something, had gotten in the way of sending it
even once
. “You’re being blackmailed,” Diane advised him sternly. “If you don’t follow through or hold up your end, all right, then, I’ll pick up the phone and—what’s her name again?—that’s right, Lydia. I’ll call Lydia. Lydia, you wanker. And no more apologizing,” said Diane, “because I’ve had enough of your apologizing.”
“I’ve got it,” said Walter. “But just one thing. Two hundred fifty a month? That sounds like a heck of a lot of money, maybe more than—”
“Listen,” she hissed. “I didn’t call to negotiate—that’s not what’s going on here. Do you think I’m one of your stupid clients? This is the girl you got up the duff, Walter, this is me, Diane Burroughs, calling on behalf of your illegitimate son. This is about your
son
, you bloody arse, and what I want is
more
than reasonable when you think of it in terms of child support.”
He couldn’t argue and didn’t argue. It wasn’t his show: he could see that. So instead he said—after peeking into empty adjoining cubicles—that he only wanted the best for her, that he had never wanted anything but the best for her, and that, no matter what, he would always do his part. In short, he fed Diane the same lines he’d fed her for months, which,it turned out, had gotten him exactly nowhere. “Shut up,” said Diane, “and send the money.”
After putting down the receiver, Walter shook his head for a long time. “I’m an idiot,” he thought. “What just happened? And the whole time I thought I was smarter than her! Come on, Walter, clean up your act. Get a grip, buddy. Grow up—it’s time. You’re lucky this mistake didn’t blow up in your face. Lucky to get out of it alive.”
2
Candy Dark
Certain nurses in Diane’s maternity ward doubled as self-appointed counselors. If a nurse was prone to even ordinary sympathies, much might incite her in those halls of extremes—stillbirth, say, or a pregnancy that ended in sterility, or a newborn with a handicap or harelip. Often it was just the birth of a baby whose mother hadn’t meant to get pregnant; on other occasions the mother held in her arms the product of her rape. Then there were the girls like Diane Burroughs, children who’d been kept under wraps until the end of their interludes as embodiments of shame. The maternity nurses all knew that poor, waifish Diane had to give up her son and not see him again—ever. That she’d have to wonder, for the rest of her life, where he was and how he was faring. That she’d yearn for him. That she’d entertain fantasies about boys she saw who called him to mind. The toddler glimpsed in tow at Sears, the teen-ager mowing a lawn on the next block, the excellent young actor in the community-theater production of
Our Town—
all of them might be, in her head, her son. It was hard for most of the nurses in the ward not to sympathize with Diane, or, for that matter, with many new mothers. They couldn’t keep themselves from holding hands, doling out tissues, listening with the privateconviction that there was more to their work than medicine, and talking to new mothers with the sense that, like Florence Nightingale, they were ladies with lamps.
In Diane’s case, the lady with the lamp was named Nurse Carol, so it was Nurse Carol who succumbed to Diane’s appeal, four hours before Baby Doe’s adoptive family was to arrive, for an hour with her son. One hour and then Diane would be done and could start putting her loss behind her. One hour just to hold her baby so she could remember his face, his smell, his skin; one hour because an hour like that would help her come to terms with what was happening. What could Carol say to such a plea? There was no harm in what Diane was asking. She went to the ward, plucked up Baby Doe, brought him to Diane, and, after expressing her sorrow and hope, left and shut the door.
Diane had it all minutely orchestrated. She’d made
even once
. “You’re being blackmailed,” Diane advised him sternly. “If you don’t follow through or hold up your end, all right, then, I’ll pick up the phone and—what’s her name again?—that’s right, Lydia. I’ll call Lydia. Lydia, you wanker. And no more apologizing,” said Diane, “because I’ve had enough of your apologizing.”
“I’ve got it,” said Walter. “But just one thing. Two hundred fifty a month? That sounds like a heck of a lot of money, maybe more than—”
“Listen,” she hissed. “I didn’t call to negotiate—that’s not what’s going on here. Do you think I’m one of your stupid clients? This is the girl you got up the duff, Walter, this is me, Diane Burroughs, calling on behalf of your illegitimate son. This is about your
son
, you bloody arse, and what I want is
more
than reasonable when you think of it in terms of child support.”
He couldn’t argue and didn’t argue. It wasn’t his show: he could see that. So instead he said—after peeking into empty adjoining cubicles—that he only wanted the best for her, that he had never wanted anything but the best for her, and that, no matter what, he would always do his part. In short, he fed Diane the same lines he’d fed her for months, which,it turned out, had gotten him exactly nowhere. “Shut up,” said Diane, “and send the money.”
After putting down the receiver, Walter shook his head for a long time. “I’m an idiot,” he thought. “What just happened? And the whole time I thought I was smarter than her! Come on, Walter, clean up your act. Get a grip, buddy. Grow up—it’s time. You’re lucky this mistake didn’t blow up in your face. Lucky to get out of it alive.”
2
Candy Dark
Certain nurses in Diane’s maternity ward doubled as self-appointed counselors. If a nurse was prone to even ordinary sympathies, much might incite her in those halls of extremes—stillbirth, say, or a pregnancy that ended in sterility, or a newborn with a handicap or harelip. Often it was just the birth of a baby whose mother hadn’t meant to get pregnant; on other occasions the mother held in her arms the product of her rape. Then there were the girls like Diane Burroughs, children who’d been kept under wraps until the end of their interludes as embodiments of shame. The maternity nurses all knew that poor, waifish Diane had to give up her son and not see him again—ever. That she’d have to wonder, for the rest of her life, where he was and how he was faring. That she’d yearn for him. That she’d entertain fantasies about boys she saw who called him to mind. The toddler glimpsed in tow at Sears, the teen-ager mowing a lawn on the next block, the excellent young actor in the community-theater production of
Our Town—
all of them might be, in her head, her son. It was hard for most of the nurses in the ward not to sympathize with Diane, or, for that matter, with many new mothers. They couldn’t keep themselves from holding hands, doling out tissues, listening with the privateconviction that there was more to their work than medicine, and talking to new mothers with the sense that, like Florence Nightingale, they were ladies with lamps.
In Diane’s case, the lady with the lamp was named Nurse Carol, so it was Nurse Carol who succumbed to Diane’s appeal, four hours before Baby Doe’s adoptive family was to arrive, for an hour with her son. One hour and then Diane would be done and could start putting her loss behind her. One hour just to hold her baby so she could remember his face, his smell, his skin; one hour because an hour like that would help her come to terms with what was happening. What could Carol say to such a plea? There was no harm in what Diane was asking. She went to the ward, plucked up Baby Doe, brought him to Diane, and, after expressing her sorrow and hope, left and shut the door.
Diane had it all minutely orchestrated. She’d made
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