There was his face. Narrow eyes, set jaw. There was his voice. Cold, steely. There was his question. Do you want a baby? He threw his cigarette on the lovely oilcloth and crushed it to nothingness. Eddie had never abused their home before. Do you want a baby? He was looking at her now. What did he want her to say? No, of course. Would he look so worried, so hard, if he wanted the other answer?
Dot turned a chop over, disclosing a hitherto unsuspected lovely brown side. She threw the pancake-turner on the tub. It made a nasty clatter from which even the tub seemed to shrink.
"What do I want a baby for?" she asked. "Who wants to be tied down for months before and years after? Not me."
Eddie sighed. That was a sigh of relief, of course, but his expression never relaxed all evening.
On the thirtieth Dot looked at Eddie qhestioningly. "It's the thirtieth," she said. "Where do we go from here?"
"You're sure now, eh?"
"Positive."
"Well," said Eddie. It was different when it was a fellow's wife. A fellow didn't go in a pool room and get hold of a guy he knew, tell his story, and see if the guy could suggest a drug or a doctor. It was different when it was a fellow's wife. "Well," said Eddie. "Well—"
Dot went to see Sue Cudahy. Sue had quit work. She was going to marry Pat in another month, and she was letting him get accustomed to supporting her.
Dot found her sitting on the sofa in the Cudahy parlor, re-stringing her yellow beads. She looked a little bored with life and had none of the shining mysticism of a girl in her last month of single blessedness. She chuckled when Dot told her news.
