young and husky voice. He hated her to sing that song right now. It was a ghost come to haunt him, to torture him with questions. Does she still wear gay sweaters? Does she still worry over nothing but the pitch of her ukulele? Is she still happy? Does she—
Eddie went into the bathroom. He had to be alone for a minute. He walked over to the narrow frosted window and threw it open. He looked up at the warm, starsplashed sky. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but there was nothing that could be worded. How could you say something without putting it into words? Eddie slammed the window shut. He looked up at the ceiling and said, "God, don't let her die." It was the best he could do. And it wasn't a real prayer, he told himself, not a real prayer.
Dot was lying just as he had left her.
"Want anything?" he asked.
She shook her head and smiled. No, there was nothing she wanted now. Soon the baby would be here. She did not notice whether he was lively or still. She wondered about the sanitarium. How would she get there and when?
Eddie wandered around looking for a match. He passed three packages of matches without noticing them and finally went to light his cigarette on the gas-stove pilot.
Dot felt a little pain. It was so slight that she would not have noticed it under ordinary circumstances. But now—well, there it was. A little pain. It would gather force and frequency. It would grow harder to bear, still harder, and finally when it could be borne no longer, the baby would rush forth and it would be all over. But now the pain had gone.
The time passed slowly. Dot had another pain. It, too, was slight. She worried for the slightness of it. Was it
