In the back seat Paul was leaning forward.
“I think it’ll be best,” Sid was saying, “if you two wait here. It shouldn’t take us too long — okay?”
“We just wait here?” Paul asked.
“That’s right. And we’ll bring the baby to the car, and”—he smiled—“that’ll be that.”
“And the girl?” Paul asked; it seemed suddenly very important to him to hear all the details.
“She’s fine,” Jaffe said. “She’ll just go home.”
But Paul was still listening, apparently to hear what he had to do; it did not quite satisfy him, it seemed, that he had to do nothing.
Jaffe said again, almost helplessly, “And that’ll be that.”
A silence began to develop once more, and I rushed to fill it. “I’ll take care of her, Paul. Everything will be all right.”
“Oh,” he said, looking up at me. He slid his hand down into his trouser pocket, in a gesture almost of panic, and withdrew his wallet. He removed a check from the billfold section, examined it, and then handed it to me. I did not look at the figures as I put it in my pocket.
“Don’t lose it,” Libby said, pointing at my pocket.
I shook my head. “I won’t.”
Jaffe tried to laugh. “I guess we’ve all got Libby’s shakes.”
“I guess so,” Paul said. “Libby included.” He took one of his wife’s hands, and he too worked up a smile.
“Oh, my hands are just freezing though,” she said.
“Baloney,” Sid said.
Libby extended one hand over the seat. “Feel.”
Sid took it. “What are you talking about? They’re warm as toast. Here,” and he put Libby’s hand in mine.
“As cold toast,” I said, and everyone volunteered a little laugh, while Libby’s hands were held, one by her husband, one by me. Until I let the hand go, she was not very relaxed, but sat stiffly as though a Current were being conducted through her.
“Let’s go,” Sid said, and though his words were those of the gallant soldier leading his men over the top, he seemed, like the rest of us, to have been overcome by this last strong wave of confusion.
In front of the hospital was a row of yellow and black taxis in which drivers sat, reading newspapers. Sid said, “I’ll meet you right down here,” and went off to get a cab.
At the reception desk inside the lobby I asked for a pass to go up to the maternity ward. Then I went to the cashier’s counter and paid Theresa’s bill with the check that Paul had given to me.
The sister behind the desk asked, “Is this you, sir?”
“No.”
“Who is Mr. Paul Herz?”
“He’s a friend of the patient’s.” I did not know whether to refer to her as Miss Haug or Mrs. Haug. I could have simply said Theresa Haug, but that did not occur to me.
“And you are?” she asked.
Had Jaffe told me how to identify myself? Had I not been listening, or hadn’t we really talked everything over — or didn’t it matter, one way or the other? He had probably imagined that I could figure some things out for myself. What I did remember, of course, was Sid telling all of us that it was best for the hospital to know nothing of the adoption; should they find out the exact circumstances, they would most certainly bring pressure upon Theresa to give up the child to a Catholic family, or even to an orphanage. Jaffe had instructed Theresa herself not to discuss the future of the child with anyone in the hospital. If asked, she was simply to say that the infant would be raised by her own mother and father in Kentucky.
For a moment I stood silently before the nun, knowing that if there was one thing I didn’t want to do, it was to go out to the car and bring in Paul to verify his check.
“You see,” I said to the sister, as graciously as I could, “it’s not my check.”
“I understand. I wanted to know your relationship to Miss Haug.”
“I’m her brother,” I said.
After a second she said, “Thank you, sir.” She handed me the receipt. Theresa’s stay at the hospital had cost Paul $327.60. That did not include the money he had already given her to cover the prenatal checkups and her expenses during the last two months when she had been unable to work; nor did it include the money she was to get for the next two weeks while she recuperated. As I left the cashier’s counter, the only person I could think to hate was John Spigliano, who, though he had finally agreed in the Executive Committee to hire Paul for another year, had vetoed a raise for him on the grounds that Paul still had not finished his Ph.D. Walking to the elevator, I felt a disgust for him such as one feels for a scapegoat, or surrogate. One knows better but keeps hating anyway.
I took the Up elevator in the company of two young priests and a doctor who was wearing a blue surgery uniform. In soft voices they exchanged some words about a patient who was either dying or dead. When I stepped off into the corridor that led to the maternity ward, one of the priests looked up at me and smiled.
The sister behind the desk at the entrance to the ward took my pass card and led me down the aisle, between rows of beds, all white and fresh-looking. We stopped a few beds short of a large window through which the sunlight flowed. Theresa was sitting on her bed, wearing a bright-colored print dress which was decorated with pictures of burros and musical instruments and palm trees and the maps of certain South American countries. A little brown suitcase with a circular sticker that said “Carlsbad Caverns” was on the floor. When she saw me, she opened her mouth very wide, and then jumped off the bed. There was a comb in her hand, and even as she threw her arms around me, I caught the glint of a curler in her orange hair.
“You’re early—” I felt Theresa’s palms against my back, not her fingers themselves; then I smelled her nail polish. I proceeded to place my arms around her, for I realized we were being watched — which was what Theresa realized too.
“Hi. Hello,” I said. In the bed just beyond Theresa’s, a little woman with a big jaw and heavy bags under her eyes was giving me a friendly grin. I smiled back.
“Well …” I said, and finally Theresa stepped away. Now I smiled at her too. “You look fine,” I said, and even while I spoke I felt the presence of the nun who had accompanied me down the corridor; Theresa’s glance kept darting over my shoulder, and finally I turned to the sister. Since I had gotten by with smiles so far, I smiled at her too. She did not take to it, however. She was a woman with striking blue eyes, who was made less than handsome by a skin eruption that ran around the edge of her cowl and fringed her face. It was clear that she disapproved, but it was not clear as yet of what. I could not tell how old or young she was.
“I’ll bring the baby,” the sister said to me. “I’ll wait by the elevator.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We’d appreciate it.”
“Thank you,” said Theresa, with both fear and devotion.
I picked up Theresa’s suitcase. The woman with the baggy eyes turned on her elbow and said to me, “How was your trip?”
“Oh,” I said, “fine.”
“I’ll bet you were surprised,” she said.
“This is Mrs. Butterworth,” Theresa said. “This is her seventh.”
“Eighth,” said Mrs. Butterworth.
“Imagine,” Theresa said.
I offered my congratulations.
“Oh I’m used to it,” Mrs. Butterworth told me. “It’s you two needs congratulating.”