"Could you get me the oil and vinegar, please?" Laura asked, and Doug reached up into the cupboard for her. She drizzled the salad and continued tossing it.
"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Doug shook his head and closed the book. "How does crap like this get printed?"
"It's from a small press. Based in Chattanooga. I've never heard of them before." She felt the baby move, a tiny movement, just a shift of weight.
"You're not going to review this, are you?"
"I don't know. I thought it might be different."
"I'd like to see what your advertisers would think of that! This guy's talking about an organized boycott of oil companies and major banks! 'Economic re-education,' he calls it" He snorted with derision. "Right, tell me another one. Want a glass of wine with dinner?"
"No, I'd better not."
"One won't hurt. Come on."
"No, really. You go ahead."
Doug opened the refrigerator, took the half bottle of Stag's Leap chablts out, and poured himself a gobletful. He swirled it around the glass, sipped at it, and then he got the salad plates down from their shelf. "So how was Carol today?"
"Fine. She filled me in on the latest trials and tribulations. The usual."
"Did you see Tim Scanlon there? He was taking a client for lunch."
"No, I didn't see anybody. Oh… I saw Ann Abernathy. She was there with somebody from her office."
"I wish I could take two-hour lunches." His right hand continued to spin the wine around and around the glass. "We're having a great year, but I'm telling you: Parker's got to hire another associate. I swear to God, I've got so much work on my desk it'll be August before I can get down to my blotter." Doug reached out and placed his left hand against Laura's belly. "How's he doing?"
"Kicking. Carol says he ought to be a good soccer player."
"I don't doubt it." His fingers touched here and there on her belly, seeking the infant's shape. "Can you see me being a soccer daddy? Going around town to all the games with a little rug rat? And softball in the summer. That T-ball stuff, I mean. I swear, I never pictured myself sitting in the bleachers cheering a little kid on." A frown worked itself onto Doug's face. "What if he doesn't like sports? What if he's a computer nerd? Probably make more money that way, though. Come up with a computer that teaches itself, how about that?" His frown broke, and a smile flooded back. "Hey, I think I felt him move! Did you feel that?"
"At real close range," Laura said, and she pressed Doug's hand firmly against her belly so he could feel David twitching in the dark.
They ate dinner in the dining room, where a picture window looked toward the postage-stamp-size plot of woods in back. Laura lit candles, but Doug said he couldn't see what he was eating and he turned the lights back on. The rain was still coming down outside, alternately hard and misty. They talked about the news of the day, how bad the traffic was getting on the freeways, and how the building spurt had to slow down sooner or later. Their conversation turned, as it usually did, toward Doug's work. Laura noted that his voice got tighter. She approached the idea of a vacation again, sometime in the autumn, and Doug promised he'd think about it. She had long since realized that they were not living for today any longer; they were living for a mythical tomorrow, where Doug's workload would be lighter and the pressures of the marketplace eased, their days relaxedly constructive and their nights a time of communion. She had also long since realized that it would never happen. Sometimes she had a nightmare in which they were both running on treadmills, with a machine that had teeth at their backs. They could not stop, could not slow down, or they would fall back into the teeth. It was a terrible dream because there was reality in it. Over the years she'd watched Doug climb from a junior position at his firm to a position of real responsibility. He was indispensable there. His term: indispensable. The work he brought home and the time he spent on the telephone proved it. They used to go out to dinner and the movies every weekend. They used to go dancing, and on vacations to places like the Bahamas and Aspen. Now they were lucky to get a day alone at home, and if they saw a movie it was on the VCR. The paychecks were more, yes: both his and hers had grown, but when did they have time to enjoy the fruits of their labors? She'd watched Doug age worrying about other people's portfolios, about whether they had enough long-term investments, or that international politics would drive down the dollar. He lived on a tightrope of quick decisions, above a sea of fluctuations. The success of his career was based on the worth of paper, of lists of numbers that could change dramatically overnight. The success of her own career was based on knowing the right people, on cultivating the path through the gilded gates of Atlanta's social set. But they had lost each other. They had lost the people they used to be, and that knowledge made Laura's heart ache. Which in turn made her feel incredibly guilty, because she had all the material things anyone could possibly want while people starved in the streets of the city and lived beneath overpasses in cardboard boxes.
She had lied to Carol today. When she'd said she wasn't having a baby for the reason of bringing Doug closer to her, it was a lie. Maybe it would happen. Maybe both of them would ease up, and find their way back to what used to be. The baby could do it. Having someone who was part of them could do it, and they'd find what was real again.
"I'm thinking of buying the gun tomorrow," Doug suddenly said.
The gun. They'd been talking about this for the last couple of weeks, ever since a house two blocks down the street was broken into when the family was at home asleep. In the past few months, Atlanta's crime wave had been washing closer and closer to their front door. Laura was against having a gun in the house, but burglaries were on the rise in Buckhead and sometimes when Doug was gone at night she felt frighteningly vulnerable even with the alarm system.
"I think I'd better go ahead and do it, with the baby on the way," he continued as he picked at the casserole. "It won't be a big gun. Not a Magnum or anything." He gave a quick, nervous smile, because guns made him jumpy. "Maybe a little automatic or something. We can keep it in a drawer next to the bed."
"I don't know. I really hate the idea of buying a gun."
"I thought maybe we could take a class in gun safety. That way you'd feel better, and I would, too. I guess the gun shops or the police department teach a class."
"Great," she said with a little cynicism. "We can schedule gun class right after our prenatal class."
"I know having a gun around the house bothers you, and I feel the same way. But we've got to face reality: this is a dangerous city. Like it or not, we ought to have a gun to protect David with." He nodded, the issue settled. "Tomorrow. I'll go buy a gun tomor —"
The telephone rang. Doug had turned the answering machine off, and in his haste to get up and race to the phone in the kitchen he overturned his salad plate and spilled some of the oil and vinegar dressing on the front of his pinstriped pants. "Hello?" he said. "Yes, right here." Laura followed him into the kitchen, and she said, "Take off your pants."
"What?" Doug covered the mouthpiece. "Huh?"
"Your pants. Take them off. The oil'll set in if I don't put something on it."
"Okay." He unzipped them, unhooked the braces, and let his pants fall to his ankles. He was wearing argyle socks with his wingtips. "I'm listening," he said to the caller. "Uh-huh. Yeah." His voice was tight. He took off his shoes and then his pants and gave them to Laura. She went to the sink, ran the cold water, and rubbed some on the oil spots. The dry cleaner would have to repair the damage, but at least the oil wouldn't leave a permanent stain if she applied a little first-aid. "Tonight?" she heard Doug say incredulously. "No way! The paperwork isn't due until next week!"
Oh no, she thought. Her heart sank. It was the office, her constant rival. So much for Doug's night at home. Damn it, couldn't they leave him alone long enough for —
"I can't come in," Doug said. "No. Positively not." A pause. Then: "I'm at home having dinner, Eric. Cut me some slack, okay?"
Eric Parker, Doug's superi
or at Merrill Lynch. This was a bad sign.
"Yeah. All right." She saw his shoulders slump. "All right, just give me —" He glanced at the wall clock. "Thirty minutes. See you there." He hung up, let out a long breath, and turned toward her. "Well, that was Eric."
There was nothing she could say. Many nights he got telephone calls that stole him away from home. Like the rise of burglaries, that, too, was on the increase. "Damn," he said quietly. "It's something that has to be taken care of tonight. I'll try to be back by —" Another glance at his enemy the clock. "Two hours. Three at the most."
That meant four, Laura thought. She looked down at his less-than-muscular legs. "Better find another pair of pants, then. I'll take care of these."
Doug walked back to the master bedroom while Laura took the oil-spattered pants to the laundry room off the kitchen. She rubbed a little Gain on the spots and left Doug's pants on the dryer. Then she went to the dining room to finish her dinner, and in another moment Doug returned wearing khakis, a light blue shirt, and a gray Polo sweater. He sat down and wolfed his casserole. "I'm sorry about this," he said as he helped Laura carry the dishes into the kitchen. "I'll make it as quick as I can. Okay?"
"Okay."
He kissed her cheek, and as he leaned into her he placed his hand on her belly again. Then he was gone out the kitchen door to the garage; she heard the Mercedes start up and the garage door open. Doug backed out, the garage door closed with a thunk, and that was that.
She and David were alone.
"Well," she said. She looked at Burn This Book, there on the countertop where Doug had left it. She decided to finish it tonight and start on the Hollywood book. Then Laura scraped the dishes and put them into the dishwasher. Doug was being worked like a dog, and it wasn't fair. He was a workaholic anyway, and this pressure was only making it worse. She wondered what Eric Parker's wife, Marcy, had to say about her husband working so late on a rainy night. When had money become God? Well, there was no use fretting about it. She went into the laundry room and folded the pants over a wooden hanger. The creases weren't lined up exactly, and that imperfection would drive her nuts if she didn't correct it. Laura took the pants off the hanger and refolded them.
And something fluttered from a pocket.
It was a small green piece of paper. It came to rest on the linoleum tile near Laura's left foot.
She looked down at it.
A ticket stub.
Laura stood there with the pants halfway on the hanger. A ticket stub. She would have to pick it up, and that would require slow motion and a delicate balance. She leaned over, gripping an edge of the dryer, and retrieved the ticket. The muscles of her lower back spoke as she straightened up; they said we've been kind with you so far, don't push it. Laura started to throw the ticket stub into a trash can, but she paused with her hand halfway there.
What was the ticket for?
The theater's name was on it: Canterbury Six. Must be a shopping center cinema, she thought. One of those multiplexes. It was a new ticket. The green hadn't faded. Laura looked at the pants on the hanger. She reached into a pocket, found nothing but lint. Then the other pocket. Her hand brought out a third of a roll of peppermint Certs, a five-dollar bill, and a second ticket stub. Canterbury Six, it said.
She'd never been to the Canterbury Six in her life. Didn't even know where it was.
Laura wandered back into the kitchen, the two ticket stubs in her hand. Rain slapped against the windows, a brutal sound. She was trying to remember the last movie she and Doug had gone to see at a theater. It had been a couple of years, at least. She thought it had been The Witches of Eastwick, which was now old hat on HBO and Showtime. So why were these two ticket stubs in Doug's pocket?
She opened the phone book and looked up Theaters. The Canterbury Six was at a mall across town. She dialed the number and got a recorded message telling what films were showing: a mixture of teenage sex comedies, alien shoot-'em-ups, and Rambo clones. She put the receiver back into its cradle, and she stood staring at the clock on the kitchen wail.
Why had Doug gone to a movie and not told her? When did he have time to go see a movie? She knew she was skirting around the dangerous territory of the true question: whom had he gone with?
It was silly, she thought. There was a logical explanation. Sure there was. He'd taken a client to a movie. Right. Way across town for a drek picture? Hold it, she told herself. Stop right there, before you get crazy. There's nothing to this. Two ticket stubs. So what?
So… why had Doug not told her?
Laura turned on the dishwasher. It was fairly new, and made no noise but for a deep, quiet throbbing. She picked up Burn This Book, intending to go to the den and finish reading the philosophies and opinions of Mark Treggs. Somehow, though, she found herself at the telephone again. Nasty things, telephones were. They beckoned and whispered things that were better left unheard. But she wanted to know about the tickets. The tickets were as big as double Mt. Everests in her mind, and she couldn't see anything but their ragged edges. She had to know. She dialed the number of Doug's office.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Five times. Ten times. Then, on the fourteenth ring: "Hello?"
"Hello, this is Laura Clayborne. Is Doug there yet, please?"
"Who?"
"Doug Clayborne. Is he there yet?"
"Nobody's here, ma'am. Just us."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Wilbur," the man said. "Just us janitors here."
"Mr. Parker must be there."
"Who?"
"Eric Parker." Irritation flared. "Don't you know who works in that office?"
"There's nobody here but us, ma'am. We're just cleanin' up, that's all."
This was crazy! she thought. Even if Doug hadn't had time to get to the office yet, Eric Parker must be there! He'd called from the office, hadn't he? "When Doug Clayborne comes in," she said, "would you have him call his wife?"
"Yes ma'am, sure will," the janitor answered, and Laura said thank you and hung up.
She took Burn This Book into the den, put on a tape of Mozart chamber music, and sat down in a comfortable chair. Ten minutes later she was still staring at the same page, pretending to read but thinking Canterbury Six two tickets Dougs hould be at the office by now why hasn't he called where is he?
Another five minutes crept past. Then ten more, an eternity. Doug's hurt! she thought. He might've had an accident in the rain! As she stood up, she felt David twitch in her belly, as if sharing her anxiety. In the kitchen, she phoned the office again.
It rang and rang and rang, and this time there was no answer.
Laura walked into the den and back into the kitchen in an aimless circle. She tried the office once more, and let the thing ring off the hook. No one picked up. She looked at the clock. Maybe Doug and Eric had gone out for a drink. But why would they do that if there was so much work to be done? Well, whatever was going on, Doug would tell her about it when he got home.
Just like he'd told her about the tickets?
Laura spun the Rolodex, and found Eric Parker's home number.
She was going to feel very dumb about this tomorrow, when Doug told her he and Eric had gone out to meet a client, or that they'd simply decided not to answer the phones while they were working. She was going to feel like crawling into a hole, for thinking — even minutely — that Doug might not be telling her the truth.
She was afraid to make the call. The gnawing little fear rose up and gripped her by the throat. She picked up the telephone, punched the first four numbers, and then put it down again. She phoned the office a third time; no answer, after at least twenty rings.
The moment of truth had arrived.
Laura took a deep breath and phoned Eric Parker's house.
On the third ring, a woman said, "Hello?"
"Hi. Marcy? It's Laura Clayborne."
"Oh, hi, Laura. I understand the time's growing near."
"Yes, it is. About two weeks, more or less. We've got the nursery all ready, s
o now all we're doing is waiting."
"Listen, enjoy the wait. After the baby comes, your life won't ever be the same."
"That's what I've heard." Laura hesitated; she had to go on, but it was tough. "Marcy, I'm trying to get in touch with Doug. Do you know if they went out to meet a client, or are they just not answering the phones?"
There was a few seconds of silence. Then: "I'm sorry, Laura. I don't know what you mean."
"Eric called Doug from the office. You know. To finish up some work."
"Oh." Marcy was silent again, and Laura felt her heart beating hard. "Laura… uh… Eric went to Charleston this morning. He won't be back until Saturday."
Laura felt the blood burn in her cheeks. "No, Eric called Doug from the office. About an hour ago."
"Eric's in Charleston." Marcy Parker gave a nervous laugh. "Maybe he called long distance?"
"Maybe." Laura was light-headed. The noise of the rain was a slow drumroll on the roof. "Listen… Marcy, I… shouldn't have called. I shouldn't have bothered you."
"No, it's all right." Marcy's voice was uneasy; she wanted to get off the phone. "I hope everything's fine with the baby. I mean, I know it will be, but… you know."
"Yes. Thank you. You take care."
"Good-bye, Laura."
Laura hung up.
She realized the music was over.
She sat in her chair in the den as rain streamed down the windows. Her hand gripped the two green ticket stubs, to a theater she'd never been to. Her other hand rested on her swollen belly, finding David's warmth. Her brain felt full of thorns, and it made thinking painful. Doug had answered the phone and talked to someone he called Eric. He'd gone to the office to work. Hadn't he? And if he hadn't, then where had he gone? Her palm was damp around the tickets. Who was Doug with if Eric was in Charleston?
Laura closed her eyes and listened to the rain. A siren wailed in the distance, the sound building and then waning. She was thirty-six years old, two weeks away from giving birth for the first time, and she realized she had been a child way too long. Sooner or later, the world would break you down to tears and regrets. Sooner or later, the world would win.