Only Children Read Free Page A

big day. How do you feel?” he continued.
    The red light flashed at her impishly. “I feel like Greta Garbo.”
    “What?” he mumbled. The zoom lens hummed as he came in for a close-up.
    “I vant to be alone!” she snapped, unable to conceal that there was real anger in the joke.
    Instantly he shut off the camera.
    “You’re not taking that to the hospital,” she said in an ominous tone.
    “Okay, okay.”
    “Put it away and keep me company.”
    “Okay,” he said in a humble voice. He carried his equipment out meekly. He reappeared moments later and seated himself opposite, rocking back on the kitchen chair, staring at her, his knees bouncing nervously.
    “A watched pot never boils,” she said, raising a spoonful of soup to her lips. She smiled and then sipped cautiously.
    A T TEN O’CLOCK in the morning Peter and Diane Hummel surveyed their preparations. The baby’s room—they would be having a boy—was in a ghostly state of perfection. Objects were placed in neat rows, obviously unsullied by use: the gaily colored hanging animals were still; the crib sheets were taut; the baby carriage’s rubber wheels were white and shiny, its chrome frame glistened, and the hood yawned its emptiness.
    Diane stood at the changing table and pulled at the small mattress to make sure it was securely strapped. She had a frightening thought: what if something happens and the baby is born dead? Then this sleeping room, awaiting the life to waken it, would remain in a coma—a tomb for their expectations, its perfection mocking their arrogant preparations.
    Peter had no such morbid fantasies. He had praised the existence of amniocentesis: knowing the sex, they could buy clothes in advance; with the assurance that the child was healthy, anxiety was minimized; and they didn’t have to go to the fuss of picking a girl’s name. Peter also maintained he was happy about the fact that their doctor, once Diane was two weeks late, decided to schedule a Caesarean. He regretted that their natural-childbirth training would be wasted—they had put a lot of effort into it—but after all, there would be no pain, no exhausting vigil, only a neat scar, cleverly placed so that even if Diane wore a bikini, it would be hidden. The process would be sensible and orderly. They weren’t hippies anymore—actually, they weren’t when everybody else was—and this procedure seemed civilized, coordinated, and convenient. Peter had been a reluctant father (she bullied me into it, was the way he described it to himself) and had agreed only on the condition that Diane guarantee him his work and their social life wouldn’t suffer. Many of their friends, when Peter told them of the conditions he had set before he agreed to have a child, had said that his vision of fatherhood, besides being coldhearted, was impossible; this scheduled birth reassured Peter that raising a child could be neat and organized.
    From the window, Peter watched for the car while Diane had her premonition of disaster at the changing table. Peter remembered what his mother-in-law had said a few months ago when he confessed his worries. “When you see that beautiful angel’s face,” Diane’s mother told him, “you won’t mind giving up a little sleep.” The hell I won’t, he thought. He saw the limousine pull up beside the dull green awning. “It’s here,” he said.
    They went downstairs. Peter smiled at the obsequious doorman, who made a big show of rushing to the door to open it for them. “Good luck,” the doorman said in his Spanish accent. Peter smiled confidently.
    Diane kept her head down and watched her big body move. She put a hand on her belly when she felt the air rush over her face. Poor thing, she thought about her child, you don’t want to come out. The chauffeur had already opened the black limousine’s door. Lights glowed from the interior, darkened by its green tinted windows. The chauffeur offered his hand to help her in. “Watch your step,