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.
The door closed and was chained (Good!) and bolted (Good!). Rosemary watched and waited, and Guy sidled into the archway, smiling smugly, with both hands behind his back. “Who says there’s nothing to ESP?” he said, and coming toward the table brought forth his hands with two white custard cups sitting one on each palm. “Madame and Monsieur shall have ze dessairt after all,” he said, setting one cup by Rosemary’s wineglass and the other by his own. “Mousse au chocolat,” he said, “or ‘chocolate mouse,’ as Minnie calls it. Of course with her it could be chocolate mouse, so eat with care.”
Rosemary laughed happily. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “It’s what I was going to make.”
“See?” Guy said, sitting. “ESP.” He replaced his napkin and poured more wine.
“I was afraid she was going to come charging in and stay all evening,” Rosemary said, forking up carrots.
“No,” Guy said, “she just wanted us to try her chocolate mouse, seein’ as how it’s one of her speci-al-ities.”
“It looks good.”
“It does, doesn’t it.”
The cups were filled with peaked swirls of chocolate. Guy’s was topped with a sprinkling of chopped nuts, and Rosemary’s with a half walnut.
“It’s sweet of her, really,” Rosemary said. “We shouldn’t make fun of her.”
“You’re right,” Guy said, “you’re right.”
The mousse was excellent, but it had a chalky undertaste that reminded Rosemary of blackboards and grade school. Guy tried but could find no “undertaste” at all, chalky or otherwise. Rosemary put her spoon down after two swallows. Guy said, “Aren’t you going to finish it? That’s silly, honey; there’s no ‘undertaste.’”
Rosemary said there was.
“Come on,” Guy said, “the old bat slaved all day over a hot stove; eat it.”
“But I don’t like it,” Rosemary said.
“It’s delicious.”
“You can have mine.”
Guy scowled. “All right, don’t eat it,” he said; “you don’t wear the charm she gave you, you might as well not eat her dessert too.”
Confused, Rosemary said, “What does one thing have to do with the other?”
“They’re both examples of—well, unkindness, that’s all.” Guy said. “Two minutes ago you said we should stop making fun of her. That’s a form of making fun too, accepting something and then not using it.”
“Oh—” Rosemary picked up her spoon. “If it’s going to turn into a big scene—” She took a full spoonful of the mousse and thrust it into her mouth.
“It isn’t going to turn into a big scene,” Guy said. “Look, if you really can’t stand it, don’t eat it.”
“Delicious,” Rosemary said, full-mouthed and taking another spoonful, “no undertaste at all. Turn the records over.”
Guy got up and went to the record player. Rosemary doubled her napkin in her lap and plopped two spoonfuls of the mousse into it, and another half-spoonful for good measure. She folded the napkin closed and then showily scraped clean the inside of the cup and swallowed down the scrapings as Guy came back to the table. “There, Daddy,” she said, tilting the cup toward him. “Do I get a gold star on my chart?”
“Two of them,” he said. “I’m sorry if I was stuffy.”
“You were.”
“I’m sorry.” He smiled.
Rosemary melted. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “It’s nice that you’re considerate of old ladies. It means you’ll be considerate of me when I’m one.”
They had coffee and crème de menthe.
“Margaret called this afternoon,” Rosemary said.
“Margaret?”
“My sister.”
“Oh. Everything okay?”
“Yes. She was afraid something had happened to me. She had a feeling.”
“Oh?”
“We’re to stay home tonight.”
“Drat. And I made a reservation at Nedick’s. In the Orange Room.”
“You’ll have to cancel it.”
“How come you turned out sane when the rest of your family is nutty?”
The first wave of dizziness caught Rosemary at the kitchen sink as she scraped the uneaten mousse from her napkin into the drain. She swayed for a moment, then blinked and frowned. Guy, in the den, said, “He isn’t there yet. Christ, what a mob.” The Pope at Yankee Stadium.
“I’ll be in in a minute,” Rosemary said.
Shaking her head to clear it, she rolled the napkins up inside the tablecloth and put the bundle aside for the hamper. She put the stopper in the drain, turned on the hot water, squeezed in some Joy, and began loading in the dishes and pans. She would do them in the morning, let them soak overnight.
The second wave came as she was hanging up the dish towel. It lasted longer, and this time the room turned slowly around and her legs almost slued out from under her. She hung on to the edge of the sink.
When it was over she said “Oh boy,” and added up two Gibsons, two glasses of wine (or had it been three?), and one crème de menthe. No wonder.
She made it to the doorway of the den and kept her footing through the next wave by holding on to the knob with one hand and the jamb with the other.
“What is it?” Guy asked, standing up anxiously.
“Dizzy,” she said, and smiled.
He snapped off the TV and came to her, took her arm and held her surely around the waist. “No wonder,” he said. “All that booze. You probably had an empty stomach, too.”
He helped her toward the bedroom and, when her legs buckled, caught her up and carried her. He put her down on the bed and sat beside her, taking her hand and stroking her forehead sympathetically. She closed her eyes. The bed was a raft that floated on gentle ripples, tilting and swaying pleasantly. “Nice,” she said.
“Sleep is what you need,” Guy said, stroking her forehead. “A good night’s sleep.”
“We have to make a baby.”
“We will. Tomorrow. There’s plenty of time.”
“Missing the mass.”
“Sleep. Get a good night’s sleep. Go on…”
“Just a nap,” she said, and was sitting with a drink in her hand on President Kennedy’s yacht. It was sunny and breezy, a perfect day for a cruise. The President, studying a large map, gave terse and knowing instructions to a Negro mate.
Guy had taken off the top of her pajamas. “Why are you taking them off?” she asked.
“To make you more comfortable,” he said.
“I’m comfortable.”
“Sleep, Ro.”
He undid the snaps at her side and slowly drew off the bottoms. Thought she was asleep and didn’t know. Now she had nothing on at all except a red bikini, but the other women on the yacht—Jackie Kennedy, Pat Lawford, and Sarah Churchill—were wearing bikinis too, so it was all right, thank goodness. The President was in his Navy uniform. He had completely recovered from the assassination and looked better than ever. Hutch was standing on the dock with armloads of weather-forecasting equipment. “Isn’t Hutch coming with us?” Rosemary asked the President.
“Catholics only,” he said, smiling. “I wish we weren’t bound by these prejudices, but unfortunately we are.”
“But what about Sarah Churchill?” Rosemary asked. She turned to point, but Sarah Churchill was gone and the family was there in her place: Ma, Pa, and everybody, with the husbands, wives, and children. Margaret was pregnant, and so were Jean and Dodie and Ernestine.
Guy was taking off her wedding ring. She wondered why, but was too tired to ask. “Sleep,” she said, and slept.
It was the first time the Sistine Chapel had been opened to the public and she was inspecting the ceiling on a new elevator that carried the visitor through the chapel horizontally, making it possible to see the frescoes exactly as Michelangelo, painting them, had seen them. How glorious they were! She saw God extending his finger to Adam, giving him the divine spark of life; and the underside of a shelf partly covered with gingham contact paper as she was carried backward through the linen closet. “Easy,” Guy said, and another man said, “You’ve got her too high.”
“Typhoon!” Hutch shouted from the dock amid all his weather-forecasting equipment. “Typhoon! It killed fifty-five people in London and it’s heading this way!” And Rosemary knew he was right. She must warn the President. The ship was heading for disaster.
But the President was gone. Everyone was gone. The deck was infinite and bare, except for, far away, the Negro mate holding the wheel unremittingly on its course.
Rosemary went to him and saw at once that he hated all white people, hated her. “You’d better go down below, Miss,” he said, courteous but hating her, not even waiting to hear the warning she had brought.
Below was a huge ballroom where on one side a church burned fiercely and on the other a black-bearded man stood glaring at her. In the center was a bed. She went to it and lay down, and was suddenly surrounded by naked men and women, ten or a dozen, with Guy among them. They were elderly, the women grotesque and slack-breasted. Minnie and her friend Laura-Louise were there, and Roman in a black miter and a black silk robe. With a thin black wand he was drawing designs on her body, dipping the wand’s point in a cup of red held for him by a sun-browned man with a white moustache. The point moved back and forth across her stomach and down ticklingly to the insides of her thighs. The naked people were chanting—flat, unmusical, foreign-tongued syllables—and a flute or clarinet accompanied them. “She’s awake, she sees!” Guy whispered to Minnie. He was large-eyed, tense. “She don’t see,” Minnie said. “As long as she ate the mouse she can’t see nor hear. She’s like dead. Now sing.”
Jackie Kennedy came into the ballroom in an exquisite gown of ivory satin embroidered with pearls. “I’m so sorry to hear you aren’t feeling well,” she said, hurrying to Rosemary’s side.
Rosemary explained about the mouse-bite, minimizing it so Jackie wouldn’t worry.
“You’d better have your legs tied down,” Jackie said, “in case of convulsions.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Rosemary said. “There’s always a chance it was rabid.” She watched with interest as white-smocked interns tied her legs, and her arms too, to the four bedposts.
“If the music bothers you,” Jackie said, “let me know and I’ll have it stopped.”
“Oh, no,” Rosemary said. “Please don’t change the program on my account. It doesn’t bother me at all, really it doesn’t.”
Jackie smiled warmly at her. “Try to sleep,” she said. “We’ll be waiting up on deck.” She withdrew, her satin gown whispering.
Rosemary slept a while, and then Guy came in and began making love to her. He stroked her with both hands—a long, relishing stroke that began at her bound wrists, slid down over her arms, breasts, and loins, and became a voluptuous tickling between her legs. He repeated the exciting stroke again and again, his hands hot and sharp-nailed, and then, when she was ready-ready-more-than-ready, he slipped a hand in under her buttocks, raised them, lodged his hardness against her, and pushed it powerfully in. Bigger he was than always; painfully, wonderfully big. He lay forward upon her, his other arm sliding under her back to hold her, his broad chest crushing her breasts. (He was wearing, because it was to be a costume party, a suit of coarse leathery armor.) Brutally, rhythmically, he drove his new hugeness. She opened her eyes and looked into yellow furnace-eyes, smelled sulphur and tannis root, felt wet breath on her mouth, heard lust-grunts and the breathing of onlookers.
This is no dream, she thought. This is real, this is happening. Protest woke in her eyes and throat, but something covered her face, smothering her in a sweet stench.
The hugeness kept driving in her, the leathery body banging itself against her again and again and again.
The Pope came in with a suitcase in his hand and a coat over his arm. “Jackie tells me you’ve been bitten by a mouse,” he said.
“Yes,” Rosemary said. “That’s why I didn’t come see you.” She spoke sadly, so he wouldn’t suspect she had just had an orgasm.
“That’s all right,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your health.”
“Am I forgiven, Father?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. He held out his hand for her to kiss the ring. Its stone was a silver filigree ball less than an inch in diameter; inside it, very tiny, Anna Maria Alberghetti sat waiting.
Rosemary kissed it and the Pope hurried out to catch his plane.