Pat grew but it was slow work. Kate would speak of an ounce as if it
were some silver trophy which the child had won. Like Samuel Butler her
admiration was unbounded for the intelligence which manifested itself in
the process of developing bone and muscle and tissue. Peter was not
inclined to give the child any credit for this. If you poured water on a
lawn, grass sprang up. All the credit belonged to the gardener and Pat
became bigger and bigger through no obvious efforts of his own but
merely because Peter and Kate plied him with milk and sometimes carrots.
Raising grass was easier. The gardener didn't have to deal with a moving
target and he could administer water quite irrespective of the wishes of
the grass.
Of course, there were moments when Pat displayed intelligence but it was
of the most rudimentary sort. When he was about six months old Peter
found that if he put a finger in front of him Pat would try to bite it.
Sometimes he laughed but only at his own jokes. At seven months he
began to crawl. This was moderately interesting but it doubled Peter's
Sunday responsibilities and even affected his literary style. Short
paragraphs appeared more frequently than ever before in the Looking Them
Over column. Longer flights were subject to interruption as Peter had to
put Pat away from places such as the steam radiator or the gas logs. It
was no longer even possible to leave safety razor blades about.
Eventually somebody told Peter to buy a stockade and he did so. The
arrangement was a collapsible fence which could be set up in the middle
of the floor to imprison the child and curtail its wanderings. The only
trouble lay in the fact that it was much too collapsible. In a month or
so Pat was able to pull himself to his feet by holding on to the rail
and after a few violent tugs the whole contraption would come down on
top of him.
And yet when Kate came to Peter and said that her niece, the one in
Jamaica, was looking for a part time job and would take care of Pat on
Sundays for $3 a week, Peter refused the offer. He never knew quite why.
Somehow or other his Sunday fatherhood had become part of a routine.
Perhaps he would have felt foot-loose without it. He merely told Kate
that $3 was too much. And one night when Pat was suddenly assailed by
croup Peter almost worried himself sick. It was a short illness, but
terrific while it lasted. The child seemed to be strangling. The cough
which racked it was deep and in its agony the child took on maturity.
Against death it fought back. Peter was moved not only because this was
his son but because here was a fellow human being grappling with the
common enemy. He waited in the hall outside while Dr. Clay was making
his examination. There he had more room to walk up and down.
Presently the doctor came out and, taking Peter's arm, led him to the
front of the flat. "The child's very ill," he said, "I'm going to send
for a trained nurse."
Pat cried his best, but every now and then this would be broken by the
fearful cough. It was like the baying of an animal. A spasm from the
back room interrupted Dr. Clay. "It almost sounds as if there was
another person in that room," he said. "I'm going back."
Peter knew who that thing or person was. He went with Clay and lifted
Pat out of his crib and held him in his arms. This gave him a curious
feeling that he was doing something; as if he were trying to throw his
body between Pat and someone else. In a dim way he felt that he and Pat
and the other one, all three, were running down a football field. He
must keep close to Pat and block off the tackler.
"Part of my tiredness it goes into your arm." Maria had said that. And
now Peter wanted to give something of his own strength to Pat against
the fury of the attack. It did not seem fantastic. There was a current
in the contact. The man had lied when he said Peter and Maria were one.
That couldn't be done. Men and women were grown people, individuals, all
finished, but this was only a little person. He was part of Peter.
Father and son were one. He was holding Pat so tightly that nobody could
take him away. His prayer was all the more fervent from the fact that he
did not believe in God. He had to create God. "Don't let him die. Don't
let him die." God began to take form in his mind. God was Maria. She was
gone and not gone. To her he did not need to make a prayer. "Maria" was
enough.
The doorbell rang and Dr. Clay answered it. He brought Miss Haine back.
"I guess you know this baby," he said. "We've got to make him well."
The nurse spoke to Peter and set about fixing a croup kettle beside the
crib. The fumes filled the room. It was a pleasant smell. "Better lay
him down in his crib, now," said the Doctor, touching Peter on the
shoulder, "so he can get the benefit of this. I think he's a little
better already."
Peter knew that he was. Pat was no longer gasping and in a few minutes
he was asleep. For a time Peter sat beside the bed. The child's
breathing was regular and his cheek was cool to the touch. "Why, he's
fine now," Miss Haine told him. "You go to bed. In the morning you won't
even know that he's been sick."
There was no trace of the shadow upon Pat next day. Peter was the
haggard one. Something had gone out of him during the night as he held
Pat in his arms. Father and child were doing as well as could be
expected.