Daddy (4 page)

“Is that right?” He got up and started to pace the room. “Simple as that, is it? What is it with you? Every time you get pregnant, we have to go through this fucking insanity about abortion.”

“It's not insanity. It is
my
sanity. I don't want another baby. You go to the office every day, you have your own life. I'm stuck out here playing car pool and PTA mom, and I'm not going to re-up for another twenty years. “I've done ten, and the way I see it, I'm halfway through, and you're not going to change that.”

“And then what? What's so worthwhile killing this baby for? You're going to become a brain surgeon maybe? For chrissake, you're doing important things here, you're raising our children. Is that too big a sacrifice for Miss Cliffie to make for God and Country? I know you used to think you should be in SoHo with the Great Unwashed, writing poems and the Great American Novel. Personally, I think this has a little more merit, and I thought that by now you'd figured that much out too. For chrissake, Sarah, grow up!”

“I have grown up, God damn you. I've grown up, grown out, and grown old, and I'm not going to throw my life away for everyone else forever. Give
me a
chance, for chrissake. What about
me?
There are»more than just kids in this world, Oliver, or hadn't you noticed?”

“I notice that you have a damn easy life out here. While I work my balls off in New York, you play tennis with your friends, and make cookies with Melissa, and that's what you should be doing. But don't tell me what a fucking hardship that is, Sarah, I just don't buy it. And a baby isn't going to change any of that.”

“Bullshit!”

The fight raged until two in the morning, and the next night, and the next night, and the night after. It raged through the weekend and into the following week, with tears on both sides, and slamming doors, and ugly accusations. It finally boiled down to Oliver begging Sarah to have the baby, and eventually throwing up his hands, and telling her to do whatever the hell she wanted.

She scheduled the abortion twice, and even made the mistake of calling her sister in Grosse Pointe, which turned into an even bigger fight when her sister told her she thought she was indecent, immoral, and more than likely crazy.

It went on for weeks, and in the end, they were both drained, damaged, disillusioned, but somehow they managed to piece it all back together and Sarah did not have the abortion. But Oliver agreed that after this one,; she could have her tubes tied. He thought it was an unfortunate choice, but he also realized that neither of them could survive another attack like this one on the very foundations of their marriage, and Sarah assured him that under no circumstances was she going to be having another surprise baby when she was forty.

The baby came on Election Day, with Oliver standing in the delivery room, encouraging Sarah, who told him she hated him every time she had a contraction, and she had assured Ollie almost hourly for the past eight months that she was never going to give a damn about this baby. He told her he would love it for both of them, and the children were thrilled at the prospect. Benjamin was eight by then and intrigued and excited by the whole thing, and to Melissa, at six, it was like having a live doll to play with. Only Sarah had remained unenthusiastic about the impending arrival. And as the baby's head appeared, Oliver watched in wonder as Samuel Watson made his way into the world, with a loud cry and a look of amazement at his father. They handed the baby to Oliver first and he gently gave him to Sarah, who lay with tears streaming down her cheeks, remembering all the ugly things she had said about this baby. He had black hair and Ollie's green eyes, and creamy skin, and a look in his eyes that somehow foretold great wisdom and great humor. He was the kind of baby you fell in love with the moment you saw him, and as fervently as she had resisted him, Sarah fell as ardently in love with him from the instant she held him. He was “her” baby, no crier, no screamer, an easy, peaceful, happy baby, right from the first. He became her great passion in life, and she regaled Oliver nightly with tales of Sam's accomplishment and genius. He was just simply a very delicious baby, and everyone was crazy about him right from the first, Ollie, Sarah, his brother and sister, his grandparents. He was terrific, and he proved Ollie right, although he was gracious enough never to say it but they both knew. Ollie had been right, and they were both grateful that Sarah had had him. Everything about him was easy and lovable and fun, and he never became the burden Sarah had feared he would be.

To make matters easier, Ollie had hired a housekeeper for her, a local woman who'd worked for a bishop for fifteen years and wanted to find a household with a little life and fun. She loved Melissa and Benjamin, and like everyone else, she fell in love with Sam the minute she saw him. He had round cherub cheeks and a smile to match, and fat little arms and legs that begged you to squeeze and hold and kiss him. And more often than not Agnes, his benevolent guardian, and Sarah, his adoring mother, found themselves each kissing one chubby cheek as the three noses met and they laughed and Sam squealed with amusement. Agnes was exactly what Sarah had needed, she only wished she had had her when Benjamin was screaming the walls down on Second Avenue with colic, but they couldn't have afforded her then anyway. Now everything was different. And as Ollie had predicted, it was all surprisingly easy.

Sarah didn't have to make breakfast anymore. She didn't have to make dinner anymore. She didn't vacuum or clean or do laundry. They had a cleaning woman twice a week, and the miraculous Agnes. She was happy living in a tiny little room they built onto what had once been a deck, outside the guest room, which was now the baby's bedroom. And day and night, he was surrounded by his sister checking up on him, his brother bringing him baseball mitts and footballs, Sarah, Oliver, and Agnes. And amazingly, he did not become a spoiled brat, but instead, he was a remarkably pleasant child, who remained the joy of the house, and brought sunshine into everyone's life around him. The nightmare of the child that would destroy Sarah's life never materialized, but by the same token he provided her no excuses. He needed no special extra time, he caused no trouble in school, he was just as happy to play with Agnes or Melissa as he was with her, or most especially Benjamin or his father, and Sarah had no excuse now.

And before she knew it, Benjamin was suddenly seventeen and in his last year of high school, Melissa fifteen and permanently grafted to a telephone she would drag inexplicably into an upstairs closet, to sit huddled on the floor amid old ski clothes to speak to boys no one had ever heard of, and Sam was nine, content to play in his own room, busy with his own routine, and singularly undemanding of his mother's attention—all of which left Sarah with no reason whatsoever why she couldn't write. She couldn't blame the blank pages or the silence of the typewriter on the children.

And as she sat watching the snow fall, she wondered what she would say to Ollie. She wished he wouldn't ask her how the writing was going. For almost two years now, he had evidenced sincere concern and it was driving her crazy. She couldn't tell him that nothing was coming, that it was going nowhere, that at forty-one her worst fears had come true. Her life really was over. She had never felt so stale and old and tired, and this time she knew she wasn't pregnant. As promised, and agreed, she had had her tubes tied years before, after Sam's arrival. This was something very different. This was the slow, demoralizing realization that your life is going nowhere, that the dreams you had at twenty had dissipated years before and were very likely never real in the first place. She was never going to be a writer now. At thirty-five, knowing that would have destroyed her, at thirty-nine, it might have killed her. At forty-one, it filled her with sadness. There was nothing left now, except the ordinariness of her life, while Ollie climbed to greatness. It was an odd feeling. Even her children were more important than she was. Everyone had something going in their lives. Benjamin was an outstanding athlete and a terrific student. Melissa was incredibly artistic and, surprisingly, a real beauty. She talked about becoming an actress sometimes, and both she and Benjamin talked about Harvard. Sam sang with the choir and had the voice of an angel, but more than that, he had the soul of someone so warm and dear that the whole world loved him. And what did she have? The children. Ol-lie. The house. The fact that she'd gone to Radcliffe twenty years before. So what? Who cared? Who knew? Who remembered? She had only one hope left, and even that was a slim one, another slice of unreality in her pie of nothingness. There was no way she could do it anyway. How? She lived here. They needed her. Or did they? They had Agnes … but she couldn't do that to Ollie … She smiled sadly to herself as Agnes let the dog out and he bounded through the snow, barking and leaping. They were all so happy. All of them. Even Agnes. But why did she feel so empty? What was gone? What had she lost? What had she never had? What did she want now? Something. Everything. She wanted all of it. Fame. Success. Fulfillment. Big stuff. Big guns. And she knew she would never have it. She would sit here forever, watching the snow fall, while life passed her by, and Ollie brought in new clients. She had her own Mercedes now, she had two fur coats. She had three terrific children, thanks to Ollie's persistence, and one fantastic husband, and nothing of her own that mattered. No talent. No accomplishment. It was all gone now. The girl that she had been was gone forever.

“The mail is in, Mrs. Watson,” Agnes spoke softly as she set it down on the desk beside her.

“Thanks, Agnes. Anything that looks good?”

“Mostly bills. And I think a school letter for Benjamin. It's addressed to you though.” Benjamin was in the process of filling out his Harvard application for the following year, but he hadn't even sent it in yet. They wouldn't be writing to him, nor to Sarah about him. This was something different and she knew it. She knew what the answer was going to be, but her hand trembled anyway as she reached out and took it from Agnes. She stood very still for a moment, staring at it, thinking back … to when things were different … but that was all gone now. All gone. She had to force herself to remember that, as she tore it open, with her back to Agnes, and then walked slowly into the living room, to stand amid the sunny chintzes and bright flowered prints that brought them summer and spring even in the midst of winter.

She opened the letter slowly, as though peeling away a shell, as though breaking open her life … but she didn't let herself think that. She sat down slowly in her chair, never seeing Agnes watching her, with a puzzled look in her eyes as Sarah read … slowly … painfully … and then felt her breath catch in amazement. It couldn't be. It was wrong. She had read it wrong. It had to be. But it wasn't. The words were there. My God … the words were there … and suddenly she felt her body fill, as though with light and music. She didn't feel empty anymore. It was as though there was something inside her now. Better than a baby. It was herself … She was there. She was back again. And she read the line again, and again, and again.

… “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for the master's program at Harvard University” … pleased to inform you … pleased to inform you … the words blurred as the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. It was a dream, only a dream. There was no way she could do it. She couldn't leave them. Couldn't go back to school. And yet she had applied months before, in September, when the children went back to school and she was bored and lonely. Just to try it … just to see if … and now they were telling her they wanted her. But she couldn't. But as she looked up she saw the snow still falling outside, the dog still barking and cavorting and Agnes watching her from the doorway. She knew she had to. They'd understand. They'd have to understand … it wouldn't be for very long … and then she would be a person again. A person of her own. She would be real … She would be Sarah.

Chapter 2

“Bad news in that letter, Mrs. Watson?” Agnes bad seen Sarah's face go pale as she watched her, and then she had seen tears glistening on her cheeks as Sarah stared out the window. There was no way that Agnes could understand all that she was feeling now. The excitement … the disbelief … the hope … and the terror. She had left her alone in the den with her own thoughts, and it was a full hour before Sarah walked into the kitchen.

“No … no … just a surprise …”Sarah looked vague, almost shell-shocked, neither happy nor sad, as she wandered distractedly around the kitchen, straightening things out without seeing them, pushing a chair into the table, picking a tiny piece of paper off the floor. It was as though she didn't know what to do now. As though she were seeing her home for the first time, or the last. What in hell was she going to do? She couldn't go back to Harvard now. She couldn't possibly leave them. She silently wondered why she had even applied. It was ridiculous, a pipe dream, Ollie would laugh at her … and yet … somehow it wasn't funny now. It was frightening and sad and wonderful, and an opportunity she didn't want to give up, even for them. She had never felt so torn in her life. And she knew she couldn't tell Ollie. Not yet. Maybe after the holidays. Christmas was only two weeks away. She could tell him after that. Maybe they'd go skiing for a few days and she could tell him then. But what in God's name would she tell him? … I want to go back to school, Ol … I'm moving up to Boston for a year or two … I have to get out of here … but tears filled her eyes again, and for a desperate moment, she knew she didn't want to leave them.

Agnes was watching her, not believing what she had said. There had to have been more than a surprise in the letter she'd read. Or if it was, it couldn't have been a good one.

“What time are the kids coming home?” Sarah looked vaguely at the spare little woman bustling around the kitchen, making preparations for dinner. Usually she was grateful for her; suddenly now, Agnes was making her feel useless. Her shining white hair was pulled tightly back in a bun, her face set, lips pursed as she set the kitchen table. The children ate in the kitchen with her whenever she and Oliver went out, and sometimes when Oliver and Sarah were at home, they all ate in the kitchen together. But most of the time when she and Ollie were home, they ate in the dining room. It was something Oliver liked to do, he liked the ceremony of it, the tradition of sitting down together in a civilized way, and talking about what they'd done all day. It was his way of getting away from the pressures of work, and keeping up with what they did, especially the children. But tonight she and Ollie were going out with friends, to a new restaurant in nearby Rye. The phone broke into Sarah's thoughts before Agnes could answer her, and Sarah hurried to answer it. Maybe it was Ollie. She suddenly wanted to be near to him, to hear his voice, to keep him close to her. Suddenly, in a single moment, with the letter she'd just read, everything was changing.

The call was from their friends. They had to cancel their dinner date that night. She had a terrible sore throat, and he had to stay late at the office. Sarah turned toward Agnes with a pensive look. “I guess we'll stay home tonight and eat with the kids. The people we were having dinner with just canceled.”

Agnes nodded, watching her, and then spoke up. “Why don't you go out with Mr. Watson anyway?” Sarah looked as though she needed the distraction. And Sarah smiled at her. The two women knew each other well, and yet Agnes always kept a respectful distance. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind, to give them hell when she thought she should, particularly for the children's sake, yet even when she railed at them, which she sometimes did, they were “Mr. and Mrs. Watson.” “Mr. Watson isn't very fond of meat loaf.”

Sarah grinned at her. She was right. He wasn't. Maybe they should go out. But suddenly she didn't want to be alone with him. And as she tried to decide, she heard the front door slam and a voice call out, and a moment later, Benjamin strode into the cozy kitchen. At seventeen, he was six feet tall, with bright red hair, and his mother's dark blue eyes. His cheeks were red from the cold, and he pulled his watch cap from his head and threw it on the table.

“Disgusting boy!” Agnes waved a wooden spoon at him, looking fierce, but the love she felt for him was evident in her eyes. “Get that hat off my kitchen table!”

He laughed, and grinned warmly at her, stuffing the hat in the pocket of his peacoat. “Sorry, Aggie … Hi, Mom.” Instead of the hat, he tossed an armload of books onto the table. “Boy, it's cold out there.” His hands were red, he never wore gloves, and he had walked the last block home, a friend had dropped him off. And he strode straight to the refrigerator to give himself sustenance until dinner. He ate constantly, portions that would have frightened anyone, yet'he was thin as a rail, and had his father's spare frame and powerful shoulders.

“Stay out of there. You'll be eating dinner in less than an hour.” Agnes waved the spoon again and he grinned.

“Just a snack, Aggie … it's okay … I'm starving.” He stuffed a handful of salami into his mouth as Sarah looked at him. He was a man, and a handsome one. He had his own life, own friends, and in a few months he'd be in college. Did he really need her now? Would it make a difference to him? Suddenly she couldn't imagine that her presence there meant anything to him, as he turned to look at her, struck by the somber look
in
her eyes. “Something wrong, Mom?”

“No, no,” she shook her head fervently, just as she had when Agnes had asked her. “I was just trying to decide whether or not to go out to dinner with your father. What are you up to tonight? Still studying for exams?”

He nodded. He was a good student, a fine young man, a person she admired, her firstborn, and still the most like her in many ways, although he was less rebellious than she had been at his age. “Yeah, my last one's tomorrow. Chemistry. I'm going over to Bill's to study with him tonight. Can I have the car?” That was all he needed from her in truth, their refrigerator and her car keys.

She smiled slowly at him. She would miss him if she went. She would miss all of them … especially Sam … oh God … and Ollie … “Sure … just be sure you drive carefully. If it gets any colder, this stuff'll turn to ice. Can't he come here, come to think of it?” But Benjamin was quick to shake his head, always determined, just as she was.

“He came here the last three times. I told him I'd go there tonight. Mel's going to be out anyway. Did she call you?”

Their mother shook her head. “Not yet.” She never did. She always forgot to call. She did exactly as she pleased, and always had, without making a fuss about it. She led her own life. At fifteen, Melissa was the soul of independence. “What do you mean, 'she's out tonight'? It's a Tuesday.” She had only just been allowed to date since that September, and it was confined to one weekend night, with boys her parents had met, under circumstances they approved of. “And how's she getting home?”

“I told her I'd pick her up.” He picked up an apple from the basket on the kitchen counter and took a bite. “She has rehearsal tonight. She's in some play with the drama club. She's okay, Mom.” They both heard the front door slam again, and Sarah saw Agnes glance at the clock with a private smile, as she glanced hurriedly at her meat loaf.

There was suddenly the heavy sound of boots, as though a man had arrived in their midst, a wild
woof!
and a muffled crash, the slamming of another door, more barking, and then suddenly Sam and Andy, the Irish setter, exploded into the kitchen. The dog was leaving paw prints everywhere, leaping on the boy with the shining dark hair and green eyes just like his father's. He wore a broad, happy-go-lucky smile, his hair was wet, and his boots and the dog's feet had dragged in tons of snow, which were rapidly turning into puddles on the kitchen floor, as Andy leapt to lick his face, and put two paws on Sam's shoulders.

“Hi, guys! Boy, it smells good in here. What's for dinner? Meat loaf?”

Agnes turned to smile broadly at him, and then saw the disaster he was rapidly making of her kitchen, as Sarah and Benjamin laughed. Sam was hopeless, he could turn any room into a trash heap in a matter of moments.

“Get out of here, you wicked boy! And where's your hat? You'll catch your death with wet hair like that!” She waved the wooden spoon at him as she had at Benjamin before, but this time with greater zeal, and hurried off to get him a towel, clucking and growling and scolding.

“Hi, Mom.” He hurried over to kiss her, Andy wagging his tail ferociously as he watched and Sam played with him, kicking off his boots then and leaving them in a heap in the middle of the kitchen floor, where Andy found them with delight and fled with one of them to the living room couch, where he deposited it amid shrieks from Agnes.

“Get out of here! Both of you! Go upstairs and take a bath!” she called after him, as he hurried up the stairs with Andy in hot pursuit, as Sam left his coat on the floor at the foot of the stairs and Sarah called after him.

“Come back and pick up your stuff!” But he was already long gone, down the hall, with Andy barking after him, and Agnes was already busy mopping up her kitchen. Benjamin hurried up the stairs to his own room to organize his books for that night, and when Sarah walked slowly up after them, she couldn't help thinking how much she would miss them.

The phone rang as she reached the master bedroom. It was Melissa calling to say what Sarah already knew, that she was staying at school late to rehearse with the drama club, and Benjamin would pick her up on his way home. And then Ollie called, and he wanted to go out that night, even without their friends, just as Agnes had suggested.

“Well have a quiet dinner, just the two of us. I think I'd like that better anyway.” She could feel the warmth of his voice all the way from New York, and there were tears in her eyes when she hung up the phone. What was she going to say to him? Nothing. Not tonight. She'd have to wait. She had already promised herself she wouldn't tell him till after Christmas.

She puttered around their room, straightening things, listening to the sounds of the children beyond, touching familiar objects, and thinking about her husband. And then she lay down on their bed, thinking of all of them, of what they meant to her. And yet they were costing her something, too, without knowing it, without meaning to, each one in his or her own way had taken something from her, and given something back too … but suddenly what they gave her wasn't enough, and it was no longer what she wanted. It was a terrible thing to admit. A terrible thing to say to them, and she knew she never could. But she wanted her own life now. She was ready for it. She wanted to be more than Agnes was, standing in the kitchen waiting for them to come home every day, and eventually waiting for them to leave forever. It wouldn't be long now. Benjamin would be gone in the fall. And Melissa two years after that, and then there was Sam … but she'd be through with what she wanted to do long before he left home. So what difference did it make? Why couldn't she do what she wanted to for a change, yet while saying that to herself, she felt unbearably guilty.

The phone broke into her thoughts again and it was her father-in-law, sounding distressed and tired. He had had problems with his heart of late, and Phyllis hadn't been well either.

“Hi, George, what's up?”

“Is Oliver there?” He was curt with her this time, which was unlike him.

“No, he's not.” She frowned worriedly, she was fond of him, although she was less so of Phyllis. “Is something wrong?”

“I … no … actually, I'm not sure. Phyllis went out shopping at noon, by herself, and she hasn't come home yet. And with this weather … well, I was concerned, and she hasn't called. It's just not like her.” She was sixty-nine years old, and strong, but lately they had all found her a little distracted. She had had pneumonia a few months before, and afterward she hadn't seemed quite herself, and Sarah knew that George worried endlessly about her. At seventy-two, he seemed somehow more alert than his wife, yet at the same time much frailer. He was still handsome, like his son, tall and straight with gentle eyes and a lovely smile, and yet there were times when he seemed older than he was, and Oliver worried about him.

“I'm sure she's just forgotten the time. You know how women are when they go shopping.” Sarah wanted to reassure him. It wasn't good for his heart to fret about every little thing, and undoubtedly Phyllis would walk in at any moment.

“I was wondering if I ought to go looking for her. I thought maybe Oliver …”Lately, he was relying on Ollie more, which wasn't like him either.

“I'll have him call the minute he comes home.” And that would mean the end of their dinner out, unless she came back before. But on the other hand, maybe it was just as well. Suddenly, Sarah didn't want to be alone with her husband.

But George called again before Oliver got home. Phyllis was home safe and sound. She'd had trouble getting a cab, and didn't have the change to call. He didn't tell Sarah that she looked disheveled to him somehow, and the cabdriver had told him she'd had trouble remembering her address, and when George questioned her, he realized with shock that she no longer knew their phone number, and that was why she hadn't called him. “I'm sorry I troubled you, my dear.”

“Don't be silly, George. You can call us anytime. You know that.”

“Thank you.” At the other end, he cast a worried glance at his wife, humming to herself as she wandered aimlessly around the kitchen. Lately, he had been cooking for her, but they both pretended that it was because he liked having something to do, and he liked to say that he was a better cook than she was. “Give Oliver my love when he comes home, and if he has time, please ask him to call me.”

“I will,” she promised, and promptly forgot when Oliver got home a few minutes later. He was hurrying to shower and dress and insisted that he wanted to take her out to dinner. “But Sam will be all alone tonight.” She wanted desperately to stay home, not to face him alone across a table. There was nothing she could say to him. Not yet. And it was easier to hide here in their own home. To hide behind the children and the television set. To hide behind anything. Anything was better than having to face him.