. Charlotte opened her eyes and saw them in a gloss of white, a uniform, bedcovers, white sky at a window, all light and white except for dark dots on her mother’s dress.

Reality came swimming in a great, thankful tide: So I didn’t die after all. I really thought I would. So it’s over. All the way down in the car they fought while they thought I was asleep. I didn’t kill it. Even though I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t want to think I had killed it. But I would have hated having it. He was so disgusting. I hope he suffers. I hope he dies. What he did to me … I’m so tired.

When she woke again, a lamp was lit. She had no idea of the time except that it was dark and felt late. She sensed that her parents were in the room.

“Is it night?” she asked.

“No, darling,” Elena answered. “It’s evening. How do you feel?”

“All right, I guess.”

She felt kisses on her forehead, first Elena’s, fragrant with perfume, and then Dad’s.

There were a lot of tubes, a tall thing like a lamppost standing beside the bed, and something else clasped on her wrist, all puzzling, all fastened to her. “What’s this? What’s all this?”

“Intravenous, to feed you. It’s only temporary. Don’t pull.” Dad held her hand, his hand and his voice comforting. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You are fine now.”

“I’m so sleepy.”

“Of course you are,” Dad said. “You’re supposed to be.”

“Can you stay awake for a second more?” asked Elena. “Can you see these? I bought two new nightgowns so you won’t have to wear a horrible hospital thing. Look, aren’t they pretty?”

Her voice pleaded:
See how I love you, I think of you, don’t be angry about anything
.

About me and Judd, she meant. Emmabrown said this wouldn’t have happened if Elena had been around. I don’t know. There is too much to think about.

“Look at this yellow one with pansies. Do you like it?”

“Yes, Mama. Thank you.”

“We’ll be going home soon. You have to stay here a few days then get some rest, and we’ll go home. You’ll be back with your friends.”

Friends. None of my friends knows what I know now.

“We’ll have a wonderful summer,” Dad said. “You’ll see. We’ll forget all this.”

Forget. They won’t. They won’t want to mention it because it’s too nasty, but whenever they look at me, they’ll think of it. Always. Forever.

And Charlotte, seeing them both—poor father and poor mother—on either side of her bed, was deeply sad.

Bill, as the evening drew on, was the only one awake. Elena had slumped in the single easy chair. He had the queerest sensation even as he observed her in detail—the head resting on the chairback, the mouth slightly open, the long fingers splayed on the chair arm—that she was ephemeral. He had never really held her, nor really known her in any depth. Perhaps there was no depth to be known? And he wondered now, after what had occurred to their child, how they would fare together.

But, “sufficient unto the day,” et cetera. Charlotte, at least, had survived.

“We used a conservative surgical approach,” the doctor had explained there in the waiting room, the torture chamber. “Years ago we always had to remove the tube, but now we are able to preserve it, so when her day comes, she will have children as easily as if this had never happened.”

Children! That’s the least of my worries right now, Bill thought. I’m just glad she’s alive. Let her get back to school and be her age. Let God help her to wipe this awful thing out of her mind—if that’s possible, which I don’t think it is.

He raised his eyes to look around the periphery of the room, from Charlotte lying in peaceful sleep to the door ajar, through which, as if in a haze, he could see people passing in the hall. And he was sure that none of them, seeing him here, a quiet ordinary man in a gray suit, could possibly guess what was going on within him.

My pounding heart, he thought. I am almost forty years old, and have just now arrived at the knowledge of evil.

T
he gloom was palpable. When Claudia had finished the supper dishes, she went to the kitchen door and looked out into the sultry evening. There was no movement of bird or leaf; only the buzz and hum of a myriad hidden insects gave sign of life. For a while she stood there, gazing without thought into this vacancy, then, turning, went inside to the same vacant silence.

On the table Ted’s place was still laid. Sulking in his room, he refused to eat with them. She considered the wisdom of bringing a tray to him; he was, after all, her child and he must be hungry. All day he had been upstairs alone, or not entirely alone, since she had heard him using the telephone. She wondered how, with the weight that must be upon him now, he managed to be so jovial with his friends. Surely he must be tormented by the thought of that poor child in the hospital. On the other hand he kept denying any guilt, which was absurd.

Of course he had done it to her. Even the counselor to whom Cliff had had to drag him did not believe his denial. Not that it mattered, because Ted had refused to go back a second time. So they were now at an impasse. What was to be done? Was it in some way her fault that he had done this thing, that he had committed this crime, that he had turned out this way?

What was wrong with him? She was conflicted. It was hard to admit that there was anything “wrong” with your own child. He was hers, and she loved him. But then there was Charlotte.… A girl like her, no girl, should have to undergo what she was undergoing. So sweet, she was, so trustful, with those fine, candid eyes.

I am sick, Claudia said to herself. I am really sick.

And she went to the room where Cliff would be sitting with his dogs beside him and an unread book or newspaper on his lap. Cliff was in no mood for reading.

No, she would not carry his dinner up to Ted. Cliff, good-natured, goodwilled Cliff, would most definitely object, and he would be right.

He looked up, smiling. “Come join me. This is fascinating. Remember when they found that prehistoric man frozen in an Italian glacier a few years ago? There were remnants of some sort of fabric. I wonder—”

Claudia said, “You’re not fooling me, Cliff, but thanks for trying. You’ve got the book upside down.”

He shrugged. “Okay, I’m not concentrating very well. My mind is in Boston.”

“Cliff, I can’t tell you how I—” she began, when he stopped her.

“Don’t say it again. Don’t you think I understand how you feel? Claudia dearest, this has nothing to do with you. Your son is a separate entity. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You are not responsible for his sins.”

In spite of all her resolve her eyes filled. “Shall we turn the news on?” she asked. “I don’t think there is anything much, but it’s something to do, unless you want to take a walk.”

“It’s too hot,” Cliff said.

What he might more truly have said was:
I
’
m too tired. I haven’t the energy
.

On the screen the talking heads talked and made their earnest gestures. She barely saw them. Instead, her eyes went wandering around the room, from the comfortable abundance of books upon the shelves to the wilting roses, to the wedding portrait on the mantel. Only months ago she had entered this house and taken her place, filled with promise of long, long years of love and peace. She ought to have known better. Her own life should have taught her that you can have no inkling today of what tomorrow may bring.

Presently, Ted’s footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and she called to him.

“Ted. Your dinner’s on the stove.”

“I don’t want any. I’m going out.”

“Come in here, please.”

In plain shirt and jeans, a well-washed, well-dressed young man wearing, too, a severe expression, he stood at the door, inquiring, “What do you want?”

“I want to know where you’re going,” Claudia replied.

“Out. Out with friends.”

“But where? With whom?”

“I don’t know. I’m not in kindergarten, Ma.”

She hated the way he snapped the words. He hadn’t ever done that before. It was only during these last few days that his nerves seemed to have given way like this.

Cliff said quietly, “We know you’re not, Ted. But your mother’s anxious. It’s a simple enough thing for you to understand that and give her an answer.”

“Yes, I could tell her,” Ted said. He spoke not rudely, but stubbornly. “But it’s all about that girl, isn’t it? Must my friends be under suspicion too? You’re making me miserable. This whole thing is crazy. All on account of a crazy kid.”

“What about Mr. Bowman’s daughter? No, Ted, your stories don’t wash.” Cliff’s voice rose. “And Charlotte, my niece—” Becoming emotional, he stopped.

“Can you prove she wasn’t fooling around with somebody else? No, you couldn’t prove it in a court of law. Just because she’s your niece, you’re trying to pin it on me. Okay, I’m going to Bud’s house. Are you satisfied?”

“Ted!” cried Claudia, starting from her chair. “You shock me. I want you to apologize.”

“No, Ma.” Ted was aggrieved. “You should all apologize to me. You’re not being fair.”

And he went out, clattering the screen door behind him.