known and in some places Rh cross matching was already in effect. But a busy country G.P. could scarcely be expected to keep up with everything that was new. Or could he? Some physicians of the time—G.P.’s included— were aware of the new horizons opened up by modern blood grouping. They had acted promptly to enforce the latest standards. But possibly, David Coleman reasoned, these were younger men. His father at that time was growing old; he worked too hard and long to do much reading. But was that an adequate excuse? Was it an excuse that he himself—David Coleman—would accept from others? Or was there perhaps a double standard—a more lenient set of rules when it came to judging your own kin, even a father who was dead? The thought troubled him. He sensed uneasily that a feeling of personal loyalty was obtruding across some of his own most cherished views. David Coleman wished he had not thought of this. It gave him an uneasy feeling of doubt, of not being absolutely sure . . . of anything at all.
Pearson was looking across at him. He asked, “How long is it now?”
Coleman checked his watch, then answered, “Just over an hour.”
“I’m going to call them.” Impetuously Pearson reached for the telephone. Then he hesitated and drew his hand away. “No,” he said, “I suppose I’d better not.”
In the serology lab John Alexander, too, was conscious of the time. An hour ago he had come back from visiting Elizabeth, and since then he had made several halfhearted attempts to work. But it was obvious to himself that his mind was far removed from what he was doing and he had desisted, rather than risk mistakes. Now, taking up a test tube, he prepared to begin again, but Bannister came over and took it from him.
Looking at the requisition sheet, the older technician said kindly, “I’ll do that.”
He protested halfheartedly, then Bannister said, “Go on, kid; leave it to me. Why don’t you go up with your wife?”
“Thanks all the same, but I think I’ll stay. Dr. Coleman said as soon as he heard . . . he’d come and tell me.” Alexander’s eyes turned to the wall clock again. He said, his voice strained, “They can’t be much longer now.”
Bannister turned away. “No,” he said slowly, “I guess not.”
Elizabeth Alexander was in her hospital room alone. She was lying still, head back on the pillows, her eyes open, when Nurse Wilding came in. Elizabeth asked, “Is there any news?”
The elderly, gray-haired nurse shook her head. “I’ll tell you just as soon as we hear.” Putting down the glass of orange juice she had brought, she said, “I can stay with you for a few minutes if you like.”
“Yes, please.” Elizabeth smiled faintly, and the nurse pulled a chair near the bed and sat down. Wilding felt relieved to rest her feet; just lately they had been giving her a good deal of pain, and she suspected they would probably force her to quit nursing soon, whether she wanted to or not. Well, she had a feeling she was pretty close to being ready to go.
Wilding wished, though, that she could do something for these two young people. She had taken a fancy to them from the beginning; to her the two of them—husband and wife—seemed almost children. In a way, taking care of this girl, who, it seemed now, was likely to lose her baby, had been almost like caring for the daughter that long ago Wilding had wanted but never had. Wasn’t that silly now?—she, with all her years of nursing, getting sentimental at this late day. She asked Elizabeth, “What were you thinking about—when I came in just then?”
“I was thinking about children—fat, roly-poly children scrambling on green grass in afternoon sunshine.” Elizabeth’s voice had a dreamlike quality. “It was like that in Indiana when I was a little girl—in the summers. Even then I used to think that someday I would have children and that I would sit beside them while they rolled on the grass in the sunshine, just as I had.”
“It’s a funny thing about children,” Wilding said. “Sometimes things turn out so different from the way you thought they would. I had a son, you know. He’s a man now.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Wilding said. “He’s a fine man—a naval officer. He got married a month or two ago; I had a letter from him telling me.”
Elizabeth found herself wondering—what it would be like to bear a son and then have a letter, telling about his getting married.
“I never did feel we got to know one another very well,” Wilding was saying. “I expect that was my fault in a way—getting divorced and never giving him a real home.”
“But you’ll go and see him sometimes?” Elizabeth said. “And there’ll be grandchildren, I expect.”
“I’ve thought a lot about that,” Wilding said. “I used to think it would be fun. You know—having grandchildren, living somewhere near, then going in the evenings to baby-sit, and all the rest.”
Elizabeth asked, “But won’t you—now?”
Wilding shook her head. “I have a feeling that when I go it’ll be like visiting strangers. And it won’t be often either. You see, my son is stationed in Hawaii; they left last week.” She added with a touch of defiant loyalty, “He was coming to see me and bring his wife. Then something came up at the last minute, so they couldn’t make it.”
There was a silence, then Wilding said, “Well, I’ll have to be getting on now.” She eased to her feet, then added from the doorway, “Drink your juice, Mrs. Alexander. I’ll come and tell you—just as soon as we hear anything at all.”
Kent O’Donnell was sweating, and the assisting nurse leaned forward to mop his forehead. Five minutes had passed since artificial respiration had begun, and still there was no response from the tiny body under his hands. His thumbs were on the chest cavity, the remainder of his fingers crossed around the back. The child was so small, O’Donnell’s two hands overlapped; he had to use them carefully, aware that with too much pressure the fragile bones would sunder like twigs. Gently, once more, he squeezed and relaxed, the oxygen hissing, trying to induce breath, to coax the tired, tiny lungs back into life with movement of their own.
O’Donnell wanted this baby to live. He knew, if it died, it would mean that Three Counties—his hospital—had failed abjectly in its most basic function: to give proper care to the sick and the weak. This child had not had proper care; it had been given the poorest when it needed the best, and dereliction had edged out skill. He found himself trying to communicate, to transmit his own burning fervor through his finger tips to the faltering heart lying beneath them. You needed us and we failed you; you probed our weakness and you found us wanting. But please let us try —again, together. Sometimes we do better than this; don’t judge us for always by just one failure. There’s ignorance and folly in this world, and prejudice and blindness—we’ve shown you that already. But there are other things, too; good, warm things to live for. So breathe! It’s such a simple thing, but so important. O’Donnell’s hands moved back and forth . . . compressing . . . releasing . . . compressing . . . releasing . . . compressing . . .
Another five minutes had passed and the intern was using his stethoscope, listening carefully. Now he straightened up. He caught O’Donnell’s eye and shook his head. O’Donnell stopped; he knew it was useless to go on.
Turning to Dornberger, he said quietly, “I’m afraid he’s gone.”
Their eyes met, and both men knew their feelings were the same.
O’Donnell felt himself gripped by a white-hot fury. Fiercely he ripped off the mask and cap; he tore at the rubber gloves and flung them savagely to the floor.
He felt the others’ eyes upon him. His lips in a thin, grim line, he told Dornberger, “All right. Let’s go.” Then, harshly, to the intern, “If anyone should want me, I’ll be with Dr. Pearson.”
Twenty-one
In the pathology office the telephone bell jangled sharply and Pearson reached out for the receiver. Then, his face pale, nervousness showing, he stopped. He said to Coleman, “You take it.”
As David Coleman crossed the room there was a second impatient ring. A moment later he was saying, “Dr. Coleman speaking.” He listened, expressionless, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
His eyes met Pearson’s. He said quietly, “The baby just died.”
The other man said nothing. His eyes dropped. Slouched in the office chair, the lined, craggy face half in shadow, his body motionless, he seemed aged and defeated.
Coleman said softly, “I think I’ll go to the lab. Someone should talk with John.”
There was no answer. As Coleman left the pathology office, Pearson was still sitting, silent and unmoving, his eyes unseeing, his thoughts known only to himself.
Carl Bannister had gone out of the lab when David Coleman came in. John Alexander was there
