7

Dr. Settick had been practicing in Manhattan for about six years. He was in his thirties, stocky and good-looking, full of good-humor. He had managed to avoid marriage, though some of his obstetrics patients made a habit of proposing.

“Well,” he told Sunny, “if that’s not a baby in there, you’ll make medical history.”

She hugged herself with a happy laugh. “Thank you, Doctor!”

“Don’t thank me. I had nothing to do with it, I’m sorry to say,” he told her with a grin.

She went home that evening ready to tease Page frantic before she told him the news. But when he got home he cut her off with big news of his own.

“Sunny, don’t say a word!” he said as he came in the door. “Guess what?”

“That was my line,” she said as he carried her into the bedroom and lowered her into the pillows. “You couldn’t have been promoted again? Back to Chicago?”

He fell on top of her, laughing. “Better!” She began to squirm under his weight and to wonder if it would hurt the baby. “They want me to write my own column.”

She stopped wiggling. “Darling! The Trib?” she cried.

“No, the Sunday Magazine. Almost two million circulation. Imagine, honey—a magazine. I get a byline and my picture, every damn week of the year. One of their editors has been following my feature stuff and liked it. We’re in New York a half year and this happens. I knew this was my town. Goddam!”

“What will you write about?” she said.

“Whatever comes into my head. You, for example. You inspire me.” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her triumphantly. “Oh, baby,” he murmured. “If it weren’t for you, I’d never have gotten this. Or if I had, it wouldn’t have meant anything. Nobody in the world matters to me but you. You make everything so right, Sunny. I’ll write every word for you. That way I know it’ll be good.”

She felt a few tears coming on; the kind that take a smile beyond its natural borders.

“You’re ashamed of me!” he exclaimed.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, making your wife cry,” she said, laughing at the same time. “As a matter of fact, I had something to tell you, but I don’t think I’d better. So much good news would be bad for you.”

“Try me.” He got up and went into the kitchen. “How about a toast? Scotch or whiskey?” he called.

“Scotch,” she answered, sitting up and feeling her abdomen with new care.

“Honey, let’s call your family,” he said. “Your dad would love to know. He’s been great to me, as if I were part of the family.”

“Well, you are, goofy,” Sunny said, leaning against the kitchen door and accepting her drink from him.

“To us,” he said, lifting his glass. “My favorite people.” They clinked glasses and drank, watching each other, too happy to feel sensible.

“Oh, honey,” he said, overcome with her beauty, her love for him. “Honey baby, I love you so.” He pulled her tight to him and moved against her, slowly, rhythmically, guiding her hand in an intimate caress.

She responded with pleasure; subjecting herself to his will with sensual delight. And then, equally feminine, she took advantage of his mood to whisper, “Let’s call your family, too.”

“Don’t spoil it,” he said softly.

“My father isn’t the only one who cares about you.”

“Nothing doing.” He dropped her hand. “Dad would take it for a peace treaty.”

“He’s earned it.”

Page finished his drink, ignoring her. “Oh God, I forgot. You started to tell me something. What was it, honey?”

She let herself be sidetracked, too excited to keep still. “Your charming wife ...” she said seductively, and kissed his mouth.

“My charming wife,” he repeated, grabbing her again, “has been elected Miss Dill Pickle in Pratfall, Indiana.”

“No.” She grinned at him. “I’m going to make you the happiest man in the world next August.”

“What’s wrong with now?” Suddenly he stiffened. “What? Sunny! My God! Are you ... expecting?”

“Yes.” She glowed at him.

“Are you sure?” His voice dwindled to a whisper.

“Dr. Settick says so.”

“Who’s he?”

“My obstetrician. Laura recommended him.”

“He’d better be the best damn—”

“He is.”

“Oh, darling. This is too much.” He put his arms around her, so proud and amazed that his voice cracked like an adolescent’s.

“If you weren’t such a good writer and such a good husband,” she told him, “you’d never have gotten us into this mess.”

“Some mess,” he said ardently. It was a long time and a lot of gentle kisses before either of them moved. “And it won’t be any poor little unwanted bastard, either,” Page said. “This is the most wanted baby anybody ever had. My child. My son. How can I wait till August?”

“Let’s call Hillsburg,” she said. “Just think, Chuckie will be an uncle at the tender age of eleven. He’ll love that!”

“No, let’s not call tonight,” Page said. “Tomorrow you can tell the whole world, but tonight I want just us to know.”

She was touched by the idea.

“If it’s a boy we’ll name it Ben,” he said. “Your dad will bust his buttons.” He led her back toward the bed.

“Oh, it’s a girl, I can tell. And your dinner’s burning up on the stove. We’ll name her Katherine and call her Kate.”

“The hell with dinner,” he said, easing her down on the bed. “And Kate is too old-fashioned.”

He undressed her with hands that adored her lovely fresh body, her fragrant curves and slopes, her warmth. He pressed his big hands together side by side on her little belly, smothering it, and said in an awed tone, “God. Think how tiny it is. How alive.”

She reached for him and pulled him down on top of her.

“Honey, no. I’m too heavy,” he protested anxiously, but she smiled and silenced him with kisses.

* * *

They planned to call the Rothelis the next night at six, but chance fouled their neat timing; chance or fate, heaven or hell—whatever controls these things. This was the night for the sky to fall and shatter their lives.

At five minutes to six, their phone rang. It was George Pringle, Page’s step-father. Sunny came in from the kitchen and picked up the phone. Page, looking at the paper, saw her look at him cautiously.

“My parents?” he guessed aloud. She nodded, speaking fond trivialities into the receiver. He could tell she was worried about what he would say to them.

What the hell, he thought. I’ll tell them the news. This is no night for harsh words. Maybe Sunny’s right, it’s time to sign the treaty.

He surprised himself. He hadn’t planned any reconciliation. But he was full of a new self-assurance, a gratitude that took in the whole world. The Pringles’ call happened to come at a lucky time. He could talk to his step-father man to man now, and he would.

He took the phone Sunny held out to him and whispered, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll be nice to him.”

But she shook her head. “Your father’s worried about something. He didn’t call you just for a chat. He has too much pride for that.”

She was right. Page frowned at her as he spoke. “Dad?” he said in a friendly voice.

The elder Pringle answered at once and the words seemed to tumble out of him pell-mell, more breath than voice. “Page, my son, I have something to tell you. You remember—”

“Sorry, Dad, I can’t hear you very well,” Page said, wondering if his mother had taken a bad turn. “You sound like you have bad news.”

“Yes, I’m afraid—”

“Then let me give you our good news first. We were just going to call you.”

“You were?” Pringle was frankly skeptical, and it made Page feel guilty.

“Two things,” Page said. “I’m going to do a column for the Sunday Magazine. Got the offer yesterday. Byline, picture, and all.”

Silence. Page frowned again. “Dad? What do you think of that?”

“I’m delighted for you, Page,” his father said in a curiously weak voice.

“Well, if that doesn’t get you, how about this: Sunny’s going to have a baby! In August.” Another queer silence. “Dad, for God’s sake!” Page said irritably. “Don’t you hear me?... Dad, are you there?” The irritation verged suddenly on alarm.

“Yes, Page, I’m here. Are you sure about Sunny?”

“Sure I’m sure. She saw the doc yesterday.... Well, say something. Say it’s great. Say you’re happy for us. Or aren’t you?”

“Page....”

“Dad, tell me, is something wrong?”

“My boy, I have to tell you this. I’d have given anything in my life to spare you, especially now,” Pringle said. “But you must be told. I mean, now that Sunny—”

“Told what?”

“Page, you’ve got to believe me—”

“Well, damn it, tell me!” Page demanded.

Sunny felt a sharp foreboding, seeing the concern on Page’s face. She sat down in an easy chair where she could follow the talk. Page began to pale as he listened to his father.

“You remember Dr. Blue?” Pringle was saying.

“Sure I remember him,” Page said. And in a sudden sick flash, away in the back of his frightened soul, he saw what was coming.

“Well, your mother wanted to see him again. She has for some time, as you’ve guessed. She trusts him, and lately, with you gone and our life so restricted, she wanted to patch things up a bit.” He related these old problems awkwardly. “We talked it over and I decided if it would cheer her up a little, it was worth calling him in. Let bygones be bygone. I’m not a man to carry a grudge to my grave.”

“Yes,” Page said, seized by a wish to hang up, to stem the stream of words.

“He was glad to hear from us,” Pringle went on, “and he came to see your mother yesterday. They had a lot to talk about. They talked mostly about you, Page. Mother told him you were married now. To Sunny Rotheli....”

“Oh.” His tongue felt sticky dry. “Well, I’ll bet he was glad to hear I’ve settled down. He had me figured for a burglar when he caught me in his office that time.”

“Page,” his step-father said in a trembling voice. “There’s no way to break this to you gently. I—I....”

“Dad ... did he tell you who I am? Do you know who I am, Dad?” That had to be it. Page felt himself shaking, and Sunny, watching him, shook too. Her hands were knotted in her skirt, soaking the cloth with her perspiration.

Pringle cleared his throat. “You are Sunny’s brother,” he said.

Four words. They shot across the wires like electric darts and paralyzed Page. He stood gripping the phone, staring stupidly at the floor, unable to make sense. “I’m what?” he said faintly at last.

“You are Sunny’s brother. You are a Rotheli. You were christened Roger Rotheli. Page, do you understand me? Sunny is your sister.”

Page went dead white. His jaw slackened and he turned slowly to stare at Sunny. “That’s impossible,” he whispered.

“It seems the Rothelis had a boy,” Pringle said, “some years before they had Sunny. I guess you know that. Sunny even mentioned it to your mother and me. They had a little boy named Roger. He came just nine months after they were married. It was in the Depression, and Ben Rotheli was out of work. June was very sick, frail and emotionally upset all through the pregnancy. They hadn’t planned to start a family for several years. But the thing happened anyway and that, on top of their money worries and her bad health, nearly finished her.

“She had a drastic mental breakdown. Didn’t even know her husband for a while, and when he brought the baby in to show her, she tried to throw it at him. She thought it was a doll. When he swore it was hers she became hysterical and accused him of lying. She said it couldn’t be hers because she’d never had a baby and anyway she hated babies and that one most of all. Ben tried to show her the baby’s eyes, because they looked so much like hers, but she wouldn’t listen.” He paused. “That was you, Page.

“Ben wanted to keep you. He tried to figure out a way. But he didn’t have a dime, and he couldn’t stay home and care for you while he was out job-hunting. June was too sick even to know her own baby, much less love him or tend him. Every penny Rotheli could borrow went to pay hospital bills. He didn’t even have enough to feed himself more than a couple of cans of beans every other day. The baby had to be farmed out to a welfare agency the first few weeks.... Page? Do you hear me?”

“I hear....”

“Well, at the time this happened, Ben was living in a tiny basement apartment just off North Clark Street, not far from where we were. Dr. Blue had delivered you and he was taking care of June. It looked doubtful that June would ever recover her reason. As you know, Dr. Blue had been our family doctor for years, and he knew how much we wanted a son. Of course we didn’t know the Rothelis or anything about them then. We’ve still never met them, or known your real name till now. But when you were born, Dr. Blue came to us. He had talked it out with Ben, and promised him you’d have as loving and kind parents in us as it was possible to find.

“We wanted a boy desperately, and we were willing to pay generously for him. And Ben was just as desperate to find good loving care for you in a private home. That came first with him. But he was also hopelessly in debt. I think if there’d been the least chance June might have come out of it and been able to raise you herself, Ben wouldn’t have signed the adoption papers. But you couldn’t speak the word ‘baby’ in her hearing. It was that serious. And he was afraid she would end up a charity case in the city hospital psycho ward—practically a guarantee she’d never recover. Her condition looked permanent.

“Well, there we were with several thousand dollars in our hands to pay up all his bills. All June’s hospital bills and drugs and doctor’s fees until she was completely recovered. To us it was a small price in exchange for the son we wanted, and the money would never be missed. To Rotheli, it was a hand up out of the hellhole. He sacrificed the baby he didn’t know for the wife he loved.

“Dr. Blue drew up an agreement. In addition to the financial arrangements, both sides agreed never to try to contact or know each other. The doctor refused to help us until we all signed it.

“June was sick for almost two years, and in and out of the hospital after that for the next four and a half. You were in second grade by the time your mother was a well woman, Page; by the time she could have cared for you herself.”

There was a long silence between adopted son and step-father. Finally Pringle spoke again in a voice weary and near to breaking. “My dear son,” he said. “I know how you must feel—how impossible this seems. It just couldn’t have happened—”

“But it did, thanks to you,” Page broke in irrationally, pressing a hand over his mouth to crush the sobs. He had not wept since he had first learned of his adoption so many years ago.

“All the records tally,” Pringle said. “We checked them immediately, of course, over and over. There’s no way out of it.”

“No way. You’ve ruined our lives. You ruined mine years ago and how you’ve ruined ours,” Page cried out so bitterly that Sunny shuddered, hugging herself with fear.

“My boy, would you rather I hadn’t told you?” Pringle was shaken with grief, fully as much as Page, but Page was too stricken to realize it.

“I’m not your boy!” he said fiercely. “Oh, God! Nothing makes sense any more. I suppose you’ve told the Rothelis.”

“No one knows but us and Dr. Blue,” Pringle assured him. “If I had known Sunny was pregnant....” He stopped, uncertain himself what he would have done.

“You would have told me just the same,” Page said.

“It’s imperative that you separate now,” Pringle said. “You aren’t blaming us for this, are you, Page? You can’t imagine how we’ve suffered over it. I would have gone through hell to spare you.”

“Why didn’t you, then!” Page was incapable of logic. “You didn’t have to adopt me.”

“Perhaps you hate me now,” Pringle said sorrowfully. “But later you’ll understand Page, there are urgent things to settle. If Sunny is really pregnant, she must get an abortion.”

“Now you want me to murder my own child!” Page cried.

“Page! Stop it!” Sunny said, horrified.

“Your child is the product of incest,” his step-father said, and the word tolled in Page’s ear like a death-knell. “I’m certain Dr. Blue will help us. He has to share the responsibility for this thing. Get Sunny on the earliest possible flight to Chicago, and—”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Page said. “Every time I come near you something rotten happens. This is the end. You just let me figure this out!”

“Page, wait! Listen to me!” Pringle said, but Page slammed the phone down and pulled the cord out of the wall. He flung it into a corner where it landed with an ugly clatter.