She alternately repressed and exulted in her schedule for the next day. When morning came she saw Marty off to work and hopped into a cab. She'd kept her appointment a secret from him. Why get him excited? Why build up hope that might turn out to be false? But her heart pounded as the cab headed east into Central Park and beyond, then south—past Bloomingdale's and Alexander's, and on further. Samantha finally saw the stark white buildings ahead, buildings that, she knew, would play an overwhelming part in her life, and Marty's.
University Hospital, on First Avenue in the thirties, is the more elegant half of the NYU—Bellevue Medical Center. When the cab pulled into its circular driveway, Samantha paid the driver and walked into one of the white towers she had seen from the distance.
"Dr. Fromer?" she asked a uniformed guard inside the revolving door. She knew he had moved his office.
"Five sixteen," the rotund guard replied.
Samantha took the elevator. Now the pounding heart was joined by a tension in her throat and stomach. She identified herself to Fromer's nurse and waited more than forty-five minutes before her examination.
Harold Fromer was approaching fifty, heavy and tired, with a drooping chin and thinning hair. And yet he was quiet and attentive, and a thoroughly reliable physician. He spoke in an offhand manner, but was particularly careful not to patronize his generally much younger patients.
After his examination and tests, he ushered Samantha into his small, institutionally decorated office, which Samantha thought looked more like the hideaway of a corporate treasurer than a place where medical confidences were exchanged.
"What do you want me to say?" Fromer asked as he collapsed his frame behind the laminated desk. He said it with a smile. He'd been Samantha's doctor for twelve years.
"Tell me that we'd better start thinking about college," Samantha replied.
"Start thinking."
"You sure?"
Fromer shrugged. "The lab technician flipped a coin, and came up with the answer. That's the best we can do."
Strange, but Samantha felt remarkably calm. She didn't jump up, or laugh, or cry. Rather, a kind of spiritual serenity came over her. Perhaps it was because she had been anticipating Fromer's diagnosis. Perhaps it was because she knew this would bring Marty and her even closer together, or perhaps it was because the thought of bringing up a child would remind Marty of his own unhappy childhood. He'd want to give this baby everything he never had.
"Well," she asked, her face finally breaking out in a glow, "what do I do?"
"Well, you celebrate," Fromer replied. "Aren't you happy?"
"Of course I'm happy."
"Does your husband want a baby, too?"
"Sure. He participated. He was a volunteer."
Fromer laughed awkwardly. He always laughed awkwardly. He thought laughing made a man less manly. "I see no reason why you shouldn't have a normal pregnancy," he said. Then he carefully explained all that Samantha had to know, and the changes she would experience.
"I'm guessing I'm in my second month," she said.
"You're about right. When we start using the ultrasound to examine you I can be more precise. Would you want to know the sex of the baby beforehand?"
"No."
"Really?" Fromer's eyes widened. Samantha was in a decided minority. "You'd only have to choose one name. You could get ready…"
Samantha shrugged. "We're a little old-fashioned. I think we'd like to do things the way people used to do them."
"I see." Fromer frowned a bit, then tapped a pencil on his desk. Samantha watched the pencil as Fromer manipulated it with his pudgy hands. He seemed concerned.
"Are you holding something back?" he asked.
Samantha stiffened slightly. "What do you mean?"
"You were a little more tense than usual during the examination. When you brought up your husband I could detect a little…unease. This is a time for you to be relaxed, not under stress. If there's a problem…"
"Problem?"
"I mean, in the marriage."
"Not at all." Samantha was slightly offended, but knew that Fromer meant well.
"Okay, but should there be, you should consider counseling. Some people with…marital difficulties…have a baby because they think it'll make the marriage better. It doesn't. Just a little doctorly advice."
"I'm having a big party for Marty," Samantha said. "It's on my mind. Maybe that's why I seem a little less bouncy."
"Right," Fromer replied. "Just stay calm. The first three months are a bit touchy." Fromer actually came out from behind his desk and kissed Samantha on the cheek, something he saw as an obstetrical prerogative. "Congratulations," he said. "You'll be fine."
"Thank you. When do you want to see me again?"
"A month. Then every month after that."
Samantha started to get up, then fidgeted a little with her Coach leather bag. "Uh, we haven't even mentioned…"
"Cost."
"Yeah." Samantha was old-fashioned—she hated to discuss money with a doctor.
"Everything is in this booklet," Fromer replied. "If there's a question, just ask me. You…have insurance?"
"Blue Cross. Major medical."
"You're home. Go give your husband the news."
They chatted for a few more moments about nothing in particular, then Fromer escorted Samantha out a side door that led to the noisy, bustling main corridor.
As she rode down in the elevator, the serenity that Samantha felt in Fromer's office began to melt away, and she sensed her insides filling with an unbridled joy. She started smiling, not even realizing it, drawing curious glances from doctors and patients. Instinctively she placed her hand in front of her stomach as other passengers boarded and the crush became greater.
"Pregnant?" a doctor next to her asked.
Now she was deathly embarrassed, feeling ever so uncool. "Oh, no," she replied. It was stupid. It was the last time she'd ever deny it. When she left the building and got into a cab her first words were, "I'm pregnant. Drive slowly." The driver smiled condescendingly, then actually followed her instructions.
Lynne was waiting outside their apartment building on Central Park West. Her instinct gave her all the information she needed.
"It's a go," she said as Samantha stepped out of the cab, into a light, windy drizzle.
"It's a go," Samantha confirmed.
"I knew it. I can tell by the texture of people's skin."
"Come on."
"Doctors have their ways, I have mine." Lynne let out a laugh, grabbed Samantha's arm, and steered her into the building. The doorman, no gloves, opened the door, oblivious to their excitement.
Their heels clicked as they walked through the lobby, almost entirely marble and lit by a huge crystal chandelier that reminded comers and goers of the building's great days. "You have to make a big dinner," Lynne said, insistently pushing the elevator button.
"Why?"
"Why? Why, she asks. When you get pregnant, you make a big dinner to tell your husband. Didn't you ever see it in the movies? It's the American way."
"I'm not telling Marty."
"You're not…You're putting me on."
"I thought about it in the cab," Samantha said. "I'm telling him at the party. I'm announcing it. I want everyone to see his face."
"He'll faint."
"No. He may cry a little."
Lynne began warming to the idea. "Well, you'll have those videotape guys. Boy, what a moment to remember. Yeah, it's a great idea. Tell him at the party. I told Charlie at my mother's house, after a fight."
"I just want to see Marty's face," Samantha said, more to herself than to Lynne. "Just that face."
They went back to Samantha's apartment, which was freezing because Samantha had forgotten to turn up the heat before leaving. She snapped on the thermostat and kept her coat on. "Want to lie down?" Lynne asked. "It's another tradition."
"I want to work," Samantha replied.
"Hero mother. Boy, I can just see you having t
hat baby without help. Yeah, you're the type. Hey, I collected more numbers for you. You ever call Northwestern back?"
"No, I'll save that," Samantha said. She turned around to gaze into Lynne's eyes, looking for the curiosity she'd seen earlier. She found it.
"Okay," Lynne answered, whipping a pad from her handbag. "Here's the number for George Braden Elementary School, Elkhart, Indiana. Marty's first alma mater."
Samantha beamed, feeling herself back in the rhythm of party planning. She sat down at her small table, jotting some notes on what she would ask the people at Braden. She knew she had to be careful. Universities might be used to recalling their alumni, but it wasn't an elementary school specialty. She dialed.
"Braden," answered the dry Midwestern female voice.
"Yes, hello," Samantha said, a little nervous, "I'm calling from New York."
"New York City?"
"Yes. It's about my husband. He was a student at Braden."
"Oh dear, that must have been a few years ago."
"Yes, it was in the late forties and early fifties."
"Do you need a school certificate, ma'am?"
"No," Samantha replied, "this is actually an odd request. I'm having a fortieth birthday party for him…"
"How nice."
"…and I wanted to collect the remembrances of old friends and teachers. Is there a way I can get the names of his teachers, and his principal?"
"Well…I guess so. Some of the teachers might be…"
"Deceased."
"Yes. But the principal is the same."
"Really?"
"Mr. Cotrell took over in his twenties back then. He's still here."
"And the teachers?"
"Those records would be in the district warehouse. We only keep them five years."
"Could someone look? I mean, I'd be happy to pay." Samantha smiled over at Lynne, feeling once more that she was getting close to Marty's past.
"I could have someone check, ma'am. There's a ten dollar search fee. Oh, would you like to speak with Mr. Cotrell in the meantime? He's in his office."
Samantha hesitated. School principals had always intimidated her. The principal was the person you never spoke to unless asked. But this was special, and Samantha overcame her girlhood fears. "Yes," she said, "I'd love that."
"Your name, ma'am?"
"Samantha Shaw. My husband is Martin Everett Shaw."
"One moment."
Samantha heard clicks on the line, and cupped her hand over the receiver. "She's connecting me to the principal," she told Lynne. "He was there with Marty." She heard a phone being picked up.
"Lou Cotrell, Mrs. Shaw," came the cheerful, singsongy voice, a testament to the notion that principals and pediatricians sometimes take on the personalities of their charges. "I remember your husband well."
"You do?" Samantha asked excitedly.
"Shaw was a hell raiser. Always the devil."
"That's Marty."
"Thin little boy."
"No, heavy."
"Well, they change. You're feeding him too well."
"Probably."
"Surprised to hear Martin's in New York. He was one of those real outdoors types. Sorry he never came back to visit us. I'd like to see him."
"I'll make a note of that," Samantha said. "I'll insist that he go back. Both of us, in fact."
"Just grand. Now, my assistant tells me you'd like some remembrances."
"Yes."
"I'll dig 'em up. I'll give you some myself. Tell you what, do you have one of those cassette machines?"
"Yes, we do."
"I'll make a little tape for you."
"Wonderful!"
"You just give me the address. And you tell Martin that the old schoolyard is just waitin' for him to dig it up again."
"Thank you, Mr. Cotrell."
"Lou. We're all adults now."
"Thank you, Lou."
"Thank you for thinking of us, Mrs. Shaw."
They both laughed. Samantha gave Cotrell her address, and added the phone number in case he had some last-minute thoughts. She also cautioned him that this was a surprise and asked that the tape be sent on a Monday so it would arrive midweek, when Marty wasn't home. Every detail had to be covered, Samantha realized. Then she felt compelled, because of her deep feelings for Marty, to add something.
"Mr. Cotrell, do you remember anything about Marty's parents—warm stories, anecdotes, that kind of thing?"
"I remember them as nice people."
"Well, unfortunately, they died rather young. Both while Marty was in his teens."
"That's so sad," Cotrell said.
"It was tough for Marty, but he worked his way through Northwestern."
"That's Martin's spirit."
"Yes, it is. Thank you again, Mr. Cotrell. Lou."
They hung up. "Well, that was terrific!" Samantha told Lynne.
"I got the drift," Lynne replied. "Now you're cookin'."
"I'd better have our tape machine checked," Samantha reminded herself. "It was jamming last week. I don't want a December fifth disaster with Mr. Cotrell's extravaganza."
"I got a guy for that. I'll send him." Then Lynne looked at the Mickey Mouse watch she'd gotten at Disneyland. "Hey, gotta dash," she said. "Big art shindig downtown. Rich bores and all."
As was Lynne's style, she was gone in seconds, with no long goodbyes. Now Samantha was alone, feeling extremely good about herself, about Marty, about life. She'd had a completely successful day.
She took out Dr. Fromer's pamphlet and started reading. It was straightforward, describing the techniques Fromer would use to check the pregnancy, pointing out that the mother would feel the baby move about the fifth month, and warning against smoking and drugs. But there was a particularly impassioned section about the dangers of having the baby away from the hospital. Fromer was a fanatic about this, listing all the emergency equipment the hospital had that would not be available to a woman who delivered, say, at home. Samantha took note. She'd go to the hospital.
She was reading the section on the hospital's nursery—it had a large viewing window for relatives to observe the little princes and princesses—when the phone rang. Samantha assumed it was Marty, and picked up.
It wasn't Marty.
"Mrs. Shaw?"
She knew the voice instantly. "Mr. Cotrell, Lou, how nice of you to call back so soon. Did you dig up something about my husband?"
"Well, that's what I called about."
"Let me get a pad and pencil to take it all down."
"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Shaw. I'm afraid…oh, this is embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?"
"Well, let me put it this way. You know, it's awfully easy to get mixed up when you've known so many children."
"Of course."
"And my memory…I guess I'm the absent-minded professor. When you called I had a youngster in mind, and I remembered him as Martin Shaw. But…well, the name wasn't Martin, it was Melvin. Mel Shaw."
"You don't remember my husband?"
"You said his parents were dead, rest 'em. This youngster's mother is alive, and still living here. That's what jolted my memory."
Samantha sensed how mortified Cotrell was, and felt for him. "Lou," she said, "it's okay. How could you possibly remember all your students? Look, I do appreciate your calling. We'll have the school records, and maybe some teachers will remember…"
"That's the other problem, Mrs. Shaw."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I sent over for the records. They don't show a Martin Shaw."
"What?"
"Surprised me too. Now, occasionally a pupil's record for one year is lost. But all his are missing."
The Northwestern call flashed violently through Samantha's mind, but she repressed it. The world was full of mistakes. She'd simply run into two in a row. "Martin went to Braden," she said, almost too firmly. "He talks about it."
"I understand."
"Well, what can we do?"
"I really don't know, Mrs. Shaw. Without the records we're kind of lost. All I can think of is that they were requested before and were taken out and left somewhere."
"That must be it," Samantha replied, grasping for any straw.
"But that doesn't explain the pictures."
"Pictures?"
"Class pictures. Every class gets its picture taken every year. I had them check the pictures. No Martin."
"He could've been absent," Samantha retorted.
"Six years in a row?"
There was a long silence, the kind of silence Samantha had experienced during the Northwestern call. She finally broke it. "Lou," she asked, a little defensively, "what does this mean?"
Cotrell laughed, but it was an uneasy, not entirely friendly laugh. "Well," he said, "maybe we've got a mistake here."
"Please explain that, Lou."
"Must I?"
A chill shot up Samantha's spine. "I would…appreciate it."
"Well, all right, here goes. You know, sometimes a kid comes from a poor family, and when he grows up he's embarrassed about it. So he…improves on his background." Another uneasy laugh.
"I see," Samantha said quietly.
"It's hardly the worst thing, Mrs. Shaw. There are some outlying areas around Elkhart…modest areas…and maybe Martin thought Elkhart sounded better."
"I can't believe that," Samantha whispered.
"If there's anything more I can do, please call," Cotrell continued. "Goodbye now."
Samantha hung up the phone, stunned. She was relieved only that Lynne wasn't there to see her embarrassment. But no, she thought. This couldn't be. Marty couldn't be hiding his past from her. He'd spoken about Braden too often, in great detail. People who have something to hide avoid subjects altogether. Her own grandfather had an alcohol problem, so he never discussed drinking. And the Northwestern thing had worked itself out when she found Marty's diploma. No, this was just another case of poor recordkeeping. It was understandable. Old records and pictures got lost, and Cotrell simply had to cover for his school. After a few minutes, Samantha began feeling good again, convinced that this flap, like the first, would end happily.
Surprise Party Page 3
