Wanting Rita (32 page)

Rita stared into her coffee cup. “I didn’t read anything, Ms. Lyendecker. I couldn’t.”

“No one should ever have to go through such a thing. Truly, no one, and I’m so sorry. But let’s not speak about it. Let’s delight in being in this wonderful company: my two favorite students.” She turned to me. “What are you doing these days, Alan Lincoln? I heard you became a doctor and I was so sure you’d wind up in your father’s business.”

“No, he sold that about 5 years ago. It wasn’t for me.”

“So doctoring is for you.”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

“Most of the time.”

“Why did you become a doctor?”

“I liked the science.”

“That’s all?”

“I wanted success, security and money.”

“Honest. And now?”

“Well I sometimes feel overwhelmed by the instability of it all: the prescription drug culture, the massive number of insurance forms, the ignorance and the politics, the communication or lack thereof...”

“Good. So you’re not bored?”

“No ma’am.”

“Are you writing?”

“No ma’am.”

“I enjoyed your stories, Alan. You were always so intense—so driven to be the best and smartest student, and you were. Did you enjoy my class?”

“Yours and math were my favorites.”

“And you, Rita? What are you doing with yourself?”

Rita shrank a little and her voice dropped. “I’m working at Jack’s Diner.”

“Don’t feel embarrassed by it, dear. When I see you now, so full of life and beauty, I see that you have come through the most difficult challenge of a life. It reminds me of another poem, and you know how I love to quote poets. I was never a gifted one myself, but I was always a gifted reader. Okay, Emily Dickinson:

What I can do—I will—

Though it be little as a Daffodil—

That I cannot—must be

Unknown to possibility—

Rita smiled at her gratefully. “…And you always inspired Alan James and me.”

“Did you finish your degree, Rita?”

“No…I had to leave in my junior year. I’m hoping to finish it on-line at the Penn State World Campus.”

“That’s wonderful…What do you want to do?”

“I want to teach.”

“You’ll be a wonderful teacher, Rita.”

“Alan James and I have also discussed turning the house—do you remember the Lincoln’s house on Holly Lane?”

“Yes, of course. It was one of the most beautiful homes in the entire area.”

“Well, we’ve talked about turning it into a bed and breakfast.”

“A wonderful idea!” Ms. Lyendecker said, happily, clasping her hands.

“It’s just a thought,” I said, “but I think my father and sister would love the idea. It would fill the empty rooms and give it new life.”

Ms. Lyendecker inclined forward. “I would come and spend some time with you, Rita. Of course, I’d have to bring 10 or 20 books. Which reminds me. What about your writing, Rita? Are you writing?”

“Little things here and there. I’m thinking about starting a novel.”

“Good, good. You have talent, but then I told you that so many times. But it’s hard work and it takes incredible discipline and, of course, a great deal of luck to get published.”

We spent the next half hour listening as Ms. Lyendecker told us stories we’d never heard, about our classmates, about the principal’s secret affairs and about her last few weeks of teaching, as retirement approached. After retirement, she had struggled over a sense of loss and confusion.

“I’ve had to learn who I was all over again. I’ve had to grow in ways I never wanted to,” she said.

It was Rita who, after an eager silence, told Ms. Lyendecker that she and I were going to be married and that she was, almost certainly, pregnant. Ms. Lyendecker lit up and applauded us. She rose and kissed us both. I stepped awkwardly out of the room, with the excuse that I needed to use the bathroom. Inside, I stared into the round mirror, quietly cursing my self-doubt and fear.

I prayed again, to whomever—to any ineffable, benevolent being who might have happened by. “Please let Rita be pregnant.”

Outside the house, as we stood near the car, Ms. Lyendecker ran her wizened hand across the shiny black hood, oooing and ahhhing. “Dr. Lincoln, I like your snazzy car,” she said, with a girlish giggle.

Before we drove away, Ms. Lyendecker leaned into Rita’s window. It was clear she wasn’t ready to let us go. “Let me tell you about wrinkles, Rita. The other day I had nothing else to do and my damned curiosity grabbed me by the scruff of my skinny neck and dragged me into the bathroom. I counted every line and crease on my face. Is that eccentric, or what, as the kids say today? Guess how many?”

We both shrugged.

“Forty eight. Not bad for an old woman. I expected twice that many.”

After we curved onto the main highway, Rita turned to me, smiling, with a relaxed expression. “It was so good to see her again, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s been a good day, Alan James.”

I took her hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “And tomorrow will be even better.”

Chapter Ten

The next two days were blazingly hot and humid. In the mornings, Rita and I worked the gardens, wiping away sweat, longing for a breeze that never came. I squirted her with the garden hose, hoping to lighten our mood, but it only irritated her.

On the second afternoon, I spoke to the office, called a few patients and threw away some old clothes and books. After an uneasy nap, I worked in the cool wine cellar, sorting and noting which wines I’d box up and send to Dad and Judy. Rita worked at Jack’s that day until seven. I waited for her on the back porch, sipping iced tea and listening to the katydids, whose presence signaled the end of summer.

On Wednesday, there were still no blood test results. Rita called her doctor, seething, and was assured that we’d have the results by Thursday afternoon at the latest.

Wednesday night I awoke from a fitful sleep to feel the empty bed. I found Rita outside on the porch swing, smoking. She was wrapped in a blue cotton housecoat, her legs tucked beneath her. It was a roasting night, with thick, lifeless air. Breathing was consciously labored. My bare feet stuck to the porch and, even in my briefs, shirtless, I perspired.

“Are you okay?” I asked, lingering 10 feet away.

Rita was in a dark mood. I sensed it more than I could see it.

“I haven’t smoked in about 10 years.”

“Rita… We’ll know tomorrow…”

Her voice turned bitter. “I never smoked when I was pregnant with Darla. I stopped completely when she was four. Didn’t drink either, and just in case you were wondering, I never slept around on Dusty. I never cheated on Dusty. Never. Not once. He cheated on me, more than once, but I never did—and I had offers from rich men and younger men, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. Darla came first. Always! I was a good wife. I wanted that family to work. Goddammit! I was a good mother!”

“I know you were.”

“I was the best damned mother you ever saw!”

I watched the orange glow of the cigarette when she drew on it.

“What’s the matter, Rita?”

“You should dump me, Alan James. I’m all fucked up.”

I went to her. “Rita. Stop it. Don’t say things like that!”

“I am!”

My swift pulse pumped waves of heat. “What’s happened? Did you get the test results?”

“I don’t need the fucking test results!”

“Rita…”

“Why the hell did you come back, anyway?” she said, savagely.

I crouched down in front of her, struggling to keep my voice calm. “Because I love you…”

She flipped the cigarette away, over the shrubs, and shot up. She burned past me. “Leave me alone, Alan James!”

I pushed up and went after her. I grabbed her right shoulder, spinning her around to face me. “Tell me what happened! What is the matter with you?”

Her face tightened with fury. “I took the home pregnancy test! I couldn’t wait any longer. Guess what? I’m not pregnant!”

I drew up tall and forceful, more for me than for her. “It’s not conclusive, Rita! You can’t go by that. It could be completely wrong.”

“You said it was ninety seven percent accurate!”

“I also said it isn’t always accurate. The blood test is more accurate. That’s what I said.”

“And what if it comes out negative? Then what?”

I fought to keep a clear head. “Rita…listen to me. Let’s just wait until tomorrow, and then we’ll deal with it. We’ll handle it. We’ll try again. We can always try again.”

She pulled away, shaking her head. “Dammit, I can’t stand this anymore! I’m going out of my mind! I hate this goddamn place. I hate this goddamn town and all the rotten memories. I hate everything that’s ever happened here! I’ve got to get out!”

I reached for her, drawing her into me, holding her, kissing her hair. “It’s going to be all right, Rita. Hold on just a little while longer. Just a little while longer. We’re almost there.”

I felt her shiver, yet her body was burning. “…He’s back…”

I understood. I froze. “Your father?”

“Yes. He came by Jack’s this afternoon.”

I wanted to panic. “…What did he say?”

“The usual…insults. Said I looked like a slut. Said I was kidding myself living here with you. He was drunk and high on something. He said you were just using me, like men always have used me because I’m such a stupid fucking woman.”

I held her back, gripping her shoulders firmly, staring deeply into her eyes. “He’s sick, Rita. Don’t even give him a thought. He’s sick and you know it.”

She was frightened, tears formed. “He threatened you, Alan. He said he was coming for you. He kept saying over and over again how you were using me; how you were going to leave me.”

“Look at me, Rita,” I said, giving her a little shake. “Look at me.”

She did, with effort. “You know that isn’t true.”

“But he’s coming for you.”

I pulled a quick nervous breath. “Let him come. I’ll handle him.”

“He’s crazy, Alan James! When he gets drunk, he’s completely out of his mind! I’ve got to get away, Alan James. We’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stand it anymore. I thought we could make a home here, but it’s too late. Every damned ghost is here. Darla’s here. Dusty’s here. I stayed for her, for Darla, but I just can’t do it anymore! We’ve got to get out, Alan James. Promise me. Promise me you’ll take me away from here, when we get the test results. I don’t want our baby to be born here.”

“Sure. We’ll move to New York. You’ll love New York.”

“No…I don’t want to live in a big city. Let’s go south or west. Any damn place.”

I wiped her tears. “Okay…Okay, Rita, we’ll leave. Whatever you want. Let’s just get through tomorrow and then we’ll figure it all out.”

I gave Rita a sleeping pill and she was asleep in 20 minutes, lost in a blessed tranquility. I lay beside her until dawn, hands laced behind my back, rehearsing for the moments to come. As sunlight released the shadows of night and revealed the shapes of the room, I punished myself with self-incrimination. I should have taken her away. I should have sold the house and taken her away from all the old memories and pain.

And what if she wasn’t pregnant? In my head, I rehearsed every line, expression and tone of voice to cover every possible outcome. I prepared alternatives: fertility specialists we could speak to; adoption agencies I had explored when I’d first learned of my condition; a vacation to Hawaii, the Caribbean or Italy or France. We would move immediately to anywhere in the world she wanted to go, whether she was pregnant or not. “We love each other, Rita, that’s the most important thing,” I’d say. “The rest we can get through. We will ascend, Rita. We will!”

We ate a late, silent breakfast. Rita’s eyes were swollen, her face wan. I had the ragged low energy of the forlorn and defeated. Every time I started a conversation it fell flat. None of my practiced phrases seemed inspirational or intelligent: just the fragments of a selfish, pathetic and desperate man.

In the garden, the heat weakened us further, until we left it, retreating into the air-conditioned house, me again to the basement wine cellar, and Rita to frantic vacuuming.

I didn’t hear Rita’s cell phone ring, but something urgent took hold of me at about 1:15. It was a disconcerting strangulation of hope. I replaced a bottle of Bordeaux into the rack and hurried upstairs. I searched the rooms and found Rita on her knees in the library, staring deadly out at the pond.

“Rita…”

She didn’t move or speak. I crept toward her, pausing three feet away.

“Rita…”

Her voice was lifeless. “Negative… The blood test was negative. I’m not pregnant. I imagined the whole thing.”