Rage of Angels (21 page)

Christmas came and went, and it was a new year, 1973. The snows of February gave way to the brisk winds of March, and Jennifer knew that it was time to stop working.

She called a meeting of the office staff.

“I’m taking a leave of absence,” Jennifer announced. “I’ll be gone for the next five months.”

There were murmurs of surprise.

Dan Martin asked, “We’ll be able to reach you, won’t we?”

“No, Dan. I’ll be out of touch.”

Ted Harris peered at her through his thick spectacles. “Jennifer, you can’t just—”

“I’ll be leaving at the end of this week.”

There was a finality in her tone that brooked no further questions. The rest of the meeting was taken up with a discussion of pending cases.

When everyone else had left, Ken Bailey asked, “Have you really thought this thing through?”

“I have no choice, Ken.”

He looked at her. “I don’t know who the son of a bitch is, but I hate him.”

Jennifer put her hand on his arm. “Thank you. I’ll be all right.”

“It’s going to get rough, you know. Kids grow up. They ask questions. He’ll want to know who his father is.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Okay.” His tone softened. “If there’s anything I can do—anything—I’ll always be around.”

She put her arms around him. “Thank you, Ken. I—thank you.”

Jennifer stayed in her office long after everyone else had left, sitting alone in the dark, thinking. She would always love Adam. Nothing could ever change that, and she was sure that he still loved her.
Somehow,
Jennifer thought,
it would be easier if he did not.
It was an unbearable irony that they loved each other and could not be together, that their lives were going to move farther and farther apart. Adam’s life would be in Washington now with Mary Beth and their child. Perhaps one day Adam would be in the White House. Jennifer thought of her own son growing up, wanting to know who his father was. She could never tell him, nor must Adam ever know that she had borne him a child, for it would destroy him.

And if anyone else ever learned about it, it would destroy Adam in a different way.

Jennifer had decided to buy a house in the country, somewhere outside of Manhattan, where she and her son could live together in their own little world.

She found the house by sheer accident. She had been on her way to see a client on Long Island and had turned off the Long Island Expressway at Exit 36, then had taken a wrong turn and found herself in Sands Point. The streets were quiet and shaded with tall, graceful trees, and the houses were set
back from the road, each in its private little domain. There was a
For Sale
sign in front of a white colonial house on Sands Point Road. The grounds were fenced in and there was a lovely wrought-iron gate in front of a sweeping driveway, with lamp posts lighting the way, and a large front lawn with a row of yews sheltering the house. From the outside it looked enchanting. Jennifer wrote down the name of the realtor and made an appointment to see the house the following afternoon.

The real estate agent was a hearty, high-pressure type, the kind of salesman Jennifer hated. But she was not buying his personality, she was buying a house.

He was saying, “It’s a real beauty. Yessir, a
real
beauty. About a hundred years old. It’s in tip-top condition. Absolutely tip-top.”

Tip-top
was certainly an exaggeration. The rooms were airy and spacious, but in need of repair.
It would be fun,
Jennifer thought,
to fix up this house and decorate it.

Upstairs, across from the master suite, was a room that could be converted into a nursery. She would do it in blue and—

“Like to walk around the grounds?”

It was the tree house that decided Jennifer. It was built on a platform high up in a sturdy oak tree. Her son’s tree house. There were three acres, with the back lawn gently sloping down to the sound, where there was a dock. It would be a wonderful place for her son to grow up in, with plenty of room for him to run around. Later, he would have a small boat. There would be all the privacy here that they would need, for Jennifer was determined that this was going to be a world that belonged only to her and her child.

She bought the house the following day.

Jennifer had had no idea how painful it would be to leave
the Manhattan apartment she and Adam had shared. His bathrobe and pajamas were still there, and his slippers and shaving kit. Every room held hundreds of memories of Adam, memories of a lovely, dead past. Jennifer packed her things as quickly as possible and got out of there.

At the new house, Jennifer kept herself busy from early morning until late at night, so that there would be no time to think about Adam. She went into the shops in Sands Point and Port Washington to order furniture and drapes. She bought Porthault linens, and silver and china. She hired local workmen to come in and repair the faulty plumbing and leaky roof and worn-out electrical equipment. From early morning until dusk, the house was filled with painters, carpenters, electricians and wallpaper hangers. Jennifer was everywhere, supervising everything. She wore herself out during the day, hoping she would be able to sleep at night, but the demons had returned, torturing her with unspeakable nightmares.

She haunted antique shops, buying lamps and tables and objets d’art. She bought a fountain and statues for the garden, a Lipschitz, a Noguchi and a Miró.

Inside the house, everything was beginning to look beautiful.

Bob Clement was a California client of Jennifer’s and the area rugs he had designed for the living room and the nursery made the rooms glow with subdued color.

Jennifer’s abdomen was getting bigger, and she went into the village to buy maternity clothes. She had an unlisted telephone installed. It was there only for emergencies, and she gave no one the telephone number and expected no calls. The only person in the office who knew where she lived was Ken Bailey, and he was sworn to secrecy.

He drove out to see Jennifer one afternoon, and she showed him around the house and grounds and took enormous pleasure in his delight.

“It’s beautiful, Jennifer. Really beautiful. You’ve done a hell of a job.” He looked at her swollen abdomen. “How long is it going to be?”

“Another two months.” She put his hand against her belly and said, “Feel this.”

He felt a kick.

“He’s getting stronger every day,” Jennifer said proudly.

She cooked dinner for Ken. He waited until they were having dessert before he brought up the subject.

“I don’t want to pry,” he said, “but shouldn’t whoever the proud papa is be doing something—?”

“Subject closed.”

“Okay. Sorry. The office misses you like hell. We have a new client who—”

Jennifer held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

They talked until it was time for Ken to leave, and Jennifer hated to see him go. He was a dear man and a good friend.

Jennifer shut herself off from the world in every possible way. She stopped reading the newspapers and would not watch television or listen to the radio. Her universe was here within these four walls. This was her nest, her womb, the place where she was going to bring her son into the world.

She read every book she could get her hands on about raising children, from Dr. Spock to Ames and Gesell and back again.

When Jennifer finished decorating the nursery, she filled it with toys. She visited a sporting goods shop and looked at footballs and baseball bats and a catcher’s mitt. And she laughed at herself.
This is ridiculous. He hasn’t even been born yet.
And she bought the baseball bat and the catcher’s mitt The football tempted her, but she thought,
That can wait.

It was May, and then June.

The workmen finished and the house became quiet and serene. Twice a week Jennifer would drive into the village and shop at the supermarket, and every two weeks she would visit Dr. Harvey, her obstetrician. Jennifer obediently drank more milk than she wanted, took vitamins and ate all the proper, healthy foods. She was getting large now and clumsy, and it was becoming difficult for her to move about.

She had always been active, and she had thought she would loathe getting heavy and awkward, having to move slowly; but somehow, she did not mind it. There was no reason to hurry anymore. The days became long and dreamy and peaceful. Some diurnal clock within her had slowed its tempo. It was as though she were reserving her energy, pouring it into the other body living inside her.

One morning, Dr. Harvey examined her and said, “Another two weeks, Mrs. Parker.”

It was so close now. Jennifer had thought she might be afraid. She had heard all the old wives’ tales of the pain, the accidents, the malformed babies, but she felt no fear, only a longing to see her child, an impatience to get his birth over with so she could hold him in her arms.

Ken Bailey drove out to the house almost every day now, bringing with him
The Little Engine That Could, Little Red Hen, Pat the Bunny
, and a dozen Dr. Seuss books.

“He’ll love these,” Ken said.

And Jennifer smiled, because he had said “he.”
An omen.

They strolled through the grounds and had a picnic lunch at the water’s edge and sat in the sun. Jennifer was self-conscious about her looks. She thought,
Why would he want to waste his time with the ugly fat lady from the circus?

And Ken was looking at Jennifer and thinking:
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

The first pains came at three o’clock in the morning. They
were so sharp that Jennifer was left breathless. A few moments later they were repeated and Jennifer thought exultantly,
It’s happening
!

She began to count the time between the pains, and when they were ten minutes apart she telephoned her obstetrician. Jennifer drove to the hospital, pulling over to the side of the road every time a contraction came. An attendant was standing outside waiting for her when she arrived, and a few minutes later Dr. Harvey was examining her.

When he finished, he said reassuringly, “Well, this is going to be an easy delivery, Mrs. Parker. Just relax and we’ll let nature take its course.”

It was not easy, but neither was it unbearable. Jennifer could stand the pain because out of it something wonderful was happening. She was in labor for almost eight hours, and at the end of that time, when her body was wracked and contorted with spasms and she thought that it was never going to stop, she felt a quick easing and then a rushing emptiness, and a sudden blessed peace.

She heard a thin squeal and Dr. Harvey was holding up her baby, saying, “Would you like to take a look at your son, Mrs. Parker?”

Jennifer’s smile lit the room.

His name was Joshua Adam Parker and he weighed in at eight pounds, six ounces, a perfectly formed baby. Jennifer knew that babies were supposed to be ugly at birth, wrinkled and red and resembling little apes. Not Joshua Adam. He was beautiful. The nurses at the hospital kept telling Jennifer what a handsome boy Joshua was, and Jennifer could not hear it often enough. The resemblance to Adam was striking. Joshua Adam had his father’s gray-blue eyes and beautifully shaped head. When Jennifer looked at him, she was looking at Adam. It was a strange feeling, a poignant mixture of joy and sadness. How Adam would have loved to see his handsome son!

When Joshua was two days old he smiled up at Jennifer and she excitedly rang for the nurse.

“Look! He’s smiling!”

“It’s gas, Mrs. Parker.”

“With other babies it might be gas,” Jennifer said stubbornly. “My son is smiling.”

Jennifer had wondered how she would feel about her baby, had worried whether she would be a good mother. Babies were surely boring to be around. They messed their diapers, demanded to be fed constantly, cried and slept. There was no communication with them.

I won’t really feel anything about him until he’s four or five years old
, Jennifer had thought. How wrong, how wrong. From the moment of Joshua’s birth, Jennifer loved her son with a love she had never known existed in her. It was a fiercely protective love. Joshua was so small, and the world so large.

When Jennifer brought Joshua home from the hospital, she was given a long list of instructions, but they only served to panic her. For the first two weeks a practical nurse stayed at the house. After that, Jennifer was on her own, and she was terrified she might do something wrong that would kill the baby. She was afraid he might stop breathing at any moment.

The first time Jennifer made Joshua’s formula, she realized she had forgotten to sterilize the nipple. She threw the formula in the sink and started all over again. When she had finished she remembered she had forgotten to sterilize the bottle. She began again. By the time Joshua’s meal was ready, he was screaming with rage.

There were times when Jennifer did not think she would be able to cope. At unexpected moments she was overwhelmed with feelings of unexplained depression. She told herself that it was the normal postpartum blues, but the explanation did not make her feel any better. She was constantly exhausted. It seemed to her that she was up all night giving Joshua his feedings and when she did finally manage to drop off to sleep, Joshua’s cries would awaken her and Jennifer would stumble back into the nursery.

She called the doctor constantly, at all hours of the day and night

“Joshua’s breathing too fast”…“He’s breathing too slowly”…“Joshua’s coughing”…“He didn’t eat his dinner”…“Joshua vomited.”

In self-defense, the doctor finally drove to the house and gave Jennifer a lecture.

“Mrs. Parker, I’ve never seen a healthier baby than your son. He may
look
fragile, but he’s as strong as an ox. Stop worrying about him and enjoy him. Just remember one thing—he’s going to outlive both of us!”

And so Jennifer began to relax. She had decorated Joshua’s bedroom with print curtains and a bedspread with a blue background sprigged with white flowers and yellow butter-flies. There was a crib, a play pen, a miniature matching chest and desk and chair, a rocking horse, and the chest full of toys.

Jennifer loved holding Joshua, bathing and diapering him, taking him for airings in his shiny new perambulator. She talked to him constantly, and when Joshua was four weeks old he rewarded her with a smile.
Not gas
, Jennifer thought happily.
A smile!

The first time Ken Bailey saw the baby, he stared at it for a long time. With a feeling of sudden panic, Jennifer thought,
He’s going to recognize it. He’s going to know it’s Adam’s baby.

But all Ken said was, “He’s a real beauty. He takes after his mother.”

She let Ken hold Joshua in his arms and she laughed at Ken’s awkwardness. But she could not help thinking,
Joshua will never have a father to hold him.

Six weeks had passed and it was time to go back to work.
Jennifer hated the idea of being away from her son, even for a few hours a day, but the thought of returning to the office filled her with excitement. She had completely cut herself off from everything for so long. It was time to re-enter her other world.

She looked in the mirror and decided the first thing she had to do was get her body back in shape. She had been dieting and exercising since shortly after Joshua’s birth, but now she went at it even more strenuously, and soon she began to look like her old self.

Jennifer started to interview housekeepers. She examined them as though each one was a juror: she probed, looking for weaknesses, lies, incompetence. She interviewed more than twenty potential candidates before she found one she liked and trusted, a middle-aged Scotswoman named Mrs. Mackey, who had worked for one family for fifteen years and had left when the children had grown up and gone away to school.

Jennifer had Ken check her out, and when Ken assured her that Mrs. Mackey was legitimate, Jennifer hired her.

A week later Jennifer returned to the office.