Читаем Seed on the Wind полностью

She was beginning to feel that her father might have been able to find something to say for himself. As for her mother, let who could unravel that tangle; but for her part what had she to complain of? After all, here she was, well cared for, warmed, sheltered, clothed, fed — which Pete said was all that life consisted of. And love, he had added, with his mouth twisted. Assuredly she had never been loved by anyone, except possibly Cecelia; or if to love meant what she had felt for Pete, with the remnants of it still closing her eyes and accelerating her breath now and then like the fragrance from an empty scent bottle, she knew what to expect from that quarter. Nothing. That was done.

She was grateful to her father. In contrast to the sudden and prolonged volubility of her mother, he said nothing. Each evening he appeared in the room for a few minutes after dinner, inquired if she wanted anything, made sure that the shades were tight against the windows, remarked on the weather or the book she was reading, and departed. One evening he told her that Cecelia had returned to Chicago, and that before she left he had informed her of Lora’s whereabouts and received again her promise of secrecy. It was thoughtful of him, Lora considered, to relieve her mind about Cece.

But mostly during those three weeks her mind was not on Cece or the memory of Pete or her father and mother. Even the farcical captivity and its restrictions and regulations were of no importance compared with her own intimate physical problem and its delightful and terrifying promise. There were so many different ways to think about it! The bodily pain and danger, the thought of which sometimes frightened her terribly and at others merely filled her with a calm assurance and fortitude; the speculation as to whether it would be a boy or a girl — she couldn’t definitely decide which she wanted; the picture of herself afterwards, after the first two or three days were over, lying in the wide soft bed with her own baby in her arms; the dressing and feeding and washing, which took all one’s time, positively every minute of the day; all these contemplations and images and a hundred others busied and thrilled her endlessly. She tried hard to realize — not just to say it, but actually to realize it — that a live baby with arms and legs and eyes and ears was really inside of her; it was enormously difficult no matter how she concentrated on it. Not that it was possible to doubt it either; it kicked and stirred and shivered too hard and too often for any doubt; sometimes it seemed as if it actually intended to turn a complete somersault, and she would hold her breath until it quieted down again. Once it went two whole days without a sign of life, and fear crept into her heart; then all at once, just after she had gone to bed, it kicked so hard she laughed aloud and scolded it for trying to make a break before the time came.

One thing worried her. She decided to ask her mother about it, but somehow the question didn’t come out, though the intention carried over for several days. When her father came in the following evening she waited till he had finished his customary tour of the windows and then as he stopped in front of her chair asked him abruptly:

“What doctor are you going to have?”

His eyes dropped.

“I’ve attended to it,” he said.

“Not Doctor Graves?”

“You don’t like him?”

“No.”

“All right. There are plenty of doctors.”

He turned as if to go. Lora said hurriedly to his back:

“A book I read says there should be an examination beforehand.”

He turned at the door, frowning.

“You’ll have to leave those things to me. You can safely suppose that I know what I’m doing.”

He was gone.

It was three days later, in the middle of the afternoon, that the first pain came. Lora had both read and heard descriptions of it, and had resolved to force herself to take it calmly. But at the first onset her determination was swept aside in an irresistible wave of terror. She stayed in her chair though, grasping its arms and holding her lips tight against the impulse to cry out; then when it was over she went shakily to the head of the stairs and called her mother, who came running and told her to undress and get into bed. Then Mrs. Winter went out again, and downstairs. Lora opened the door a crack and heard her at the telephone, but it was too far away to get what she said. Before she was ready in her nightgown her mother returned, a little flurried and excited, but with a new air of competent command.

“There’s no hurry,” she said. “Don’t be frightened. It may be an hour or more before another one comes.”

“Did you phone the doctor?”

“I phoned, yes. Don’t wear that gown, you’ll ruin it. Here, wait, I’ll get you one.”

“What doctor?”

“You can ask him. He’s coming.”

“Which one?”

“Your father, I mean.”