I said: “All right, let’s get it over with,” and she took me by the hand, leading me to the bathroom.
She led me to the tub, and when we had both stepped in, dropped the shower curtains and pulled them together. Then she turned on the water and adjusted to medium hot. Then, standing belly-to-belly with me, she held her face up, letting the water pour over it. “Nice?” she asked.
“Would be, if it was Tuesday.”
“It’s only three days off.”
“Only? Only?”
She dropped her head to my chest, and we stood there a long time, like Adam and Eve in the Garden. Then at last she turned off the water, took a towel, and dried me off, with care — a little too much care, I thought. Taking another towel, she dried herself off, and if you think I got out of the tub, you’re wrong. I just stood there, drinking her in. She was painstaking and thorough, in all kinds of intimate places, at last putting a foot on the side of the tub, to give it proper attention. She said: “First one little tootsie, then the other little—”
But she never finished. The other foot slipped and she fell, in a loud flub-a-dub crash. I was over her in a second, lifting her, asking: “Little Sonya, are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“No, no! I’m all right!”
“Lock your fingers back of my neck, so I can lift you!”
She did and I raised her up, so she could stand with me, still in the tub. “Are you all right?” I asked again.
“Yes.”
But then: “Something’s happened inside.”
“Hold everything.”
I lifted her, got one foot outside the tub, then the other foot, still holding her, but almost slipping myself. Then I carried her into the bedroom, turned down the covers on her bed, and eased her down on it. “Get me a towel,” she whispered. “I’m bleeding.”
I got the towel, tucked it under her, and picked up the phone, ready to tear the place apart to get a doctor there, quick. But I didn’t have to do any tearing — a doctor had offices right there, and when the girl found out what the trouble was, she said: “The doctor will be there in just a few minutes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sandoval.”
I hung up and we stared in each other’s eyes. “I think you’ve aborted,” I said.
“I’m sure I have.”
We stared at each other again, I so excited I couldn’t talk. But she looked away, closed her eyes, and started to cry, sad, hopeless crying, with little shakes of her shoulders, as she held her hands to her face.
Chapter 11
It made no sense to me, but she kept on, while I tried to figure it out. And in spite of my fighting it back, a suspicion entered my mind. I mean, if she had aborted, if this was what we thought, why was she crying about it? And why didn’t she turn to me, instead of including me out? And if she was crying because it was gone, that thing she had inside, what meaning did that have, in regard to all the rest? Was she actually raped, did she find Burl repugnant, and was this marriage all an act?
But when I got that far with it, she suddenly burst out: “Give me my wig! It’s in the top bureau drawer!”
I did, and she pulled it on. Then she grabbed her bag from the night table, took out the liner, and marked up her face once more. She was barely down when a knock came on the sitting room door, and I opened it to let in the doctor, a young guy, with kind of a Spanish look and the usual zipper satchel.
I said my wife had had an accident, and took him into the bedroom. Then I left him alone with her, so she could do her own talking, apparently giving details. I heard him go to the bathroom and come back, and then pretty soon he came out, into the room with me, and closed the door.
I said, “What do I owe you, Doctor?”
“Twenty-five dollars, please.”
I wrote the check, then asked: “What next? I mean, do I have to take her to a hospital? And if so, which is the nearest one?”
“She’s in luck. Hospital’s not indicated.”
“Well, give. What happened?”
“She lost the child, that’s all. But she aborted clean — foetus and placenta were both there, on the towel. When the placenta doesn’t come, there has to be a curettage. However, it did come, and that’s it. The bleeding has stopped, but I packed her with gauze, which she can take out whenever she wants.”
“You greatly relieve my mind.”
“I also gave her a hypo.”
“You mean, she’s in pain?”
“No — so she can sleep. It’s an awful shock, it jangles the hell out of them.” He hesitated, then went on: “They take it in various ways — some want nothing to do with the husband for weeks — others take it opposite: they want him at once, it’s the one thing that calms them down. How she’ll feel I don’t know, and you shouldn’t force yourself on her. But if she should feel in the humor, don’t withhold it from some mistaken idea of duty. What she wants is what she should have.”
“I’ll remember what you say.”
He picked up his check and left, and I tiptoed in to her, hoping to find a change, now that she knew for certain what we’d been guessing at, so she’d be in a different humor. But she was crying again, and wouldn’t look at me. “Hey!” I said, shaking her. “What is this? What are you crying about? Didn’t he tell you? It’s what we thought — you miscarried. It’s all over, it’s what we’ve been praying for! You won’t have that dream anymore, we don’t have to go to New York!”
“And you don’t have to marry me!”
“...Is that what’s been bugging you?”
“It’s enough, isn’t it?”
My mouth was trying to say she was just being silly, but the words wouldn’t come. Actually, it was the first I’d thought of that angle, and somehow, now that she’d brought it up, it didn’t seem silly at all. I swallowed a couple of times, then told her: “Listen, one thing at a time, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. The main thing is, you’re rid of that horrible thing that’s been making your life hell. Now, get yourself some sleep, and then we’ll take it from there. Decide what we’re going to do.”
“Don’t you ever cross that bridge?”
“I said one thing at a time—”
“You’re always talking about it.”
“Can’t we talk when you’re yourself?”
“I’m myself now. I’m always myself.”
I left her, went down to the boardwalk, and headed across to the beach. As I passed the guard called down: “I’m sorry, sir, if I mistook the young lady for your daughter.”
“It’s okay, most people do.”
“I meant what I said about sharks — they’re out there, and they don’t always give notice by shoving a fin out of water. Sometimes they shoot up from below and help themselves to a bite. Sharks are nothing to fool with.”
“I’ll see that she stays closer in.”
I climbed down to the sand, found a small dune, and sat down, facing the sea. Then I tried to think. I told myself: “Now that you don’t have to, now that there’s no real need, you must be out of your mind, even considering marrying this girl, this teenage child, whom you barely knew until yesterday. It’s over — the crisis is passed. You’ve done the right thing, or at least you were willing to. Now, take her home and let her go on with her life — as what she is, a schoolgirl — and forget any idea you had of going further with it. No doubt she’ll suffer a bit, but she’ll get over it, and better have the break now, with no great damage done, than later, as utter disaster.”