# Bad Girl (Delmar)/Chapter 16

Dr. Simons lived in an apartment house on Madison Avenue, a very different Madison Avenue from the one which spread itself above the park. The Collinses went down to Columbus Circle in the subway, then took the Fifty-ninth Street car crosstown to Madison Avenue, then the Madison Avenue car to Sixty-eighth Street. Dot was very tired when she got to Dr. Simons' house, almost too tired to be impressed by the beautiful apartment building.
A very blond, very stagey-looking nurse took Dot's name. Oh, yes, Dr. Stewart had spoken of Mrs. Collins. She and Eddie were admitted to the waiting-room. They Sat very quietly and looked the place over. There was no sign of the doctor, but they could hear an occasional movement behind the closed door which betrayed the doctor's presence.
There was a thick, soft rug on the floor, and a few Japanese prints hung on the wall. The furniture was French gray wicker, and the window had been draped by a professional draper. A very charming waiting-room, and a most disgusting wait.
The thing that baffled Dot completely was the stairs which rose out of the little foyer. Stairs! This was just an apartment, wasn't it? What were the stairs for and to what did they lead? She had decided that they were just make-believe stairs when a child came down carrying a doll. She placed the doll in a chair and solemnly climbed the stairs again. When she returned she had a picture book. So! There was actually something upstairs. Well, doctors were funny people.
​The wait continued. The blond nurse smiled encouragingly now and again. It grew warm in the pretty room. Dot took off her hat and later threw back her cape. Eddie sighed heavily and shifted his position. No other patients came into the room, but that was scant comfort, as a dozen people might well have been examined while Dot waited.
Dot leaned over and whispered to Eddie: "I wonder how Al Smith's doing?"
Eddie smiled. "It'll probably be Election Day before we get home," he said.
A woman came down the stairs, a dark, brainy-looking woman with a pleasant face. The doctor's wife. Dot had never before seen a doctor's wife. She stared at Mrs. Simons, wondering what it must feel like to be the wife of a clever doctor. Gee, Mrs. Simons must be proud. It wasn't long after that Dot learned that Dr. Simons was very proud of his wife. Dr. Stewart hadn't told Dot that Mrs. Simons was better known as Dr. Martin and that under that name she was recognized as an obstetrician of note.
Dot gazed at her interestedly and back at the child who was busily tearing pages out of her book. Having a child couldn't be bad, or all the doctors wouldn't be letting their wives have them, she thought.
Mrs. Simons exchanged a few words with the nurse and looked at Dot. She smiled and Dot smiled back at her. Did doctors deliver their wives' babies? she wondered. She would have liked to ask Mrs. Simons that and what was upstairs.
Suddenly the door to the doctor's office flew open. Nobody came out. The doctor had apparently been lost in his own thoughts for an hour and a quarter or had perhaps been deep in a mystery novel.
"You may go in, Mrs. Collins," said the nurse.
​Dot turned and whispered to Eddie: "I guess you'll have to stay out here."
Dr. Simons was apparently a person who couldn't stand waiting. Mrs. Collins' delay was too much for him. He appeared on the threshold and gestured impatiently to both of them. They arose and followed him.
The inner office basked in a cool golden glow. The sun streamed unrebuked in all the four windows and busy little electric fans whirred gleefully and dared it to make a nuisance of itself. Everything was terribly modern-looking and terribly oiled, polished, and clean.
In the center of the room stood Dr. Simons, waiting with a peevish expression on his face for Dot to take a seat. He was a tall, dark Jew, still under forty. He was slender, sharp-eyed, and rather brilliant-looking. His fingers were long and slim and nervous. He was good-looking. The sort of Jew who, one expects, will speak with an Oxford accent and who will say blisteringly sarcastic things.
Dot took a seat. So did Dr. Simons. So did Eddie. Dr. Simons asked Dot if her name was Kenny. She said it wasn't, and Dr. Simons seemed greatly upset over the turn affairs had taken. He pulled out a file-drawer and began whispering "Collins" over and over to himself. Finally he slammed the drawer and shouted: "Miss Henderson."
The nurse appeared.
"Find this woman's card," he said. "It's with the batch Dr. Stewart brought over. Her name is Kenny."
Dot's mouth opened, but she could see by the smile on Miss Henderson's face that the doctor's mistake had been noticed.
Miss Henderson found the card. The doctor regarded it critically. "Oh, you're the woman who is to come to term in a few weeks, aren't you?"
​"I hope not before Dr. Stewart comes back," said Dot timidly.
Dr. Simons favored her with a quick, sharp glance. In the end he decided she was merely stupid. "So do I," he said.
He read the card over six or seven times. When he finally laid it down, Dot had the impression that he still had not absorbed a single idea in connection with it. Miss Henderson could have told her something about that strange, restless, clever mind that never knew a peaceful moment. Could have told her something about this peevish young doctor who crucified and tortured himself for his patients, who respected but disliked him.
"We'll look at her, Miss Henderson," said Dr. Simons.
Miss Henderson led Dot through a narrow white door into a narrow white room. She helped Dot off with her dress and assisted her to the table.
"She's ready, Doctor," said Miss Henderson, opening the door.
The doctor's voice startled Dot. He was of course speaking to Eddie, but who would have guessed that he could speak like a human being and on such short acquaintance? "I listen to Roxy," he was saying, "when I have the time."
"Mrs. Collins is waiting," said Miss Henderson.
The doctor came in. He examined Dot thoroughly. He was as conscientious and as purely professional as Dr. Stewart, but there the similarity stopped. Dr. Stewart's manner was that of a saviour ministering to the needs of some one he pitied and cared for. Dr. Simons' attitude was one of extreme annoyance. "That there should be women!" said his cold eyes. "And that they should get pregnant!"
The examination finished, he left Dot abruptly, presumably to continue his conversation with Eddie. It was ​only by Miss Henderson's cool hand extended to her that Dot knew that it was time to get off the table.
She dressed and joined Eddie and the doctor. Eddie was chatting easily with Dr. Simons. Dr. Simons looked at Dot as she came in. His eyes were still cold, but they held something else, a look of apprehension, of worry.
"She's fine, isn't she, Doctor?" asked Miss Henderson.
You felt that her words were not at all meant to reassure the patient, but rather to soothe and compose the doctor.
"Yes, ah, yes," he said absently. "Quite all right. When are you to come again, Mrs. Collins?"
"The week after next," said Dot.
"You'd better make it next week," said Dr. Simons. "A week from today."
They left him then. Dot went, feeling that she had put a blight on that cool and sunny room. The doctor was worrying his hair with his long, slim fingers and staring thoughtfully after her. Miss Henderson was tiptoeing about as though not to disturb his reflections, unpleasant though they might be.
Outside, Dot found that Mrs. Simons and the child had disappeared. Together she and Eddie left the strange apartment that had stairs.
"I hate that man," said Dot passionately.
"Oh, he's all right," said Eddie. "Nervous, that's all. Clever fellows are always two steps away from the bughouse."
"Dr. Stewart isn't like that."
"This fellow's a Jew," Eddie reminded her. "When they ain't the common, money-grabbing kind, they're kind of erratic."
"You know why I hate him?" asked Dot.
"No. Why?"
​"He scared me. He looked at me funny. He thinks something's wrong with me."
"How do you mean?"
"With my insides, I guess. He thinks I'm gonna kick off, having this baby."
"You're crazy."
"You didn't see the way he looked at me. Maybe he's right," she said, gloomily.
"Ain't you got faith no more in Stewart?"
"Yes, but he ain't seen me lately. Maybe something has happened."
"Oh, go on," said Eddie. "Nothing just happens. You'd 'a' felt it, I'll bet, if anything bad had happened."
There was no car in sight; so they walked slowly down Madison Avenue. Dot was preoccupied and dreary. She gazed without interest into the windows of the shops that lined the street. Crazy shops. Many of them had nothing but books in the windows. Others were full of junk, funny-looking vases and plates and things. One shop had nothing at all on display except a great big cabinet with Chinese designs. "Give me Two Hundred and Seventh Street any time," thought Dot. "Or Willis Avenue."
She undressed and lay down when she got home. It had been a horrible trip. She was dead tired and depressed. Her body was a smoldering expanse of quivering flesh. That doctor! Did he know something that kindly, good-natured Dr. Stewart didn't know? Had she seen her future truthfully foretold in the panicked gaze that he had cast upon her?
Some women did die in childbirth. Everybody knew that. The rate was low nowadays. But still, some women did die. Would she be one of them?
Funny she hadn't thought about dying before. And funny that somehow she didn't care for herself. But to ​leave a tiny, defenseless baby all alone in the big world! There was Eddie, of course, but he would be bewildered, frightened, helpless as the baby. What would he do? He had no relatives. He would not give the baby to Edna even if she would take it. What would he do? He would probably put it in a "home."
She tore her mind to pieces with conjectures. She tossed her head about in an agony of worry. She saw her baby's identity forgotten, Eddie far from New York, herself cold and useless in her grave. Sleep released her at last, but she cried in her sleep, and Eddie, standing quietly by, wondered what she was dreaming.
When she awakened, he had dinner all ready. The corn had boiled too long, and the steak was too rare; but she appreciated his effort. Not that she was hungry. It was hard to eat when visions of the baby—whose mother had made him a dozen web-fine dresses all by hand—growing up in an institution were so close.
"Ain't supper all right?" asked Eddie.
"Sure. It's fine."
She wasn't eating even as well as her diet permitted. Eddie wondered what that meant. Was something wrong with her, after all? Suppose something happened to her?
Now, for the first time in months, he pictured her lying white and dead. He couldn't bear the thought of it. He moved restlessly and uttered an oath.
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Honest, Eddie, dinner is fine. Don't be sore that I ain't eating. It's only because that trip kinda tired me out."
"I ain't sore."
"Then what's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"There is, too, something the matter. Do you get the blues when you think how close we are to having a kid?"
​"Yes," said Eddie.
The pall with which Dr. Simons had enshrouded Dot did not lift. The days of Eddie's vacation rode each other into eternity, hot, dry days above which the sua hung with a tawdry brassiness. Its sumptuous golden radiance seemed to have deserted it. It was merely a huge and ugly gilt bauble suspended in space. At night when it fell behind the Palisades with the crass obviousness of an electrical effect, it left behind a stifling, black night.
The Democratic Convention continued. The inability of the Democrats to reach an agreement had become a joke around town. Dot still listened. She had come to respect steadfast Alabama and to enjoy, if not to share, California's excitement over William Gibbs McAdoo. She was a New Yorker. She wanted to see Al Smith get the nomination. Of course Coolidge was going to be President again, but since these people set so much store by picking a loser, she felt that Al Smith certainly ought to be the guy. Listening to the arguments and discussions, even, dispelled the gloom which Dr. Simons had provoked. But after the delegates, the alternates, the visitors, and everybody else had gone for the night to their hotels, rooming-houses, and homes, there were still Dr. Simons' worried eyes staring at her from the darkness. He thought she was going to die. She had seen it in his face.
She had stayed in the house during the terrible heat wave. Eddie had shopped for the meat and groceries. Nobody had come to see them. Edna had taken Floyd to Asbury Park. Sue and Pat were vacationing at Far Rockaway. She had had a card from Maude McLaughlin. Maude was in Atlantic City. Her card had said: "We are having a wonderful time. Wish you were here."
"We" are having a wonderful time. That didn't mean Maude and her mother, for they never went any place together. Did it mean Maude and the golden-haired child? ​Dot earnestly doubted it. It probably meant Maude and Ted. She would be having a wonderful time at an expensive seaside resort despite any irregularities of conduct. When it was Maude, the gods laughed and accepted her sins as youthful pranks. Dot felt a little bitter. It was very hot on Post Avenue, and the gods didn't seem to care a hoot that Dot was perpetuating the race in a perfectly respectable way. Maude was probably wearing snowy-white sport clothes and soft, perfumed dance frocks. She was bathing, riding in wheel chairs, dancing, and in every way enjoying the summer.
She had dropped Dot a card and had sent the baby a gift; so apparently she bore Dot no ill will even though Dot had seen fit to do as she pleased in the little matter of her pregnancy. Dot was still a trifle angry at Maude. She had longed to return the carriage robe, but an insane lust to own many things for her baby had defeated her longing.
The night of July Fourth came down upon New York with a dark, throbbing heat. There was nothing of new interest being reported from Madison Square Garden. Dot and Eddie sat drinking cream soda, each gloomily thinking his own gloomy thoughts.
Dot got to her feet ponderously. "Eddie," she said, "I got to go up on the roof for a while. I'm getting crazy from just looking at this room."
Eddie turned off the radio. "I'll go with you," he said.
They ascended the one short flight of stairs to the roof in silence. Dot walked in front. Gee, from the back you'd never know she was pregnant! She wore a short dotted-swiss dress without sleeves and without belt or sash. It had only taken an hour to make and had cost but forty-nine cents. Her hair still held its noble, aloof wave which could be touched neither by pain nor by adversity, but it was ragged on her neck and far too long to fill any of the ​accepted offices of the bob. Eddie looked at her ankles. They were slim and girlish. Perfectly normal. Some women acquired swollen ankles during pregnancy, Eddie knew. He remembered Dr. Stewart's concern lest her hands and feet swell. Oh, she was probably all right. He was just full of imagination.
The roof was dark and deserted. There were no stars, and a cloud, glumly silver, betrayed the moon's hiding-place. There was going to be rain in a few hours, and the air, heavy and sulky, resented the approaching storm.
Dot walked to the edge of the roof and peered over the low wall. The street lay alone suffering the heat. No one was strolling tonight toward the movies or the pool room. This was a holiday. People were at the beaches or at lavishly decorated dances. The older folks were probably listening to the Convention or permitting the threat of rain to keep them to their living-rooms.
The voice of Senator Walsh reached Dot and Eddie from a dozen loud speakers. Everybody in Inwood who owned a radio set listened to the Convention.
Some one didn't have a radio set. A girl with a frail, thrilling voice who had the apartment right under the front part of the roof was playing a piano and singing the wistful, haunting melody that had struck New York so short a time before.
A sudden chill hit Dot. Far away. Somebody was wondering what they would do when they were left alone. Far away. What did that mean? California? Hawaiian Territory? Perhaps farther. Perhaps a place from which there was no return.
The voice of the singer was not a good voice, but there was a faint tragic sweetness tinting it that hurt Dot. It tore. It cut. Perhaps she was going far away and was going to leave Eddie wondering what to do.
She crept closer to him over the dead, black roof. His face was a blur of white in the darkness. She touched him, and his arms went around her with a gentle firmness that seemed for the moment as though they could keep her safe from Death itself.
They stood so for an age, it seemed. They were alone in the world, he and she standing alone in the hot, black dampness. There was a lump in Dot's throat. She wanted to cry, wanted to shriek that it wasn't fair. Why were you tortured with fear and grief when you were doing what, according to religion and science, was the right thing? Why was your body ill, your mind troubled, when you were saving and stinting just to bring another little life into the world? Oh, it wasn't fair. She hugged Eddie tightly. Perhaps very soon now his arms would be empty.
Over Interstate Park, a skyrocket cut through the fog and exploded, a torrent of hot red and dazzling green. The colors were dimmed slightly by the mist but you could guess that they were bright and very gay. To Dot, the thought of pleasure-seekers and excursionists at the Park did not occur. The skyrocket was just a mockingly cheerful salute from a world that was about to crumble and fall into the unknown.
"Oh, Eddie, I'm so blue."
He kissed her mouth gravely and held her close. He did ​not question. He was Eddie, her husband. Solid, strong, and so very dear to her.
The black hush deepened. The piano was quiet. The Democratic Convention had lost its followers. They had gone to bed. No further signal came from Interstate Park. The world was empty. There were only Eddie and Dot, forgotten and solitary, left alone on top of a deserted building.
"Eddie, I love you so."
He kissed her again. "How do you feel, Kid?" he asked.
"Oh, I'm all right. Why? Why did you ask?"
"I just wanted to know."
A little wind came up. Dot's hair blew in his eyes as he bent above her. The fragrance of her powder rose from her warm, white neck. He turned away from her, lost in thoughts of the night he had first kissed her. She had been so gay, so fresh. Now, she was troubled, burdened, and about to face a crisis. He had done it. He had brought this on her.
"Eddie, I got to go see Simons again tomorrow."
"Yes, I know, Kid."
"I wouldn't go if it wasn't for Dr. Stewart. He'd probably be sore if I didn't, huh?"
"Yes, I guess he would. You'll have to go."
"Eddie, when are you going to get your suit?"
"Maybe tomorrow night if you feel well enough to be left alone. I don't want to drag you down there with me."
"What kind you gonna get?"
"Blue serge, I guess. It always looks nice."
"Yes, that's right."
They left the roof then, but Dot knew that the roof ​and what it brought to mind would never leave her. It would linger forever embalmed in all its terrifying serenity.
Reluctantly, the next day she started again for the office of Dr. Simons. Eddie had thought it best to accompany her again. For though she now knew exactly where the office was, he thought it advisable for her to have a companion on such a long trip.
Dot hated the people in the subway who looked at her. She was conscious of the shabbiness of her cape, which was of cheap material and had not stood the gaff. She was quite unable to feel glorified by her approaching motherhood, for across the way from her sat a woman with a tiny infant in her arms, and the woman wore a frock that had never been purchased for less than thirty dollars. Dot fell to wondering how the woman could have managed such an expensive dress so shortly after her confinement. The puzzle kept Dot occupied all the way to Columbus Circle.
Dr. Simons had not yet returned from his calls when they arrived at the office. Miss Henderson assured Dot that he was due any minute. There were other patients in the reception room today—a white-faced girl with a bad cough, a small, natty man with no obvious disorder, and a woman who was going to have a baby around October.
Dot sighed and took a seat. This probably meant that the trip to Inwood would be made during the subway's rush hour. She discarded her hat and cape and picked up a magazine. It was the Atlantic Monthly. She didn't remember ever having seen a copy of the Atlantic Monthly before. It looked like a very nice magazine, but Judge had funny pictures. Eddie found Judge for her, and she settled down to wait.
Presently the main door of the hall slammed loudly. ​There was the sound of quick, important steps and the doctor's voice rapidly putting questions to the nurse. There followed a delay in which the patients in the reception room heard Dr. Simons holding forth to Miss Henderson on the delivery he had just accomplished uptown somewhere. Miss Henderson's voice was not in evidence now, but you knew she was looking surprised, sympathetic, and admiring at proper intervals.
The doctor rushed impressively through the reception room and into his office. He did not look at any of the people who were awaiting him, but you felt that this was just a little game he played and that really he had noted the number and identities of the patients.
Miss Henderson gave him time to rest for ten minutes or so; then she nodded brightly to the natty, little man. "You may go in, Mr. Clifford."
Mr. Clifford went in jauntily. Mr. Clifford came out properly squelched. The two women were attended to with neatness and dispatch. Dot's turn was next, but it appeared, from the hesitation on Miss Henderson's part, that she was a delicate subject with the doctor and could not be broached without preparation. Miss Henderson went in the office. When she came out she smiled at Dot but gave no signal. A few minutes later the signal came from the nurse. It was as though she had been instructed to count up to five hundred and then usher Dot into the presence of his Royal Nervousness.
Dot went in with slow and reluctant steps. Eddie remained in the reception room, pretending to read from one of the humorous weeklies.
Dot smiled at Dr. Simons when he looked at her. He returned her greeting with a somewhat absent cordiality.
"Well, how are you?" he asked.
"I'm feeling fine," she said, trying to keep a ring of defiance out of her voice. "Though I'm kind of worried."
​Dr. Simons appeared interested. He looked up from a sheaf of papers which he held in his hand and asked, "What are you worried about?"
Dot's defiance fled. She met Dr. Simon's eyes timorously. "You kind 'a' gave me the idea," she said, "that things weren't so awful good with me."
Dr. Simons laughed a little. His laugh would have deceived no one. It was hollow, false. Dissipating fear was evidently no part of his bedside manner.
"You want your own doctor back, eh?" His attempt to jeer pleasantly fell flat. His expression was too anxious, too intent on her answer, for his words to pass as mere persiflage.
"I've had Dr. Stewart for months," Dot said, gravely, "and I feel as though I had had him for years. I'd let him cut my head off, and I wouldn't doubt but what he could get it back on again."
"That's very flattering trust," said Dr. Simons.
Dot felt a little sorry for him now. Perhaps her dis= closure of how she felt toward Dr. Stewart had been unkind, and certainly unnecessary.
She laughed uncomfortably. "I'm used to him," she said. "That's it, I suppose. Have you heard from him lately?"
"Yes," said Dr. Simons. "I had a wire from him this morning."
Miss Henderson came and urged Dot into the other room, where she helped her prepare for the examination. Dr. Simons was, on this occasion, content with the most perfunctory of investigations.
"Well," he said, as Dot returned to the office, "I guess you'll have your doctor with you in three or four days."
"Oh, did he say so in the wire you got?"
Dr. Simons shook his head. "I'm going to send for him ​at once," he said. "He asked to be called if you showed any signs of action. I don't feel justified in handling your delivery in the face of his request."
"Oh," said Dot, "that's fine."
She left Dr. Simons, with his dubious smile, standing in the middle of his office looking after her. The nurse was humming a melody from the new Elizabeth Hines show.
Dot said nothing to Eddie until they were on the car; then she told him that Dr. Stewart was coming right back. In her voice was the peace and joy Robert Browning must have visioned when he wrote his famous poem of the world's tranquillity.
"Gee, that's great," said Eddie.
"Ain't it? Everything will be all right now. That Simons guy put a jinx on me. He made me feel rotten."
Eddie looked at her carefully. "How do you feel now?"
"All right. Tired, though. Gee, I'm glad Dr. Stewart is coming back."
She looked glad. For the first time in weeks there was a vividness about her, an air of having to face a job that would be unpleasant but inconsequential.
Eddie's spirits rose with each station that they passed on the Broadway express. At Dyckman Street, he bought half a banana cream pie in Hanscom's bakery, and Dot forgot her diet long enough to eat a slice of it.
She was cheerful, smiling, and brave through the following days. When Dr. Stewart's letter postmarked New York arrived, she felt almost as though the worst part of the confinement were over. The letter said that he was coming to see her on the following day.
Eddie had gone back to work. She had hated to part with him, but there was some consolation to be found in returning to a normal routine. She cleaned busily so that ​the house should be bright and shining when Dr. Stewart came. She expected him around one o'clock, but it was after three when he arrived.
He didn't tell her that he had been talking to Dr. Simons. If he had, he probably would have kept Dr. Simons' greeting to himself: "My God, Stewart, I'm glad you're back. That Collins woman! I don't want to deliver her. If her baby's over two pounds it'll be a battle. God, Stewart, I'm glad to see you."
Dr. Stewart had scoffed at his colleague's excitement, had laid him a little bet, had advised him quite seriously not to worry so much over the people he saw and to have some confidence in himself. Dr. Simons reminded his friend very much of an exposed nerve. Everything that came within his range of feeling hurt him, made him throb with pain and anxiety.
"Don't worry over Mrs. Collins," Dr. Stewart had laughed.
"I shan't," Dr. Simons returned, "now that you're here; but if you hadn't come, I'd have probably been buried the same day they bury her."
On the whole, Dr. Stewart didn't consider it prudent to repeat this conversation to Dot.