“Excuse it. With me nervousness is building a gasser calls for quick action. Can’t be helped.”
“How is he?” Mrs. Potter ignored his explanation and nodded toward her son.
“What with shooting a lead pellet into his noggin, you shouldn’t expect longevity.”
“Is he—-? Is he dead?”
Dr. Kilembrio stuck his hand under Pennington’s shirt and felt for a heartbeat. “Not yet,” he diagnosed. “But invitations to his next birthday party you shouldn’t be sending.”
The pudgy little doctor was stalling. His brain was going over the probabilities of what might happen next, and the prognosis spelled trouble for him. The victim should probably be gotten to a hospital, but that would mean calling an ambulance. Cops would follow automatically and there would be questions and flatfoots sniffing around all over the premises and a report to fill out and lots of unwanted attention drawn to himself, the kind of attention which might well uncover his little pregnancy erasing plant in the basement. The very thought of it started the pressure building again. Then Dr. Kilembrio heard the police sirens drawing closer. He broke wind again.
“If you don’t mind!” Mrs. Potter wrinkled her nose. The sound of the sirens grew louder. “Listen!” Dr. Kilembrio waved away her prissiness. “You hearing that? Is wailing of the fuzz! Tell me quick! You calling them before me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The bluecoats are coming! Did you blow the whistling?”
“If you mean did I call the police, the answer is no. I didn’t call them.”
Dr. Kilembrio held up his hand for her to be quiet. He cocked his head and listened intently for a long moment. The sound of the sirens grew louder and then fainter. Finally the noise faded away altogether. “Is somebody else getting fuzz in their hair,” he decided with relief.
“What about my son?’ Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?”
“Absolutely negative! That would be the worst thing for a man in his conditioning!”
“But if he’s dying . . .”
“So a bumping ambulance ride through dirty New York streets with the air polluting all around is going to save him? No!”
“But you can’t just let him die!” Mrs. Potter wailed.
“Better it would be. Believing me,” Dr. Kilembrio told her.
“What do you mean?”
“His brains he is blowing out, no? So even if we keep the heart ticky-tocking like is doing, what have you got? Heart and a body, yes. But no thinking, no coordination, no doing anything for himself. You got a living vegetable is what you got. Your son if I’m keeping alive is nothing but a blob completely dependent on you like a newborn infant baby.”
“Completely dependent on me?” Mrs. Potter mulled that over without noticeable displeasure. “So what is a mother for?” she wondered aloud.
“A brain he wouldn’t be having,” Dr. Kilembrio reminded her. “The gray matter you could see for yourself is splattering all over the decor.”
“It doesn’t matter. It will be my cross to bear. We must save his life.”
“It ain’t worth the troubling.”
“That’s not for you to say. I’m his mother. I’ll devote the rest of my days to caring for him, to seeing to his needs, to making his smallest decisions.” Mrs. Potter licked her lips. “Now hurry up and save him before it’s too late.”
“That’s motherhood,” Dr. Kilembrio decided philosophically. “So unselfish! Who could stand up against it?” He expressed his flatulence again. “A better case for abortion nobody’s making,” he added under his breath.
“Please hurry.”
Dr. Kilembrio knelt beside Pennington again and peered at the wound in his temple. “You got a hanky?” he asked Mrs. Potter.
“You don’t have to blow your nose,” she told him. “Let it run.”
“Not for nose-wiping. I’m needing it to plug up the hole in his kopf, his brains shouldn’t be leaking out any more than they are.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Potter handed him a dainty handkerchief. He tamped it into the wound and the bleeding stopped. He checked the heartbeat again. It was growing weaker. “I can’t doing anything here,” he told Mrs. Potter. “We’ll have to carrying him down to my operational room. You taking his feet.”
Mrs. Potter picked up the feet and Dr. Kilembrio got a grip under Pennington’s shoulders. Somewhat clumsily, they managed to carry him down the stairs. “Be careful!” Mrs. Potter exclaimed halfway do-wn. “You’re bumping his head!”
“Not making a difference. Nothing much left inside the noggin to joggle anyway.”
When they reached the entrance to the cellar, Dr. Kilembrio set down his end of the burden. He unlocked the door and called to Miss Carridge to come and help him.
“You don’t need her,” Mrs. Potter panted. “I can make it the rest of the way.”
“You’re not coming down in here. Is private.”
“But I’m his mother!”
“So if you’re seeing me thirty years ago, think of the troubling you haven’t got now. Simple like taking out a splinter.”
“Why can’t I come inside with my son?”
“Because I’m saying so!” Dr. Kilembrio told her firmly. “Is delicate operating I’m to perform. One thing I’m not needing is motherhood overlooking my shoulder.” He flatulated decisively. “All right, Miss Carridge,” he added to the nurse as she appeared at the top of the ramp, “you taking by the footsies and down we go.” He kicked the door shut behind him and the lock snapped automatically. Mrs. Potter was left milking sobs on the other side.
When they reached the bottom, Pennington was deposited on an operating table. Dr. Kilembrio stood huffing for a moment from the exertion. The oversized Miss Carridge looked at him with an impassivity that hid her contempt at his lack of muscle power.
“You should exercise more regularly,” she suggested mildly.
“Look who’s suddenly licensed she’s giving medical advice. So all right, my nurse the doctor, why should I be excecising?”
“To firm up some of that flab.”
“Let me telling you something, Miss A.M.A. You are echoing the all-American brainwash, everybody should beef up like the Royal Canadians, skirmy with muscles. From this kind of thinking comes heart attacks. Also, harmful to the psychology it is. All these people running around starving and exercising makes for frustration of the bulge and guilt feelings from the midnight snack and very complex inferiority from secretary spread and such-like. Who’s saying bones and muscles are more attracting than nice healthy fat and extra helpings from flab?”
“It’s generally accepted that-—”
“Exactly! Brainwashing! What we’re needing is to reeducate the fat and the flabby they should loving themselves like they are. The motto should be ‘THINK FAT!’ And the program should stressing that flab is natural and muscling artificial. Flabby folk of the world unite!” Dr. Kilembrio was carried away by his own eloquence. “A roll in the fat is the best kind roll in the hay! Flab is sexy! If nature had meant man to have muscling, he’d be born with them. Big biceps are ugly! Skinny is icky! Bony bodies are for boobs! ‘THINK FAT!’ Bellies are beautiful! Avoirdupois is making for better amour! People should stop worrying they’re having a fat attack! Flab is fabulous! Fat is fine and danding! ‘THINK FAT!’ ”
“Doctor, don’t excite yourself so! You’re getting red in the face. Your blood pressure is going up. And with your weight-—”
“Weight is wonderful! Overweight is better even!”
“Of course, Doctor.” Miss Carridge soothed him. “But we don’t really have time to discuss this now. Do we?”
“I suppose not,” Dr. Kilembrio sighed. “I’ve got to sewing things up so the vegetable is keeping alive.” He looked at Pennington with distaste and sighed again. “By the way,” he added, “where is the young lady with the knock-up?”