Page 76 of The New Couple in 5B

He smiles at his own wit and so do I. “That’s very evolved of you.”

His grin wanes a bit. “I try. What about you? Everything okay? You look tired, a little pale.”

The truth is I am still a bit wobbly since the train ride, headachy and still vaguely nauseated. Morning sickness isn’t instantaneous, is it?

“I’m good.” We talk about my research, the structure that’s evolving. We get right into it, as if nothing has changed.

Max looks a little sad. “Keep me in the loop, okay? I want to be involved even if I’m not your editor anymore.”

“You’ll be sorry you said that.”

He walks me to the door and takes me into an embrace. We stand there for a while, both of us knowing that our relationship is about to change, but neither of us knowing how. It’s as if it will be a long time before we see each other again. It won’t be, I hope. Why does it feel like a kind of goodbye?

twenty-two

Willa

1963

I can’t quit him. I tried. Itried. He haunts me like a specter. Invades my dreams. It’shisface I see, heaven help me, as I make love to my husband. This baby that grows inside me. It’s his; I can feel it. We are connected now; his draw is magnetic, irresistible. Though I said I wouldn’t, we keep meeting—while Paul sleeps, writes or studies. My husband is so good, so kind. He suspects nothing, dotes on me, rubs my feet as we lie by the fire at night, talks about our future. He wants to leave this building, this city, buy a house in the country—far from the mayhem of urban living.

Far from the excitement, the glitz and glamour, the culture, the art, my career, any dream I ever had of who I was or what I would become. If we move to Greenwich, my life as a young aspiring dancer is over and my life as wife and mother, shackled by her domesticbliss, begins. The idea, the very thought, robs me of any happiness I felt at being a mother, and fills me with dread.

Won’t you miss it?I nudge Paul gently.All the energy, all the excitement, your literary community, the salons, the readings, the parties.

The noise, the heat, the crime, he counters.This city is in decline; it grows more dangerous every year. We can’t raise our children here.

Children. Our children.

What about me?I venture.What about my work?

He smiles, holds my hand tenderly.There’s enough, Willa. You don’t have to work. You can devote yourself to motherhood.

As if this is the thing all women want. The only thing. A rich husband, a litter of children, a big house in the country. Men can have their careers and their families, too. Women must choose, it seems.

Maybe when the children are older you can teach. Or perhaps there’s a community theater.

He means it so lovingly. He has no idea that it’s a death sentence.

He’s going away tomorrow, a writers’ retreat in upstate New York, a prestigious one to which few are accepted. I’m glad he’s going. I wish he weren’t. I don’t trust myself with him away. I am too much myself when I don’t have to please him—too wild, too reckless, too in love with another man, too yearning to be young and free and dancing.

I help him pack his brown leather valise.

I’ll miss you, he says, coming from behind and putting his hands on my emerging belly. It won’t be long before I start to really show. Already my pants are tight, my skirts straining at the seams, the life inside me expanding, seeking to take up more space in my body, in my life.

You always want more and more, my mother used to say.You’re never satisfied with your lot.

She was right. I did want more than the life she had, little more than a domestic, tending to husband and children, always bending over a hot stove, or wash bin, hair wild, her prettiness fading, shoulders growing hunched with the strain of it all, the endless labor. She, too, wanted to dance once. I’ve seen the pictures of a young ballerina—erect and slim on pointed toes. She’d been stunning, that young girl, beautiful with eyes of fire. Where did she go? I wanted to ask my mother but didn’t dare. How could you just let her die?

On the street, I wave goodbye as he rumbles away in his new black Buick Riviera. The day is crisp, autumn turning the few leaves yellow and orange. I want to call him back. And then I’m overwhelmed by the thought that maybe he won’t come back. That he’ll have a terrible wreck and die, and I’ll be free, inheriting all his money and my freedom.

You’re a wicked girl with a dark soul, my mother used to tell me.

She was right.

In the lobby, I run into Ella, Miles and Lilian on their way to school. Each of them perfect in their own way. Ella svelte in a slim skirt and tweed jacket, stylish flats. The children crisp and scrubbed in their school uniforms.

Miles cowers from me, hiding behind his mother. Let’s say we understand each other a little better now after the chat I had with him during my visit.

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