Wonder Boys - Michael Chabon [33]
“No, you don’t,” I said. Just before she lit her cigarette I thought I caught a faint whiff of burning bud in the air. Those kids standing out in the lobby, I thought. It smelled awfully good. “Sara—”
“You love Emily,” she said, looking down at the steady flame of the match. “I know that. You need to stay with her.”
“I don’t think I really have any choice there,” I said. “Emily left me.”
“She’ll come back.” She allowed the flame to burn all the way down to the skin of her fingers. “Ow. That’s why I’m going to—not have this baby.”
“Not have it,” I said, watching her maintain her cool administrator’s gaze, waiting to feel the sense of relief I knew I ought to be feeling.
“I can’t. There’s no way.” She passed her fingers through her hair and there was the momentary flash of her ring, as if her russet hair itself were flashing. “Don’t you think there’s just no way?”
“I don’t see any way,” I said. I reached out to give her hand a squeeze. “I know how hard it is—for you to—lose this chance.”
“No, you don’t.” She jerked her hand away. “And fuck you for saying you do. And fuck you, too, for saying …”
“What, my girl?” I said, when she did not continue. “Fuck me too for saying what?”
“For saying that there’s just no way I could have this baby.” She glanced away from me, then back. “Because there is, Grady. Or there could be.” From out in the lobby came a loud squeal of hinges and a burst of human murmuring. “He must be finished,” she said, looking at her watch. She blew a cloud of smoke to hide her face, and reached up to brush away the tear that hung from an eyelash of her left eye. “We should go.” She sniffled, once. “Don’t forget your jacket.”
Sara knelt down to retrieve my old corduroy blazer, which she had stripped from my body and folded into a pillow for my head. As she peeled it away from the carpet, something tumbled out of one of the pockets and clattered to the floor, where it lay shining like the hood ornament of a madman’s Rambler.
“Whose gun is that?” said Sara.
“It isn’t real,” I said, stooping to get to it before she did. I was tempted to stuff it into my pocket, but I didn’t want her to think that it was anything important enough to hide. I held it in the palm of my hand for a moment, giving her a good look at it. “It’s a souvenir of Baltimore.”
She reached for it, and I tried to close my hand around it, but I was too slow.
“Pretty.” She ran the tip of her index finger across the mother-of-pearl handle. She palmed the little pistol and slipped her finger through the trigger guard. She lifted the muzzle up to her nose. “Hmm,” she said, sniffing. “It really smells like gunpowder.”
“Caps,” I said, reaching to take it away from her.
Then she pointed it at my chest. I didn’t know how many bullets it held, but there was no reason to think there might not be one more.
“Pow,” said Sara.
“You got me,” I said, and then I fell on her and caught her up in a bouncer’s embrace.
“I love you, Grady,” she said, after a moment.
“I love you, too, my monkey,” I said, as with a twist of her thin wrist I disarmed her.
“Oh!” said a voice behind us. “I’m sorry. I was just—”
It was Miss Sloviak, standing at the head of the corridor, balanced atop her heels, hand on her hip. Her face was red, but her cheeks were streaked with mascara, and I could see that it was not the flush of embarrassment.
“It’s all right,” said