The Astronaut's Wife (15 page)

Jillian let herself into the silent apartment and went directly to the most private room in the house, a large walk-in closet that led directly off the bedroom. She sat on the floor of the closet and pressed the play button.

Spencer’s voice was clear. “Alex? Jesus.
Alex?
What the—” Jillian snapped off the tape reorder. Very methodically, she stood up and took a scarf from a drawer in the closet and wrapped the plastic tape recorder in the material. Then she went to the kitchen and found the hammer they kept in the utility drawer. Then she returned to the closet, sat down on the floor again, and placed the tape recorder in front of her.

The upsetting events had caused Jillian to lose track of time so when she answered the front door of her apartment and found her sister Nan standing on the threshold, all she could do was stare at her, her mouth open. The effect would have been almost comic were it not for the fact that Jillian looked terrible. Since her bizarre encounter with Sherman Reese she had lost that look of sunny good health; there were blue-gray rings under her eyes, her hair was lank, and her shoulders sloped as if weighted down by some unseen burden:

Nan stood there dressed in bright clothes, a big smile on her face. “I’m looking for the pregnant lady in 1 8G,” she almost shouted. Her smile vanished, though, the instant she got a good look at her sister’s gaunt face.

“Oh my God, Jillian. Jillian, what’s wrong?” She dropped her bags and the bouquet of flowers she had been carrying and threw her arms around her sister.
“I’m glad you’re here, Nan,” Jillian whispered.
“I am so very glad you’re here.

They made some coffee, then settled on the couch in the living room, Jillian filling her sister in on some of the stranger events of the past months. As she spoke, she kept on glancing at the radio on the coffee table, as if it was something like a third set of ears in the room, listening to what she was saying.

Nan nodded. She remembered Sherman Reese. She was incredulous, though, at what he had done. “Reese?” she said. “That suit from NASA, he followed you right into the baby store?”
“He wasn’t a suit anymore, Nan,” Jillian replied. “He was a mess. Dirty. Unshaven. He said he had been fired by NASA, though he called it something else, a sort of bureaucratic term for getting fired. ‘Separated my employment,’ or something like that.”
“What the hell did he want with you?” Nan asked indignantly. “NASA always figured it owned people I could always feel it when I was around those guys.”
“But he’s not NASA anymore,” said Jillian.
“They get them for life,” Nan replied. “What did he want with you anyway?”
Jillian took a deep breath. “He said... he said that Natalie Streck was pregnant when she died.”
Nan was unimpressed. “Now just how in the hell would he know something like that?”
“He said he had seen the autopsy. He said that she must have gotten pregnant right after Alex came back. You know, after he and Spencer had their... incident.”
“I know,” Nan said as she folded her arms across her chest. “What else did Reese have to tell you?”
Jillian shrugged and looked away, glancing at the radio as she did so. She could not bring herself to say any more. She could not tell her sister about the tape and Reese’s suspicions that Spencer was a changed man, possibly a completely
different
man.
Nan read the fear in her sister’s face. “Oh, Jilly,” she said, “a little freak like that is the last thing you need to worry about. If I were you I would just have Spencer call some of his—”
Jillian cut her off sharply. “No. No, don’t tell Spencer I saw this. I don’t want him to know.”
“But, Jillian,” Nan protested, “you yourself said he looked crazy. He might
try
something crazy.”
Jillian just shook her head. “You have to promise me, Nan. Promise you won’t tell Spencer.”
“You can’t keep these things bottled up inside you,” said Nan firmly. “Carrying a baby requires a completely stress-free existence. Even I know that.”
“And telling Spencer about Reese will up the stress levels around here into the danger zone,” Jillian countered. “Don’t you see? You’re right, that freak is the last thing I need. But if Spencer knows
about it it’ll become a whole big thing. You know how men are, they have to do the masculine thing and protect hearth and home
_{.. .“}
“What’s wrong with that?” Nan asked. “I think it’s nice and old-fashioned.”
“Well, it’s pretty stupid if there hasn’t been a threat to either hearth or home,” said Jillian. She smiled at Nan. “Look, if Reese bothers me again, then I’ll tell Spencer about it. Okay? Deal?”
Nan relented and threw her arms around her sister's neck and hugged her. “Sure, July, whatever you want. I have missed you so much, Jillian. Too much.”
“And I’ve missed you, Nan.” A sad look came across her face like a light squall. “I wish Mom and Dad were still here. There are so many things I want to ask Mom.”
Nan forced herself to sound cheerful. “Well, I’m here. Anything you want, just ask. You want me to go and get you a big dish of pickles and ice cream, Jilly, just say the word.”
Jillian smiled softly. She glanced at the radio. “I’m okay, right now, Nan.”
“You want anything?” Nan persisted. “Some music,” said Jillian. “Just, um, turn on the radio, okay, Nan? I wouldn’t mind hearing some music.”
“Music?” said Nan. “That’s great. You want me to put in a CD. I got a bunch in my pack. Heavy metal German music? It’s really cool. I think it’s going to be the next big thing.”
Jillian shook her head. “No, please, Nan. Just the radio—that will be fine.”
Nan shrugged and turned on the radio, soft music of the easy-listening variety came out of the speaker.
“Is this okay?” Nan asked. It certainly wasn’t music suited to her tastes.
Jillian nodded yes and closed her eyes...

That night Spencer insisted on taking Jillian and Nan out to dinner at one of the more chic downtown restaurants, a place at which Spencer knew he could get a table merely by having his secretary call up the maitre d’ and mentioning Jackson McLaren’s name. That got them on the list and assured them a table—but it was almost impossible to get a table
at
one of these places
on time.
The maitre d’ invited them to have a drink and said that they would have their table shortly.

There was quite a press of people at the bar, but Spencer managed to elbow his way through the throng and score a drink order without too much trouble.
He passed out the drinks. “Champagne for you, Nan,” he said, passing her a flute of golden liquid. “And apple juice for you, Jillian.” He handed over a tall glass with ice.
“Thank you,” said Jillian taking her drink from Spencer.
“Apple juice?” said Nan. “That looks suspiciously like a bourbon and water to me.”
“It might look like bourbon but it is one hundred
percent natural apple juice,” said Spencer. “Well, for your information we are having a uncontaminated pregnancy.”
“So what’s that in your glass, Spaceman.”
Spencer smiled. “It’s a glass of very pure champagne,” he said. He raised his glass. “Welcome to New York City, Nan.”
“Thank you, Spaceman,” said Nan.
Jillian said nothing. They all sipped, Spencer watched as Jillian drank her juice.
The head waiter approached diffidently. “Mr. Armacost, your table is ready,” he said.

It was a good table, a circular booth in the front of the room, a good place to watch the crowd. It was
plain that Nan was thrilled to be in a chic New York restaurant and that Spencer was having a good time, too. Jillian was silent, wrapped up in her own thoughts and worries. She let Spencer and Nan spar and flirt and make fun of the other tragically hip patrons in the restaurant.

“So there’s no one here that catches your fancy,” said Spencer after they had surveyed the men standing at the bar.
“Nope,” said Nan.
“Well, I guess that’s okay,” Spencer replied. “You have your man down in Florida. What’s his name? Steve? Sean? Wasn’t it something like that?”
Nan guffawed. “Oh. Stan. You mean Stan. Or, better known as the Grand Marshall of this year’s parade of losers. Stan’s gone: Long gone.” She
glanced at her sister. “We can’t all be as lucky as Jill here, you know. Lightning doesn’t strike twice in one family like that.”
“I’m the lucky one,” said Spencer, reaching for his wife’s hand. As he did so a bead of sweat rolled down her temple. Then he moved his hand to her belly. She glared down at his hand, willing it off her.
“Jillian,” Spencer asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just hot.”
Spencer picked up her glass of apple juice. “Here, drink some of your juice.”
_-
Jillian pushed it away. “I think I want to go home...

She hardly remembered the cab ride back to the East Side, she vaguely remembered undressing and getting into bed. She slept soundly for a while then. something pulled her to wakefulness. It was the sound of laughter—Spencer’s and Nan’s—coming from the living room. She peered at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock face. It was just after midnight,
12:15
A.M. She slept again for a while, but when she awoke the house was silent. Spencer was not in the bed with her, and there was a narrow line of faint light showing under the bedroom door. Jill got out of bed.

Spencer was sitting in the living room, and it was almost completely dark there, the only light coming from a single dim lamp. Spencer stood up as soon as Jillian walked into the room. She looked groggy and tousled by sleep.

“Feeling better?” he asked. She was wearing one of his old soft cotton shirts as pajamas and he reached out to her to do up the top two buttons.
“It’s your shirt... you don’t wear it anymore... not since Florida, anyway.”
“And why should I?” He place a dry little kiss on her cheek. “Why should I wear it when it looks so much better on you.”
Jillian didn’t answer but looked around the shadowy room. “Where’s Nan?” “She went out.”
“It’s after midnight,” said Jillian. “And she doesn’t know the first thing about this city.”
“She’s young, Jilly. She’s meeting some friends to go clubbing. That’s what you do in New York.”
“I didn’t know she had any friends in New York,” said Jillian. “She never mentioned them to me.”
Spencer shrugged. “Well, apparently she has. People younger than us. Remember when we were young?”
“Were we?” Jillian asked, a trifle archly.
“Oh yes,” said Spencer. “I remember. We used to be up all night dancing on tabletops... I remember everything...” He got a sly look on his face. “And if you aren’t nice to me I’ll be forced to tell the twins what a wild woman their mother used to be. You know, back in the Middle Ages..
_.“
Jillian did not laugh. Spencer looked into her eyes and found not a spark of amusement or pleasure or even affection there. He sighed heavily and shook his head.
“You were so close there for a while,” he said sadly. “But now you are so far away again.”
Jillian did not bend. “You ever think about what happened? About Alex? About what happened to Natalie? Does that ever cross your mind, Spencer?”
He shook his head slowly. “Jillian, please... Let’s not go through that again. I thought we had managed to put things behind us, as if it was all in the past now.”
“When you were out there, those two minutes, Spencer, when you almost died..
_.“
Spencer groaned, “Why do you want to go back there, Jillian? We’re happy here now. We have each other, we have the twins. Nan is here. Why do you want to back to that. I know it’s hard sometimes, but can’t you .try to be happy?”
He held her close. “Just stay here with me, okay, Jillian? Please stay here with me. That’s all I ask.”
Jillian’s voice was very, very soft. “It feels like a dream,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m not still asleep.”
“You’re awake,” said Spencer.
“Then I’ll try,” said Jillian.
“What?”
“I’ll try to be happy,” said Jillian.
Spencer nodded and smiled. “Good,” he said. “Now let’s go to bed, Jillian.”

Spencer was gone by the time she woke the next morning. She showered and dressed and prepared to go out when she discovered her sister Nan passed out on the living room couch. She was wrapped in
a blanket. She wondered if Spencer had given it to her or if she had wandered drunkenly around the apartment during the night looking for and finally finding a linen closet.

The phone was answered on the second ring. “Nesbit Arms... What?” “Room 323, please,” said Jillian.
“Wait a minute.”
There was a moment of silence, then the sound of the extension ringing.
“Yes?” She recognized Sherman Reese’s voice instantly.
“Mr. Reese, this is Jillian Armacost..
_.“
She paused a moment to gather her thoughts and her courage. “The autopsy on Natalie Streck, what did it say about the baby?”
Reese did not answer.
“Mr. Reese?” said Jillian. “Are you there? Mr. Reese? Please speak to me.”
Reese’s voice slightly louder than a whisper and he seemed to speak through clenched teeth. “Not on the phone, please, Mrs. Armacost.
Not on the phone..
_.“
But Jillian was insistent. “Please, you have to
tell me. What did the autopsy report say about the baby.”
“Mrs. Armacost..
_.
It is not safe to—”
Jillian’s voice rose and she shouted at him as she interrupted. “Mr. Reese! What did the report say about the baby.”
Reese’s voice was very soft and quiet. “Babies, Mrs. Armacost. It was babies.” “What?”
“Natalie Streck was pregnant with twins, Mrs. Armacost,” he said. “She was carrying twins.” Jillian felt as if she had been hit in the stomach and it took her a couple of moments for her to digest what she had just heard. “What’s happening
_.
to me, Mr. Reese?”
“You are, too, aren’t you, Mrs. Armacost? You are pregnant with twins, too, aren’t you?” Instinctively she touched her belly and swallowed hard. “Natalie’s babies, Mr. Reese, please
_{. . .}
what did the autopsy say about them? You have to tell me.”
Reese spoke quickly. “There’s something I have to show you, Mrs. Armacost. Something you need to see. Do you understand me, Mrs. Armacost?”
Jillian paused a long time. And when she started talking again she sounded like a second grade teacher, light and airy and full of roses and perfume. But she told a story that was hardly fit for the innocent ears of a class of second graders.
“Do you know the story of the princess whose beloved prince dies in battle?” she asked. “Mrs. Armacost, I have something you need to see. Do you understand me?”
Jillian ignored him. “The enemy prince, after overrunning the castle, finds the princess and forces himself upon her. Months later the princess is with child. But whose? It’s either the child of her enemy, the man who killed her husband, the man who raped her. In which case, she will kill herself and the child. Or is it the child of her prince, the only thing she has left of her beloved, a part of him still alive in her, kept safe in side her. In which case
_{. . .}
But how will she know until it is too late? How will she know until the child is born and she can see its eyes?” The enigmatic message got through to Reese loud and clear. “Meet me right now,” he said urgently. “Somewhere public. Leave your apartment. Meet me now.”
“Where?”