The Innocent (18 page)

“In the rain?”

“I'm not afraid of the rain.” I'm afraid of everything else. Mother understood that.

“No, no, Charles!” What was he up to? What was he planning to do? Why would he not let her follow out the perfectly plausible plan her mind had suggested? “You can't come with me,” she said. “Please be sensible, Charles.”

“Why can't I come with you?” I didn't do to well with that doctor on the telephone. If he calls again, I'll go to pieces.

“Because—goodness, Charles, why do you think I had to wait until you got home? You can't come with me because we can't leave the baby alone.”

“The baby?” I am the baby. I am afraid.

“Do I ever leave little Pete? I wouldn't now, if this weren't so important.”

Can anything be more important than me? Than my danger? She doesn't know your danger yet. Sit down in the chair again. Let me put my head in your lap again. Ask me what the trouble is and I'll tell you, and then you can help me. The doctor said she didn't know, she couldn't help. I will tell her and then she will help. “I don't want you to go, Margie. I came home to you, I came rushing home to you. You can't go away and leave me now.”

“It's just for a short time, Charles.” How could she have been so flattered that he always came running home to her, that he always came running after her, that he couldn't have her out of his sight too long? How could she have been sure that he loved her, that he killed Claire for her? I've got to get away, she thought. I simply must get away. “Charles, listen to me, please. I wouldn't leave you ordinarily if you didn't want me to, but I must now. I simply have to get hold of this stuff before Dr. Larker's office closes.”

“Can't you do it tomorrow?”

“No, I can't do it tomorrow. I make the formula at night. You know that. Listen to me, Charles. I tried to avoid going out after you came. I even called Eve, Eve Winant, to ask her to bring me the stuff, but Eve's out of town and won't be back until tomorrow.”

“Won't be back until tomorow?”

He looked so odd. Why had he repeated that? Did it matter to him that Eve was out of town and wouldn't be back until tomorrow? No, that was imagination. She must not let her imagination run away with her. “Charles,” she said, speaking more firmly, using a mother tone, “you know how frail Petey is. You know he can't take any change in routine.”

“I still ask you not to go, Margie.”

“And I ask you to be sensible. I'm not going anywhere much. I have to go, that's all there is to it.”

At the familiar tone, his face took on the familiar pout. “Why? Why? Why?”

“I told you, Charles. Because of the baby. You can't object. Oh, this is too much!”

Charles heard that. “This is too much.” Too much of a good thing, too much to expect. It rang the bell, Charles' warning bell, the alarm notifying Charles that he must act. This warning had saved Charles before. He changed his tactics. He turned it on. The disfiguring pout disappeared; Charles' face recovered all its beauty. He became charming. He stopped demanding; he coaxed. His voice lost the suggestion of whine; it was hesitant, beguiling. “I know it's too much, darling. I know how selfish and demanding I'm being. But love is unreasonable.” His dimples showed. “Love is selfish. Ah, Margie, Margie, darling, when all I want is to keep you with me—When all I ask …” He raised his eyes slowly; the dimple showed again, his beautiful mouth waited for her.

This was the first occasion on which Marjorie had been able to withstand his charm, but Charles knew what to do next. There had been times when his mother, when even Aunt Alice had commenced by being hard on him, by stating that this time they would not help him, saying that this was too much, this time they would not protect him from the consequences of his mischief. On occasions like this he had kissed his mother, he had stroked Aunt Alice's freckled hand. He had muzzled his face into his mother's hair. He had brushed her lined forehead with his moist lips. He had given Aunt Alice butterfly kisses with his long thick eyelashes. “I can't let you go,” he whispered. “Don't leave me now, Margie, not now.” He lifted Marjorie in his arms and carried her to the couch. “Be with me, Margie.” He laid her down on the couch and began to kiss her, not only her forehead, not only her lips. He kissed the nape of her neck. He kissed the soft white inside of her elbow.

But it was terrifying to Marjorie to discover that Charles knew where she liked most to be kissed, for it seemed to her that he had never used this knowledge before. It seemed to her that he had saved up this sagacity for when he needed it, that now he was trying to trick her, that he was attempting to play on her weakness in a way he had not previously found necessary. She lay perfectly still under his caresses until she felt his hand on the zipper of her dress, then she gave him a frantic thrust so that he staggered in surprise. She jumped up. “No, Charles, I'm going!”

“No.”

“Please let me go. Please let me go,” she begged, not looking at his face, not acknowledging that the charm was gone, that it was a face in terror, in collapse. Marjorie, not looking at this face, saw Charles as her fear for herself showed him to her, a man, a young, healthy man, tremendously strong, with more power in one hand than she had in her entire body. She did not see his face because she was watching his hands which were opening and closing, opening and closing. Opening on? Closing on? Her own hands flew to her throat.

When Charles found her adamant to his face, he turned his back on Marjorie. She could not see his hands and suddenly she could think again. She remembered the six o'clock feeding. “Charles, please, you'll have to feed Pete, right now.” She put her finger to her lip, tapping. “You'll have to.” For a moment the number of things she would have to explain to Charles overwhelmed her. Since he had never done anything for the baby, since he had never fed him or bathed him or changed him, since as far as possible Marjorie had kept these two apart, Charles knew nothing. Her fear for her own safety overcame this obstacle as it had overcome the others. “Just take a bottle out of the refrigerator. They're all ready. Put the bottle in a pan of warm water. See it's not too hot. You test it on your wrist. Like this. Please watch me, Charles.” He turned slowly to her and she pantomimed testing the heat of the milk for him. “It mustn't seem too warm on your skin. You hold him in your arms when you give him the bottle, Charles. He'll choke if you do it while he's lying flat. Then—oh, Charles, don't try to change him or anything. Even if he's wet, just put him back in the crib after he's had his bottle and see he's well covered. You can do that, can't you, Charles?” He didn't answer and she was afraid that he would say that he couldn't manage it, that he would make the perfectly sensible suggestion that she feed the baby and he go for the drops. As quickly as possible, so that it wouldn't occur to Charles to offer to go in her place, Marjorie grabbed up her purse and gloves and hat. When she tucked the purse under her arm, she recalled that she had given all her cash to Grace. “Will you give me some money, Charles? To pay for the medicine and take a taxi so I can return as quickly as possible?'

Charles reached in for his wallet and, opening it, revealed a lone five dollar bill which he handed to Marjorie.

She hoped he would not notice that it was his last. If he said that, she could tell him they could cash a check. They still had four hundred dollars in the bank. She hadn't given the doctor that check, after all. But she was concerned with herself now; there was no room in her for pity for Edna, guilt over Edna, worry about little Pete or for Charles whose face under any other circumstances would have haunted her. Charles looked undone. There was perspiration on his forehead. His beautiful mouth was trembling, and he was biting his lower lip to control it. Marjorie didn't even notice.

When she ran into the drugstore on the corner of Sixty-seventh Street to look up the address in the telephone book, she saw the row of bottles of Drisdol on the shelf and hoped tht it wouldn't occur to Charles to call up any neighborhood druggist to check up on her story. She hoped he would not call Dr. Larker. She hoped he would not look behind the measure in the kitchen, for if he did he would find the Drisdol right there. He never would check up, she thought. Not Charles. But then she thought: what do I know of Charles? Because if he would have killed me that night—

Her eyes blurred so that she couldn't read the small type in the telephone directory. N-A—N-E—New—She repeated the address under her breath while waiting on the corner for a taxi and then said it aloud for the taxi driver. Drawing a free breath meant breathing without pain, breathing without aching all the way down, without having to force the air through your lungs. Marjorie, leaning back in the cab, drew a free breath for the first time in hours. She was on her way. Soon she would know.

At first the maid would not admit Marjorie into the rather stuffy, dark hall. “The doctor has office hours from two to five weekdays, miss. From three to six on Saturdays and by appointment. It's too late to see the doctor now.”

“I must see him now,” Marjorie insisted. “Will you please tell Dr. Newhouse that it is imperative I see him?” She used the word “imperative” to make it more impressive, and her tone was harsh and overbearing. Be Cruel to Servants Day, she thought hysterically, but moving forward purposefully while she thought it, bearing down on the maid so she had to fall back before her. Then she was in. On the left of the hall was a small waiting room. Without the formality of being shown into it, Marjorie entered, sat down in the nearest straight chair, and immediately picked up a magazine. This was to show the maid that she was there to stay; it clearly indicated that the maid had better do something about her.

The girl snuffed her breath through her nose in indignation, shrugged, and disappeared down the dark hall. In a minute Marjorie could hear her talking and a man's rough voice answering from somewhere in the back of the house. Then there were footsteps and a man approached her with his right hand extended. He said, “How do you do. Helen said it was urgent I am Dr. Newhouse.”

He was very tall, as tall as Charles, but he stooped badly so that he appeared shorter and also much older than Charles. He had a clumsy, rocky, rather Lincolnesque face, an honest face. You would believe what he told you. You would trust his word. Marjorie gave a little sob and put her small hand into the outstretched one. Dr. Newhouse frowned and bent even further toward her, searching her face.

“What is it? What's the trouble here?”

She said, “I—”

“Are you in pain?” She shook her head. “Come with me, please.” He turned and went out of the room and Marjorie followed him. As they passed through the hall, crossing to another room on the right side, a consultation room with a desk and two chairs and framed photographs of Ancient Rome, two small boys shot out from the back of the house and tackled Dr. Newhouse around the knees. He pretended great loss of balance, staggered wildly, then grinned and picked the smaller boy up, solemnly pantomimed a terrific clip to the jaw, and sat him down. “Out,” he said. “Twenty-three skidoo.”

“But, Daddy, it's our time!” The older child, dark-haired, brown-eyed, seemed outraged.

Dr. Newhouse smiled at Marjorie. “That's why Helen didn't want to disturb me. This is when we rough-house. Before they're packed off to bed. I know it's our time, Beppo, but this lady needs me right now.”

“I won't be long,” Marjorie promised. She tried to smile at the dark boy, wondering as she always did when she saw a sturdy child whether little Pete would ever look like that, run like that, throw his head back like that in fearless exuberance. She said her usual silent prayer that little Pete might be like this child some day. “I'll take only a few minutes. I just want to ask your father something. He'll be back with you in a few minutes, honestly.”

“Promise?”

“Sure, she promises, Beppo. I promise, too. That's a deal.” Dr. Newhouse waved his hands at them to start them toward the back of the hall and his face, looking after their departing backs, expressed such love that Marjorie, seeing Charles as he looked at little Pete, quivered. When little Pete stopped being an ugly wailing nuisance, Charles would look at him as this man looked at his sons. Of course he would.

“Please sit down. In that chair.” Dr. Newhouse sat behind the scarred desk. “Now, first, who are you?” He drew a history chart toward him.

“I'm Marjorie Black.”

Dr. Newhouse plucked a pen from a holder. “Miss or Mrs. Black?”

“Miss, Miss Marjorie Black.”

He wrote that down, then lifted his head. “Your address, Miss Black?”

“Six West Sixty-seventh Street, but I'm not here as a patient, Dr. Newhouse.”

“Oh?” He replaced the pen and gave the history chart a shove; his chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “Then how can I help you, Miss Black?”

“I—I know that you have some medicine that—that—if a girl's had an accident—”

“An accident?” He leaned forward and the chair creaked again. “Do you mean what I think you mean, Miss Black?”

“I guess so, Doctor.”

“Then that's enough. You better stop right there.” He rose from the chair and stood with one hand pointing to the door. “I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place, Miss Black, I am not an abortionist.”

“Dr. Newhouse—”

“I would rather not hear any more.”

“You are Dr. Edward Newhouse, aren't you? You know Charles Carter. I believe you were his roommate in college.”

“I roomed with Charlie Carter, yes, but that still doesn't make me an abortonist, Miss Black.”

“Oh, please, Doctor, please! Charles told me you helped him out less than a year ago.”

“I can't help what Charlie Carter told you. What I said before still goes.”