Angle of Repose - Wallace Stegner [177]
“Only if he’s established and in demand, like Mr. Prager. And, I don’t know, he’s addicted to the West, he’s happier there.”
“At your expense.”
“You don’t like him,” Susan said. “He has great capacities, you’ve never seen him at anything like his best. When he finds something he wants to do, I’ll go to him, infant or no infant.”
She pinched her lids tight on the throb of a growing headache. The dim hall swam when she opened them. She would lie sleepless half the night.
“But I know it won’t be soon,” she said, “and oh, Augusta, I’m only half sorry!”
Her arms went out, she flung herself on her friend and buried her face in stiff silk. After a moment she pulled back her head and spoke to the diamond that winked and went out and winked again in Augusta’s throat. “You pretended to think there was something between me and Frank Sargent. There isn’t–but I’m guilty, just the same. What kind of wife is it who half wants her husband’s bad luck to continue so that she can stay longer near someone else? You.”
2
She was on her way to the kitchen when she saw him coming up the path with his carpetbag in his hand and his coat slung over his shoulder. His eyes searched the porch, he stooped to see in the kitchen window. Then she had the door open and was onto the porch and he leaped up the three steps and engulfed her. He rocked her back and forth, his lips were jammed under her ear. Eventually he held her away and looked her over as if for symptoms of disease.
“Susie, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, there wasn’t a bit of trouble. But how are you? Oh, it’s been so long!”
“Don’t ever do anything like that to me again,” he said.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Worry me. Worry me! Where is she? Can I see her?”
“She’s upstairs, asleep.”
“Where’s everybody else? Where’s Ollie?”
“Down in the orchard with Father. Mother and Bessie and the children have gone over to Poughkeepsie shopping.”
“It’s just us, then. Good.” His hand was feeling along her shoulder and neck; it took her by the nape and held her, the big warm hand going nearly all the way around. “Ah, Susie, how are you, really?”
“I’m fine, honestly I am. I’ve been up and around for days. I’ve even worked some on the galleys of my story.”
“You’re crazy. You ought to be in bed.”
“After nearly three weeks? I’m perfectly well.”
But she went up the stairs slowly, helping herself by the rail, stepping up one step and bringing the other foot after. Coming behind her, he was not persuaded by the bright smile she threw over her shoulder. “Should you be climbing stairs?”
“As long as I take them slowly.”
“Let me carry you.”
“My goodness, you’d really put me back to bed!”
“You don’t look after yourself.”
“I’ve got better advice than yours, Mr. Ward. Mother and Bessie would have me in bed if they thought I belonged there.”
Up in her room he stood above the basket, lifting the corner of the pink blanket to get a look. He studied his daughter quietly. Susan had the conviction that if the baby awoke and found his strange face looking down on her, she would not cry.
“You’ve named her Elizabeth.”
“After Father’s mother and Bessie. But it isn’t final, if you’d prefer something else.”
“Elizabeth’s fine. Only we’ll have to call her Lizzie or Betsy or something to keep her sorted out.” Softly he let the blanket down. His eyes, very blue, came up to meet hers. “Hecho en Mejico,” he said.
“Yes. She’s one thing we got out of that.”
Wind rattled through the maple outside, and the curtains blew inward from the open window and snagged on the basket. Susan lifted them off and pushed down the window a few inches. When she looked up again, Oliver was still watching her. “Susie, didn’t I deserve to know?”
“What could you have done? It would only have upset you.”
“Don’t you think it upsets a man to get a letter saying his wife has had a baby he never even knew was coming?”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I was wrong. I just . . .”
Her mind was darting into corners, her feelings were confused. She both granted his right to blame her, and resented his doing so. She knew perfectly well why she had more than once stopped herself in the act of writing him. He was a threat to Milton