Rosemary's Baby Page 7

  “Were his stories as interesting as last night?” Rosemary asked.

  “Yes,” Guy said. “Did you have a nice time?”

  “All right. I got some work done.”

  “So I see.”

  “I got a present too.”

  She showed him the charm. “It was Terry’s,” she said. “They gave it to her; she showed it to me. The police must have—given it back.”

  “She probably wasn’t even wearing it,” Guy said.

  “I’ll bet she was. She was as proud of it as—as if it was the first gift anyone had ever given her.” Rosemary lifted the chain off over her head and held the chain and the charm on her palm, jiggling them and looking at them.

  “Aren’t you going to wear it?” Guy asked.

  “It smells,” she said. “There’s stuff in it called tannis root.” She held out her hand. “From the famous greenhouse.”

  Guy smelled and shrugged. “It’s not bad,” he said.

  Rosemary went into the bedroom and opened a drawer in the vanity where she had a tin Louis Sherry box full of odds and ends. “Tannis, anybody?” she asked herself in the mirror, and put the charm in the box, closed it, and closed the drawer.

  Guy, in the doorway, said, “If you took it, you ought to wear it.”

  That night Rosemary awoke and found Guy sitting beside her smoking in the dark. She asked him what was the matter. “Nothing,” he said. “A little insomnia, that’s all.”

  Roman’s stories of old-time stars, Rosemary thought, might have depressed him by reminding him that his own career was lagging behind Henry Irving’s and Forbes-Whosit’s. His going back for more of the stories might have been a form of masochism.

  She touched his arm and told him not to worry.

  “About what?”

  “About anything.”

  “All right,” he said, “I won’t.”

  “You’re the greatest,” she said. “You know? You are. And it’s all going to come out right. You’re going to have to learn karate to get rid of the photographers.”

  He smiled in the glow of his cigarette.

  “Any day now,” she said. “Something big. Something worthy of you.”

  “I know,” he said. “Go to sleep, honey.”

  “Okay. Watch the cigarette.”

  “I will.”

  “Wake me if you can’t sleep.”

  “Sure.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, Ro.”

  A day or two later Guy brought home a pair of tickets for the Saturday night performance of The Fantasticks, given to him, he explained, by Dominick, his vocal coach. Guy had seen the show years before when it first opened; Rosemary had always been meaning to see it. “Go with Hutch,” Guy said; “it’ll give me a chance to work on the Wait Until Dark scene.”

  Hutch had seen it too, though, so Rosemary went with Joan Jellico, who confided during dinner at the Bijou that she and Dick were separating, no longer having anything in common except their address. The news upset Rosemary. For days Guy had been distant and preoccupied, wrapped in something he would neither put aside nor share. Had Joan and Dick’s estrangement begun in the same way? She grew angry at Joan, who was wearing too much make-up and applauding too loudly in the small theater. No wonder she and Dick could find nothing in common; she was loud and vulgar, he was reserved, sensitive; they should never have married in the first place.

  When Rosemary came home Guy was coming out of the shower, more vivacious and there than he had been all week. Rosemary’s spirits leaped. The show had been even better than she expected, she told him, and bad news, Joan and Dick were separating. They really were birds of completely different feathers though, weren’t they? How had the Wait Until Dark scene gone? Great. He had it down cold.

  “Damn that tannis root,” Rosemary said. The whole bedroom smelled of it. The bitter prickly odor had even found its way into the bathroom. She got a piece of aluminum foil from the kitchen and wound the charm in a tight triple wrapping, twisting the ends to seal them.

  “It’ll probably lose its strength in a few days,” Guy said.

  “It better,” Rosemary said, spraying the air with a deodorant bomb. “If it doesn’t, I’m going to throw it away and tell Minnie I lost it.”

  They made love—Guy was wild and driving—and later, through the wall, Rosemary heard a party in progress at Minnie and Roman’s; the same flat unmusical singing she had heard the last time, almost like religious chanting, and the same flute or clarinet weaving in and around and underneath it.

  Guy kept his keyed-up vivacity all through Sunday, building shelves and shoe racks in the bedroom closets and inviting a bunch of Luther people over for Moo Goo Gai Woodhouse; and on Monday he painted the shelves and shoe racks and stained a bench Rosemary had found in a thrift shop, canceling his session with Dominick and keeping his ear stretched for the phone, which he caught every time before the first ring was finished. At three in the afternoon it rang again, and Rosemary, trying out a different arrangement of the living room chairs, heard him say, “Oh God, no. Oh, the poor guy.”

  She went to the bedroom door.

  “Oh God,” Guy said.

  He was sitting on the bed, the phone in one hand and a can of Red Devil paint remover in the other. He didn’t look at her. “And they don’t have any idea what’s causing it?” he said. “My God, that’s awful, just awful.” He listened, and straightened as he sat. “Yes, I am,” he said. And then, “Yes, I would. I’d hate to get it this way, but I—” He listened again. “Well, you’d have to speak to Allan about that end of it,” he said—Allan Stone, his agent—“but I’m sure there won’t be any problem, Mr. Weiss, not as far as we’re concerned.”

  He had it. The Something Big. Rosemary held her breath, waiting.

  “Thank you, Mr. Weiss,” Guy said. “And will you let me know if there’s any news? Thanks.”

  He hung up and shut his eyes. He sat motionless, his hand staying on the phone. He was pale and dummylike, a Pop Art wax statue with real clothes and props, real phone, real can of paint remover.

  “Guy?” Rosemary said.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He blinked and came alive. “Donald Baumgart,” he said. “He’s gone blind. He woke up yesterday and—he can’t see.”

  “Oh no,” Rosemary said.

  “He tried to hang himself this morning. He’s in Bellevue now, under sedation.”

  They looked painfully at each other.

  “I’ve got the part,” Guy said. “It’s a hell of a way to get it.” He looked at the paint remover in his hand and put it on the night table. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to get out and walk around.” He stood up. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get outside and absorb this.”

  “I understand, go ahead,” Rosemary said, standing back from the doorway.

  He went as he was, down the hall and out the door, letting it swing closed after him with its own soft slam.

  She went into the living room, thinking of poor Donald Baumgart and lucky Guy; lucky she-and-Guy, with the good part that would get attention even if the show folded, would lead to other parts, to movies maybe, to a house in Los Angeles, a spice garden, three children two years apart. Poor Donald Baumgart with his clumsy name that he didn’t change. He must have been good, to have won out over Guy, and there he was in Bellevue, blind and wanting to kill himself, under sedation.

  Kneeling on a window seat, Rosemary looked out the side of its bay and watched the house’s entrance far below, waiting to see Guy come out. When would rehearsals begin? she wondered. She would go out of town with him, of course; what fun it would be! Boston? Philadelphia? Washington would be exciting. She had never been there. While Guy was rehearsing afternoons, she could sightsee; and evenings, after the performance, everyone would meet in a restaurant or club to gossip and exchange rumors…

  She waited and watched but he didn’t come out. He must have used the Fi
fty-fifth Street door.

  Now, when he should have been happy, he was dour and troubled, sitting with nothing moving except his cigarette hand and his eyes. His eyes followed her around the apartment; tensely, as if she were dangerous. “What’s wrong?” she asked a dozen times.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Don’t you have your sculpture class today?”

  “I haven’t gone in two months.”

  “Why don’t you go?”

  She went; tore away old plasticine, reset the armature, and began anew, doing a new model among new students. “Where’ve you been?” the instructor asked. He had eyeglasses and an Adam’s apple and made miniatures of her torso without watching his hands.

  “In Zanzibar,” she said.

  “Zanzibar is no more,” he said, smiling nervously. “It’s Tanzania.”

  One afternoon she went down to Macy’s and Gimbels, and when she came home there were roses in the kitchen, roses in the living room, and Guy coming out of the bedroom with one rose and a forgive-me smile, like a reading he had once done for her of Chance Wayne in Sweet Bird.

  “I’ve been a living turd,” he said. “It’s from sitting around hoping that Baumgart won’t regain his sight, which is what I’ve been doing, rat that I am.”

  “That’s natural,” she said. “You’re bound to feel two ways about—”

  “Listen,” he said, pushing the rose to her nose, “even if this thing falls through, even if I’m Charley Cresta Blanca for the rest of my days, I’m going to stop giving you the short end of the stick.”

  “You haven’t—”

  “Yes I have. I’ve been so busy tearing my hair out over my career that I haven’t given Thought One to yours. Let’s have a baby, okay? Let’s have three, one at a time.”

  She looked at him.

  “A baby,” he said. “You know. Goo, goo? Diapers? Waa, waa?”

  “Do you mean it?” she asked.

  “Sure I mean it,” he said. “I even figured out the right time to start. Next Monday and Tuesday. Red circles on the calendar, please.”

  “You really mean it, Guy?” she asked, tears in her eyes.

  “No, I’m kidding,” he said. “Sure I mean it. Look, Rosemary, for God’s sake don’t cry, all right? Please. It’s going to upset me very much if you cry, so stop right now, all right?”

  “All right,” she said. “I won’t cry.”

  “I really went rose-nutty, didn’t I?” he said, looking around brightly. “There’s a bunch in the bedroom too.”

  CHAPTER 8

  SHE WENT to upper Broadway for swordfish steaks and across town to Lexington Avenue for cheeses; not because she couldn’t get swordfish steaks and cheeses right there in the neighborhood but simply because on that snappy bright-blue morning she wanted to be all over the city, walking briskly with her coat flying, drawing second glances for her prettiness, impressing tough clerks with the precision and know-how of her orders. It was Monday, October 4th, the day of Pope Paul’s visit to the city, and the sharing of the event made people more open and communicative than they ordinarily were; How nice it is, Rosemary thought, that the whole city is happy on a day when I’m so happy.

  She followed the Pope’s rounds on television during the afternoon, moving the set out from the wall of the den (soon nursery) and turning it so she could watch from the kitchen while readying the fish and vegetables and salad greens. His speech at the UN moved her, and she was sure it would help ease the Vietnam situation. “War never again,” he said; wouldn’t his words give pause to even the most hard-headed statesman?

  At four-thirty, while she was setting the table before the fireplace, the telephone rang.

  “Rosemary? How are you?”

  “Fine,” she said. “How are you?” It was Margaret, the older of her two sisters.

  “Fine,” Margaret said.

  “Where are you?”

  “In Omaha.”

  They had never got on well. Margaret had been a sullen, resentful girl, too often used by their mother as the caretaker of the younger children. To be called by her like this was strange; strange and frightening.

  “Is everyone all right?” Rosemary asked. Someone’s dead, she thought. Who? Ma? Pa? Brian?

  “Yes, everyone’s fine.”

  “They are?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Yes; I said I was.”

  “I’ve had the funniest feeling all day long, Rosemary. That something happened to you. Like an accident or something. That you were hurt. Maybe in the hospital.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Rosemary said, and laughed. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

  “It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “I was sure something had happened. Finally Gene said why don’t I call you and find out.”

  “How is he?”

  “Fine.”

  “And the children?”

  “Oh, the usual scrapes and scratches, but they’re fine too. I’ve got another one on the way, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. That’s wonderful. When is it due?” We’ll have one on the way soon too.

  “The end of March. How’s your husband, Rosemary?”

  “He’s fine. He’s got an important part in a new play that’s going into rehearsal soon.”

  “Say, did you get a good look at the Pope?” Margaret asked. “There must be terrific excitement there.”

  “There is,” Rosemary said. “I’ve been watching it on television. It’s in Omaha too, isn’t it?”

  “Not live? You didn’t go out and see him live?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Honest to goodness, Rosemary,” Margaret said. “Do you know Ma and Pa were going to fly there to see him but they couldn’t because there’s going to be a strike vote and Pa’s seconding the motion? Lots of people did fly, though; the Donovans, and Dot and Sandy Wallingford; and you’re right there, living there, and didn’t go out and see him?”

  “Religion doesn’t mean as much to me now as it did back home,” Rosemary said.

  “Well,” Margaret said, “I guess that’s inevitable,” and Rosemary heard, unspoken, when you’re married to a Protestant. She said, “It was nice of you to call, Margaret. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve never been healthier or happier.”

  “It was such a strong feeling,” Margaret said. “From the minute I woke up. I’m so used to taking care of you little brats…”

  “Give my love to everyone, will you? And tell Brian to answer my letter.”

  “I will. Rosemary—”

  “Yes?”

  “I still have the feeling. Stay home tonight, will you?”

  “That’s just what we’re planning to do,” Rosemary said, looking over at the partially set table.

  “Good,” Margaret said. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will,” Rosemary said. “You too, Margaret.”

  “I will. Good-by.”

  “Good-by.”

  She went back to setting the table, feeling pleasantly sad and nostalgic for Margaret and Brian and the other kids, for Omaha and the irretrievable past.

  With the table set, she bathed; then powdered and perfumed herself, did her eyes and lips and hair, and put on a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas that Guy had given her the previous Christmas.

  He came home late, after six. “Mmm,” he said, kissing her, “you look good enough to eat. Shall we? Damn!”

  “What?”

  “I forgot the pie.”

  He had told her not to make a dessert; he would bring home his absolute all-time favorite, a Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie.

  “I could kick myself,” he said. “I passed two of those damn retail stores; not one but two.”

  “It’s all right,” Rosemary said. “We can have fruit and cheese. That’s the best dessert anyway, really.”

  “It is not; Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie is.”

  He went in to wash up and she put a
tray of stuffed mushrooms into the oven and mixed the salad dressing.

  In a few minutes Guy came to the kitchen door, buttoning the collar of a blue velour shirt. He was bright-eyed and a bit on edge, the way he had been the first time they slept together, when he knew it was going to happen. It pleased Rosemary to see him that way.

  “Your pal the Pope really loused up traffic today,” he said.

  “Did you see any of the television?” she asked. “They’ve had fantastic coverage.”

  “I got a glimpse up at Allan’s,” he said. “Glasses in the freezer?”

  “Yes. He made a wonderful speech at the UN. ‘War never again,’ he told them.”

  “Rotsa ruck. Hey, those look good.”

  They had Gibsons and the stuffed mushrooms in the living room. Guy put crumpled newspaper and sticks of kindling on the fireplace grate, and two big chunks of cannel coal. “Here goes nothing,” he said, and struck a match and lit the paper. It flamed high and caught the kindling. Dark smoke began spilling out over the front of the mantel and up toward the ceiling. “Good grief,” Guy said, and groped inside the fireplace. “The paint, the paint!” Rosemary cried.

  He got the flue opened; and the air conditioner, set at exhaust, drew out the smoke.

  “Nobody, but nobody, has a fire tonight,” Guy said.

  Rosemary, kneeling with her drink and staring into the spitting flame-wrapped coals, said, “Isn’t it gorgeous? I hope we have the coldest winter in eighty years.”

  Guy put on Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter.

  They were halfway through the swordfish when the doorbell rang. “Shit,” Guy said. He got up, tossed down his napkin, and went to answer it. Rosemary cocked her head and listened.

  The door opened and Minnie said, “Hi, Guy!” and more that was unintelligible. Oh, no, Rosemary thought. Don’t let her in, Guy. Not now, not tonight.

  Guy spoke, and then Minnie again: “…extra. We don’t need them.” Guy again and Minnie again. Rosemary eased out held-in breath; it didn’t sound as if she was coming in, thank God.