And out of the hatred, Charlotte thought, had come Violet’s union with the man who talked like poetry. To her he was probably a symbol of all the romantic and exciting people who passed through the town, heading east or north or south, but never stayed.
“I don’t know how it happened after that. I don’t
know.
I—oh doctor, please. You’ve got to help me.”
“I’m sorry I can’t, not in the way you mean.”
The girl let out a cry of despair. “I thought—I thought being you was a woman like me—being you…”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said again.
“What can I do? What can I do with this—this
thing
growing inside of me, growing and growing, and me with no money and no job and no husband. Oh God, I wish I was dead!” She struck her thighs with both fists. “I’ll kill myself!”
“You can’t, Violet. Stop now and be sensible.”
Miss Schiller appeared. She’d been listening at the door. She liked excitement, and violence was always cropping up in her dreams.
“Did you need me, doctor?”
“Why, no,” Charlotte said coolly. “As a matter of fact you may go home. I’ll lock up.”
“Well, I thought…”
“Good night, Miss Schiller.”
The door banged shut again.
Violet’s face was blotched with white. “She must of heard me. She’ll go around telling everyone.”
“She has no one to tell, only her cat.”
“C—cat?”
“She has a big tomcat; the two of them gossip together for hours… Are you feeling better now, Violet?”
“Why should I? Nothing’s been changed.”
Charlotte felt a little foolish. Ordinary tact seemed silly in the face of such simple and direct reactions as Violet’s: How can I want this child? Why should I feel better when nothing is changed?
“Such operations are illegal,” Charlotte said bluntly, “unless they’re necessary. That is, medically necessary, in the case of a mother’s life being at stake.”
“
My
life is at stake.”
“You only think that now. Later on, when you adjust to the…”
“Please,” Violet said. “Please. Give me some medicine.”
“I can’t. Even if I could it wouldn’t work. Your pregnancy is too advanced. How far along are you?”
“Four months.”
Charlotte thought of the child secure inside Violet’s reluctant body, impervious to the violence of her fists and the animosity of her mind. It would be recognizably human by this time, the arms and legs well-formed, the cervical flexure gone, the head nearly straight, the nose and lips and cheeks already distinct. Four months—how could the girl be sure?
“I’m sure,” Violet said. “It only happened once.” She raised her head and looked at Charlotte, half-hostile, half-anxious. “I guess you don’t believe that no more than Eddie did.”
“I believe it.”
“Just once, it happened. Just for a minute, and now look at me. It ain’t fair. I don’t
deserve
it.”
“I know… I know… This Eddie you mentioned, your husband… Perhaps your best bet, for the time being anyway, would be to go back to him if he’ll take you?”
“Oh, he’d take me, all right. He likes to have me around, somebody to cook for him and to bully. Oh, what’s the use sitting here talking? You won’t help me.”
“I can’t.”
“You
can,
but you won’t, because you’re afraid. Well, I’m afraid too, worse than you.” Violet’s eyes were bleak. The crying had washed away their softness; they glared like marbles. “Doctor—you don’t know anybody else who’d…”
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Charlotte said honestly. There were rumors, of course, about old Dr. Chisholm, but then there were about many doctors, off and on, herself included. Most of the rumors originated with disgruntled patients or chronic cranks.
Violet was watching her, sadly, bitterly. “I guess you’ve never been desperate like I am.”
Charlotte was patient. “Now Violet, let’s not make this a contest between you and me, who’s more afraid or who’s more desperate. This is a practical problem. We can’t solve it with emotions. Tell me, have you any place to stay?”
“My step-uncle keeps a boarding house downtown. He’s letting me stay in the back room upstairs until—until things are settled.”
“What things?”
“He thinks I should get money from this man—the father.”
“Have you tried?”
“Yes. But he wasn’t home. He was out of town.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Yes, tonight, they told me.”
“He doesn’t know that you’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“Do you think that he’ll admit that the child is his?”
“He’s gotta. It
is.
My uncle says I can go to court and make him pay a lot of money. I can ruin him forever, my uncle says.”
“I wouldn’t think of revenge, Violet—only of doing the right thing for yourself and your child.”
There was a long silence before Violet spoke again. “I don’t want to ruin him. I got no hard feelings being it was as much my fault as his. I don’t even want money. I only want to be the way I was before—without anything growing inside of me. I’ll put up with Eddie, with anything, just so’s I could be the way I was before.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I wish I could help you.” The phone rang in the reception room and Charlotte went out to answer it. It was Lewis. She told him, rather brusquely, that she was glad he was back and that he was to call her later at home.
When she returned to her own office Violet was gone. She had slipped out the rear door, and the only evidence that she’d been there at all was the wad of sodden Kleenex left on the chair and the history sheet on Charlotte’s desk. The sheet was blank except for the name and address at the top, written in Miss Schiller’s librarian’s backhand: Mrs. Violet O’Gorman, 916 Olive Street.
She picked up the history sheet and stood holding it in her bands for more than a minute. Then she crumpled it into a ball and hurled it quite viciously at the wastebasket.
Just as she tried to forget Lewis during office hours, in the evenings she tried to forget her work. She wasn’t entirely successful.
“You’re jumpy tonight,” Lewis said.
“Am I?”
“Could I flatter myself that it’s strictly from joy at having me back?”
“You could not.”
“You are glad, though? Aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“I missed you, Charley.”
There wasn’t the usual banter in his voice. He sounded tired.
She went over and put her hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t often that she touched him first and on her own initiative. She was very proud; Lewis had to be the aggressor, to make the first move.
He was in his early forties now, a tall man, so rangy and loose-jointed that he could never fit into any ordinary chair. The one he occupied he’d bought himself and given to Charlotte. It was red leather and didn’t match the gray and lime color scheme of the rest of the sitting room. It stood out, compelled attention. When Lewis wasn’t there the chair was a symbol of him, a discordant note in the restful little room, as Lewis was the discordant note in her life.
He twisted his head so that her hand was pressed tight between his cheek and his shoulder. She had an irrational feeling that her hand was caught in a crevice between boulders.
She broke the silence. “Lewis?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Perhaps you should have stayed home with Gwen the first night…”
“I couldn’t,” he said simply. “Let’s change the subject.”
“All right. How was the trip?”
“Like any trip without you, long and dull.” He had gone with two other lawyers on a week’s fishing trip in the Sierras. It was an annual, routine affair. Lewis never enjoyed it; he went along merely because it was expected of him. Lewis liked to conform: his defiance of the conventions was purely verbal.
“I’m glad it was dull. I’ll seem exciting by contrast.” She spoke lightly, but she felt a twinge of pain that was part anger and part jealousy. Minutes with Lewis were few and precious. Yet he had squandered a whole week of them on a fishing trip. I’m getting possessive, she thought. I must watch myself. You can’t own people. I own my car, my house, my clothes—that ought to be enough. It wasn’t enough, though. The car had to have Lewis at the wheel; the clothes had been selected to please him; and she’d bought the house six weeks after she’d met him, not knowing why at the time, merely thinking that her apartment was too cramped and there wasn’t enough privacy.
The house had a high stone wall on three sides. On the fourth side there was a sweeping view of the city and the harbor. From Lewis’ chair by the picture window you could look down and see the city spread out below, a tangled network of lights all the way down the hill to the sea. The city was medium-sized, large enough to support half a dozen second-rate night clubs, and small enough to pass the word along if you patronized any of them. She and Lewis never went to night clubs or even to movies together. They met at her house—he hid his car in her garage, or left it a block away—or they drove down to the beach at night, as anonymous in the dark as all the other lovers parked on the blowing sand.
“I like your hair,” Lewis said, raising his head to look up at her. “It’s brown, plain brown. You don’t often see plain brown hair any more; it’s usually tinted red… Charley, you’re not even listening.”
“I am. You said I had brown hair.”
“What I really meant was that I love you. Everything about you is right.”
“That’s nice.”
“Nice.” He frowned; his black, bushy eyebrows made him look cruel. “Charley, there’s something the matter with you tonight. I’ve said or done the wrong thing again. Or you’re still sore about the fishing trip.”
“I’m not sore. I have something on my mind. A patient who came in this afternoon.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Her. I can’t tell you.”
“You often do, medical ethics to the contrary.”
“I know… Lewis, I think I made a mistake.” She stood at the window locking and unlocking her fingers. Somewhere in the city, in the chaos of yellow and red and green lights was the light that belonged to Violet—a dim, flyspecked light in the back room of a boarding house on Olive Street. And Gwen—there was a light for Gwen, too, as she sat waiting for Lewis to come home, patient and sweet as always, with the collies beside her, all of them as gentle as Gwen herself.
“As long as you didn’t kill anybody,” Lewis said, “by giving them the wrong prescription.”
“I don’t make mistakes like that. This was an error in judgment. The girl—everything the girl said was right. I was afraid, I still am. But such silly, trivial fears compared to hers… And she said I’ve never been desperate. I haven’t. I’ve never had anything to make me desperate.”
She turned suddenly, aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere. Lewis was lighting a cigarette. She knew from his expression that he was disappointed and angry at the way the evening was turning out. Their first evening together for a week—it should have been perfect, and it wasn’t, and Lewis was silently blaming her, as if it were her fault that the two of them couldn’t live separate from the rest of the world. She and Lewis would never, could never be alone, in spite of the stone wall on three sides of the house. The fourth side was unguarded, unprotected. Violet crept in, and Gwen, and Miss Schiller, even the two men who’d gone with Lewis on the fishing trip.
She said, with a sigh, “I feel depressed and quarrelsome, Lewis. Perhaps you’d better go home.”
“Perhaps I had.” He ground out his cigarette in the myrtle wood ash tray he’d brought her from up north. “Though I don’t like being ordered around like a little boy.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound unpleasant, darling. I meant, we’ll only quarrel if you stay.”
“You can sound pretty officious. God, Charley, what do you think I’m made of? You keep me hanging around, you tell me to come, and then you tell me to go peddle my papers. You rant about some silly girl and her fears when we’ve got a million things to say to each other about
us.”
He got up and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Who cares, who the hell cares? Charley, you haven’t changed your mind, you still love me?”
“Yes. Naturally.”
“When I hold you, you draw away as if I had a bad smell.”
“Oh Lewis, for heaven’s sake,” she said sharply, pulling away from his grasp. “I told you, I’m not myself tonight. Everything’s wrong, out of focus.”
He looked grim. “Because of this girl?”
“I suppose that started it.”
“Why?”
“She’s in trouble. I refused to help her.”
“Why should you help her? She’s probably just an ordinary tart who got caught.”
“No. She’s a nice girl, sensitive, and very bewildered.”
“You’ve had cases like that before. Why does this one worry you?”
“Because of us, Lewis. Don’t you see…?”
“No.”
“If we go on together, if we become lovers, I might accidentally end up in the same boat she’s in.”
He let out a snort of disgust. “I see now. For some extraordinary reason you’ve identified yourself with this girl, and me with the man who got her in trouble, the callous, bestial male.”
“No, I haven’t.” She looked up at him, searching his face for some sign that he understood. “What would you do if I got pregnant?”
“Considering our present platonic relationship, that’s rather funny.”
“You aren’t laughing. What would you do?”
“Oh, come off it,” he said. “You wouldn’t get pregnant.”
“It’s possible.”
“Not with the proper insurance.”
She smiled, a little bitterly. “That’s a funny analogy. When you take out earthquake insurance it means you’re protected financially against an earthquake. It doesn’t guarantee that there
won’t be
an earthquake. The sense of security is false.”
“Now earthquakes. God, Charley, what’s got into you? You’re becoming a neurotic.”
“Am I?” She averted her face. “I think you’d better leave.”
“Certainly,” he said. “Certainly.”
He crossed the room towards the door, slowly, giving her an opportunity to call him back. She didn’t. She stood at the window until she heard his car roar out of the garage. The furious racing of the engine indicated that Lewis was taking out his temper on the car.