Thirty Girls. Susan Minot
She went to the window and opened the shutter to see a small plane in the blue and brown light rolling forward in the field. It came to a stop past where the cars were parked, just another vehicle of transport. The door opened, and a thin metal stair folded down. Two men ducked out and descended. One was pale and fair, the other dark. The pale man went to the rear and opened a door and pulled out some backpacks and a few boxes. The other in rolled-up pants was setting wood blocks under the airplane wheels. An askari with bare black arms and draped in a blanket stood by holding a spear. They exchanged words, and the two men left the plane under his watch. Striding toward the house, they were laughing. Jane wondered which one was for Beryl.
Who was that? came Harry’s voice from the bathroom, echoing in the high ceiling.
Two men in a plane, she said. She wrapped herself in a kikoi and went into the bathroom. A lightbulb clustered by glass grapes hung from the ceiling. The sink mirror was stuck with eagle feathers in a fan shape. Harry was sitting in water smoking a cigar. The tub was cast iron with feet, claws clutching balls.
You look happy, she said.
Come in.
She slipped into the water facing him. It was a long bathtub. A part of her checked to see if she felt shy with him. Only a small part did. Then that part was gone. Jane picked up a blue bar of soap and lathered her hands. She was glad to be there with him, but didn’t say it. Instead she said, Good cigar?
He blew smoke, nodding.
They heard commotion in the hallway, the two men arriving and being greeted.
On the wall was a framed ink drawing of a naked woman, pregnant, lying on her side. Is that Beryl? she said. They both gazed at the frenzy of curving lines.
Yes, it looks like a Leonard.
She doesn’t sound particularly pleased with Leonard, Jane said.
Beryl has a lot of putting up to do.
And four kids on top of it, Jane said.
There was a silence in the tall room. Harry’s face was relaxed. Jane felt silence was something which must be filled.
I can barely imagine having one child, she said.
Which was not exactly true. Silence often got filled with things not exactly true. Jane did in fact imagine having a child somewhat often, and rather more often lately. Images of it appeared in various mirages. She was holding a baby in bed just after birth; a child was walking unsteadily across a lawn, arriving to her outstretched arms. Though in the vision Jane somehow looked more like her older sister, Marian, a real mother, and the child was teetering on familiar grass in front of Marian’s house in New Jersey.
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