They drove to the Bramford.
The elevator man smiled at her as they crossed the lobby toward him. Diego. Smiled because he liked her, favored her over some of the other tenants.
The smile, reminding her of her individuality, wakened something in her, revived something.
She snicked open her handbag at her side, worked a finger through her key ring, and, near the elevator door, turned the handbag all the way over, spilling out everything except the keys. Rolling lipstick, coins, Guy’s tens and twenties fluttering, everything. She looked down stupidly.
They picked things up, Guy and Dr. Sapirstein, while she stood mute, pregnant-helpless. Diego came out of the elevator, making tongue-teeth sounds of concern. He bent and helped. She backed in to get out of the way and, watching them, toed the big round floor button. The rolling door rolled. She pulled closed the inner gate.
Diego grabbed for the door but saved his fingers; smacked on the outside of it. “Hey, Mrs. Woodhouse!”
Sorry, Diego.
She pushed the handle and the car lurched upward.
She would call Brian. Or Joan or Elise or Grace Cardiff. Someone.
We’re not through yet, Andyl
She stopped the car at nine, then at six, then halfway past seven, and then close enough to seven to open the gate and the door and step four inches down.
She walked through the turns of hallway as quickly as she could. A contraction came but she marched right through it, paying no heed.
The service elevator’s indicator blinked from four to five and she knew it was Guy and Dr. Sapirstein coming up to intercept her.
So of course the key wouldn’t go into the lock.
But finally did, and she was inside, slamming the door as the elevator door opened, hooking in the chain as Guy’s key went into the lock. She turned the bolt and the key turned it right back again. The door opened and pushed in against the chain.
“Open up, Ro,” Guy said.
“Go to hell,” she said.
“I’m not going to hurt you, honey.”
“You promised them the baby. Get away.”
“I didn’t promise them anything,” he said. “What are you talking about? Promised who?”
“Rosemary,” Dr. Sapirstein said.
“You too. Get away.”
“You seem to have imagined some sort of conspiracy against you.”
“Get away,” she said, and pushed the door shut and bolted it.
It stayed bolted.
She backed away, watching it, and then went into the bedroom.
It was nine-thirty.
She wasn’t sure of Brian’s number and her address book was in the lobby or Guy’s pocket, so the operator had to get Omaha Information. When the call was finally put through there was still no answer. “Do you want me to try again in twenty minutes?” the operator asked.
“Yes, please,” Rosemary said; “in five minutes.”
“I can’t try again in five minutes,” the operator said, “but I’ll try in twenty minutes if you want me to.”
“Yes, please,” Rosemary said and hung up.
She called Joan, and Joan was out too.
Elise and Hugh’s number was-she didn’t know. Information took forever to answer but, having answered, supplied it quickly. She dialed it and got an answering service. They were away for the weekend. “Are they anywhere where I can reach them? This is an emergency.”
“Is this Mr. Dunstan’s secretary?”
“No, I’m a close friend. It’s very important that I speak to them.”
“They’re on Fire Island,” the woman said. “I can give you a number.”
“Please.”
She memorized it, hung up, and was about to dial it when she heard whispers outside the doorway and footsteps on the vinyl floor. She stood up.
Guy and Mr. Fountain came into the room-“Honey, we’re not going to hurt you,” Guy said-and behind them Dr. Sapirstein with a loaded hypodermic, the needle up and dripping, his thumb at the plunger. And Dr. Shand and Mrs. Fountain and Mrs. Gilmore. “We’re your friends,” Mrs. Gilmore said, and Mrs. Fountain said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Rosemary; honest and truly there isn’t.”
“This is nothing but a mild sedative,” Dr. Sapirstein said. “To calm you down so that you can get a good night’s sleep.”
She was between the bed and the wall, and too gross to climb over the bed and evade them.
They came toward her-“You know I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, Ro” -and she picked up the phone and struck with the receiver at Guy’s head.
He caught her wrist and Mr. Fountain caught her other arm and the phone fell as he pulled her around with startling strength. “Help me, somebod-“she screamed, and a handkerchief or something was jammed into her mouth and held there by a small strong hand.
They dragged her away from the bed so Dr. Sapirstein could come in front of her with the hypodermic and a dab of cotton, and a contraction far more grueling than any of the others clamped her middle and clenched shut her eyes. She held her breath, then sucked air in through her nostrils in quick little pulls. A hand felt her belly, deft all- over finger-tipping, and Dr. Sapirstein said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute now; we happen to be in labor here.”
Silence; and someone outside the room whispered the news: “She’s in labor!”
She opened her eyes and stared at Dr. Sapirstein, dragging air through her nostrils, her middle relaxing. He nodded to her, and suddenly took her arm that Mr. Fountain was holding, touched it with cotton, and stabbed it with the needle.
She took the injection without trying to move, too afraid, too stunned.
He withdrew the needle and rubbed the spot with his thumb and then with the cotton.
The women, she saw, were turning down the bed.
Here?
Here?
It was supposed to be Doctors Hospital! Doctors Hospital, with equipment and nurses and everything clean and sterile!
They held her while she struggled, Guy saying in her ear, “You’ll be all right, honey, I swear to God you will! I swear to God you’re going to be perfectly all right! Don’t go on fighting like this, Ro, please don’t! I give you my absolute word of honor you’re going to be perfectly all right!”
And then there was another contraction.
And then she was on the bed, with Dr. Sapirstein giving her another injection.
And Mrs. Gilmore wiped her forehead.
And the phone rang.
And Guy said, “No, just cancel it, operator.”
And there was another contraction, faint and disconnected from her floating eggshell head.
All the exercises had been for nothing. All wasted energy. This wasn’t natural childbirth at all; she wasn’t helping, she wasn’t seeing.
Oh, Andy, Andy-or-Jenny! I’m sorry, my little darling! Forgive me!
Three
One
Light. The ceiling. And pain between her legs. And Guy. Sitting beside the bed, watching her with an anxious, uncertain smile. “Hi,” he said. “Hi,” she said back. The pain was terrible. And then she remembered. It was over. It was over. The baby was born. “Is it all right?” she asked. “Yes, fine,” he said. “What is it?” “A boy.” “Really? A boy?” He nodded. “And it’s all right?” “Yes.” She let her eyes close, then managed to open them again. “Did you call
