“Really? What?” But she knew exactly what he meant. They had nothing at stake anymore though. After tonight the baby was hers. Not theirs. Hers.

“You know exactly what. Our child.” He tried to look tender but he only glared. “That means everything to me. To us.”

“Us? You know what, Marc, I don’t even believe there is an ‘us.’ There is a you and a me, but there is no ‘us.’ Your only ‘us’ is with that girl. I could see that in your face tonight.”

“I was drunk.” For a moment desperation crept into his eyes. Deanna saw it, but she no longer cared.

“You were happy. You and I haven’t been happy with each other in years. We cling to each other out of habit, out of fear, out of duty, out of pain. I was going to leave you the weekend after Pilar died. If I hadn’t found out I was pregnant, I would have. And now that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“I won’t let you. You’ll starve!” He was angry now, and there was a vicious light suddenly in his eyes. She wasn’t going to take away the one thing he cared about now-the child.

“I don’t need you to survive.” They were words of bravado, and they both knew it.

“What will you do to eat, my darling? Paint? Sell your little sketches to people on the street? Or go back to your own lover?”

“What lover?” Deanna felt as though she had been slapped.

“You think I don’t know, you self-righteous, cheating bitch. You make me speeches about my… activities…” He swayed slightly as he hurled the words at her head. “But you are hardly lily-white yourself.”

She was suddenly pale. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you think I mean. I left for Athens and you obviously had a little fling. I don’t know with whom and I don’t care, because you’re my wife and that’s my child. I own you, both of you, do you understand?”

Everything inside her raged. “How dare you say that to me! How dare you! You may have owned me before, but you don’t own me now and you never will, and you’ll never own this child. I won’t let you do what you did with Pilar.”

He grinned at her evilly from the stairs. “You have no choice, my dear, the child is mine… Mine, because I chose to accept it, to be its father, to keep you in spite of what you did. But don’t you ever forget that I know. You’re no better than I am, in spite of all your saintly airs. But remember,” his eyes narrowed and he swayed again, “it is I who will keep your child from being a bastard. I’m giving him my name. Because I want him, and not because he’s mine.”

Deanna’s voice was like measured ice. She stood immobile, watching Marc. “The baby isn’t yours then, Marc?”

He bowed awkwardly at her and inclined his head. “Correct.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the woman you resent so greatly is a diabetic, and if I’d gotten her pregnant it could have killed her. I had a vasectomy several years ago.” He stared back at Deanna, satisfied with the disclosure, as Deanna steadied herself unthinkingly on the back of a chair.

“I see.” There was a long silence between them. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I’m tired of lies, and your miserable pathetic face, and your feeling put upon and used and abused by me. I have not abused you, madam. I have done you a favor. I have kept you, and your child, in spite of your appalling behavior. In spite of the fact that you’re an adulteress. And now he’s gone, and you have no one to turn to but me. You are mine.”

“To do with as you choose, is that it, Marc?” Her eyes raged at him, but he was too drunk to see it.

“Precisely. And now I suggest that you take yourself and my son to bed, and I will take myself to bed. I will see you in the morning.” He marched solemnly upstairs, totally unaware of the effect of his admission. Deanna had been freed.

32

The door to the back of the house, behind the kitchen, had been locked, and she had the key. She had called Kim and asked her to rent a car-a station wagon. She would explain later. She had had the grocery store deliver a dozen boxes. The equipment in her studio went easily into three. Her photographs and albums fit in five. The paintings were all neatly stacked next to the back stairs. Six suitcases waited to be packed. She picked up the phone and asked Margaret for her help. She would not do this alone. She had been working in her studio since six, and it was almost nine. She knew that Marc had probably already left the house. He didn’t follow her to her studio after she left their room, and the silence in the house had been deafening. The end had come quietly, in silence. Now she could put away the past. In a dozen boxes and a few valises. She was leaving him everything else. It was all his. The furniture from France; the paintings; the rugs; and the silver, which had been his mother’s, almost all of it sent from France. All that she had collected over the years was in her studio-art books, brushes, paints, a few trinkets, some bits and pieces that she liked but were worth nothing. She had her clothes. And the jewelry she would take too. She would sell it to eat, until she found a job. She was taking all her paintings, they meant nothing to him, and she could sell those too. All except the one of herself and Pilar. That was not a painting to sell, it was a treasure of a lifetime. The rest he could have. He could have it all.

She unlocked the door at the foot of the studio stairs and hesitantly made her way through the house. What if he was still there? If he was waiting? If he knew what she was going to do and how soon? But it didn’t matter now. He couldn’t stop her. He had told her what she needed to know last night. The baby wasn’t his, it was Ben’s. And he had known all along. But it didn’t matter anymore. None of it did.

“Margaret, is…?” She wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“He left for the office at half past eight.” Margaret’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Mrs. Duras, you’re not… Oh, don’t leave us, don’t go…”

It was the speech that should have been made by Marc, except that he already knew he had lost and he was too drunk the night before to follow through on his fears. He must have figured that if he slept it off and let her hide in her studio, he could come home with a handsome piece of jewelry, an apology, and a lie, and all would be well again. Not this time. Deanna put an arm around Margaret.

“I have to. But you’ll come and see me.”

“I will?” The old woman looked crushed; Deanna smiled at her through her own tears. She was crying for herself now, not for him.

The doorbell rang as they finished the second suitcase. Deanna jumped, startled, and for a moment Margaret looked like she might panic, but Deanna sped down the stairs and discovered that it was Kim.

“I got the biggest station wagon they had. It looks like a boat.” She tried to smile but saw that Deanna was not in the mood. There were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was disheveled, and her eyes were rimmed with red. “Looks like it must have been a great night.”

“The baby’s not his.” It was the first thing she could think of to say, and then suddenly she was smiling at Kim. “It’s Ben’s, and I’m so glad.”

“Jesus H. Christ.” For a moment, Kim didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but somehow she felt immensely relieved. Deanna was free. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’re leaving?”

“Yes. Now.”

“I had a suspicion it was something like that. Because of the baby?” They were still standing at the door. Deanna started slowly toward the stairs.

“That and everything else. The other girl, the baby. It’s not a marriage. Kim. And whatever it is or it isn’t, it’s over. I knew that for certain last night.”

“Will you tell Ben?” But it was a dumb question. She knew that Deanna would. She knew it, until Deanna shook her head. “Are you kidding? Why not?”

“Why? So I can run from Marc’s house to his? So he can take care of me too? I left him, Kim. I walked out. I went back to Marc and never told him I was having a child. What right do I have to call him now?” Her eyes looked too big in her face. Kim stared at her, trying to make sense of what was being said.

“But you’re having his baby. What more right do you need?”

“I don’t know. I just know I won’t call.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?” Kim grabbed her arm as she started up the stairs.

“Leaving here. I’ll find an apartment and take care of myself.”

“Oh, for chrissake, will you stop being so noble? How the hell will you eat?”

“Paint, work, sell my jewelry… You’ll see. Come on, I have to finish upstairs.” Kim looked sober as she followed her up the stairs. She thought leaving Marc was the best idea Deanna had had yet but not calling Ben was insane.

Margaret had just finished packing the last bag. There was nothing left in the room except the things that belonged to Marc. The little trinkets and photographs, the tiny mementos, the jewel box, and the books… all were packed and gone. She stopped for only a moment on the threshold, then hurried down the stairs.

It took them twenty-five minutes to pack the car, with Margaret crying ceaselessly and Kim carrying all the heavy bags. Deanna carried only her paintings, which were light.

“Don’t touch that!” Kim shouted at Deanna once, when she had been about to pick up a valise. “You’re five months pregnant, you jackass.” Deanna smiled.

“No, I’m not. Probably a lot more like four.” Then they both grinned. Deanna had figured that out in the early morning as she cleaned all her paintbrushes, wrapped them in newspaper, and put them away. He had told her that she had conceived at the end of June, which was when he’d left. But it was probably more like late July, when she was with Ben. That explained too why Dr. Jones hadn’t heard the heartbeat until a month after he thought he should have and why she was so small. Also, why she was still so tired. She was probably almost exactly four months pregnant. “Oh, my God.” She suddenly looked up at Kim. “Is today Thanksgiving?”