Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady
“Norm-man, I've lost our baby.”
“Our... what?” Fear came all over me, clear and so damn strong. Could there be any doubt about it now? Wasn't this the working plot of a stupid novel, the jacket blurb of my future? 'His wife lost his baby but another woman was carrying his child.'
“You're angry, hurt. I felt you stiffen. Oh, Norm, can you ever forgive me?” Her voice was a high moan.
I kissed her, a numb kiss, my head ready to explode. I heard myself saying, “I can forgive you anything but I don't know what you're talking about.” I walked her to the couch, sat down, tried to pull her on my lap. She turned and sat at the end of the couch; seemed to shrink, her face full of misery. “Now tell me in basic English—or basic French— what has happened.” How far away and strange-sounding my voice was.
She stared at me, her face almost blank, hysteria mounting. I moved over, held her tightly as I whispered, “Michele, I'm the one who should be asking forgiveness.”
“No!”
I damn near told her about Wilma then and there. Instead, I stroked her soft hair, said, “All that matters is you are with me again. Do you understand, nothing else matters!”
“I lost our baby.”
“Honey, were you pregnant when we battled....?” I suddenly laughed, an insane chuckle that brought me back to reality. “And we were always so damn careful!”
“I thought I was pregnant,” Michele said, her voice dull and flat. “I wasn't sure. You know how I am often late. I was trying to tell you... when things got out of hand.”
“But that was only a week ago, less. What makes you think...?”
“The moment I landed in Paris I went to a doctor—a French rabbit said I was pregnant. My mother convinced me how wrong I was to be apart from you. It was your child, too. I was lucky to get a cancellation... if one can call it luck. All the rushing and traveling... flying makes me nervous. Yesterday I... I came around. And spending all that money for a few days.”
I laughed, her French thrift always showed. “Darling, I don't care if—”
“Don't you, my Norman?” she asked, sadness in her voice. “Can't you see I want you to care? And I know you do, your face is tense.” She shrugged. “I never even cried when it happened... nature's way... unless we both want a child. I have no right to—” She began to cry, tremendous sobbing that frightened me.
I shook her gently. “Honey, nothing matters except you're back. We'll still have a baby, still do everything we wanted.” But I knew my voice was hollow.
“I have more to tell you,” she said, her voice shaking with her sobs. “When I took off, I was almost hoping all the flying would do... what it did. Norm-man, I have done such a horrible thing! Not only the baby, but I made conditions for our marriage... I have no right to dictate your life. I had no right to—to....” Her sobbing began a series of hysterical, tiny screams.
I talked fast into her ear. “Darling, darting, don't. I was the wrong one. You want a child, fine. Truthfully it doesn't matter to me, but I'm not against it. I've learned I'm not against anything where you're concerned. I think I've grown up these last days. I've been inside some people's lives—part of a business deal—and I know now that ambition, real ambition, only means trying for happiness. We had it and I damn near threw it out the window. Michele, what I'm trying to say, we're so much a part of each other that when you left I was a sick man... sick in mind.” Was I trying to prepare an alibi? In the midst of her misery I was setting up my excuse for Wilma. A lousy sick feeling joined the fear in my head.
We sat there, holding each other tightly, Michele sobbing and moaning so I thought she was having a breakdown. I got her to tie on the couch. She kept trembling, her skin terribly pale, her eyes staring but not seeing me. I phoned a doctor, then sat beside her and held her hand.
He said Michele was suffering from fatigue and shock, gave her a sedative. I had explained what it was all about and before she dozed off he told Michele, “Mrs. Connor, while I don't want to low-rate French rabbits there isn't any way you could have been positive you were pregnant. Do you hear that? It's actually impossible to tell—in the first weeks. I want you to forget what's happened, get some rest for the next few days. You look like a very healthy young woman and while one can't give any guarantee in this sort of thing, I think you'll have children.”
He took me into the kitchen and gave me a couple of prescriptions to have filled, told me, “Your wife must have absolute rest for a day at least. No company and no arguments. I don't want her upset. This isn't serious, but in her state, another shock could have serious consequences. You ought to rest, Mr. Connor. You seem pretty upset yourself.”
“I'm okay. Listen, Doc, I—” But I didn't have the nerve to ask him.
“What is it?”
“I... eh... wondered if she needed vitamins,” I said stupidly.
“One of the items I prescribed is a tonic. Don't worry and get a smile on your face. It's your reaction that adds to her feeling of guilt about the miscarriage. Don't awaken her, even to give her the medicines. The both of you need a relaxed atmosphere around here. Stop worrying. I'll phone you tomorrow.”
“Is it okay to leave her alone now? I mean, can I go to the drugstore?”
“Yes, she should sleep for hours. In a day or two I want you to both get out of the house, take in some shows, go away for a few days, if you can. Above all, stop blaming her for losing the child.”
“Blame Michele? I told you I don't care about a—”
“Look at yourself in the mirror, Mr. Connor. Your face is full of anger. Best medicine for your wife is for you to relax.”
Soon as he left I went out and got the medicines. I was damn sure about one thing—I had to settle things with Wilma. I had to impress upon her Michele couldn't stand another shock, that she would have to work out something. It was only three and I walked up and around the living room, knowing Wilma wouldn't be home for at least another hour. Then I just couldn't take it, I had to see her now. I phoned Joel Hunter, trying to think of what excuse I could give him to ask for the address of Wilma's employer. Wilma answered the phone.
I said, “Look, it's damn important I see you at once. Can I meet you someplace?”
“Come over here, I'm not dressed. What's this about?”
“Joel around?”
“No. He's out getting some data on the Bronx Zoo. Really, Norm, you sound like—”
“I'll be over in a few minutes.”
I got the janitor's wife to stay with Michele, told her I had an urgent business appointment. I picked up a cab at the corner and within 15 minutes Wilma was opening the door for me. She was wearing a crazy colored robe and slippers. As I walked in she said, “I'm as curious as the famous cat. Now what is....?”
“You alone?”
“My, aren't we being mysterious for ourselves. Yes, I am alone.”
We walked down the long hallway and into the living room and I was trying to think how the hell I would ask her. All I could come up with was a blunt, “Wilma, are you pregnant?”
Her face froze in an absolute double-take. She fell into a chair, roared with laughter.
I stood over her. “Damn it, are you?”
“Down, boy. I was going to offer you a shot, but you're loaded.”
“Sure, it's all a big prat fall, a stage joke! listen, Joel said you were feeling sick, morning sick...”
“Oh, for... I've had a cold. That's the only thing I got that night on the beach. Really, for a smooth character you wash terribly simple.”
I turned away, stared out the window at some dirty roofs. “No, it will turn out that you are, it's practically in the script.”
“Aren't you full of happy thoughts! Imagine me being with child, as the saying goes. Norm, when I'm ready, I'll have a kid. Now, let me tell you the facts of life. When I found out Joel was going to hide out in that goddamn room, well, it was the first time he'd done that—I mean on a several day spree—in years. It made me sore to have him out of my reach. I decided—before I ever knew about your wife—that I'd go out and have an affair, sort of get even with Joel. I don't know if I actually would have done it or not. This may shock you, but I'm really not a pushover.”
“Who said you were?” I mumbled.
“The point is, I took a pill that afternoon, a little medical wonder that leaves the woman sterile for 48 hours. So that's that.”
“No, it isn't. Look, we—I didn't take any precautions. It's only been a week, you can't be certain. I've had this hunch about you being—”
“You'd better not try the races with your hunches, Buster Brown, I happen to be home this minute because I've had the curse since shortly after the fights on TV last night—to pin it down for you.”
“My God, you do?”
“Norm, are you a well boy? I mean it.”
“Maybe. I had this hunch and was so damn certain everything was ruined. Then my wife returned today with... oh, hell, forget it. I'm terribly sorry I've been such a... an ass.”
“Well, let's forget it. And if I had been caught... now, wouldn't that have been something.” She grinned, gave ma that intense stare. “You're deceiving, Norm. Soon as I saw you, I knew we were going to take a roll. I not only liked your hands but you seemed so smooth and sophisticated. Really sophisticated. This may sound nuts to you but I got more of a kick out of the whore aspect, you know, thinking I might further Joel's books at your house. Even on the beach, juiced as I was, I knew I had you marked wrong—you're just a nice ordinary guy.”
“Thanks for the headshrinking. Please forget the whole damn thing. My wife isn't feeling well and I have to rush.”
“I think in its own little way, this has been quite a charming scene. At least it has spiced up my afternoon. And I want you to call us and bring your wife over. I mean that, Norm.”
We walked to the door and she suddenly gave me a kiss, pressing her breasts against me, whispered, “Please don't look like such a hurt little boy, Norm, darling. I suppose I simply couldn't resist being the clever bitch, making with the jokes.”
I tapped her on the behind. “It's okay, I put my foot in so far nothing makes it any worse or better. Do me one favor, forget this ever happened?”
“Scouts' honor. And don't you be a fool either... telling your wife or any of that movie crap. Remember, I want the four of us to get together soon.”
I said we would and downstairs I started walking back to the apartment. I'd never felt like such a fool. I kept thinking of Jackson Clair and his line about stupid mistakes. Damn, how stupid can one get?
Then, after I'd walked a block or so, the true reaction set in. What did it matter if I sat in Times Square on high noon wearing a dunce cap? I was free! Everything was fine with my own world again. I wanted to dance in the street, do summersaults—I used to be good at tumbling. I wanted to do something crazy, like smash a window, bust a total stranger on the nose.
I came whistling into the apartment, carrying ginger beer and beer. After tipping the startled janitor's wife-nurse five bucks, I undressed, made a pitcher of shandy-gaff, and drank it slowly as I sat beside Michele's bed, admiring my lovely wife. I carefully stretched out beside her, my fingers gently touching the parts of her body I loved the most as I tumbled off into a wonderful sleep.
Later, at about ten, I awoke and ate like a pig, enjoyed an English movie on TV. I was in such a state of bliss I damn near giggled at myself. When I finally got back to bed it was too hot to sleep. After while Michele awoke. She seemed rested, if still a bit groggy. She kept repeating what the doe had said about it being impossible to tell if she'd actually been pregnant or not. The more she talked about it, the greater comfort it seemed to give her.
I told her I loved her in every way I could. Even found myself saying, ”... and if you ever leave me again, run across the Ocean to mama, I'll kill you.” Of course that started me on Matt, and she was interested in the case. We got up and had a snack. I wanted her to go back to bed but she stayed up to see the late-late show on TV, a “ghoulie” as Michele called the pictures in which most of the actors were now dead. It was as if she'd never left me.
I wanted to take a few days off but didn't have the nerve to ask Bill—having been away a week. Michele saw a doctor in the afternoon and he assured her we could try for a baby anytime we wished. We had supper out that night. The following evening we dined with some of her UN friends, took in a play.
While Michele didn't seem too interested in the house, I insisted we buy it. I think I really wanted it. So we bought it, and spent the rest of the summer working like loons, painting, cleaning, planting, decorating. Even fixing the plumbing. It turned out, to our amazement, that we were both handy with tools. I even enjoyed making like a commuter. All in all, that August was one of the most happy and relaxed months we ever had.
Whether it was having Michele back, the house, or even oar trying so hard for a kid—time raced by. If it only seemed a few days later, it was actually the end of September when Matt Anthony's trial started. And I'd almost forgotten about him. Except for a one paragraph item in the papers when Jackson Clair changed Matt's plea to innocent by reason of insanity and asked that Matt be examined by state psychiatrists, the case had dropped out of the news.
Marty Kelly hadn't thought too much of my ad campaign but I was sure of it. We ran our first ads two weeks before the trial was due, and along with a few cases of Scotch and other gifts we not only planted our items in all the major columns, but sent out special releases to every small columnist we could find. Marty placed Bill Long on several radio and TV interviews where he piously explained the problems facing a book publisher—of course using Matt's book as an illustration.
The book sale was far from sensational, but it did well. Over half the first printing of 12,000 copies sold before the trial, with reorders mounting every day. The sales department ran off a small second edition.
I didn't have much time for handball, or Frank, although we had the Kuhns out to the house for a weekend. When I did have lunch with him, after the book was out, and he told me of an opening in an agency for $10,000—'as a starter, of course'—he was puzzled when I said I wasn't interested. He thought it was the money—I'd told him Bill had promised me a “substantial” raise after the January stockholders meet-jog—and Frank kept assuring me I'd double the ten grand in “two years, minimum.” I guess I didn't do much of a job explaining why I was turning it down. I could hardly explain without insulting Frank.
The trial opened on a Thursday in Riverside. Bill Long thought somebody from the firm should attend. I said it should be me—I felt a part of the case, wanted to be in at the wind-up.
Michele was back at school teaching: her suggestion. I hated to spend a few days apart, and although she wanted to spend the weekend at the house, see about a boat we were considering, she finally agreed to come out to Riverside for the weekend.
