The Book Club. Mary Monroe Alice

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СКАЧАТЬ forget it,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. She was half serious, half testing. “Just forget the whole damn thing.”

      There was a tense silence during which Annie sat seething, extremely aware, without seeing him, that John was still standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at her. She waited for what seemed an eternity, knowing that he was warring within himself whether or not Annie would really dump the baby project. She was taking a calculated risk: John excelled at long silences. If he went into one of his grand sulks, it could go on for days. But she didn’t have days. Her body—her egg—needed him and his sperm—today.

      “Annie,” he said at last, his voice conciliatory. “This has got to stop.”

      She knew instantly that he didn’t want to give up the effort to have a baby, no matter what he said, and felt a profound relief.

      “We’re fighting more than ever,” he continued, walking near. “And it’s because we’re getting all freaked out about this baby thing. I hate charting our lovemaking. It’s so clinical, so perfunctory, so routine. It’s everything I’m against.”

      “You think I like it?”

      “No, I don’t.” He put his hand on her shoulder—a first step. She leaned into his body. “I miss making love to you, Annie. The way we used to. Spontaneously.”

      “I do, too,” she said softly.

      “These matings…” He almost spat out the word. “I don’t like what they’re doing to us and I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s just not worth it.”

      She turned to face him, uneasy that he’d even consider stopping the effort, realizing the depth of his despair to even suggest it. She wanted a baby. Badly. More than anything else. She just had to have one.

      “Sure it is, John,” she replied persuasively. He needed encouragement now. Gentle cajoling. “I know you want a baby. I know I can give you one. Hey,” she said, venturing a smile. “You know my motto. Nothing worthwhile comes easily. I’d say a baby was worthwhile, wouldn’t you? So we just have to work a little harder for it. Right? And you know what?” she asked, her voice teasing, “I can’t think of a job I’d rather have than this one. Come on, John,” she said, tugging off his towel. With a half smile, she reached up to playfully wipe the remaining shaving cream off his face. Then, dropping the towel and her gaze, she leaned forward to kiss his body seductively.

      “Let’s try again,” she whispered, turned on by his erection.

      She opened her arms, and when he slipped into them, she smiled exultantly. The timing was ripe for this, she thought as she returned his kisses and maneuvered him into her body. “Oh yes, John, I love you,” she whispered by his ear. She did love him.

      And she was sure she would make him a wonderful baby this morning.

      The following week, Midge peered out her window and frowned at the thick layer of snow covering the streets. Her mother was due for a visit soon and even a Chicago native like Edith could have trouble after several years in balmy weather. Midge had not worried about her mother since she’d moved to Florida ten years earlier. Her brother in Atlanta visited Edith in Vero Beach frequently and often brought his wife and children with him. It was a happy arrangement, one that freed Midge from feeling any guilt over the few times she’d traveled south herself. Years of therapy had taught her to relish the breathing space.

      She stepped away from the window to finish the dread job of cleaning up her loft. Midge put cleaning house right up there with cooking and ironing on her hate-to-do list. Domestic chores bored her and what was the point? She lived alone and food didn’t particularly interest her. Most mornings she’d pour cereal into her empty coffee cup to avoid dirtying another dish, and dinner was a frozen low-fat entree cooked in the box. The scent of the turkey breast currently roasting in the oven beside two baked potatoes was foreign in this loft.

      Midge scooped up a pile of discarded towels from the bathroom floor, looked at them a minute, then threw them in the bathtub and drew the plastic shower curtain. Next she shot sprigs of Windex on the sink and mirror, then gave them a quick once-over. A little sparkle and shine worked wonders, she thought as she scanned her bathroom. It was a functional room with visible plumbing, a basket full of newspapers and magazines beside the toilet, and her toiletries scattered on a dusty wrought-iron table.

      Her mother would hate it. There were none of the feminine touches Edith deemed essential. No wide, well-lit mirrors, or matching towels, not even a scale—and God knew her mother never started a day without a pee and a weight check.

      Well, it suited her, she thought, feeling the familiar stirrings of resentment that nothing she did was ever good enough for her mother. Why did she care, she asked herself? It was just her mother.

      Midge paused and took a deep, relaxing breath, the kind that belled the belly and lowered the tense shoulders. “Mother…” she sighed aloud, gripping the edge of the sink for support. Edith Kirsch was the one woman on earth who could intimidate Midge. She’d spent a lifetime escaping the clutches of that woman’s expectations, and every time she thought she’d finally grown up and gone far enough away to form a separate identity, bam! One visit from her mother sent her reeling back into the nursery.

      Stop! she scolded herself, warding off the furies. She didn’t have time to deal with old issues now. She glanced up at the clock. Her mother was due in ten minutes, and Edith was never late. Besides, her therapist told her to take deep breaths and let go of all that old anger. In and out…Breathing deep and exhaling long, Midge told herself it would be a fine visit—just peachy—if she could stay out of her mother’s way for the few days she would be in town and steer clear of anything having to do with men, marriage or sex.

      Midge looked at the bottle of cleaner in her hand, her mind grinding away like a tire stuck in the snow, then pulled back the shower curtain with a jerk and tossed the bottle and the rag into the tub, too. She made a quick check in the mirror and smoothed back a few tendrils from the long braid that fell down her back. Perhaps it was the anticipation of her mother’s perusal, but she paused before the mirror to study the face that stared back at her.

      It sometimes stunned her that she barely recognized the face she’d lived with for fifty years. She’d never been one to gaze at her reflection, to try on different makeups or expressions, not even as a teenager. Tilting her head, she studied her bone structure as an artist would a sculpture. She had bold bones that produced good strong lines at the cheeks and jaw, and angled her prominent nose in a Picasso-like manner. An interesting face, from an artistic viewpoint—but not, by any viewpoint, a pretty one. If she were a man, she’d be considered ruggedly handsome. Being a woman, she was unattractive. Not at all the vision of femininity her mother was.

      The doorbell rang and Midge felt a surge of excitement flood her, despite her misgivings. She hadn’t seen her mother in over a year.

      Opening the door, it was as though she’d seen her mother just yesterday. Her smile widened as her gaze devoured the petite woman at the threshold. Edith never changed. She looked as radiant as ever. In contrast to herself, Edith was a tiny woman, just five foot two, with the bones of a sparrow. In fact, that’s how Midge always saw her mother, as a small, delicate songbird with brilliant plumage, bright, dark eyes and movements that were quick yet graceful. She always dressed to the nines, as she put it, coordinating her shoes and bag to her outfit.

      Edith’s bright eyes appraised every inch of her daughter with a mother’s clipped efficiency. Then stepping back, she tilted her head, pursed her lips, raised one perfectly plucked brow and gave Midge a sweeping perusal referred to as the СКАЧАТЬ