Man, Woman and Child by Erich Segal Read Free Book Online Page A

paying Bob's tuition and the U.S. Army paid him every summer just for the fun of solving statistical puzzles. And with what Sheila earned they could even afford such luxuries as season tickets to the Symphony. They could have traveled, for all Bob had to take along was his head, but Sheila wanted to spend the summers in Cambridge. Because she liked the place—and loved her job. She quickly rose from typing letters to proofreading galleys and then to editing actual books. On their fourth anniversary, she took Bob to dinner at Chez Dreyfus, insisting that it go on her newly acquired expense account.
    '*A11 you have to do is promise us your next book,'' she said, radiating professional satisfaction.
    Next book? He hadn't written any yet. In fact, he hadn't even completed his thesis. But he felt so indebted to the Press for that $27.50 banquet that he flogged himself to finish it that summer. He made a book of it while teaching in the fall and had it accepted by H.U.P. before Sheila had to worry about their next anniversary dinner.
    Not to be outdone, Margo made the (self-styled) marriage of the year to Robbie Andrews of the Ridgefield Andrewses. The lavishness of the wedding and the honeymoon was exceeded only by the lavishness of the divorce, sixteen months later. En v route from the trauma to the Continent, she stopped off to see the Beckwiths at their ''tres mi-gnon* Ellery Street apartment.
    ''My God/' she whispered when Bob left the room with all the coffee cups. ''He's got so—I don't know—mature. Is he lifting weights?"
    "No."
    "He must be doing something, Sheila."

    Sheila gave a little smile and shrugged. But Margo caught the scent.
    "Sheil, you're blushing.*'
    "Am I?"
    "Come on. Sheila, this is good old Margo. You can tell me. Is he an animal? Is he absolutely insatiable?"
    "Let's change the subject, huh?"
    "Oh, for God's sake, Sheila. Tell me or I'll die right on your brand-new rug I"
    "Well... I guess we sort of both are."
    And Margo blushed.
    ^To respond to another person when you are in pain, there must be a lot of trust between you."
    Bob scribbled furiously.
    "You don't have to write it all down," Sheila whispered.
    "Shh—listen," Bob replied, and kept on scribbling.
    TTie instructor, a slender athletic woman with a Dutch accent, had now completed her introductory remarks.
    "Now, ladies, take your pillows and get on the floor. Gentlemen, you sit above them."
    A dozen pregnant women dutifully sat in a circle on the floor of the Cambridge Adult Education Center as Ritje Hermans told them how to breathe their way through childbirth.
    Bob was already feeling uneasy about this avant-garde approach to parenthood. What if I faint, he thought. He gazed at his lovely wife now rhythmically expanding and contracting at his feet and heard the subsequent instruction with intensifying anxiety.
    "And don't forget your husband is the coach. He regulates and controls your breathing."

    "Did you write that down. Bob?*' Sheila smiled from the floor.
    "Yes, honey."
    "Don't forget, because I won't do anything unless you tell me to,'' she teased.
    Great, he thought. Now I'm really gonna pass out.
    As he was practicing the sacrolumbar massage on Sheila's back, Bob glanced around the room. Only in Cambridge could there be such an odd assemblage: a cabby, several students, a nervous neurosurgeon and an East African prince. Even an old geezer (must be over forty) with a youngish wife. The women shared a pride in their impending motherhood and the feeling that they looked like dancers in an elephants' ballet. The men shared the brotherhood of fear.
    Except for the old guy. He was so involved. He even got down on the floor and did every exercise with his wife. Bob was almost jealous at his lack of ''nhibition. There was no way he'd let his wife down.
    "Come on. Bob, you should have seen things from my angle."
    This was after that first session. They were grabbing a quick burger at Mr. Bartley's.
    "Well, what was the view from the