Eddie laughed. Dot thought his laugh sounded funny. Maybe it was because it was out of place in a sanitarium.
"They don't die," he said. "Surely they can't die. Gee, the doctors know too much nowadays to let a baby die just because it won't eat, don't they, Dot? Can't they think up a way to feed him?"
"Nobody has yet," she answered.
She reached for her lipstick. If he didn't get off the subject of the baby's not nursing, she was going to bawl. Why did he keep harping on it, anyhow? He didn't care about the baby. He just wanted to have something to talk about, that was all.
"He doesn't like the bottle either, huh?" said Eddie.
"No, he doesn't like the bottle, and he won't nurse, and can't you talk about anything else?"
There! That would hold him for a while. What right had he to use for a handy conversational topic the baby's indifference toward life?
Eddie looked at her for a moment and then looked away. He was speechless. Again she had resented his interest in the little fellow. He'd have to be mighty careful how he spoke. Well, he'd try not to irritate her, but he'd be damned if he was going to slight the baby to please her. Once that kid got to be a regular person that wore socks and overalls, he was going to know that his daddy loved him—Dot or no Dot! And then Eddie remembered that perhaps the little fellow would never know anything. Perhaps— He looked at Dot. She was rouging her lips. God, rouging her lips.
She was making a splotchy job of it, too, but that Eddie didn't notice. Her hand trembled with nervousness and rage. That he dared to ask casual questions about the baby as though they were discussing the contents of the movie magazine or the merits of the band at the Poppyland Dance Hall. Hadn't he any feelings at all? Didn't
