Anne is propped up in bed, going over a licensing agreement with a small Vermont furniture maker. She’s having a hard time concentrating. The numbness is gone from her stomach; there’s just a tiny point of tenderness where the needle went in. For a five-hundred-dollar surcharge the company doing the DNA testing agreed to expedite her tests; she’ll have the results in about ten days. She reaches for another disgusting peanut butter cookie and picks up her bedside phone and dials.
“Hello.”
“Kayla, it’s me.”
“I hate you. I spent eighteen hundred dollars today on your goddamn website.”
“Isn’t it great?”
“It’s amazing! Just what I need-a whole new way to shop. You’re a genius. And where did you find those gold-leaf tiles?”
“Deepest Brooklyn.”
“Wow. But I’m canceling the whole order if you don’t tell me what’s bugging you. Right now.”
Anne puts her paperwork on the bedside table. She lifts off the covers and sits on the edge of the bed.
“I’m pregnant… and Charles may not be the father.”
There’s a long pause.
“Sorry. I was picking my jaw up off the floor. Tell me everything.”
And Anne does, spewing out the whole story. When she’s done she feels better than she has in months.
“That motherfucker Farnsworth,” Kayla says.
“No, Kayla, that’s too easy. I could have stopped it.”
“He shouldn’t have put you in that position. But that’s a moot point. What are your thoughts about the baby?”
“Even if it is Farnsworth’s, I don’t know if I can go through with an abortion. There’s a life growing inside me.”
“What about your life, Anne? If it’s Farnsworth’s, there’s a chance you’ll hate the baby. Think about the ramifications of that. You know I’m still a little conflicted about my own abortion, but at the same time I know I did the right thing. I’ve never doubted it for a second. It wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right man. The same may be true for you.”
“But it is the right time. I want a child.”
“But do you want this child?”
Anne starts to pace around the room. She looks down at the park, its lights twinkling in the dark. What fun it would be to take her little child-would it be a boy or a girl? — to the zoo and the carousel. To share a tuna fish sandwich sitting on a park bench.
“It’s my child as much as the father’s, Kayla. It’s my baby.”
“Anne, it’s your decision and you’re my best friend and I love you and I’ll support you in whatever you decide. But remember that you have choices.”
Anne imagines going to an Upper East Side clinic for the abortion, spending a couple of recuperative days at Canyon Ranch. The whole thing would be over with and she could get on with her life. It seems like such a simple solution. Especially considering the current state of her marriage.
“I’m speaking to a media buyers’ convention in Scottsdale on Saturday. Why don’t I fly to New York as soon as I’m done?” Kayla says.
An overwhelming sadness descends on Anne. She turns away from the window and sits on the floor, her back against the wall.
“Are you going to our fifteenth reunion?” she asks, knowing Kayla will grasp her need to change the subject.
“Hell, yes, it’s the ultimate gloat fest. All those little blond chippies slaving away on Wall Street and in Silicon Valley. We showed ’em, didn’t we, Turner?”
Anne leans her head against the side of her dresser and closes her eyes. “We showed ’em.”
“I’m six hours away from buying you a big fat martini. Promise me you’ll call if you want me to hop a plane.”
“I promise.”
“Love you, kiddo.”
“I love you, Kayla.”
Anne hugs her knees and rests her head on them. The room seems so big from down on the floor. She starts to hum to herself, some half-forgotten lullaby her father loved.
Then she hears the front door open, followed by Charles’s approaching footfalls. She scuttles into the bathroom, stands up, and grabs her toothbrush. He appears in the bathroom doorway, his eyes shining.
“Hi,” he says, giving her cheek a perfunctory kiss.
“Where’ve you been?”
“I took a long walk.”
“Do you want me to heat something up?”
“I ate.”
“Oh. Where?”
“I grabbed a bite at a coffee shop.”
Charles hates coffee shops.
“I want to do some work,” he says. He takes off his shirt and splashes cold water on his face and under his arms.
“Oh, Charles? How much longer do you think you’ll need that secretary?”
“Hard to say.” He walks over to his closet and puts on a worn denim workshirt.
Anne stands in the bathroom doorway. “But you want to keep her around?”
“It’s nice to know she’s out there staying on top of things.”
“I see.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust her.”
“What’s not to trust? She’s just some highly efficient, highly insecure girl.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“It’s a nice night out,” Charles says.
“Are you on to something?”
Charles nods but doesn’t elaborate.
“Well, that is exciting. Although it’s not easy being a literary widow.”
“Think how much fun it’ll be when I return from the grave.”