Rosemary's Baby (11 page)

N
OW SHE WAS ALIVE
; was doing, was being, was at last herself and complete. She did what she had done before—cooked, cleaned, ironed, made the bed, shopped, took laundry to the basement, went to her sculpture class—but did everything against a new and serene background of knowing that Andrew-or-Susan (or Melinda) was every day a little bit bigger inside her than the day before, a little bit more clearly defined and closer to readiness.

Dr. Sapirstein was wonderful; a tall sunburned man with white hair and a shaggy white moustache (she had seen him somewhere before but couldn’t think where; maybe on
Open End
) who despite the Miës van der Rohe chairs and cool marble tables of his waiting room was reassuringly old-fashioned and direct. “Please don’t read books,” he said. “Every pregnancy is different, and a book that tells you what you’re going to feel in the third week of the third month is only going to make you worry. No pregnancy was ever exactly like the ones described in the books. And don’t listen to your friends either. They’ll have had experiences very different from yours and they’ll be absolutely certain that their pregnancies were the normal ones and that yours is abnormal.”

She asked him about the vitamin pills Dr. Hill had prescribed.

“No, no pills,” he said. “Minnie Castevet has a herbarium and a blender; I’m going to have her make a daily drink for you that will be fresher, safer, and more vitamin-rich than any pill on the market. And another thing: don’t be afraid to satisfy your cravings. The theory today is that pregnant women invent cravings because they feel it’s expected of them. I don’t hold with that. I say if you want pickles in the middle of the night, make your poor husband go out and get some, just like in the old jokes.
Whatever
you want, be sure you get it. You’ll be surprised at some of the strange things your body will ask for in these next few months. And any questions you have, call me night or day. Call
me
, not your mother or your Aunt Fanny. That’s what I’m here for.”

She was to come in once a week, which was certainly closer attention than Dr. Hill gave his patients, and he would make a reservation at Doctors Hospital without any bother of filling out forms.

Everything was right and bright and lovely. She got a Vidal Sassoon haircut, finished with the dentist, voted on Election Day (for Lindsay for mayor), and went down to Greenwich Village to watch some of the outdoor shooting of Guy’s pilot. Between takes—Guy running with a stolen hot-dog wagon down Sullivan Street—she crouched on her heels to talk to small children and smiled
Me too
at pregnant women.

Salt, she found, even a few grains of it, made food inedible. “That’s perfectly normal,” Dr. Sapirstein said on her second visit. “When your system needs it, the aversion will disappear. Meanwhile, obviously, no salt. Trust your aversions the same as you do your cravings.”

She didn’t have any cravings though. Her appetite, in fact, seemed smaller than usual. Coffee and toast was enough for breakfast, a vegetable and a small piece of rare meat for dinner. Each morning at eleven Minnie brought over what looked like a watery pistachio milkshake. It was cold and sour.

“What’s in it?” Rosemary asked.

“Snips and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails,” Minnie said, smiling.

Rosemary laughed. “That’s fine,” she said, “but what if we want a girl?”

“Do you?”

“Well of course we’ll take what we get, but it
would
be nice if the first one were a
boy
.”

“Well there you are,” Minnie said.

Finished drinking, Rosemary said, “No, really, what’s in it?”

“A raw egg, gelatin, herbs…”

“Tannis root?”

“Some of that, some of some other things.”

Minnie brought the drink every day in the same glass, a large one with blue and green stripes, and stood waiting while Rosemary drained it.

One day Rosemary got into a conversation by the elevator with Phyllis Kapp, young Lisa’s mother. The end of it was a brunch invitation for Guy and her on the following Sunday, but Guy vetoed the idea when Rosemary told him of it. In all likelihood he would be in Sunday’s shooting, he explained, and if he weren’t he would need the day for rest and study. They were having little social life just then. Guy had broken a dinner-and-theater date they had made a few weeks earlier with Jimmy and Tiger Haenigsen, and he had asked Rosemary if she would mind putting off Hutch for dinner. It was because of the pilot, which was taking longer to shoot than had been intended.

It turned out to be just as well though, for Rosemary began to develop abdominal pains of an alarming sharpness. She called Dr. Sapirstein and he asked her to come in. Examining her, he said that there was nothing to worry about; the pains came from an entirely normal expansion of her pelvis. They would disappear in a day or two, and meanwhile she could fight them with ordinary doses of aspirin.

Rosemary, relieved, said, “I was afraid it might be an ectopic pregnancy.”

“Ectopic?” Dr. Sapirstein asked, and looked skeptically at her. She colored. He said, “I thought you weren’t going to read books, Rosemary.”

“It was staring me right in the face at the drug store,” she said.

“And all it did was worry you. Will you go home and throw it away, please?”

“I will. I promise.”

“The pains will be gone in two days,” he said. “‘Ectopic pregnancy.’” He shook his head.

But the pains weren’t gone in two days; they were worse, and grew worse still, as if something inside her were encircled by a wire being drawn tighter and tighter to cut it in two. There would be pain for hour after hour, and then a few minutes of relative painlessness that was only the pain gathering itself for a new assault. Aspirin did little good, and she was afraid of taking too many. Sleep, when it finally came, brought harried dreams in which she fought against huge spiders that had cornered her in the bathroom, or tugged desperately at a small black bush that had taken root in the middle of the living room rug. She woke tired, to even sharper pain.

“This happens sometimes,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “It’ll stop any day now. Are you sure you haven’t been lying about your age? Usually it’s the older women with less flexible joints who have this sort of difficulty.”

Minnie, bringing in the drink, said, “You poor thing. Don’t fret, dear; a niece of mine in Toledo had exactly the same kind of pains and so did two other women I know of. And their deliveries were real easy and they had beautiful healthy babies.”

“Thanks,” Rosemary said.

Minnie drew back righteously. “What do you mean? That’s the gospel truth! I swear to God it is, Rosemary!”

Her face grew pinched and wan and shadowed; she looked awful. But Guy insisted otherwise. “What are you talking about?” he said. “You look great. It’s that
haircut
that looks awful, if you want the truth, honey. That’s the biggest mistake you ever made in your whole life.”

The pain settled down to a constant presence, with no respite whatever. She endured it and lived with it, sleeping a few hours a night and taking one aspirin where Dr. Sapirstein allowed two. There was no going out with Joan or Elise, no sculpture class or shopping. She ordered groceries by phone and stayed in the apartment, making nursery curtains and starting, finally, on
The Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire
. Sometimes Minnie or Roman came in of an afternoon, to talk a while and see if there was anything she wanted. Once Laura-Louise brought down a tray of gingerbread. She hadn’t been told yet that Rosemary was pregnant. “Oh my, I
do
like that haircut, Rosemary,” she said. “You look so pretty and up-to-date.” She was surprised to hear she wasn’t feeling well.

When the pilot was finally finished Guy stayed home most of the time. He had stopped studying with Dominick, his vocal coach, and no longer spent afternoons auditioning and being seen. He had two good commercials on deck—for Pall Mall and Texaco—and rehearsals of
Don’t I Know You From Somewhere?
were definitely scheduled to begin in mid-January. He gave Rosemary a hand with the cleaning, and they played time-limit Scrabble for a dollar a game. He answered the phone and, when it was for Rosemary, made plausible excuses.

She had planned to give a Thanksgiving dinner for some of their friends who, like themselves, had no family nearby; with the constant pain, though, and the constant worry over Andrew-or-Melinda’s well-being, she decided not to, and they ended up going to Minnie and Roman’s instead.

O
NE AFTERNOON
in December, while Guy was doing the Pall Mall commercial, Hutch called. “I’m around the corner at City Center picking up tickets for Marcel Marceau,” he said. “Would you and Guy like to come on Friday night?”

“I don’t think so, Hutch,” Rosemary said. “I haven’t been feeling too well lately. And Guy’s got two commercials this week.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing, really. I’ve just been a bit under the weather.”

“May I come up for a few minutes?”

“Oh do; I’d love to see you.”

She hurried into slacks and a jersey top, put on lipstick and brushed her hair. The pain sharpened—locking her for a moment with shut eyes and clenched teeth—and then it sank back to its usual level and she breathed out gratefully and went on brushing.

Hutch, when he saw her, stared and said, “My God.”

“It’s Vidal Sassoon and it’s very in,” she said.

“What’s
wrong
with you?” he said. “I don’t mean your hair.”

“Do I look that bad?” She took his coat and hat and hung them away, smiling a fixed bright smile.

“You look terrible,” Hutch said. “You’ve lost God-knows-how-many pounds and you have circles around your eyes that a panda would envy. You aren’t on one of those ‘Zen diets,’ are you?”

“No.”

“Then what is it? Have you seen a doctor?”

“I suppose I might as well tell you,” Rosemary said. “I’m pregnant. I’m in my third month.”

Hutch looked at her, nonplussed. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Pregnant women
gain
weight, they don’t lose it. And they look
healthy
, not—”

“There’s a slight complication,” Rosemary said, leading the way into the living room. “I have stiff joints or something, so I have pains that keep me awake most of the night. Well,
one
pain, really; it just sort of continues. It’s not serious, though. It’ll probably stop any day now.”

“I never heard of ‘stiff joints’ being a problem,” Hutch said.

“Stiff pelvic joints. It’s fairly common.”

Hutch sat in Guy’s easy chair. “Well, congratulations,” he said doubtfully. “You must be very happy.”

“I am,” Rosemary said. “We both are.”

“Who’s your obstetrician?”

“His name is Abraham Sapirstein. He’s—”

“I know him,” Hutch said. “Or
of
him. He delivered two of Doris’s babies.” Doris was Hutch’s elder daughter.

“He’s one of the best in the city,” Rosemary said.

“When did you see him last?”

“The day before yesterday. And he said just what I told you; it’s fairly common and it’ll probably stop any day now. Of course he’s been saying
that
since it started…”

“How much weight have you lost?”

“Only three pounds. It looks—”

“Nonsense! You’ve lost
far
more than that!”

Rosemary smiled. “You sound like our bathroom scale,” she said. “Guy finally threw it out, it was scaring me so. No, I’ve lost only three pounds and one little space more. And it’s perfectly normal to lose a little during the first few months. Later on I’ll be gaining.”

“I certainly hope so,” Hutch said. “You look as if you’re being drained by a vampire. Are you sure there aren’t any puncture marks?” Rosemary smiled. “Well,” Hutch said, leaning back and smiling too, “we’ll assume that Dr. Sapirstein knows whereof he speaks. God knows he should; he charges enough. Guy must be doing sensationally.”

“He is,” Rosemary said. “But we’re getting bargain rates. Our neighbors the Castevets are close friends of his; they sent me to him and he’s charging us his special non-Society prices.”

“Does that mean Doris and Axel are Society?” Hutch said. “They’ll be delighted to hear about it.”

The doorbell rang. Hutch offered to answer it but Rosemary wouldn’t let him. “Hurts less when I move around,” she said, going out of the room; and went to the front door trying to recall if there was anything she had ordered that hadn’t been delivered yet.

It was Roman, looking slightly winded. Rosemary smiled and said, “I mentioned your name two seconds ago.”

“In a favorable context, I hope,” he said. “Do you need anything from outside? Minnie is going down in a while and our house phone doesn’t seem to be functioning.”

“No, nothing,” Rosemary said. “Thanks so much for asking. I phoned out for things this morning.”

Roman glanced beyond her for an instant, and then, smiling, asked if Guy was home already.

“No, he won’t be back until six at the earliest,” Rosemary said; and, because Roman’s pallid face stayed waiting with its questioning smile, added, “A friend of ours is here.” The questioning smile stayed. She said, “Would you like to meet him?”

“Yes, I would,” Roman said. “If I won’t be intruding.”

“Of course you won’t.” Rosemary showed him in. He was wearing a black-and-white checked jacket over a blue shirt and a wide paisley tie. He passed close to her and she noticed for the first time that his ears were pierced—that the left one was, at any rate.

She followed him to the living-room archway. “This is Edward Hutchins,” she said, and to Hutch, who was rising and smiling, “This is Roman Castevet, the neighbor I just mentioned.” She explained to Roman: “I was telling Hutch that it was you and Minnie who sent me to Dr. Sapirstein.”

The two men shook hands and greeted each other. Hutch said, “One of my daughters used Dr. Sapirstein too. On two occasions.”

“He’s a brilliant man,” Roman said. “We met him only last spring but he’s become one of our closest friends.”

“Sit down, won’t you?” Rosemary said. The men seated themselves and Rosemary sat by Hutch.

Roman said, “So Rosemary has told you the good news, has she?”

“Yes, she has,” Hutch said.

“We must see that she gets plenty of rest,” Roman said, “and complete freedom from worry and anxiety.”

Rosemary said, “That would be heaven.”

“I was a bit alarmed by her appearance,” Hutch said, looking at Rosemary as he took out a pipe and a striped rep tobacco pouch.

“Were you?” Roman said.

“But now that I know she’s in Dr. Sapirstein’s care I feel considerably relieved.”

“She’s only lost two or three pounds,” Roman said. “Isn’t that so, Rosemary?”

“That’s right,” Rosemary said.

“And that’s quite normal in the early months of pregnancy,” Roman said. “Later on she’ll gain—probably far too much.”

“So I gather,” Hutch said, filling his pipe.

Rosemary said, “Mrs. Castevet makes a vitamin drink for me every day, with a raw egg and milk and fresh herbs that she grows.”

“All according to Dr. Sapirstein’s directions, of course,” Roman said. “He’s inclined to be suspicious of commercially prepared vitamin pills.”

“Is he really?” Hutch asked, pocketing his pouch. “I can’t think of anything I’d be less suspicious of; they’re surely manufactured under every imaginable safeguard.” He struck two matches as one and sucked flame into his pipe, blowing out puffs of aromatic white smoke. Rosemary put an ashtray near him.

“That’s true,” Roman said, “but commercial pills can sit for months in a warehouse or on a druggist’s shelf and lose a great deal of their original potency.”

“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that,” Hutch said; “I suppose they can.”

Rosemary said, “I like the
idea
of having everything fresh and natural. I’ll bet expectant mothers chewed bits of tannis root hundreds and hundreds of years ago when nobody’d even heard of vitamins.”

“Tannis root?” Hutch said.

“It’s one of the herbs in the drink,” Rosemary said. “Or
is
it an herb?” She looked to Roman. “Can a root be an herb?” But Roman was watching Hutch and didn’t hear.

“‘Tannis?’” Hutch said. “I’ve never heard of it. Are you sure you don’t mean ‘anise’ or ‘orris root’?”

Roman said, “Tannis.”

“Here,” Rosemary said, drawing out her charm. “It’s good luck too, theoretically. Brace yourself; the smell takes a little getting-used-to.” She held the charm out, leaning forward to bring it closer to Hutch.

He sniffed at it and drew away, grimacing. “I should say it does,” he said. He took the chained ball between two fingertips and squinted at it from a distance. “It doesn’t look like root matter at all,” he said; “it looks like mold or fungus of some kind.” He looked at Roman. “Is it ever called by another name?” he asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Roman said.

“I shall look it up in the encyclopedia and find out all about it,” Hutch said. “Tannis. What a pretty holder or charm or whatever-it-is. Where did you get it?”

With a quick smile at Roman, Rosemary said, “The Castevets gave it to me.” She tucked the charm back inside her top.

Hutch said to Roman, “You and your wife seem to be taking better care of Rosemary than her own parents would.”

Roman said, “We’re very fond of her, and of Guy too.” He pushed against the arms of his chair and raised himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go now,” he said. “My wife is waiting for me.”

“Of course,” Hutch said, rising. “It’s a pleasure to have met you.”

“We’ll meet again, I’m sure,” Roman said. “Don’t bother, Rosemary.”

“It’s no bother.” She walked along with him to the front door. His right ear was pierced too, she saw, and there were many small scars on his neck like a flight of distant birds. “Thanks again for stopping by,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” Roman said. “I like your friend Mr. Hutchins; he seems extremely intelligent.”

Rosemary, opening the door, said, “He is.”

“I’m glad I met him,” Roman said. With a smile and a hand-wave he started down the hall.

“’By,” Rosemary said, waving back.

Hutch was standing by the bookshelves. “This room is glorious,” he said. “You’re doing a beautiful job.”

“Thanks,” Rosemary said. “I was until my pelvis intervened. Roman has pierced ears. I just noticed it for the first time.”

“Pierced ears and piercing eyes,” Hutch said. “What was he before he became a Golden Ager?”

“Just about everything. And he’s been everywhere in the world. Really everywhere.”

“Nonsense; nobody has. Why did he ring your bell?—if I’m not being too inquisitive.”

“To see if I needed anything from outside. The house phone isn’t working. They’re fantastic neighbors. They’d come in and do the cleaning if I let them.”

“What’s
she
like?”

Rosemary told him. “Guy’s gotten very close to them,” she said. “I think they’ve become sort of parent-figures for him.”

“And you?”

“I’m not sure. Sometimes I’m so grateful I could kiss them, and sometimes I get a sort of smothery feeling, as if they’re being
too
friendly and helpful. Yet how can I complain? You remember the power failure?”

“Shall I ever forget it? I was in an elevator.”

“No.”

“Yes indeed. Five hours in total darkness with three women and a John Bircher who were all sure that the Bomb had fallen.”

“How awful.”

“You were saying?”

“We were here, Guy and I, and two minutes after the lights went out Minnie was at the door with a handful of candles.” She gestured toward the mantel. “Now how can you find fault with neighbors like that?”

“You can’t, obviously,” Hutch said, and stood looking at the mantel. “Are those the ones?” he asked. Two pewter candlesticks stood between a bowl of polished stones and a brass microscope; in them were three-inch lengths of black candle ribbed with drippings.

“The last survivors,” Rosemary said. “She brought a whole month’s worth. What is it?”

“Were they all black?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Why?”

“Just curious.” He turned from the mantel, smiling at her. “Offer me coffee, will you? And tell me more about Mrs. Castevet. Where does she grow those herbs of hers? In window boxes?”

They were sitting over cups at the kitchen table some ten minutes later when the front door unlocked and Guy hurried in. “Hey, what a surprise,” he said, coming over and grabbing Hutch’s hand before he could rise. “How are you, Hutch? Good to see you!” He clasped Rosemary’s head in his other hand and bent and kissed her cheek and lips. “How you doing, honey?” He still had his make-up on; his face was orange, his eyes black-lashed and large.

“You’re the surprise,” Rosemary said. “What happened?”

“Ah, they stopped in the middle for a rewrite, the dumb bastards. We start again in the morning. Stay where you are, nobody move; I’ll just get rid of my coat.” He went out to the closet.

“Would you like some coffee?” Rosemary called.

“Love some!”

She got up and poured a cup, and refilled Hutch’s cup and her own. Hutch sucked at his pipe, looking thoughtfully before him.

Guy came back in with his hands full of packs of Pall Mall. “Loot,” he said, dumping them on the table. “Hutch?”

“No, thanks.”

Guy tore a pack open, jammed cigarettes up, and pulled one out. He winked at Rosemary as she sat down again.

Hutch said, “It seems congratulations are in order.”

Guy, lighting up, said, “Rosemary told you? It’s wonderful, isn’t it? We’re delighted. Of course I’m scared stiff that I’ll be a lousy father, but Rosemary’ll be such a great mother that it won’t make much difference.”

“When is the baby due?” Hutch asked.

Rosemary told him, and told Guy that Dr. Sapirstein had delivered two of Hutch’s grandchildren.

Hutch said, “I met your neighbor, Roman Castevet.”

“Oh, did you?” Guy said. “Funny old duck, isn’t he? He’s got some interesting stories, though, about Otis Skinner and Modjeska. He’s quite a theater buff.”

Rosemary said, “Did you ever notice that his ears are pierced?”

“You’re kidding,” Guy said.

“No I’m not; I saw.”

They drank their coffee, talking of Guy’s quickening career and of a trip Hutch planned to make in the spring to Greece and Turkey.

“It’s a shame we haven’t seen more of you lately,” Guy said, when Hutch had excused himself and risen. “With me so busy and Ro being the way she is, we really haven’t seen anyone.”