I’m pregnant,” Maggie repeats. “You’re not serious,” says Ian. “Yes.” “You’ve got to be joking.” “No.” “You’re sure?” “Not absolutely. But it’s a very good guess,” she says. His horse drops its head, sidestepping. “Might I ask . . .” Here Ian too drops his head. He raises it again, with a queer half-grin, and stares at her, assessing. “Go right ahead . . .” “Who’s the father?” “You might ask that.” “Well?” Her horse shifts for forage, stamping. Maggie releases the reins; Maybe turns three-quarters around. “Anyone I know?” says Ian. “The odds are for miscarriage. You ought to know that. And I’m not certain I’ll carry the thing—be able to. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been pregnant, you see.” A rabbit bolts past them; she lets her horse walk. There are felled trees by the trailside—cut up into log lengths, but left there to dry. After some time, Maggie says, “I’m glad you find it funny.”
What do You think about Sherbrookes: Possession / Sherbrookes / Stillness (American Literature Series)?
