going to ask me in?"

"Sure. Come in and dry off. I got soaked, too. Just got home." He led
her upstairs and into the apartment. "What's happening?"

"Oh, nothing," she said. "Rupert threw me out . . . I'm pregnant."

13.

"Gaaaagh . . . Jennifer, that's terrible! That's great. I
mean--here's a towel." Oliver whipped in and out of the bathroom and
handed her a maroon towel. "Do you want to take a shower? How about a
cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely. I _will_ take a shower." She closed the bathroom
door behind her, and Oliver rushed to fill the tea kettle. The shower
started. Milk? Sugar? Honey?

"Verdi," he called, "Jennifer is here for tea." The words echoed. Verdi
was nowhere to be seen; probably he had taken refuge upstairs. Oliver
paced back and forth from the stove to the fireplace. Why had she come
to him? He felt the future looming, threatening to sweep away the
controlled life that he complained about but that suddenly seemed more
attractive.

The shower stopped. Jennifer stepped out a few minutes later wearing
his Navy blue bathrobe. She was rosy cheeked and much recovered.

"Uh, how do you like your tea?"

"Do you have any chamomile?"

"Umm, no. I should get some herb tea. All I have is English Breakfast."

"Oh, that's fine. Just a little milk, thanks." She sat next to the
fireplace and looked around the apartment while Oliver fixed the tea.

"I don't know," he said, handing her a mug. "Whiskey might be a better
idea." Jennifer took a sip and sighed.

"That's so good. I forgot how nice your apartment is."

"It's large enough," Oliver said. "Walking distance from Deweys--I like
that. So, what happened? You look great."

"I feel great. I'm just starting to show a little--getting into the
fifth month." Oliver counted backwards. "What happened is that Rupert
freaked out when I told him I was pregnant. He became--I don't
know--_distant._ I thought he was just nervous and would get used to
it, but he got more and more uptight. I couldn't take it anymore." She
drank her tea and sighed again.

"So today, I . . . I said to him: 'Look, Rupert, _what_ is the
matter? We're going to have a baby. What is _wrong_ with you?' I guess
I should have been more diplomatic. You know--said something like:
'Rupert, I need your affection; I'm feeling all alone here.' But I
didn't _feel_ diplomatic. I was mad as hell, actually."

Owl's words echoed: "_Anger is the outer face of fear._"

"Scared,"