“Do you think I’m that base?” she asked, with deep shame and humility.
Maria shrugged her enormous shoulders, but her face softened. She said, “We have sent for another doctor. In the meantime we must do what we can. She is in a state of sudden shock.”
In an illimitable darkness Margaret thought, quite objectively, Pain isn’t hot. It’s cold—cold as death. Who is so cold? Who is crying? She floated above her agony, as if it were the agony of someone else. Yet she could not escape it. She tried to rush into the darkness, like one pursued, but it overtook her, a mangling beast that rolled her over and over, her body in its jaws. Then again she would be apart, half detached and wondering. Was that lightning in the sky, or in herself, or in someone she did not know but whose screams were banners blowing in some unseen wind, banners the color of blood? It was very strange. But she was not afraid; Ed was holding her hand and talking to her softly. She could not see him, but he was there. When the beast overtook her again and again, and she sank down in a whirling blackness, his hand became tighter and he drew her up from the abyss. I am having a nightmare, she thought. In a minute I’ll wake up, in just a minute. I’m very tired. If Ed should take his hand away, I’d just lie down, or let go, and die.
The anguish diminished, and then her coldness was warmed; she could feel the warmth against her flesh, and she sighed with pleasure. She felt hands moving her, and was relieved. But this, too, was strange. It was not Ed who had lifted her from her spasmodic position, for he was still holding her hand strongly. She could even hear his voice, comforting and soothing. Far off, in some space not to be known, she could hear other voices now, retreating, advancing, like the fringes of the sea. One of the voices was weeping, and she wanted to console the weeper. But she was voiceless. Suddenly, high above her, she saw a vast glittering. Stars. But that was impossible, she saw. The glittering shifted, formed a thousand dizzying patterns, flew together in a single ball so bright that her eyes ached—yet she could not close them—and then exploded into fragments which began to form their endless patterns of torture again.
Young Dr. Streit came into the pretty, lighted bedroom, carrying his bag. He had been practicing only a year, and though he knew of the Engers, they did not know of him. The distracted maid had called him, because he was nearer the mansion than any other physician. He was afraid of the wealthy Engers, but his fear disappeared at the remarkable sight before him. Maria, a very mountain of a woman, had rolled up her sleeves competently, and she was bending over the half-hidden girl on the bed, her hands expertly manipulating the prostrate body, her fingers wet with blood. A dark, very thin girl was assisting her, in silence, and with cleverness, her crimson dress spotted. Beside the bed sat a young man—the husband probably—holding a white and writhing hand with all his strength, and murmuring steadily, his head bent.
Maria gave the doctor one of her formidable glances over her shoulder. “It is an hour since we called,” she said, abruptly.
“I came as fast as possible,” said the young doctor, with apology. Was this some midwife, this great shapeless woman, and the girl her assistant? In these modern days—a midwife—and for the Engers? He advanced to the bed. David did not look up. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed and looked at the tortured and struggling girl upon it, the quilts and sheets thrown aside and red and wet and splashed with hemorrhage. After that one quick and competent glance, the doctor was horrified. This poor girl, this pretty thing, was in extremis. That overly swollen body indicated twins, which could not be delivered. He dropped his bag and ruthlessly shouldered Sylvia aside. “A minute,” he said tersely. Yes, a poor pretty thing, in spite of the sprawled white legs so purely formed and streaked with blood, in spite of the leaden face, the rolled-up blue eyes, in spite of the open mouth that panted and gasped and groaned.
He lifted the other twisted hand and felt the pulse, looking at his watch. The pulse bounded, faded, was tremulous, almost stopped, then tripped on too rapidly. The groaning was the only constant sound in the room, a groaning that became weaker and weaker every moment. “I’m Mrs. Enger, and this is my son’s wife,” said Maria. “You must do what you can; her own physician cannot be reached. The children are not expected for a month.”
“She must go to the hospital at once,” said Dr. Streit, who was a slender young man. “I’ll call the ambulance.”
Maria, not stopping her ministrations for a moment, said, “Nonsense. Can you not see that she will die if she is not helped almost immediately? Too, I do not believe in hospitals.”
The doctor was discomfited because he had mistaken Maria for some gross midwife, possibly called because the other doctor was unavailable. But he forgot this in a moment. He knelt beside Margaret, listened to her heart, which raced and pounded like a terrified animal, then sank away, to be almost inaudible, then to start again. Old Mrs. Enger was right. The girl would not survive long enough to be taken to the hospital. What could be done must be done now. Maria, in a few words, explained what she had already done, and the young physician spared her a glance of admiration. “I have had many children,” she said quietly. “My first was born alone. There was no one else in the house but me.”
The doctor continued his examinations. The girl in the crimson dress and Maria assisted him. Tears ran down the girl’s face, but she, too, was competent, her hands deft and light. “The head of the first child is in presentation,” he said as to colleagues. The groaning went on with every laboring breath, and the quality of it dwindled and hoarsened. Yet Margaret’s hand clutched the hand of David. Her husband certainly is a help now, thought the doctor; composed sort of fellow, able to talk to the girl like that, and hold her. Edward Enger; that was his name.
“Dr. Conover had said there must be an operation,” Maria remarked. She stripped back the tangled sheets and quilts and blankets, and threw them over the foot of the bed. Birth did not embarrass or dismay her, the doctor commented to himself. One of those earthy women, one of those dogged German peasants.
“An operation?” repeated Dr. Streit, with a pleased smile. He thought of himself relating this to his friends, who would laugh behind their hands at the prominent Dr. Conover and his infallible prognoses. “I don’t think so. This won’t be easy, but I think we’ll make it if we’re fast. Take away those hot-water bags, please. And now, if you’ll help me turn Mrs. Enger across the bed; I have the high forceps here. I won’t promise that I can save either or both the children, but I think we can save the mother.”
Maria watched him and approved. He might be young, but he knew what to do. She liked his quick movements, the sureness of his hands. “Certainly you will save the children also,” she said. “They are a month premature, but you will save them.”
I’m glad you think so, thought the doctor, ruefully. He glanced up sharply at the girl in the crimson dress. “I will need the forceps sterilized,” he said tersely. She seized the instrument at once, without a word, and ran from the room. Not a girl to be overwhelmed or hysterical, said the doctor to himself. Who was she? A friend, a nurse? “The young lady is a nurse?” he asked, flexing Margaret’s knees.
“My daughter,” said Maria, and there was pride in her voice. “My daughter, Sylvia. She has been of much help.”
The doctor gave Margaret a stimulant for her heart, plunging the needle deeply into her thigh. He began to sweat. The pelvis was narrow, dangerously narrow. The presented head was wedged. “Hold her still,” said the doctor to Maria. “Her struggles are complicating things, though she’s unconscious. Don’t let go her hand,” he said to David. The husband’s face was sunken with strain and fear, but he was calm. “I’ll never let go her hand,” he said. Never, never, he repeated to himself.
The bed was a bath of blood; Margaret wallowed in it, restrained only by Maria’s hands, which were so strong. Her chin pointed at the ceiling, her neck cords straining in her stretched throat. But her color was better now, her groaning stronger. If her heart holds out, we can make it, thought the doctor exultantl
y. And if we hurry. He pushed the filmy nightgown, with all that lace, under Margaret’s armpits, so that her body was fully exposed. Her breast rose and fell and heaved. Her mouth was badly bitten. Margaret’s head, near the side of the bed, dropped its weight of shining hair over the edge, in a cataract of light and color. She was so helpless, so tortured, so lovely. I will save her if it’s the last thing I do, the doctor promised himself. Over the hoarse groaning he could hear the flutter and crackle of a fire in the other room. “Yes, yes,” said David, in a strong voice. “I’m here, darling. Be patient, darling. It’ll soon be over.”
I wish I believed that, too, thought the doctor. I’m afraid I’ll have to crush the child’s head. And from the looks of her pelvis, she’ll never be able to have another child, Caesarean section or not. He regretted this; so lovely a poor creature, and so devoted and steadfast her husband. He was amazed that she had brought the children even to eight months.
Sylvia returned, the forceps not wrapped ignorantly in a towel but dripping and hot from their immersion in boiling water. “Now,” said Dr. Streit. “This is going to be very bad.” He inserted the forceps. He was amazed that they had room to grip the baby’s head. Suddenly he was elated. He might, after all, save at least one of the children. Sweat rolled down his back, wet his shirt, for he had thrown aside his coat. Intent, his eyes screwed together, he gently drew the baby’s head from its imprisoning cage. Slowly, slowly. Thank God, it wasn’t a breech presentation. That would have been hopeless.
Margaret’s child, a boy, was delivered eventually, a boy who immediately howled. “A blanket,” said the doctor, but Sylvia was ready with one of the warm small blankets she had found in a drawer in Margaret’s room. She took the child without fumbling, and wrapped it closely and with tender hands. What an awful, red, contorted little face! But a big one, and with a crown of pale silvery hair. “Take the child into another room,” said the doctor, his face streaming and exultant. “Don’t leave it. I haven’t time to do anything about it just now. If it begins to choke, call me. We can do other things when I’m ready.”
Margaret was suddenly still, not moving at all. The doctor watched her, then gave her another stimulant. She lay like one dead, one who had given up, had surrendered to death, her head fallen aside. The doctor examined her. “The next child,” he said, “probably won’t be born for an hour. I’ll attend to the first baby now. Don’t let Mrs. Enger struggle and waste her strength.” He looked up at Sylvia. “I think we’d better have nurses at once. Three of them. Will you call, Miss Enger? The Lutheran hospital; I’m on the staff. Tell them I’m here.” The hospital would be thrown into a flurry! By tomorrow all his friends would know that he’d saved the wealthy young Mrs. Enger’s life and at least one of the children.
He left Margaret in Maria and David’s care and went into Edward’s ponderous bedroom, where Sylvia was holding the baby and crooning over him. The baby was howling satisfactorily, throwing his tiny hands belligerently in the air over his blanket. “Now,” said Dr. Streit after a kind smile at Sylvia, “let’s look at this scoundrel. No obstruction in the throat; listen to him yell. Now I’ll examine the cord; tied it hastily, you know. Good. Big boy, considering he’s premature.”
He bent over the baby. Fortunate kid, fortunate to be alive, fortunate to be an Enger. “I don’t believe in washing babies right away,” he told Sylvia confidentially. “That’s heresy in the maternity wards. He’d better be oiled. Think you could find some vaseline somewhere, Miss Enger?”
Margaret, in her own bedroom, had begun to thresh again in her gory bed. Now she cried out for Edward, but was immediately soothed and quieted when her dull mind caught David’s urgent strong voice. Once she actually smiled, in her unconsciousness. She could even whisper, “Yes, dear, yes, Ed.” Then she writhed powerfully and groaned.
At ten o’clock her daughter was born with less difficulty than the boy. “Girls are always easier,” said Maria, cryptically. Her arms were reddened to the elbows. The girl howled as reassuringly as her brother, though she was smaller. Sylvia, at hand again, was ready with another blanket.
At eleven o’clock Margaret, without regaining consciousness, fell into a deep and exhausted sleep, the coral already faint in her cheeks in spite of the blood she had lost. Her hand still clutched David’s. He did not leave her until midnight, when the first nurse arrived. He did not want to leave her. Her blood was on his hand also.
No one had given the slightest thought to dinner. Maria, Sylvia, David, and Dr. Streit, utterly spent, gathered together in the big drawing room over coffee and cold roast beef and bread. They did not speak while they sluggishly ate and drank. The men had had a considerable glass of whisky first.
“Mr. Enger,” said the doctor at last, “your wife will live, of course, and the children. I didn’t think so in the beginning. And we owe a lot of it to you.”
Maria hesitated. But there was no help for it. “He is not her husband,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “This is my oldest son, David. Margaret and he are friends of a long time.”
The young doctor colored, and he said, helplessly, “Of course.” He had seen too much. He diffidently glanced at David and thought, There’s something very funny here. Brothers-in-law did not usually show such solicitude for their brothers’ wives. The man looked absolutely undone, leaning back in his chair, very limp, very pale under his dark skin, his hands hanging over the sides. He did not appear to have heard. His face was remote and blank, his thin body long and almost sprawled.
Sylvia ate and drank very little. Tears ran over her cheeks; they were abstracted tears, and she did not know of them.
Dr. Conover, announced by Pierre, bustled importantly into the room, a tall and florid man with dignified silver hair and a genial manner. Then he stood in surprise, staring at the group around the blazing fireplace. Maria said, merely glancing at him, “It is too late, Dr. Conover. The children are born and the mother is asleep.”
But Dr. Streit stood up, thinking to himself, Hell, he’s an old man and all he has besides his money is his reputation. So the younger man said respectfully, “I delivered the children, doctor, as I’ve often watched you do, in the hospital. I used exactly your own methods.”
CHAPTER II
Edward could not sleep in his hotel in Cleveland. A blizzard shrieked outside, and he felt that he was entirely alone in the world with his desperate thoughts. Foreboding chilled him, though the large room was warm and comfortable. He lay in bed, smoking rapidly, the evening papers scattered about him. When he attempted to bring his thoughts to Margaret, she retreated from him like a dream. At three in the morning he was still formulating what he would say to the press. First of all, he would talk to his managers and their assistants. Nothing mattered any longer, not even George Enreich, but that the American people should know of the doom that had been prepared for them decades ago.
Finally he got up and went to the desk and wrote out a statement to be given to the press, after he had explained—but on what evidence? never mind—that his Green and White Stores had been wrecked because he was the founder and chief supporter of the Save America Committee. He would then discuss with the press his concrete knowledge of the Socialist plot against the people of the world, and here he would have his evidence. He would show that the mass revolutionary uprising of the poor, promised by Engels and Marx and many others, would be only an illusion when it happened, and that Socialism was a destructive ideology promoted and fostered by wealthy degenerates who lusted for power, in every nation on earth. Under the guise of social reforms and public welfare the people would be deluded into supporting the men who wished to dominate and enslave them. Wars would be used to destroy the stable currency of nations, create “emergencies” whereby tyrants could seize power and reduce the people to dependency on government.
The European war was the first gigantic move of the despots against humanity. It was necessary for America not to be enticed or forced into it, no matter the “provocation.”
> Edward wrote on and on, while the blizzard increased in fury, and the first dull light of dawn stood in the east. He had just finished his statement, written in his small but cogent hand, when, without warning, he was struck again by an irresistible urge to die. He clenched his hands on the desk and resisted the relentless cold passion of the urge, and his body stiffened with the effort. Again and again a disembodied voice spoke to him in his mind. Why should a man live? For what am I living? To what end must I live? “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow …” The tomorrows stretched before him without a horizon, level and monotonous and infinitely weary and without profit or joy. A dark weight seemed to settle on the top of his head, like the lid of a coffin, and his heart pounded in terrified protest against the voice. An icy loneliness closed about him, like a shell, like a casing of stone, and he thought, It is better for a man to die than to live.
There was no reality for him in those awful minutes while he automatically resisted the urge. There was no sense of obligation, only a sense of surrender, a brittleness of perception, a sick void in his heart. He could not even summon up a clear memory of Margaret; his children, about to be born, had no substance to him. He leaned his elbows on the desk and dropped his head into his hands. His temples throbbed against his palms, and he was conscious of nausea both physical and spiritual, and a sinking desolation. Finally he got to his feet, swaying, and went to the window. The snow-shrouded streets, with their yellow paling lights and white emptiness and starkness, lay twelve stories below him. Without his will, his hands began to lift the window, and it was not until the freezing air blew onto his face that he came to himself. He discovered then that he was drenched with sweat and that he was gasping, and that the old crushing pain was constricting his chest.
“Well, now,” he muttered aloud, in a daze. He closed the window, and it took all his strength, and he went to the bed and fell on it, face down. He began to tremble violently and to retch. What is the matter with me? he asked himself savagely. It’s true that life doesn’t seem to have any purpose, or any goal, or any aim, or any satisfaction—at least none that I can see. Just now. But neither does death.
The Sound of Thunder Page 51
