Three Daughters: A Novel (61 page)

“What are you talking about? What do you take responsibility for?”

“For what’s happened.”

“What’s happened?”

She imagined that he looked impatient, a bit annoyed.
Just wait
, she thought,
here’s something worse.
“I’m pregnant.”

He looked so stunned and surprised she thought he might keel over. “God,” he said, making the word so dense that it hung in the air. “I’m sorry. I just never considered that something like that could happen to you.”

“What’d you think?” Again his look made her return to whispering. “What’d you think? I’ve got all the same equipment as the next lass and you’ve got all the equipment as the next laddie. And . . . look . . . it happened. We made a wee bairn.” She was trying to sound gay and brave and cool and collected.

“Delal, it’s not funny. How can you joke about it?” He was leaning way over the table to keep the conversation private.

“I think joking is preferable to crying, don’t you?”

“You feel like crying?” he asked solicitously.

“Not right this minute, but I might a little later on . . . when I’ve got to face the music.”

“What do you mean? What music?”

“Well, the way I see it, I have two courses open to me.” She put out two fingers and counted her options. “One, I could have the baby. Go home for the summer while I’m still fairly flat and then come back here and give birth and give the baby up. Two, I could try to have an abortion, but I have difficulty with that because . . . well, because I’m a fool for babies and when I think about a baby that might look like you, I have a hard time thinking of killing it.” She was going to make herself throw up just listening to her own drivel.
Oh, God, James, please don’t look so bewildered.

“Delal, you’ve been thinking about this a long time, but it’s all new to me. Give me some time to think about it, too. I don’t want you to do anything just yet. Good God, don’t think of killing it by any means. I have to adjust to the news.” He pushed the dish away and signaled to the waitress and asked for the check. Delal reached for her purse, but he put out his hand. “No, no. It’s all right.”

He didn’t say a word until they were back at her house. Even then he just sat next to her on the couch, tapping his knee and looking straight ahead.

She stood up but then reached for the table to steady herself.

“What’s the matter?”

“I feel a little light-headed.” He rose instantly and led her to the bed. She sat down and he picked up her legs and laid them on top of the spread.

“Are you sure you should be walking around? Are you taking care of yourself? You should go to a doctor.”

“That’s very sweet, but it’s not as if pregnancy kills you.” Telling him was just about killing her. “Look at those women in India who give birth in the fields. They squat right down and . . .”

“Just the same, I want you to be careful. I’ll take you to a doctor. I want to be sure you’re all right.”

“If you insist, but I think you’re making too much of the whole thing.” Thank God he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t blaming her.

She lay still and closed her eyes. “It does feel so good to lie down. Pregnancy makes you
so
sleepy.” She opened her mouth very wide and yawned. She felt as if she had crawled up a steep escarpment and was now safely on flat ground. “I’ll just lie here for a bit.” She closed her eyes, relieved that the ordeal was over. He knew.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead so tenderly that it was all she could do to keep from crying. She was frightened to death. Suppose her plan didn’t work. Suppose she had misjudged him. The idea of having an abortion made her palms sweat and her knees tremble. She wanted to beg him to marry her. She wanted to weep—and she
had
wept for hours the night before. She would rather have died than admit to her father that she was pregnant and not married. But he never need know. She had to be brave and independent and continue her act until it sank into James’s brain that there was only one solution.

42.

RASHID WANTS TO DO SOMETHING HURTFUL TO ME.

P
aul was yawning before they reached Chevy Chase Circle, which was only halfway to Rashid’s house. She put her hand on his arm. “Would you rather turn back and go to bed? I wouldn’t mind.” She was hoping he’d jump at the suggestion. The baby had been cranky all day and she hadn’t wanted to leave her.

“No. Not at all. I’m fine.”

Poor Cassie. She had a right to look up and find a mother with a cheerful face, not bleary swollen eyes and a mouth drooping from grief. Her mother’s death was a daily, painful truth that showed no signs of diminishing. She felt alone and frightened and there was a new wrinkle to her torment—at night she closed her eyes to the sight of her mother falling.

“It wasn’t your mother who fell,” Paul kept reminding her with exasperation. A letter had come from Peter (at Julia’s request) with a detailed account of the accident. “It was your father. If she had fallen, too, she’d probably still be alive.”

“I know.” She couldn’t understand why in her nightmares her mother was being hurled down. It was gruesome enough to think of her being trampled, but she couldn’t shake the image of a body in midair.

“You have to snap out of it, Star. You’re going to work yourself into a nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, no. It’s not that bad.” That’s precisely what she was thinking about him. He was so irritable lately and he looked so haggard. All his youthful vigor was masked by a paleness that had the tinge of illness.

They stopped for a light and she had the crazy hope that they could still turn back. “You were gone most of the night. Did you get any sleep at the hospital?”

“I took catnaps . . . ten minutes here and there.” He rubbed his eyes.

“He probably wouldn’t miss us if we didn’t go. There are going to be so many people.” She had to be careful what she said to him or he’d start shouting. Fatigue made him short-tempered.

“Star, that’s ridiculous. Of course he’d miss us. It would be rude not to go.”

“Rude?”

“You don’t think it would be rude?”

“That’s not the word that occurs to me when I think about Rashid.”

“Oh? And what word occurs to you?”

“Well, he’s one of those people who makes you do things out of obligation.” She was about to say “out of fear,” but Paul would scream at that.

“He doesn’t make me do things out of obligation. He’s our friend.” He made it sound as if she were being critical and also ungrateful.

“How is he our friend? I don’t think of him as a friend.”

“We wouldn’t be living in our house if it weren’t for him. And there are lots of other things . . . especially at the hospital. He’s smoothed the way for me at the hospital.”

She had a lot of crazy thoughts about Rashid that she couldn’t share. She had the feeling that he thought about her even when she wasn’t around. He was a busy man with a large management company to run as well as other commitments, yet he thought obsessively about her. How could she convince anyone that Rashid didn’t like her and that right now he was thinking of ways to make her feel inadequate and frightened? Maybe Paul was right. Maybe she was on the verge of a breakdown.

“Your way was smooth at the hospital before. I can’t see that he helped you so much. And as far as the house goes, isn’t that just a business deal? Don’t we pay more interest?” He didn’t answer. “Don’t we pay him interest?” she asked again. Her voice sounded ugly. She didn’t want to harp and ask so many questions, but she couldn’t stop herself. The accusations—that’s what they were—flew out by themselves.

“You really have to change your attitude,” he said angrily. “You like living in the house, don’t you? A bank would never have given us such a large mortgage. You can’t accept a man’s generosity and stab him in the back at the same time. He’s a kind, generous man. Do you think you and Larraine would have been able to get your house without him?”

“Possibly not. But as Larraine points out, we pay him more interest than he’d get from a bank. It isn’t generosity. It’s a business deal. So is our house, isn’t it? We’re going to pay the money back, aren’t we?”

“Yes. But we still wouldn’t have gotten such a large mortgage without his help.”

“Paul . . . there was a call today from a broker. He couldn’t reach you at the hospital so he called the house.”

“Yeah?”

“He sold a block of stock. He said your stop-loss had been triggered. Does that sound right?” Her voice trailed off. He looked wearier than before, but now she had to finish the message. Maybe it was crucial. Too bad she hadn’t thought of this before. Now it would be too late to call the broker back. “A thousand shares at thirty-one. He said there was a dip in the market.”

He blinked several times and swallowed. “He shouldn’t have called you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you bothered with those things.”

“Where did the money come from to buy the stocks?”

“I didn’t have to put up all of it. Some of it was on margin.”

“Who’d you borrow it from?”

“The brokerage house. If you have a certain amount of stock and you’re employed, the house lends you half the money to buy more stock.”

She kept thinking that he would tell her to shut up, but he answered in a docile voice. “Suppose the stock goes down?”

He shrugged. “Suppose it does? You don’t need me to tell you what happens. But it has to go down pretty much to be a real risk. And you can always put up more money.”

“Where did we get sixteen thousand dollars to buy the stock in the first place?”

“Now wait a minute. Is this the Inquisition?”

“It came from Rashid.” She had a look of desperation.

“I don’t see you refusing his help.”

“No. It’s true. I have no right to say anything. How much of his money did we lose?”

“I bought the stock at thirty-eight. We lost seven points.”

“That’s seven thousand dollars.”

“I’ve made money, too.”

“More than you’ve lost?” He shifted away from her against the door. The gray light of dusk made his skin look dull and pitted. “Paul, please. Let’s go home. You look awful. I feel awful. I’m still mourning my mother. We could sell the house tomorrow and pay everything back and start again on our own.”

“Good God, you’re hysterical. Pull yourself together before we go in.”

“I don’t want to pull myself together. I don’t want to go. Are you afraid not to go?”

He pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. His eyes were so hard that she was sure he was going to hit her. He gripped both her shoulders and gave them a hard shake. “Shape up, do you hear? I don’t say anything while you and Larraine fart around down in that slum putting Band-Aids on a shack. So you shut up about Rashid.”

He let go, turned on the motor, and slipped into the line of traffic.

They passed a stretch of road lined with cheap restaurants and gasoline stations and suddenly she felt a stab of homesickness that made her eyes brim over with tears. She wanted to see the ripening fields of wheat falling away into the horizon and the men and women singing and working. She needed the dry brown hills—as familiar as her hands and feet—and the special hard blue of the sky. Anything . . . the flowers, the domes, the smell of newly pressed oil . . . one familiar thing from home.
Oh, God. There’s something wrong with my life.

They arrived just after dusk, but you could still see the beautifully ordered hedges and lawns. Paul let her out at the walk in front of the house and went to park the car. She waited for him at the door, ran her hand twice under her hair to cool off, licked her lips and took a deep breath. The perspiration was soaking the upper portion of her dress, which was new and expensive. It was a princess style with a Pellon lining that made the skirt stand away from her body. “Every gal a potential Venus on the half shell,” Paul had read from the Garfinckel’s ad, and later he had come home with the dress.

“Aha . . . the guest I’ve been waiting for.” Without letting her ring the bell, Rashid had opened the door. He wore a beige double-breasted suit and a white headcloth with a brilliant green rope.

“That’s hard to believe,” she said, sounding more sarcastic than intended. “I saw a lot of important license plates out on your drive.” Her mouth felt so dry; the skin on her lips was ripping away.

“Yes, but they come willingly to my parties. You have to be coaxed.”

Had he put a microphone in their car? She managed a rueful giggle for which she hated herself. “That’s not true, Rashid. The food alone would tempt me.” Why did he make her act like an idiot? She would have liked to put an end to his baiting by saying,
I don’t like large parties, yours or anyone else’s. I feel suspicion pouring out of your eyes every time you look at me. You’re manipulating my husband and the strain is making him ill.

“How are your—how you say it?—deals and wheels?”

“My wheeling and dealing is coming slowly. I’d like to keep buying on the same block, but we’re cash-poor at the moment.” She had resolved not to talk about their plans and now she had blurted out their status in the first minute.

He put his hands together meekly. “You have a good eye and a good nose, Star. The area is attracting seasoned investors now. Maybe we should do business together. You be my scout, hah? Look, here he is.” A look of delight transformed his face. “Here’s Paul.
Ahlan
wa sahlan
.
” He grabbed Paul by the shoulder, even though he had to reach up, and kissed him on both cheeks.

It was an extravagant greeting, which did not include her.

“
Salamtak
,
” said Paul, returning the embrace.

Rashid led the way through the foyer into the main room which was already filled with elegantly dressed men and women. She recognized a few faces—the ambassador from Saudi Arabia, a prominent newsman, and several congressmen. She didn’t know anyone well enough to join their conversation, nor did she want to. What she wanted was a stiff drink. “I want Paul to meet some people . . . financial people,” Rashid said and winked—a warning that she wasn’t meant to tag along. “And you . . . Star . . . you wait for me right here.” He stopped a waiter and spoke to him in Arabic. “What you drink? Scotch?”

“Vodka and lime juice.”

He spoke again in Arabic, but included the words
Rose’s lime juice
. And then
gimlet
. Again she had underestimated him.

She sank into a tan leather sofa, grateful for the air-conditioning, and waited for her drink. She was aware that some of the women were giving her stealthy looks and closing ranks. A small combo played dance music at one end of the room. Waiters were passing drinks and food on large carved trays. There were all the right noises of an elegant party: conversational buzz, sophisticated music, tinkling ice cubes.

The waiter returned with her drink and a napkin. She took a sip and noticed the young man at the other end of the couch.

“What are you drinking?” he asked wistfully, as if he were sorry he hadn’t asked for the same thing.

“A gimlet.”

“Oh . . . it never occurred to me. I thought they might think it was a sissy drink.”

She smiled. He had a strong British accent and a lovely timbre to his voice. “What wouldn’t be a sissy drink in your view?”

“Bourbon or Scotch, but I have to admit I don’t like the taste.”

“Want mine? I’ll order another.”

“I’m afraid you can’t make them understand. The help speaks only Arabic.”

“I speak Arabic. I’ll order it for you.”

“You speak Arabic?” He looked sheepish. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound so . . . astounded.” He moved two feet along the couch.

She motioned to a passing waiter and ordered another drink with exactly the same words Rashid had used. The young man offered to return her drink, but she demurred. “Keep it. I can wait.” He was clean-cut—his eyes a little red and tired—with slicked-down brown hair. What she had come to think of as the snobby British look. It was James’s look, although his face had had a lot more character than this smooth-chinned son of England. Since her mother had died, her mind had returned to James as the last place of succor. She had dreamed of him twice and afterward allowed herself to daydream—his face and voice and the muscularity of his arms holding her were vivid. “I don’t do well at parties like this,” she said to the young man.

“Why on earth not?” He looked surprised then thought it over. “If you mean because of the size and the superficial conversations, I agree.”

“Not only the size,” she said brazenly. “It’s a duty party. My husband thinks it’s our duty to show up.” He was surprised and she was surprised to be so instantly personal, as if they were on a sinking boat and it was too late for formalities. Was a man who looked like James enough to make her spirits lift?

“A duty for me, too. Of course, I don’t feel that way now,” he smiled shyly. “You haven’t been superficial. You told me the truth right away.”

Her drink arrived and she took a large swallow. Inexplicably, her eyes filled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just about to ask you to dance.” He peered discreetly to see if her sad moment was over. “I can’t even get another drink—which I badly need—without your linguistic help.” He was trying to cheer her up.

She smiled and motioned a waiter to bring another round. Her eyes were still glistening. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad shock recently.”

“No need to apologize. Anything I can do to help?”

Before she answered she looked around and saw her husband and Rashid staring in her direction. They watched as she took another large sip of her drink. Paul’s grim expression made her feel rebellious. “Well . . . I’ll take you up on that dance.”

“Delighted.”

The musicians had ended a medley of tunes from
South Pacific
and were playing “Stardust.” “I don’t even know your name.”

“Thomas Reardon. At your service. Whatever else happens in your life, you can always think, ‘Well, I can count on Thomas Reardon to help me.’ ”

She smiled. “How did you find your way into this fine party?”