Man, Woman and Child (6 page)

She smiled and kissed his shoulder.

"Owf he said.

On their second anniversary, Bob asked his twenty-three-year-old wife if she had any regrets.

"Yes," she answered. "I should have married you the day you first proposed."

"You're together all the time," said Bernie once when he was up from Yale Law to visit. "Don't you ever—you know—get bored?"

"No," said Bob. "What makes you ask?"

"I. mean, I sometimes get bored after two or three dates."

"Then you just haven't met the right girl yet."

"Shit, Beckwith, you're a really lucky bastard."

"Yeah, I know it."

Bernie was inspired. Three months after that, he got engaged to Nancy Gordon, an abridged edition of the former Sheila Goodhart. Everybody crossed his fingers. But it worked. In fact, they had a son within the year.

Neither Bob nor Sheila could recall a time when they had been without each other. They had walked hand in hand through what remained of college. And then in Cambridge, while Bob worked on his doctorate at MIT and she was hired by the Harvard Press, they walked hand in hand along the Charles. Once or twice a month they'd have a bunch of friends for dinner. They all, like Bernie, looked at Bob and Sheila and would yearn for a relationship like theirs.

And unlike their former classmates who were

going on in lit or gov or even medicine, they never had to scrounge. The U.S. Government was paying Bob's tuition and the U.S. Army paid him every summer just for the fun of solving statistical puzzles. And with what Sheila earned they could even afford such luxuries as season tickets to the Symphony. They could have traveled, for all Bob had to take along was his head, but Sheila wanted to spend the summers in Cambridge. Because she liked the place—and loved her job. She quickly rose from typing letters to proofreading galleys and then to editing actual books. On their fourth anniversary, she took Bob to dinner at Chez Dreyfus, insisting that it go on her newly acquired expense account.

'*A11 you have to do is promise us your next book,'' she said, radiating professional satisfaction.

Next book? He hadn't written any yet. In fact, he hadn't even completed his thesis. But he felt so indebted to the Press for that $27.50 banquet that he flogged himself to finish it that summer. He made a book of it while teaching in the fall and had it accepted by H.U.P. before Sheila had to worry about their next anniversary dinner.

Not to be outdone, Margo made the (self-styled) marriage of the year to Robbie Andrews of the Ridgefield Andrewses. The lavishness of the wedding and the honeymoon was exceeded only by the lavishness of the divorce, sixteen months later. En v route from the trauma to the Continent, she stopped off to see the Beckwiths at their ''tres mi-gnon* Ellery Street apartment.

''My God/' she whispered when Bob left the room with all the coffee cups. ''He's got so—I don't know—mature. Is he lifting weights?"

"No."

"He must be doing something, Sheila."

Sheila gave a little smile and shrugged. But Margo caught the scent.

"Sheil, you're blushing.*'

"Am I?"

"Come on. Sheila, this is good old Margo. You can tell me. Is he an animal? Is he absolutely insatiable?"

"Let's change the subject, huh?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sheila. Tell me or I'll die right on your brand-new rug I"

"Well... I guess we sort of both are."

And Margo blushed.

^To respond to another person when you are in pain, there must be a lot of trust between you."

Bob scribbled furiously.

"You don't have to write it all down," Sheila whispered.

"Shh—listen," Bob replied, and kept on scribbling.

TTie instructor, a slender athletic woman with a Dutch accent, had now completed her introductory remarks.

"Now, ladies, take your pillows and get on the floor. Gentlemen, you sit above them."

A dozen pregnant women dutifully sat in a circle on the floor of the Cambridge Adult Education Center as Ritje Hermans told them how to breathe their way through childbirth.

Bob was already feeling uneasy about this avant-garde approach to parenthood. What if I faint, he thought. He gazed at his lovely wife now rhythmically expanding and contracting at his feet and heard the subsequent instruction with intensifying anxiety.

"And don't forget your husband is the coach. He regulates and controls your breathing."

"Did you write that down. Bob?*' Sheila smiled from the floor.

"Yes, honey."

"Don't forget, because I won't do anything unless you tell me to,'' she teased.

Great, he thought. Now I'm really gonna pass out.

As he was practicing the sacrolumbar massage on Sheila's back, Bob glanced around the room. Only in Cambridge could there be such an odd assemblage: a cabby, several students, a nervous neurosurgeon and an East African prince. Even an old geezer (must be over forty) with a youngish wife. The women shared a pride in their impending motherhood and the feeling that they looked like dancers in an elephants' ballet. The men shared the brotherhood of fear.

Except for the old guy. He was so involved. He even got down on the floor and did every exercise with his wife. Bob was almost jealous at his lack of ''nhibition. There was no way he'd let his wife down.

"Come on. Bob, you should have seen things from my angle."

This was after that first session. They were grabbing a quick burger at Mr. Bartley's.

"Well, what was the view from the floor?"

"I could see how they looked down at their wives. You know that cocky guy in the brown tweed jacket you think is so confident?"

"Yeah?"

"He doesn't even think the child is his."

"You're crazy."

"Trust me. He looked at his watch more than he looked at his wife. And he would've smoked if Ritje hadn't stopped him."

"How did I do?" Bob asked, really wanting reinforcement.

"How can I judge you, Robert? You're the loveliest husband in the whole world."

He kissed her and got relish on his lips.

They had barely moved into the new house in Lexington. They had their furniture, but less than half the books were up. New Year's Day 1966 was gusty with Arctic cold. Bob was staring out the window. I would hate to go out in this stuff, he thought.

Naturally, five hours later they were speeding down Route 2 toward Boston.

"Breathe easy, honey, and drive very carefully," he said.

"I am breathing. Bob. YouWe driving. So calm down."

He drove, but he could not calm down. By the time they reached the Lying In, his stomach cramps were synchronized with her labor pains. She squeezed his hand as he helped her from the car. "It's gonna be okay," she said.

In the labor room he timed her contractions and wrote them down. Through every one of them he tightly held her hand. Sometimes he stared up at the clock because he couldn't bear the sight of her in pain. She was so brave.

"Bob, you're a great coach," Sheila whispered.

As they wheeled her down the corridor he kept her hand in his.

"This is the home stretch, honey. Now I know we're gonna make it." Which was meant to tell her that he didn't think he'd faint.

She bore down when Dr. Selzer told her to, and soon a tiny head appeared.

Blinking from the glaring lights. Bob looked at it, half in the world, half still cocooned in Sheila.

Oh, my God, he thought, it's really happening. Our baby's real.

"Congratulations," Dr. Selzer said. "YouVe got a perfect little girl."

Since they had long ago decided on the names, she whispered to her husband through her tears.

"Oh, Bob, it's Jessica."

"She looks like you," he said. "She's beautiful."

He kissed the mother of his child.

-E MADE HIS BED HIMSELF.*'

An enchanted Paula was reporting to her mother the next morning.

"That's nice/' Sheila answered, somewhat less impressed, ''but what exactly do you find so amaz-ing?"

"I was gonna do it for him."

"'Really? Well, now that's unusual. You hardly ever make your own."

"I do too."

"Under duress."

" Whaf s 'duress'?"

"Under pressure," Sheila Beckwith said by way of definition.

There were five of them at breakfast. Sheila fought to suppress the anger that she felt

"Did you sleep well, Jean-Claude?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Beckwith."

He was looking wistfully into his chocolate milk.

"Are you still hungry?" Sheila asked. "Is there something more you'd like?"

"No, thank you. That is . . ."

"Don't be shy," said Sheila.

61

*'Well, at home we would driak coffee in the morning."

''Really?" Paula gasped, in awe of this sophistication.

''Of course/' said Sheila. "I should have aslced." She got up to get him some. He looked relieved and offered her his glass of chocolate milk in exchange.

"Today we're going to a barbecue/' said Jessie. "Do you know what that is, Jean-Claude?"

"I think so."

"It's like a cookout," Paula added.

^'Oh," said Jean-Claude. He seemed intimidated at the prospect. More strange new faces, he was doubtless thinking.

Paula continued enthusiastically. "There'll be hot dogs and hamburgers and com on the cob with melted butter."

"Paula, you sound like a commercial for McDonald's," Jessie said sarcastically.

"Do you know what McDonald's is?" Paula solicitously asked Jean-Claude.

"Yes. It is a restaurant in Paris. I have eaten there."

The Peugeot was crowded as they all embarked for Truro, and the seaside home of Bernie Acker-man.

"He's been my pal since we were just about your age," said Bob to Jean-Claude, at whom he intermittently glanced through the rear-view mirror.

"He's a crashing bore," said Jessie. "All he ever talks about is sports."

"Jessica, behave yourself," said Bob sternly.

"He's a sportsman?" Jean-Claude asked, his interest piqued.

"Bernie is a lawyer," Bob explained. "He represents a lot of big-league athletes. Baseball, hockey, football-"

'Tootball?" Jean-Claude's eyes lit up.

*'The American version," Jessie said disdainfully. ^'The breaking of empty heads.*'

Bob gave an exasperated sigh.

As they reached Home Plate, the sign for Bemie's place, it suddenly occurred to him that his wife had not said a word during the entire ride.

Sheila gazed at the kinetic patchwork quilt of T-shirts, jogging suits and summer dresses, and wondered if the friends she was obliged to greet with smiles would notice her unhappiness. Fortunately, everybody seemed preoccupied—sunning, tossing Frisbees, drinking, laughing, grilling, yelling at their children not to throw food. It was not a day for psychic scrutinizing. Probably she'd pull it off. At worst they'd think it was the lunar blues.

Bemie was the first to notice their arrival. He tapped Nancy on the shoulder and hurried toward them.

"Beckwith! Did you bring your catcher's mitt?"

^'I left it in your garage last summer. How are you, Bern?"

The two old friends embraced.

^'Sheila, you lucky thing, you look terrific." Nancy smiled. "Is it overwork or the Scarsdale?"

Thank God Nancy never really noticed. She once told Sheila she was looking marvelous while they were talking on the telephone.

As the salutations subsided, the Ackermans noticed an extra member of the Beckwith party. Bob hastened to explain.

**This is Jean-Claude Gu6rin, a visitor from France."

"Hi. I'm your Uncle Bemie, this is Aunt Nancy —and the tall kid over there sinking hook shots is my son, Davey."

"Very pleased to meet you," Jean-Claude said to them both. He held out his hand to Bernie.

''He's very cute/' whispered Nancy Ackerman to Sheila.

''Does he play ball?" Bemie asked Bob confidentially.

"He's kind of tired from the plane trip, Bern. Besides, I don't think Softball's big in France."

"Oh," said Bemie, and then loudly and slowly told the visitor: "You see, every year the fathers and the sons play Softball. It's an annual event. Held every year."

"Oh," the boy replied politely.

"You're gonna love it," said the host, and added, ^'Beckwith, take your squad over to the feeding station. Give Jean-Claude a charbroiled burger. After all, this may be our last year. The surgeon general says the damned stuff's carcinogenic. Ice cream may be next. I'll see you guys in about an hour."

"Where you going?"

"Inside, back to the tube. The Sox and Yankees are tied two-all."

Bernie chugged into the house. Bob now turned to his "squad" to lead them to the barbecue pit. But Jessica had already wafted off. And Sheila was —or seemed—deep in conversation with Nancy Ackerman and the psychiatrist next door.

Paula and Jean-Claude had waited loyally.

"Come on, Dad," said Paula, tugging at his arm. "Let's start having fun."

"Wanna go to a movie sometime, Jess?" asked Davey Ackerman.

"The name is Jessica. And no, I wouldn't. I don't go out with juveniles."

"I'm fourteen months older than you."

"Chronology's irrelevant."

'Tou think you're a hot shit but you're not, Jessie. Besides, there are lotsa fish in the sea."

"Good. Go marry a fish."

"I'm not marrying anybody. I'm gonna be a professional ball player."

"I couldn't care less, David/' Jessica retorted, and then, "What sport?"

"I'm deciding between baseball and basketball. Or maybe pro soccer. My dad says soccer's gonna be huge in the eighties. I can kick with both feet."

"Not at once, I assume," said Jessica.

^'Very funny. You'll be sorry when I'm a superstar."

"Don't count on it, creep."

When it came to Jessica Beckwith, the normally pugnacious Davey Ackerman, who would slug at the drop of an epithet, had the patience of a saint. If only Jessie weren't so darn good-looking, he might cure himself of the painful crush he had on her. Or if only she'd recognize his many athletic virtues. But as things stood, he was violently jealous of everything that caught her attention, even inanimate objects like books. Small wonder, then, that he now fixed upon the presence of Jean-Claude Guerin.