The Secret Life of Violet Grant (11 page)

E
ven now, when Violet thinks of Dr. Winslow's surgery in George Street—which she tries not to do, which she has striven valiantly to obliterate from her memory—she is seized with mortal terror.

It wasn't that Dr. Winslow was cruel. On the contrary, he smiled at her warmly when she entered the surgery, shook her hand with cordial strength, settled her in a chair, and asked her the most intimate questions with such ease and matter-of-factness that all trace of Violet's embarrassment dissolved within minutes.

Dr. Winslow made notes in his leather book, nodding at her answers. When he had finished, he closed the book and met her gaze. He was a youngish man, perhaps in his middle thirties, with waving brown hair that had been brushed back scrupulously from his face, and large brown eyes that reminded Violet of her aunt Martha's loyal Great Dane. “Now, then, Miss Schuyler, I suspect from what you tell me that you are, indeed, with child. Do you have any objection to a physical examination to confirm the pregnancy? We can also draw blood to be absolutely sure, though the results may take a few days.”

“A physical examination will be sufficient, I'm sure,” she said, and he had shown her into a small room to the side and left her to take off her
skirt and drawers but not her stockings and girdle, to lie on the hard bed and stare at the white ceiling and wait for his return.

Dr. Winslow's fingers were warm and brief and professional. She felt them with detachment. “Well, Miss Schuyler,” he said, drawing back, “it seems you are expectant. The cervix is fully thickened, which indicates a length of gestation of at least seven weeks. I am given to understand that the pregnancy is not, however, entirely welcome?”

“No,” she whispered, still staring at the ceiling.

She heard the scrape of his chair, the rush of water at the tap as he washed his hands. “You are free to dress yourself, Miss Schuyler. I shall wait on you in the other room to discuss the case.”

When she returned to the chair before Dr. Winslow's desk, a steaming cup of tea was waiting for her. “I took the liberty of adding cream and sugar,” he said, with another of his easy smiles.

“Thank you.” She sipped.

“Now, Miss Schuyler. If you wish to terminate this pregnancy, I will undertake the procedure. But allow me to observe that you present a unique exception to the usual sort of patient who enters my surgery with such an objective in mind.”

“Do I? In what way?”

The doctor leaned back in his chair and bent his fingers together. “She is often young and unwed, as you are, but her circumstances are entirely different. She may belong to a lower class of society, without much prospect for advancement. She may have parents to whom she cannot confess her condition, she may be a prostitute, she may be a married woman with several children already. She may have been seduced and abandoned, or in poor health, or for any number of reasons unable to bear and care for a child. I am always reluctant to perform a termination, which, apart from the considerable physical risks, is both illegal and a moral dilemma of the heaviest sort, and which would cause the end of my career if it were formally known to the various authorities.”

“Then why?” Violet whispered.

“Because I fear the consequences for the patient if I do not, and have come to the conclusion that, in these wretched cases, the procedure is the lesser of many unspeakable evils, despite the risk to the patient. Some may not agree with me, and I quite understand. The burden is a heavy one, and I bear it in full knowledge of what I do—that is, the cutting short of a nascent, if unrealized, human life, for which I shall answer one day to God.”

He paused in this speech, staring for a moment at the brown leather notebook before him. The sun was shifting, just beginning to illuminate the window glass behind him, and it cast an odd and unearthly glow about the fringes of his brown hair.

Violet, whose breath had lodged deep in her chest as he began to speak, felt her ribs sink downward as the air left her lungs.

“I cannot look into your heart, Miss Schuyler, but I urge you to think through the matter fully before you make the decision. You cannot conceive the desperation in the faces of my patients who do undertake this procedure. If you're not desperate, if you're not certain this is the only course, you have every right to consider this matter very carefully indeed before going forward. Consider the alternatives before you. Consider the risk of infection, of hemorrhage, of future difficulty in conceiving and carrying to term.”

He paused again. Violet watched the tiny motes of dust circle around his illuminated head.

“On the other hand,” he went on, “if you're quite certain you cannot continue this pregnancy, I can perform the procedure right now. As Dr. Grant ordered me, over the telephone.” A slight ironic weight pressed down on the word
ordered
.

“He will be very angry if I don't.”

“I fail to see how Dr. Grant's anger should affect your decision, one way or another, Miss Schuyler. You strike me as a woman of considerable strength and intellect.”

Considerable
strength and intellect.
The words revolved in her head.
The room was very quiet, situated at the rear of the building, and Violet could hear her own heartbeat in her ear, measured and certain and fearless, quite capable of feeding the other heartbeat that fluttered unheard somewhere inside her, the result of her heedless union with Walter, her thoughtless faith in him.

She rose from her chair. “Thank you, Dr. Winslow. You've been so helpful. I will of course let you know my decision.”

The taxi was waiting for her outside, as Walter had promised, but she paid it off with her own money and walked instead. She returned not to Walter's house but to her own rooms, which gave off a dusty air of disuse as she let herself in with her key. She looked about the tiny sitting room with its two threadbare chairs, its round rocking-legged table, its gas ring topped by a battered teapot. Her own rooms, paid for with her own stipend from the institute, which of course was only a gift in Walter's keeping.

Walter arrived at half past six, shown up by the landlady, who left them alone with a discreet click of the door. “What the devil are you doing?” he asked, in a blaze.

“I've decided not to get rid of the baby. Would you like some tea?”

The argument had lasted half an hour, but Violet had not budged. She would have the baby, she would make a living somehow, she could sell her watch if she had to. She had a brain and she would use it, she would find a way, even if it meant leaving the institute. Walter told her she was a fool, he would have nothing to do with it, she was ruining herself and him, she was bringing another unneeded child into an overpopulated world, she had no sense of responsibility to her fellow man.

“What are you thinking, Violet? Becoming a
mother
? You, of all women.” His scorn was so huge, Violet could have reached out and grabbed a fistful of it.

“I'll find a way. I've always found a way,” she said. “I am, after all, a woman of considerable strength and intellect.”

“You're a fool.”

He left in an arctic rage at eight o'clock, and Violet ate a supper of canned soup and went to bed. Only then did she begin to shake, in little tremors at first, and then violently, as if her whole body were overtaken by terror. She crawled to her trunk and put on her warmest woolen cardigan and climbed back into bed, and still she could not get warm, she could not banish the cold.

W
hen I arrived back at 52 Christopher Street at seven o'clock that evening, delicatessen pastrami in hand, a man was sitting on the stoop by the door. He was still wearing his gray courting suit, his blue-sky necktie that matched his eyes. The cool October evening ruffled his hair affectionately.

He rose at the sight of me. “You're late.”

“I can explain.” I walked past him and fit my key into the lock.

“Wait, Vivian. You have to listen to me.”

“I don't have to do anything, Dr. Salisbury. I'm busy.”

His hand appeared out of nowhere to rest atop mine on the knob. “Please, Vivian. Let me explain. Let me in, just for a moment.”

It crushed me, the sight of that hand. And I had planned to be so strong.

“I won't change my mind.”

“I know. I just need you to hear me out.”

How was it possible I could be in love with a man's knuckles?

“All right,” I said. “For a moment.”

The stairwell was cold and smelled like vomit. I kept my breath shallow as I climbed upward, listening for the guilty beat of Doctor Paul's footsteps behind me. He didn't say a word, and neither did I.

I opened the door to the wholesome sight of Sally lounging at the table, smoke floating from her fingers, wearing a short red kimono and conspicuously nothing else. “What's with the suitcase?” she asked, not looking up.

I set down the pastrami sandwich and snatched the suitcase away. “None of your business.”

“You cranky thing. Cigarette?” She looked up and saw Doctor Paul. Her hands went frantically to the ends of the kimono, seeking additional silk that wasn't there. “Jiminy Cricket. Who's the blonde?”

“This is Dr. David Salisbury. Dr. Salisbury, this is my esteemed roommate, Sally Finch. She's from Arizona.”

“Utah.”

“One of those places.”

Sally stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. David Salisbury.”

“Likewise. It's Paul, actually. Only my pops calls me David.”

“Paul.” She gave up on the kimono and reached for the Lucky Strikes. “I'm Sally. Smoke?”

He patted his jacket pocket and kept his eyes faithfully on her face. “I've got my own, thanks. I hope we're not disturbing you.”

“Not a lick.” She looked at me. “Would you two like a little privacy? I can skip out.”

“No, thanks, Sally. We'll just be a few minutes.” I picked up the suitcase, crossed to my bedroom, and heaved the old leather on the bed. “Come along, Doctor, dear.”

I'd been counting on Sally being out this evening—what were the odds, really?—but this would do nicely. My bedroom contained no other human perch except the bed, and that was already occupied by Aunt Violet's suitcase. Doctor Paul stood uncomfortably next to the opposite wall, arms crossed, face flushed pink. As well it should.

I crossed my own arms. “Proceed.”

“You aren't going to make this easy, are you?”

“Why should I? You can light a cigarette if you like.”

He sighed and reached into his pocket. I liked his cigarette case, plain silver, not even engraved. In my world, you monogrammed everything. The missing stamp of ownership seemed a modest touch. Not that I wanted to count Doctor Paul's virtues at the moment.

He held out the case to me. I shook my head. He lit himself up and leaned against the wall, right next to the vivid blue and tangled arms of my favorite Matisse print.

The room was too warm. I took off my jacket and tossed it on top of Aunt Violet's suitcase. “What did you say to Gogo?”

“What did she tell you?”

“She didn't tell me anything. She never came back to the office.”

He swore softly. “I was kind, Vivian. I tried so hard to be kind.”

“Did you break things off?”

“Christ, Vivian. What else could I do? I couldn't be dishonest.”

I slid down the wall and sat with my knees pressed against my forehead. I saw her face before they left for lunch, her tremulous adoration. “Oh, God. Poor Gogo.”

“Vivian—”

“Leave. Just leave.”

“Vivian, you're laboring under a complete misapprehension. I don't know where Margaux got this absurd notion that I wanted to marry her—”

“Two guesses.”

“I did not lead her on, Vivian. We went on a few dates, that's all.”

I looked up. I knew my eyes were red, and I didn't care. “You had an affair last summer! You moved to New York to be with her!”

“Not true. We had some fun—”

“Oh, fun again.”

“Your word, remember? Only this time that's all it was. She was with her family. I was staying with friends. I took her out to dinner, to the beach. It was nothing.”

“Did you kiss her?”

He found the ashtray on the footstool that served as my nightstand. “Once or twice.”

“Anything more?”

“Maybe a little.” He picked up the ashtray and concentrated on tapping his cigarette just so.

“She says you were madly in love. On the hook.”

“Well, I'm sorry for that. I thought it was a little lighthearted vacation flirtation. I liked her tremendously; she's a sweet girl.”

“A beautiful girl.”

“All right, yes. She's beautiful. What of it?”

“You moved to New York.”

“Vivian, I'd already accepted the offer here. She had nothing to do with it.”

“But you picked right up where you left off.”

“Vivian, it wasn't serious. I swear it wasn't. We dated, that's all. I hardly knew anyone else in the city. How was I supposed to know I'd meet
you
a few weeks later?” He finished the cigarette and started another. I reached over before he closed the case and took one. He lit me up in silence, and I saw how drawn he looked, how shattered.

“It was serious to her,” I said.

“Well, I was beginning to realize that. I tried to draw away. I didn't want to hurt her, Vivian.”

Well, it fit, didn't it? And I couldn't blame him. He'd done nothing wrong, really, except he'd failed to fall in love with a girl; and whose fault was that? He hadn't failed willfully. He hadn't failed with cruel intent. It was just the breaks. I sat down on the corner of the bed, next to Aunt Violet's suitcase, with my back toward Paul. The old mattress sagged beneath me. The cigarette burned quietly between my fingers, and I stared at the wall, which Pepper had helped me paint a cheerful daffodil yellow the very day I'd moved in.

“Could you open the window?” I asked.

The wood scraped obediently behind me. A rush of cool air swirled
against my blouse. I felt the mattress sink behind me, and I closed my eyes as Paul's hand touched my shoulder. “I was going to break things off anyway, Vivian. It was inevitable. I should have done it sooner, but I hated to hurt her like that. I regret deeply that she's hurt, that I hurt her, but what could I do? Lie to her instead?”

“She would have been perfect for you.”

“No, she wouldn't. That's not the marriage I want. Yes, you're right, she's sweet and beautiful. She'll make someone a wonderful wife, but not me.”

“Why not?”

His sigh blew against my neck. “Vivian, she's not
you.
I don't mean to be cruel, but she bored me. We never talked about anything important. In the months I knew her, we didn't share a fraction of what you and I shared in a single hour on Saturday. She doesn't think about things. She takes everything as it is. I don't know what it is, really. A sense of curiosity, maybe? I couldn't have told you, I didn't even know what was lacking until you came up behind me in that post office line. I didn't know what was possible.”

His hand came around my ribs to rest on my stomach. I was vain enough to let it stay.

“Let me in, Vivian,” he said. “Please. Let me in again. Let me know you.”

I took a last pull on my cigarette and reached to crush it out. The brief separation chilled my spine. “And if you don't like what you learn?”

“Doesn't matter. It's you, that's all.”

How did he do that?
It's you, that's all.
It's you, Vivian, and whatever is inside you, whatever beauty or corruption, whatever virtue or vice, I must love.

What could I say to that? There was no answer in the world.

“Let me make you happy, Vivian.”

“I
am
happy.”

“Happier, then.” He plucked at the buttons on my blouse. “Tell me. What do you do at that magazine of yours?”

“I check facts. When I grow up, I want to write articles, features, the ones right there on the front cover, with my byline underneath in thick letters.”

“Sounds very Vivian-like. I can't wait to read them. In the meantime, here's a fact you can check.” He kissed the hollow where my neck and shoulder met. My skin shook at the familiarity of his lips. I loved the mintiness of his shampoo, the scrubbed warmth of him. I closed my eyes.

Fine, then. I was no saint. Why nail myself to the cross when Doctor Paul was right here, my Doctor Paul, ready to love me, taking nothing away from Gogo that had never really been hers to begin with?

I took Doctor Paul's willing hand and moved it to my willing breast.

At which point, as if God himself were delivering me a thunderbolt upside the head to adjust my moral philosophy, a knock shook the hollow panel of my bedroom door.

“Shh.”
Doctor Paul moved the suitcase to the floor and laid me back on the bed. The startled mattress groaned out beneath us.

“What is it?” I gasped.

Sally's voice. “Telephone for you!”

Doctor Paul, growling in my ear: “Tell her you'll call back.”

“I'll call back!”

Lips on my breast. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!”

Footsteps. Silence. I put my hands to Doctor Paul's lapels and struggled him out of his unnecessary jacket. He was smiling, light with relief. He threw the jacket on the floor and cradled my face and kissed me.

Sally again. Bored and urgent. “Vivian! It's your friend Gogo. She says it's important.”

Gogo.

My hands froze in Doctor Paul's hair.

“Vivian, no. Call her back. She'll be fine. She's stronger than you think.”

Just like that, in a blink of the eternal eye, Doctor Paul's weight atop me was intolerable. I scrabbled at his chest and pushed him up.

“Vivian—”

But I was already buttoning up my guilty blouse, already straightening my telltale hair. I threw open the door and ran to the telephone.

“Gogo.”

“Oh, Vivs.” Her tears were flooding so fast, they nearly ran down the telephone line to wet my hand.

“Gogo, what happened?”

“He said . . .” Hiccup. “He said . . .” Hiccup.

“He didn't propose?”

“No! He said . . .” Hiccup.

I lowered myself into the chair and rested my cheek against my arm. My skin still returned the imprint of Paul's lips; the tips of my breasts still tingled without remorse. Nerves, hormones: they had no conscience. I looked out the window and wanted to throw myself into the courtyard. “Oh, Gogo. Oh, sweetie pie.”

“What's wrong with me, Vivs? Why doesn't anyone want to marry me?”

I heard Doctor Paul's words in my head. “Oh, honey, because they're idiots. They think they want something else, but they're wrong. They want something exciting, and they don't understand that—”

“I'm not exciting?”

“You
are
exciting. To the right man. The right man will come along, Gogo. A smart, wonderful man who—”

“Are you crying, too, Vivs?”

“Yes, Gogo. I'm crying, too. I'm so sorry. So . . . God, so sorry.” I looked up, and there was Doctor Paul, leaning against the door frame, arms folded, shirt untucked. His face had gone all heavy and confounded. My bed hovered in the tiny Manhattan space behind him.

“The worst—” Hiccup. “The worst of it was that he was so nice.”

“Nice.”

“He was so k—” Hiccup. “Kind. He kept telling me how much he cared for me, how much he wanted me to be happy. I thought . . . I thought he'd pull out the ring any minute. And then lunch was over, and we got up, and . . . He kissed my cheek, Vivs. My cheek!” Flooding anew. “And then I realized what he meant. Happy! How could I ever be happy without him?”

My eyes shot a stream of gamma rays straight through the frontal bone of Doctor Paul's skull. “Gogo, let me come to you. You shouldn't be alone.”

“I'm not alone. I have Rufus.”

“Jesus, Gogo. Your teddy bear is not enough. You need a martini. You need five martinis. You need—”

“Vivs, stop.”

“You need to be taken out and gotten thoroughly drunk, and then we'll—”

“Vivs, stop. I'm not like you. I just need—” Sniff. “I just need a good cry, that's all. I'll be fine. I really will.”

“Forgive me, but your strategy doesn't seem to be working. You should try mine.”

Gurgle. “Oh, Vivs. I do love you.”

I turned away from Doctor Paul's elegantly poised body and watched my finger travel along the smooth dark plastic of the telephone, the spiraling cord, the little twin buttons that could sever this excruciating connection in an instant. I whispered: “I love you, too, Gogo.”

“Good night, Vivs.”

“Good night, sweetiest of pies. Feel better.”

The line clicked. I hung up the receiver with both hands and stared at that damned apparatus, that instrument of divine retribution, waiting for Doctor Paul to speak first, because I surely to God could not. I surely to God could not say what I had to say.

A coffee cup clattered before me, black and hot and smelling strongly
of cheap brandy. “From the sound of Gogo's voice, I thought I might just get a pot going,” said Sally.

“Always prepared.” I sipped. The coffee-to-brandy ratio was just about where I needed it. Which is to say, six of one, half a dozen of the other.