Dark Benediction

“Seven ten. Oh, the doe called to say he’d be a few minutes late. He was busy all day with a sick baby.”

She licked her lips and glanced aside uneasily. “Class A couple?”

“No, doll. Class C—and a widow.”

“Oh.” She brightened again, watched his face teasingly. “Will you pace and chain-smoke while I’m in delivery?”

He snorted amusement. “Hey, it’s not as if you were really…” He stopped amid a fit of coughing.

“Not as if I really what?”

His mouth opened and closed. He stammered helplessly. “Not as if I were really what?” she demanded, eyes beginning to brim.

“Listen, darling, I didn’t mean…”

A nurse came clicking across the floor. “Mrs. Slade, it’s time for your first injection. Doctor Georges just called. Will you come with me please?”

“Not as if I what, John?” she insisted, ignoring the nurse. “Nothing, doll, nothing—”

“Mrs. Slade—”

“All right, nurse, I’m coming.” She tossed her husband a hurt glance, walked away dabbing at her eyes.

“Expectant dames is always cranky,” sympathized an attendant who sat on a bench nearby. “Take it easy. She won’t be so touchy after it comes.”

John Hanley Slade shot an irritable glare at the eavesdropper, saw a friendly comedian-face grinning at him, returned the grin uneasily, and went over to sit down.

“Your first?”

John Hanley nodded, stroked nervously at his thin hair. “I see ‘em come, I see ‘em go. It’s always the same.”

“Whattaya mean?” John grunted.

“Same expressions, same worries, same attitudes, same conversation, same questions. The guy always makes some remark about how it’ not really having a baby, and the dame always gets sore. Happens every time.”

“It’s all pretty routine for you, eh?” he muttered stiffly.

The attendant nodded. He watched the expectant father for several seconds, then grunted: “Go ahead, ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“If I think all this is silly. They always do.”

John stared at the attendant irritably. “Well—?”

“Do I think it’s silly? No, I don’t.”

“Fine. That’s settled, then.”

“No, I don’t think it’s silly, because for a dame ain’t satisfied if she plunks down the dough, buys a newt, and lets it go at that. There’s something missing between bedroom and baby.”

“That so?”

John’s sarcastic tone was apparently lost on the man. “It’s so,” he announced. “Physiological change—that’s what’s missing. For a newt to really take the place of a baby, the mother’s got to go through the whole build-up. Doc gives her injections, she craves pickles and mangoes. More injections for morning sickness. More injections, she gets chubby. And finally the shots to bring milk, labor, and false delivery. So then she gets the newt, and everything’s right with the world.”

“Mmmph.”

“Ask me something else,” the attendant offered.

John looked around helplessly, spied an elderly woman near the entrance. She had just entered, and stood looking around as if lost or confused. He did not recognize her, but he got up quickly.

“Excuse me, chum. Probably one of my guests.”

“Sure, sure. I gotta get on the job anyhow.”

The woman turned to stare at him as he crossed the floor to meet her. Perhaps one of Mary’s friends, he thought. There were at least a dozen people coming that he hadn’t met. But his welcoming smile faded slightly as he approached her. She wore a shabby dress, her hair was disheveled in a gray tangle, her matchstick legs were without make-up, and there were fierce red lines around her eyelids. She stared at him with wide wild eyes—dull orbs of dirty marble with tiny blue patches for pupils. And her mouth was a thin slash between gaunt leathery cheeks.

“Are—are you here for the party?” he asked doubtfully.

She seemed not to hear him, but continued to stare at or through him. Her mouth made words out of a quivering hiss of a voice. “I’m looking for him.”

“Who?”

“The doctor.”

He decided from her voice that she had laryngitis. “Doctor Georges? He’ll be here soon, but he’ll be busy tonight. Couldn’t you consult another physician?”

The woman fumbled in her bag and brought out a small parcel to display. “I want to give him this,” she hissed.

“I could—”

“I want to give it to him myself,” she interrupted.

Two guests that he recognized came through the entrance. He glanced toward them nervously, returned their grins, glanced indecisively back at the haggard woman.

“I’ll wait,” she croaked, turned her back, and marched to the nearest chair where she perched like a sick crow, eyes glued to the door.

John Hanley Slade felt suddenly chilly. He shrugged it off and went to greet the Willinghams, who were the first arrivals.

Anne Norris, with her husband in tow, zig-zagged her way through a throng of chattering guests toward the hostess, who now occupied a wheel-chair near the entrance to the delivery room. They were a few minutes late, but the party had not yet actually begun.

“Why don’t you go join the father’s sweating circle?” Anne called over her shoulder. “The men are all over with John.”

Norris glanced at the group that had gathered under a cloud of cigar smoke over by the portable bar. John Slade stood at the focus of it and looked persecuted.

“Job’s counselors,” Terry grunted.

A hand reached out from a nearby conversation-group and caught his arm. “Norris,” coughed a gruff voice.

He glanced around. “Oh—Chief Franklin. Hello!”

Anne released his hand and said “See you later,” then wound her way out of sight in the milling herd.

Franklin separated himself from the small congregation and glanced down coolly at his district inspector. He was a tall man, with shoulders hunched up close to his head, long spindly legs, a face that was exceedingly wide across the cheekbones but narrow at the jaw. Black eyes gazed from under heavy brows, and his unruly black hair was badly cut. His family tree had a few Cherokee Indians among its branches, Norris had heard, and they were frequently on the warpath.

Franklin gulped his drink casually and handed the glass to a passing attendant. “Thought you’d be working tonight, Norris,” he said.

“I got trapped into coming, Chief,” he replied amiably. “How’re you doing with the Delmont pickup?”

“Nearly finished with record-tracing. I took a break today and picked up nine of them.”

“Mmmph. I wondered why you plastipainted that right eye.” Franklin rolled back his head and laughed loudly toward the ceiling. “Newt’s mamma tossed the crockery at you, did she?”

“Her husband,” he corrected a little stiffly.

“Well—get them in a hurry, Norris. If the newt’s owner knows it’s a deviant, he might hear we’re after something and hide it somewhere. I want them rounded up quickly.”

“Expect to find the one?”