The Book of V.: A Novel(53)
“Are you okay?” It’s almost comical, hearing herself ask these words even as her body longs for a private place in which to cry. She tries not to look at him, in his wrinkled shirt, no tie, and gold-toe socks. She has never seen him without shoes on. Alarm sings in her ears, telling her there is danger here and her hurt must wait, though of course the danger is not unrelated to the hurt, the danger is the married man laid out before Vee, Vee who did not intend harm but harmed nevertheless. “You have to leave,” Philip says, his eyes still covered by his arm.
“Where’s Rosemary?”
“Not here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is my living room.”
“Yes?”
“So why must I be talking to you right now? Why must you be here? You’re not a good influence.”
“I?…” Vee flounders, bewildered. “Do you mean the cigarettes? She hasn’t been smoking anymore. Hasn’t been drinking, either.”
“I mean you. Just you.”
“What are y—”
“You’re a slut. Where do you go, Mrs. Alexander Kent? When you leave here for hours at a time. For whole days now, apparently. Do you think I don’t know?”
Vee didn’t know that Philip knew, but now that she does, she thinks, Of course. “Do you think I don’t know about the cross?” she says. It’s the first insult she can think to hurl at him. Then, seeing his confusion: “They burned a cross on your lawn, Philip R. And apparently your wife didn’t even tell you. She protects you, and what do you do apart from some dishes like you’re the goddamned messiah incarnate and not just another jerk who stares at her friends’ tits and—”
“You have a way with words.”
“You think smut is hard to come by?”
“I mean,” says Philip, in a calm, awful voice, “that you shouldn’t have trouble finding somewhere to go. Rosemary told me the women at the group loved you.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Vee snaps. The women at the Jewish consciousness raising group—clearly Philip cannot say consciousness raising—loved Vee because Rosemary, without asking Vee’s permission, told them Vee’s story, the same story the two friends had still not discussed in any detail, and one of the women said, My goodness, you’re Vashti! and all the others oohed and aahed. Apparently Vee was living the story of some queen banished a million years ago in ancient Persia. But Vee did not know or care about any of this and was peeved that Rosemary had offered up her story. She did not love the women back, as Philip clearly hopes she did. She starts to explain this, how she is not going to live with one of the Jewish libbers, when suddenly Philip bolts upright on the couch, looks at her, and hollers: “We were fine before you came! Everything was fine!”
Vee takes in the hatred in Philip’s gaze. Something has slipped in him—he is nothing if not a contained man. “I don’t understand,” she says. “You’re fine now.”
Philip laughs, a whistling, scary laugh. Vee hears the children, somewhere outside. “Where is Rosemary?” she says, suddenly afraid, not for herself now but for her friend.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Philip covers his face with his hands. He stays like that as he takes a deep breath, then he rubs gruffly at himself and appears again, the skin under his eyes a startling, bruised blue. “You probably think she’ll tell you not to listen to me,” he says. “Tell you to stay. So stay right here. Wait. Hear it for yourself.” His voice has dropped to a monotone. “She’ll be home soon. She called a little while ago.”
“From where?”
“The hospital.”
“Why is she at the hospital?”
“She lost the baby.”
“No.” Vee drops to her knees.
“It started two nights ago.”
“My god.”
Silence. Then Philip says, “You’re so upset. Yet you haven’t even asked how she’s getting home.”
“I can go get her,” offers Vee.
“You’re too late. You weren’t here. A friend is driving her.”
“I could stay with the children, so you can go.”
“I’ll say it again. You weren’t here. You’re too late.”
Vee’s fingertips throb with returning heat. She lets out a wail. Then Philip is standing above her, snatching her up by the shoulders. “What gives you the right to cry,” he says, his face inches from hers, his eyes, on her chest, devastated and dry. “Who do you think you are?” Vee steps backward, out of his reach, but he’s on her again, his hands on her breasts this time, squeezing and pushing her away at once. “Get out,” he says. “Get the hell out.” She feels the shove coming. She understands that she will fly backward into the table behind her and that she and the weird sculpture will fall together into the wall. Then the door opens to Rosemary, and behind her the children, and behind them a white sky. The children have been running and are red-cheeked, gawking, the girl with a look in her eyes that sets Vee’s blood pounding. But it’s Rosemary whose face, pale as the sky, terrifies. “Lionel,” she says, addressing her oldest in a voice like an empty tunnel, “take your brother and sister upstairs. I’ll be right there.” She does not look at Vee as she tells her to pack. Vee does not look at Rosemary’s abdomen. Then Rosemary is walking up the stairs with excruciating care, matching her feet on each step, her hand white from its grip on the banister. And soon she’s gone.