Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [129]
“I’ll bet you say that to all the mothers,” she said in a faint voice.
“Of course I do,” the doctor said.
Myron Bronson telephoned to find out what had happened, and after Jack told him, he said, “Look, I’d like to be the boy’s godfather. Would that be all right with you?”
“Sure,” Jack said.
“That would mean he would have my name. Is that all right? Would you name him after me?”
“No,” Jack said. “I already have the name. I’m sorry. Can’t you be godfather anyway?”
“I suppose so. What’s his name?”
“Billy.”
He had known he was going to name the baby after Billy Lancing all the time, but he hadn’t mentioned it to Sally, and at first she objected, wanting him to be named John (for Jack) Myron; but there was something about Jack’s expression that kept her from insisting, and so the child was christened at Grace Cathedral as Billy Lancing Levitt. The function of the religious ceremony and paper work was to provide the child with a church background just in case he needed one; not because either of his parents was Episcopal. They decided rationally that they had no right to deny him the security of a faith, and they decided rationally that of all the faiths around, Episcopalianism was the most secure. Myron Bronson came through with the traditional silver mug, but containing a rolled-up thousand-dollar bill, and the child was driven to his christening in a Rolls-Royce. The whole business had an air of unreality about it for Jack, and throughout he tried to concentrate on the image of his dead friend. There was nothing to remind him though; even the name seemed not to belong to the old Billy but just to the new one, the small red face in the huge white bundle. At first it had seemed like a good idea but among these rich trappings it became just silly and sentimental. It wasn’t going to bring Billy back; it wasn’t going to commemorate his good qualities; Jack was not even sure the old Billy really had any good qualities except the strength to die. Anyway, it was all very stupid, and Jack did not care anything about the kid; he was just an added irritant. Except for the thousand dollars.
They spent a lot of the money on the child, and then Sally took the rest and got herself some new clothes. After the usual postpartum depression, in which she talked about things like being the wife of a parking-lot attendant and losing her looks, she became engrossed in motherhood, nursing the child herself, reading Dr. Spock when she could get the tattered paperback away from Jack, and taking Billy for long rides in his green-and-white stroller; and when the baby was asleep in its crib, which was most of the time, she would just sit in the living room and look contented. For the first time since they had been married she had enough housework to keep her busy, and it was a real pleasure to take a break and do nothing; not even daydream, just sit there and feel good. It was almost six weeks before they made love again, and by that time Jack was ready to lose his mind from desire, and they had a fine time of it.
Everything seemed marvelous; Jack was gradually learning to love his child, and he was not in any sense discontented with his life. When he would come home from work late at night he would peek in at the baby and even bend down and kiss him and think that this was amazingly good—to be able to love something that hardly knew he existed. But he did not want to analyze the emotion—it was too good to speculate about or attempt to define; it ought to be left alone and just felt.
He noticed other children in the street and felt a great connecting sympathy with them; he even began to wonder if, when the time came, little Billy would be able to hold his own among other children, and what he would be like when he got older. And then Jack seared himself with the masochistic pleasures of speculating on all the possible disasters that could overtake a helpless child, things Jack could do nothing about, like deformation or idiocy or smothering in the bed,