“I understand completely. Do you want me to have an abortion?”
“There won’t be any need for that. The pills will work.”
“You’re sure they’ll work,” she said flatly. “You know for certain that they’ll work.”
“No, I don’t know for certain. But I—”
“Do you know anyone who would do an abortion?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Are you washing your hands of this, Bud?”
He seemed honestly surprised. “Of course not. I’m going to get the pills for you, Helen. Now don’t worry.”
“Yes, but what happens after that? Buddy, I’m scared. I’m scared stiff.”
He put his arm around her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Helen. Now don’t start getting rattled.”
“I can’t help it. I am rattled. I don’t want to be pregnant. Not if you don’t want it. Not if... Buddy, I’m scared.”
“Look, we’ve got time yet. I’ll try to get the pills. After that... well, we’ll see.”
“And you do love me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do love you.”
“Have you got a cigarette?”
He took a package from his pocket, lit one for her, and then put it to her lips. “You shouldn’t smoke in your condition,” he said, trying to make his voice light.
“Don’t joke about it, Bud. God, don’t joke about it.”
“I’m sorry.” He was quiet for several moments. “I can’t understand how it happened, can you?”
“No.”
“It it weren’t a fact, I’d swear—”
“It is your baby. You know that, don’t you?”
“I never once thought it wasn’t.”
“Well, if you did think so, it’s not so.”
“I never thought otherwise, Helen.”
“Well, in case you did, I want you to know. I don’t want you to have any doubt on that score.”
“It isn’t fair,” Bud said, shaking his head.
“No, it certainly isn’t fair.” She paused. “I wonder how many other people have said those same words about this very same thing. It isn’t fair. It shouldn’t happen to me.” She sucked in on the cigarette and released a long plume of smoke. “But it has happened, hasn’t it?”
“It would seem so,” Bud said.
“And first we’re going to try the pills, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And if they don’t work, we’ll... we’ll jump around and things.”
“Yes.”
“And then...?”
“Then we’ll see.”
“I’ll have to have an abortion,” Helen said. “I just know I will, and that’s what scares me. I was even scared when I had my tonsils taken out. Bud, an abortion is a major operation!”
“It’s not such a difficult thing.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I don’t know really, but I’ve heard stories. It’s like... like having a cyst removed. Something like that.”
“They’ll have to cut me, won’t they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Buddy, Buddy, I’m scared. Hold me. Please hold me.”
Miltie Abrahms had a mother who was a nurse. Miltie was a boy in Bud’s hat, a nice enough guy except that he was a Speech and Dramatics major, and sometimes he got a little too dramatic about things. He was a very thin boy who fancied himself to be another John Carradine, which he was not. He wore his hair long, combed into a high crown at the front of his head. He owned a widow’s peak of which he was uncommonly proud, and which Bud suspected he twee zed to keep from looking fuzzy. He also owned pale gray eyes, and those eyes stared across the cafeteria table at Bud now, cold and emotionless.
“Yes,” Miltie said, “my mother is a nurse. Why do you ask?”
“A friend of mine needs help,” Bud said, hoping Miltie would not see through the “friend” routine.
“Yeah? What kind of help?” The gray eyes did not leave Bud’s face. There was a flicker of interest behind them now.
“He’s... ah... he’s been going with a girl.”
“He knock her up?” Miltie asked.
“He... he thinks so. He asked me if I could help him, and so I thought of you. Because your mother is a nurse, you know.”
“What does your... friend... want? An abortionist?”
“Well, no, no. I don’t think he wants that. Do you know anyone? I mean, would your mother know anyone?”
“No,” Miltie said flatly.
Bud tried a smile. “My friend doesn’t want that, anyway. He... ah... he... just wants some pills.”
“What kind of pills?”
“Pills to... to... you know.”
“Who’s this ‘friend’ of yours?” Miltie asked.
“You don’t know him.”
Miltie smiled. “Lots of people have ‘friends’ who get caught. Thank God it’s not you, eh, Bud?”
Bud’s smile broadened falsely. “You can say that again, pal. So... can you get them for me? For my friend?”
“Sure,” Miltie said. “Anything for a friend. Or a friend’s friend, eh?”
“Thanks, Miltie,” Bud said. “I appreciate it.”
One pill every three horns, Miltie told him, until the bottle is finished. The bottle should be finished in two days. If anything was going to happen, it would happen by the end of that time. Miltie also added that these pills were no damn good if the girl was really and truly pregnant. They’d only help her if she were naturally late.
Bud didn’t tell this to Helen. He gave her the instructions, but in his heart — despite what the doctor had said — he still believed there might possibly have been some mistake. He offered the pills to her, and she seized them eagerly as a cure-all. He did not consider the hope Helen would put in them or the torment failure would bring to her.
Responsibility had suddenly reached down for him again and clenched him tight in a hairy, oil-smelling fist. He did not want responsibility, and his first urge was a panic-stricken need to run! He did not run. He recognized the responsibility, and though his feet urged him to get the hell away as soon as possible, his mind forced him to hold his ground. He loved Helen. His mind kept repeating it over and over again, he loved Helen, he loved Helen, he loved Helen. But this was not like love, this was not pleasant, this was not romantic, this was cold, bare facts, this was facing a pregnant woman and being expected to have all the answers, and having none of them, none of them at all. And when she looked at him and asked, “What do we do now?” with her heart in her eyes, what could he tell her? What could he say? Could he say, “Helen, we can’t get married because it’s no good”? Could he say that? He had already said that, and he had seen the pain in her eyes, but didn’t she know he was right, and didn’t she know it couldn’t be good that way? And didn’t she know he loved her?