She rose from her chair. “Thank you, Dr. Winslow. You’ve been so helpful. I will of course let you know my decision.”
The taxi was waiting for her outside, as Walter had promised, but she paid it off with her own money and walked instead. She returned not to Walter’s house but to her own rooms, which gave off a dusty air of disuse as she let herself in with her key. She looked about the tiny sitting room with its two threadbare chairs, its round rocking-legged table, its gas ring topped by a battered teapot. Her own rooms, paid for with her own stipend from the institute, which of course was only a gift in Walter’s keeping.
Walter arrived at half past six, shown up by the landlady, who left them alone with a discreet click of the door. “What the devil are you doing?” he asked, in a blaze.
“I’ve decided not to get rid of the baby. Would you like some tea?”
The argument had lasted half an hour, but Violet had not budged. She would have the baby, she would make a living somehow, she could sell her watch if she had to. She had a brain and she would use it, she would find a way, even if it meant leaving the institute. Walter told her she was a fool, he would have nothing to do with it, she was ruining herself and him, she was bringing another unneeded child into an overpopulated world, she had no sense of responsibility to her fellow man.
“What are you thinking, Violet? Becoming a mother? You, of all women.” His scorn was so huge, Violet could have reached out and grabbed a fistful of it.
“I’ll find a way. I’ve always found a way,” she said. “I am, after all, a woman of considerable strength and intellect.”
“You’re a fool.”
He left in an arctic rage at eight o’clock, and Violet ate a supper of canned soup and went to bed. Only then did she begin to shake, in little tremors at first, and then violently, as if her whole body were overtaken by terror. She crawled to her trunk and put on her warmest woolen cardigan and climbed back into bed, and still she could not get warm, she could not banish the cold.
Vivian
When I arrived back at 52 Christopher Street at seven o’clock that evening, delicatessen pastrami in hand, a man was sitting on the stoop by the door. He was still wearing his gray courting suit, his blue-sky necktie that matched his eyes. The cool October evening ruffled his hair affectionately.
He rose at the sight of me. “You’re late.”
“I can explain.” I walked past him and fit my key into the lock.
“Wait, Vivian. You have to listen to me.”
“I don’t have to do anything, Dr. Salisbury. I’m busy.”
His hand appeared out of nowhere to rest atop mine on the knob. “Please, Vivian. Let me explain. Let me in, just for a moment.”
It crushed me, the sight of that hand. And I had planned to be so strong.
“I won’t change my mind.”
“I know. I just need you to hear me out.”
How was it possible I could be in love with a man’s knuckles?
“All right,” I said. “For a moment.”
The stairwell was cold and smelled like vomit. I kept my breath shallow as I climbed upward, listening for the guilty beat of Doctor Paul’s footsteps behind me. He didn’t say a word, and neither did I.
I opened the door to the wholesome sight of Sally lounging at the table, smoke floating from her fingers, wearing a short red kimono and conspicuously nothing else. “What’s with the suitcase?” she asked, not looking up.
I set down the pastrami sandwich and snatched the suitcase away. “None of your business.”
“You cranky thing. Cigarette?” She looked up and saw Doctor Paul. Her hands went frantically to the ends of the kimono, seeking additional silk that wasn’t there. “Jiminy Cricket. Who’s the blonde?”
“This is Dr. David Salisbury. Dr. Salisbury, this is my esteemed roommate, Sally Finch. She’s from Arizona.”
“Utah.”
“One of those places.”
Sally stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. David Salisbury.”
“Likewise. It’s Paul, actually. Only my pops calls me David.”
“Paul.” She gave up on the kimono and reached for the Lucky Strikes. “I’m Sally. Smoke?”
He patted his jacket pocket and kept his eyes faithfully on her face. “I’ve got my own, thanks. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”
“Not a lick.” She looked at me. “Would you two like a little privacy? I can skip out.”
“No, thanks, Sally. We’ll just be a few minutes.” I picked up the suitcase, crossed to my bedroom, and heaved the old leather on the bed. “Come along, Doctor, dear.”
I’d been counting on Sally being out this evening—what were the odds, really?—but this would do nicely. My bedroom contained no other human perch except the bed, and that was already occupied by Aunt Violet’s suitcase. Doctor Paul stood uncomfortably next to the opposite wall, arms crossed, face flushed pink. As well it should.
I crossed my own arms. “Proceed.”
“You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”