May now. May in Inwood. Trees green and laughing, shaking their
branches with queer little rustling noises. Fort George Hill, Riverside
Drive, the Mohawk Trail, Isham Park all green and inviting. Sometimes
Dot looked up Fort George Hill, and a desire to climb would almost
overpower her. Adventure seemed to lurk behind the bushes, to loll on
the wild, green grass. She knew it was a delusion. On top was merely
the matter-of-fact, workaday world. Washington Heights was there. There
was no adventure, and besides in two months’ time she would have her
baby, and she couldn’t climb very well. The Drive was better. She could
walk along, dreaming down at the sun-speckled water. It was hot in the
sunshine. She could not go without her cape, and she felt the heat so
intensely this year. There were benches on the Drive. She could sit
down and slip out of her cape for a few minutes. While she was sitting
down it wasn’t so noticeable that she was pregnant. The Mohawk Trail
was hilly. She couldn’t go there any more. Isham Park was pleasant and
cool, but it was quite a long walk.
She liked to walk to the end of Dyckman Street. It was fun sitting
on the dock, watching the ferryboats cross the river. Sometimes fish
were caught, and sometimes motor launches passed with gay-looking
girls in them. She was interested in gay-looking girls this year. It
seemed funny that such a short time before she was one of them. Only
last summer she had worried what style of bob to get, what shade of
lipstick, what color sweater. She had worn flip little shoes, too,
with frightfully high heels on them and perky little bows. She had
had a hat that pulled down tight on her head over her eyes and nose
and showed only a very red, very provocative mouth to the boys on the
street corners. There were still boys on the street corners, but they
didn’t notice her now. They didn’t dream that a few short months before
they would have shouted “Hello, girlie” to her as she passed. Yes,
she with her feet in flat-heeled, broad-toed shoes, her cape wrapped
protectingly around the precious lump, her slow, labored walk. She
didn’t use any rouge now; she just powdered. Rouge was foolish under
the circumstances.
But she watched the other girls. She saw them in bright spring hats and
boyish suits making for the subway. She saw them hopping in and out
of cars, trailing an extra wrap carelessly upon their arms. She saw
them in dazzling white, strolling beside smiling men carrying tennis
rackets. She had never played tennis, but she felt now that she would
like to. There were other girls. Millions of girls. The girl she always
saw at the movies who was so terribly pretty. The girl next door who
wore tight-fitting dresses and whose figure was so delightfully slim.
She noticed everybody now. She knew that she was a mess to look at. She
couldn’t sew well enough to make dresses that would artfully conceal
her condition. She doubted that any one could. But what difference did
it make after all? She was going to have her baby, only now that the
appointed time was near, she was impatient. So painfully impatient.
Edna brought Dot a letter one night. It had come to Dot in care of
“Mrs. Driggs.” Inside there had been another sealed envelope addressed
to “Dorothy.” There had been no message for Edna. The letter was in the
handwriting of Jim Haley.
“Guess he wants to make up with you,” Edna remarked as she handed the
letter to Dot. “Perhaps somebody told him about the baby.”
Eddie, sitting on the floor feeding water to his “A” batteries, grunted.
Dot opened the letter.
“Your father died this morning,” she read. “I thought I ought to let
you know. Don’t come over as I will not let you in. Jim Haley.”
“Oh, my father’s dead,” said Dot.
“No kidding?” said Edna.
Eddie came away from the batteries and took the letter out of Dot’s
limp hand. He read it slowly and let it fall back on the table. He
glanced at Dot’s white face.
“Dirty louse,” he said. It was thoroughly understood that he was
referring to Jim Haley. “Do you want to go over and take a look at your
old man?”
“Jim wouldn’t let me in,” said Dot, dully.
“Like hell he wouldn’t.” Eddie reached for his coat. “You want to see
your father?”
Dot smiled affectionately up at Eddie. He was ready to do battle so
that she might pay her last respects to the meek old man who would
never again call: “Is that you, Dottie?” She sighed regretfully. That
part of her life had been finished months before. What was the use of
mourning or fighting over it now?
She shook her head. “No, Eddie, honest. I don’t want to go.”
Once again he was being cheated out of the chance to baste Jim Haley.
He looked at Dot, searching her face for a sign that she was concealing
her real desire.
“He’ll let you in,” he assured her. “You might have two relatives to
cry over by the time you get inside, but you’d see your old man. Want
to go?”
“No, Eddie. It isn’t worth it. The old man was all right. He couldn’t
have done no different than he did at the end. Jim was his bread and
butter, and he didn’t dare go against him. The old man was all right,
but I guess I’ll remember him like he was the night I got back from
that ride on the _Burma_.”
All this while Eddie had been holding his coat. Now he put it back on
the chair reluctantly.
“Are you going, Edna?” asked Dot.
Edna smiled. “What! With that polite invitation you got? Not me. After
all, you got some right there, and you wouldn’t be let in, he says.
Imagine me going up. I always did like the old man, though.”
Once again Eddie grabbed his coat hopefully. “Let’s go, Edna,” he said.
“Thanks a lot, Eddie, but I don’t think I will. You see, I haven’t any
real right there.”
“You were a friend of the old man’s,” Eddie reminded her, as though
this fact had been well known for some time.
“No, thanks, Eddie. I was kidding. I wouldn’t really go. Jim and I had
a difference of opinion.”
Eddie shook his head at the utter vacancy of women.
Dot got up slowly and made for the bedroom. “You know, I don’t feel
very good,” she said as she passed Eddie.
She lay down on the bed and pulled the blankets, that always lay
in virginal, undisturbed pinkness at the foot of the bed, up over
her shoulders. Eddie and Edna came in and stood near her looking
sympathetic and puzzled.
“I feel as cold as ice,” said Dot. “I’ve got to work to keep my teeth
from chattering.”
“Hm,” said Edna.
“Think I ought to call the doctor?” asked Eddie.
Dot shook her head. Her hair, dark and wavy, made a fascinating design
on the white austerity of the pillow.
“I’ll get a hot-water bottle,” said Edna. “She’ll be all right soon. It
is just the shock of that letter that upset her.”
Quite unconsciously Edna addressed Eddie. He seemed to be the one that
needed reassurance.
Edna fetched the hot-water bottle, and Dot took it under the covers
with her. She lay very quietly for an hour while the others sat and
talked to her. Gradually the chill passed. Dot felt quite all right
again. She got up and began to hem diapers. The baby moved about with
swift little flail-like motions of what Dr. Stewart had assured her was
his arms and legs.
Everything was all right again, but there had been a pain that had come
with the chill, a strange pain that had felt to Dot as though the baby
were breaking away from her. She knew now that it had probably been
half imagination and half plain, ordinary cramp. It had been a terrible
moment.
And now as the days passed there came talk of vacations, Eddie’s
vacation that filled her with joy, and Dr. Stewart’s that filled her
with horror. Eddie was to have his the last week in June and the first
in July. Dr. Stewart’s happened to be at the same time, only his
extended another week into July. It seemed that he hadn’t had a rest
in three years and was now able to take one. He had been arranging his
cases for six months in a manner that would make the trip possible. Dot
wouldn’t need him before the end of July, he felt sure. He was going to
Denver to see his mother. Dot mustn’t worry. She was going to be fine.
In the meanwhile, she was to go twice to see Dr. Simons, a colleague of
Dr. Stewart’s. Dr. Simons would examine her and telegraph to Denver in
case there were unexpected developments. Dot took Dr. Simons’ address
and telephone number. She realized that Dr. Simons was doing a favor
for her doctor and that was why she had to go to his office. Dr. Simons
had to be saved the tiresome trip uptown.
Dr. Stewart would be in to see her once more before his departure.
There was nothing more to do now till the actual delivery. She had been
dieting for ages. She had been walking. She was in perfect condition,
and it looked very much as though she were going to have an easy time.
Dr. Stewart was very cheerful and congratulatory, but Dot’s heart was
in her boots. A new doctor at this stage of the game! He would probably
have to deliver the baby, too. If her child showed signs of getting
ready to arrive, Dot didn’t believe that a telegram to Denver was going
to persuade him to postpone activities until Dr. Stewart’s return.
Thoughts of Eddie’s vacation, however, made her happy. What would it be
like to have him around every day? He had tried to make it later in the
month, in hopes of being off while Dot was in the sanitarium, but he
had been unable to arrange it that way.
Of course, there wasn’t anything they could do for amusement during
these precious two weeks. Money was scarce, and Dot’s condition
prevented excursions of even the mildest nature. There would only
be the movies and the radio set. But just having him around for two
blessed weeks would be enough.
A new happiness came over her. She cleaned vigorously but with caution.
She wanted everything to be perfect for his vacation. She got Eddie to
take the curtains down. She washed them carefully, and Eddie rehung
them.
She had received from the sanitarium a list of things she would need
there. She borrowed a Boston bag from Pat Macy and packed it so that
it should be ready in case of a hasty journey to the sanitarium. Six
nightgowns were the smallest possible number with which you could do,
it seemed, and that only in the event of being able to send them home,
having them laundered and returned. Well, Dot had four voile nighties
and a silk one which Edna had given her for Christmas. She could buy
another voile nightie, and that would make six; only there was no one
at home to launder them for her. She couldn’t possibly buy enough to
do her for the entire stay, and obviously they expected you to have a
clean nightie at least once a day. She worried over that. What could
she do? To send them to a regular laundry was impossible. They wouldn’t
be ready in time. Eddie would wash them, she knew, but he wouldn’t be
able to iron them. The other items included a kimono, bedroom slippers,
brush, soap, washcloth, toothbrush, tooth paste, talcum powder, and two
towels.
She decided to ask Edna’s advice in the matter of the nightgowns.
“Honey,” said Edna, “people don’t take voile nighties to a sanitarium.
Sorry to tell you so, but it’s true. You’d think you was looking at
Ziegfeld’s chorus in bed to take a look at the things the women wear.”
Dot’s worry pucker appeared suddenly on her brow. It was always like
this. Even at the movies, she was the worst dressed girl in the place.
God, she couldn’t go to bear a child without being conscious of the
inferior grade of her nightgowns.
Edna saw that Dot was going to cry. She spoke rapidly, keeping an
eye on the worry pucker. “You know, Dot, I was going to marry Jim. I
thought about it a long time. Even a person as old and decrepit as I am
loves to have nice things; so I bought a lot of underwear and things
for the honeymoon that I’ll never have. I have two dozen crêpe-de-Chine
nighties and God knows how many chemises and step-ins and things like
that. Let me give you six of the nighties, and Eddie can bring them
back to me as they get soiled, and I’ll do ’em up and return them to
you. All right?”
“Oh, Edna, I couldn’t.”
But in the end Dot took five of them--not six, because of the one Edna
had given her for Christmas.
So her bag stood ready with all the beautiful nighties within. A
manicuring set, a bottle of Ed Pinaud’s Lilac, and a box of Three
Flowers face powder were added to the list of necessities. Irrelevant
is mention of the fact that the lilac spilled in the bag, and Dot, who
had looked forward to enjoying its cool fragrance through long, hot
days in the sanitarium, was unable to replace it. She cried a little
over the tragic end of the lilac. It was so easy to cry nowadays.
Everything made her feel like crying. It would have been nice to have
toilet water. Probably everybody else would have it. But the first
bottle had been an extravagance; so the second was an impossibility.
The days grew hotter. Dr. Stewart came on the last call he would pay
her before his trip. Dot felt that it was the last visit he would ever
pay her. Surely it would be the unknown Dr. Simons who would share that
strange, burning session of pain with her. She almost wept as she said
good-by to Dr. Stewart. He had been so kind, so understanding.
The last diaper was hemmed, the last bellyband stitched, the last tiny
dress edged with delicate lace. Sue Macy had presented Dot with a white
wicker wardrobe that had four layers upon which to lay the baby’s
clothes. On top there had been a large satin bow of pink ribbon. Dot
had ripped it off with a hot anger that was all out of proportion to
the affront. Didn’t Sue know that Dot’s child was going to be a boy?
Tenderly Dot replaced the offensive pink bow with the blue ribbon that
had been on the sacque which Eddie had brought. A bow under the child’s
chin would annoy him anyhow, and it looked pretty on the basket.
So all the baby’s clothes reposed whitely in their proper places.
There were bootees from Mrs. Cudahy and bootees from Miss Eiden who
had sung “The Sunshine of Your Smile” on that far-distant Christmas
Eve. There was a billowing, luxuriant carriage cover of blue silk from
Maude McLaughlin. There were a dozen tiny, efficient-looking shirties
from Edna. The rest of the wicker was full to overflowing with Dot’s
contributions to her son’s wardrobe. There was a rattle hidden away
down in the bottom under his nightgowns. Dot knew that it had been a
silly purchase, but it had been such a cunning rattle. And after all it
wasn’t half so silly as the duck who was made of Turkish toweling and
squeaked.
A deposit had been paid on the crib. The balance would be due upon
delivery. It was ivory-white as Dot had always imagined it, and Pat
Macy’s friend had wanted to give them a carriage at wholesale price,
too. Dot hadn’t been able to manage the carriage. She would have to get
that on the installment plan. Much as Eddie loathed the great American
habit, it would have to be acquired for the sake of the baby carriage.
Dot wanted a gray wicker carriage.
There was nothing to do now but wait, and waiting was hard. Not
only was she impatient and nervous, but her body had become a
strange, unfamiliar mass of discomfort. The baby moved restlessly
with almost continuous kicking and rocking about. Sitting could be
merely tolerated; walking was a labor. One could not lie on one’s
bed continually and dream of brisk autumn days when one would
light-footedly tread the Drive, pushing one’s sleeping baby in his
carriage.
“Eddie,” asked Dot, “what was your father’s first name?”
Eddie looked up from his evening paper. “Why?” he asked.
“The kid’s gotta have a name,” Dot pointed out.
“Well,” said Eddie, “don’t name him after that bum.”
Dot didn’t answer. She was thinking of the five dollars Ted Monroe had
sent for her to buy a gift for the baby. She was wondering what she
ought to get.
New York was feverishly playing Mah Jong. Chicago was aghast at the
crime of Loeb and Leopold. The East, South, North, and West were
sending their delegates to the Democratic Convention. The bobbed-haired
bandit had been caught. There was talk of Dempsey fighting Gibbons. A
man named Wilson had died. But to Dot there was only one thing that had
ever happened--she had become pregnant.
“You know,” said Eddie, “there’s something good going to be on the
radio the first week of my vacation.”
“What?”
“The Democratic Convention. They’re going to broadcast it.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, a lot of Democrats get together and pick out a fellow that they
want to run against Coolidge.”
“That don’t sound good,” said Dot.
“Well, I think it ought to be. Graham McNamee is gonna report it from
WEAF and Major Andrew White from WJZ.”
“It may be good then,” Dot admitted at length.
“New York is gonna try to put Al Smith over,” said Eddie, “but they
won’t do it, because he’s a Catholic.”
“I thought this was politics,” said Dot.
Eddie looked doubtful. “Don’t know much about it,” he said, “but that’s
what the boss said. We’ll listen though.”
The Democratic Convention came with a waving of flags and a beating
of drums. It came with its men and women from Texas, Maine, and the
Dakotas. It came with its orators, charlatans, and idiots. It came
with its planks, platforms, and balloting, William Jennings Bryan,
Senator Walsh, and Izetta Jewel Brown. Alabama casts twenty-four votes
for Underwood.... Missouri will be polled.... Alaska votes under the
unit rule.... Speeches about Salisbury, Glass, McAdoo, and Underwood.
Jonathan Davis, John W. Davis, Governor Silzer of New Jersey, Governor
Smith of New York. The Ku Klux Klan. We will adjourn for the evening
out of respect to President and Mrs. Calvin Coolidge, whose son died
this morning.... “East Side, West Side.” Governor Al Smith. Good old
Al. Mad, insane demonstration. Noise. Singing. Screams. “California,
Here I Come.” William Gibbs McAdoo. We want McAdoo. Mac’ll do. Another
demonstration. More noise. Bryan speaks. Texas provokes a raucous,
scornful query: “Is that Sam Houston’s state?” Will Rogers gets a vote.
Kansas decides to caucus.
It came to Dot through Graham McNamee. His smooth, clear voice brought
Madison Square Garden into her living-room. She saw the states hurrying
with their banners to join the latest demonstration. She saw Alabama,
proud and pompous, casting her inevitable twenty-four votes for the
inevitable Mr. Underwood.
The Democratic Convention proved to be the only thing that could
make Dot forget her unhappy body, the suit that Eddie must buy, the
carriage that had to be managed. Even the pangs of indigestion, her
latest burden, could be lulled by listening to Senator Walsh taking the
ballots.
It wasn’t all quite clear to Dot. The people down at the Convention
seemed so terribly excited over the whole thing, and Eddie had it
direct from Mr. Williams that Coolidge was going to do another term.
What did it matter, then, who they decided on? Ritchie was a nice name.
Why didn’t they take Ritchie? If Coolidge was going to continue to
be President, why did they bother so much about who was going to be
defeated? It was quite inexplicable, but there was an odd fascination
in listening to the states changing their opinions, in hearing the
sudden noise of a spontaneous, unexplainable stampede. Then, too, there
was a glamour about the people who came from far places. Fancy hearing
the voice of a man who was actually an inhabitant of Arizona.
Dot and Eddie sat before the loud speaker listening spellbound to the
never-ending balloting.
Once Al Smith had so many votes that Dot grew quite excited. “I thought
you said they wouldn’t put him over?”
“Well, you see, Dot,” Eddie explained, “even if he gets the most votes
here, it don’t mean that he will be President.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s got the Republican candidate to run against,” said Eddie.
“Then I don’t see what the use of the whole thing is,” Dot replied.
But she liked it and she listened.
By the third day she and Eddie were quite alarmed. They had thought
that a day and a night would probably complete the convention. The
continuing of it meant that they would have to miss a session, for on
the next day Dot had to see Dr. Simons. It had been agreed that Eddie
must accompany her on the long trip.
“You can get your suit while you’re downtown,” said Dot. “Don’t you
think it would be nice to buy a suit downtown?”
“What am I gonna do with you? I can’t drag you all over downtown.”
“I’ll wait in the doctor’s office.”
“It’s best not to make arrangements like that. You don’t know how
you’ll feel after the trip or nothing. I’ll get my suit where I’ve
always got my things. In Benny’s. We’ll go to the doctor’s and come
straight home.”
“All right,” said Dot. “Say, Eddie, I hope I don’t have the baby before
the convention is over, don’t you?”
Eddie’s pale blue eyes rolled slowly. They fixed themselves on Dot’s
face with a cold, accusing look. “Don’t be saying things like that,”
he said hardly. “You take that kid when you can get it.” He made a
movement that was something between a shrug and a shudder. “What
the hell, do you think I want you hanging around pregnant till next
Christmas?”