Different Seasons - Stephen King [245]
'I told her that very thing, and she asked what the average stay was following an uncomplicated birth. I told her three days. Wasn't that right, Dr McCarron?'
I had to admit it was.
'She said that she would pay for three days, then, and if it was longer, she would pay the difference, and if-'
'- if it was shorter, we could issue her a refund,' I finished wearily. I thought: Damn the woman, anyway!-and then I laughed. She had guts. One couldn't deny that. All kinds of guts.
Mrs Davidson allowed herself a smile and if I am ever tempted, now that I am in my dotage, to believe I know all there is to know about one of my fellow creatures, I try to remember that smile. Before that day I would have staked my iife that I would never see Mrs Davidson, one of the most 'proper' women I have ever known, smile fondly as she thought about a girl who was pregnant out of wedlock.
'Guts? I don't know, Doctor. But she knows her own mind, that one. She certainly does.'
A month passed, and Miss Stansfield showed up promptly for her appointment, simply appearing out of that wide, amazing flow of humanity that was New York then and is New York now. She wore a fresh-looking blue dress to which she managed to communicate a feeling of originality, of one-of-a-kind-ness, despite the fact that it had been quite obviously picked from a rack of dozens just like it. Her pumps did not match it; they were the same brown ones in which I had seen her last time.
I checked her over carefully and found her normal in every way. I told her so and she was pleased. 'I found the pre-natal vitamins, Dr McCarron.'
'Did you? That's good.'
Her eyes sparkled impishly. "The druggist advised me against them.'
'God save me from pestle-pounders,' I said, and she giggled against the heel of her palm-it was a childlike gesture, winning in its unselfconsciousness. 'I never met a druggist that wasn't a frustrated doctor. And a Republican. Pre-natal vitamins are new, so they're regarded with suspicion. Did you take his advice?'
'No, I took yours. You're my doctor.'
Thank you.'
'Not at all.' She looked at me straightforwardly, not giggling now. 'Dr McCarron, when will I begin to show?'
'Not until August, I should guess. September, if you choose garments which are uh, voluminous.'
Thank you.' She picked up her purse but did not rise immediately to go. I thought that she wanted to talk and didn't know where or how to begin.
'You're a working woman, I take it?'
She nodded. 'Yes. I work.'
'Might I ask where? If you'd rather I didn't -'
She laughed- a brittle, humourless laugh, as different from that giggle as day is from dark. 'In a department store. Where else does an unmarried woman work in the city? I sell perfume to fat ladies who rinse their hair and then have it done up in tiny finger-waves.'
'How long will you continue?'
'Until my delicate condition is noticed. I suppose then I'll be asked to leave, lest I upset any of the fat ladies. The shock of being waited on by a pregnant woman with no wedding-band might cause their hair to straighten.'
Quite suddenly her eyes were bright with tears. Her lips began to tremble, and I groped for a handkerchief. But the tears didn't fall-not so much as a single one. Her eyes brimmed for a moment and then she blinked them back. Her lips tightened and then smoothed out. She simply decided she was not going to lose control of her emotions and she did not. It was a remarkable thing to watch.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'You've been