Chapter 30 Things Go Awry
THINGS GO AWRY
I woke confused, and didn’t remember for a moment where I was.
The faintest hint of dawn was touching the window, so it must be after six.
My stomach immediately told me it was hungry—how quickly I’d become accustomed to regular meals!
—but today was the fasting day, so my stomach would have to be disappointed.
I hadn’t come to my marriage with many skills the Starks thought necessary for a daughter-in-law—cooking, sewing, ironing Joe’s shirts, and running a vacuum cleaner without sucking up the tablecloth were only the start of my failings—but one thing, I knew how to do better than all of them.
I knew how to go hungry. As a skill, it wasn’t the most useful, but I would cling to it for today.
There was rather a lot of activity happening elsewhere in the house for such an early hour; this must be what had woken me. One was meant to reflect on such a day, but if there was no food and no work allowed, not even studying, why not sleep a bit longer before beginning one’s reflections?
On the other hand, if we got up, Joe and I could take a long walk, and walking in beauty is very good for the soul.
Later, I could read my book in the courtyard behind the house.
This wouldn’t disturb the others as they performed their own reflections, and I had a novel I very much wished to finish.
It was an obscure mystery title by Dorothy L.
Sayers, called The Documents in the Case, and I’d found it in the library last week.
Was reading a novel acceptable on Yom Kippur? It was a rather thin book; perhaps if I put it between the pages of the Bible I had brought with me but had little desire to peruse …? I wouldn’t be hiding my reading, precisely, just protecting the Starks from being further outraged.
No, I’d promised not to lie anymore. If I wanted to read Dorothy Sayers, I must read her openly.
Feet on the stairs. Galloping feet. Sophie, probably.
Joe began to mutter. Good, I thought. He’s waking up. He was muttering more loudly now, though, and waving an arm languorously, as if trying to swat a fly while swimming in mud. Joe dreamed the way Fred danced; dangerously.
I said, “Joe. Joe.”
More muttering. More arm-waving. “Joe,” I said, while not shaking him or sitting over him.
He shot upright, shouting, “What? What? I’m coming!” Then tried to get out of bed. Unfortunately, his feet were still tangled with the covers, so he ended up falling out of bed with an almighty crash.
I scrambled around the bed to him as fast as I could. He was sitting up, blinking, groping for something. Groping for his glasses. I handed them to him.
“Th-thanks,” he said, and shivered, then pushed himself up to stand, one hand on the bed for support.
“Joe,” I said again. “What’s wrong?”
He blinked at me? “Huh? I’m …” Another shiver.
I felt his forehead. “You’re hot. A fever. Get back in bed.”
“I feel …” He sank onto the bed again. “Pretty rotten.”
“Yes,” I said. “You have flu, I think. Do you have pain?”
“Well … yeah. Aching, that’s all.” More shivering, and he lay down as I covered him. “Sorry. I’m …”
“Wait here,” I said. “I’m going to get you water and some aspirins. And hot tea.”
“Yom … Kippur,” he said.
“Bother Yom Kippur. Wait here.” I pulled my dressing-gown on over my nightgown.
It was rather pretty, in cream satin with a deep vee front and wide waistband, both covered by lace, and always made me feel as if I were in that American film I’d seen back in Germany as a girl, the one where the woman was always sweeping into rooms and had feathers on her slippers.
I didn’t have feathers, but I did have lace.
I was planning to stop in the bathroom before going downstairs, so I could possibly appear like the sweeping-in actress, with my hair brushed and my lipstick perfect, but the door was locked. So I patted my hair into place as best I could and went downstairs.
Sophie was in the kitchen with her parents.
The two elder Starks were sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper; apparently this was allowed.
Dorothy Sayers was perhaps not so scandalous, then.
Sophie wasn’t reading, but throwing an arm out, in the midst of declaiming.
She should definitely study the speeches of Caesar; she would perform them so admirably.
“Do you realize what a handicap it will be to this kid to be born on Yom Kippur?” she was saying. “Every time their birthday falls on that day, they’ll be totally overshadowed. No birthday party. No cake. Not even a glass of water.”
“I suggest you tell Barbara to hold off, then,” Mr. Stark said. “See how that works.”
“It isn’t a choice, Sophie,” Mrs. Stark said. “Babies come when they come.”
“I don’t see why,” Sophie said. “Can’t you choose when to start them?”
I choked a little at this, and she said, “Oh, hi, Marguerite. Barbara’s going to have the baby, I guess. Did you realize what a big production it is? She’s in the bathtub, and David is in the bathroom with her. When she’s naked and huge!”
“Less of that, please,” Mrs. Stark said.
“Well, yes,” I said, going to the stove and picking up the teakettle to fill it.
Rather boldly, as I’d let Joe do all the opening of cupboards in this house in the past, but if the Starks weren’t allowed to touch kitchenware today, how else would Joe get his tea?
“Having a baby is painful and rather difficult. And one can’t choose exactly when to start a baby, either. ”
“Why not?” Sophie asked. “If you know how to do it?”
I looked at Mrs. Stark. She looked at me. I turned on the gas under the teakettle, and Sophie said, “Well? Also, I thought you were only drinking water.”
“Joe is ill. I’m making him some tea. Would you have a bottle of aspirins, Mrs. Stark?”
“Oh, no,” she said, standing up. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Flu, I think. It is October, after all, when such things begin to circulate. But we must keep him far away from Barbara.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, goodness. Does he need a doctor?”
“No. He needs an aspirin. The bottle?”
“For heaven’s sake.” Mr. Stark threw down his newspaper and marched upstairs. Even his back view looked irritable.
“He doesn’t operate very well without coffee,” Mrs. Stark said.
“Meanwhile,” Sophie said, “I need to use your bathroom, Mother, and so does Marguerite, because Barbara’s been in there for ages.”
I finished spooning tea into the teapot and asked, “Where would I find a tray?”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Stark said. “Oh, dear. Tea, and …”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’m sure God understands. A tray?”
Sophie said, “Over the refrigerator. Mother. The bathroom?”
“Of course,” she said. “Use ours. And show Marguerite where it is.”
Heavy footfalls on the stairs. Mr. Stark, with the aspirin bottle. He handed it to me without a word and sat down again with his newspaper.
Sophie said, “Come on, Marguerite. The cups are in the corner cupboard. No, the other corner. Come on. I really have to go to the bathroom.”
That was when the ceiling began to drip.
Upstairs with Joe, I could hear knocking at the bathroom door, then voices, and finally, Barbara saying, “What do you mean, I have to get out? This is the only thing that feels good!”
David answered her soothingly, speaking in a patient sort of tone that would have made me want to hit him.
Mrs. Stark was looking into our room, saying, “How are you feeling, Joe?” and then, before he could answer, “Sophie, get more towels and mop up in the kitchen. No, not the good ones! For heaven’s sake, have some sense.
” Upon which Sophie said, “Well, how was I supposed to know? Honestly. This family.”
Mr. Stark, then, shouting up the stairs, “Where’s that plumber? And who took the sports page?” And Joe looking at me and grinning around the thermometer even as he shivered, while I sat propped up on the pillows beside him and read Dorothy L. Sayers between pouring tea.
I was finally driven downstairs again, because Yom Kippur or not, Joe needed something in his stomach.
Water dripped into a pot in the middle of the kitchen floor, plink, plink, plink.
Mrs. Stark came into the kitchen, stopped short, and said, in much distress, “But that’s the chicken soup for tonight, to break the fast! ”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, not stopping in my buttering of toast, “and I’ll gladly forego my portion tonight if it helps, but Joe must have something to eat.
Liquids are very important with fever, and chicken soup is best of all, for it has salt, which is also important.
Yes, I know it’s a holy day, but God will surely understand.
” And here was Sophie again, saying, “Honestly, Mother, why must you be so hidebound?”
I went back upstairs with my tray, and it was quiet for a while until I heard David’s voice outside our door. “It’s not time yet for the hospital, Mother Stark,” he said. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s better for her to walk, so we can move things along. Come on, Barbara. Let’s get you dressed and walking.”
Barbara said, “Walk? I don’t want to walk. Are you crazy? This hurts! You said the drugs would take away the pain. Where are they? At the hospital? Then let’s go to the hospital. Now.”
David again. “It’s not time yet. You’ll feel better when you’re dressed and walking. Women have been having babies for hundreds of thousands of years, Barbara. Yes, I know, but I am a doctor.”
Barbara’s voice, hardly recognizable. “I … Want … Those … DRUGS!”
Mrs. Stark: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, David, take her to the hospital. Yes, I’m sure that is what the experts say, but have you ever had a baby? Then how do you know her pain is manageable?”
Mr. Stark: “If you don’t take her to the hospital in the next fifteen minutes, I’m driving her myself. Wait. Who did the crossword? Sophie, it’s a day of rest! A day of REST!”
And Sophie: “Well, excuse me for living. It’s not exactly restful around here, you know.”