Part 3 (1/2)
”Mrs. Youngblood!” he cried happily. ”You're so healthy you've never been to see me before, in two years here, I see! Good for you! What can I do for you today?” Dr. Zelman caught sight of me trying to be un.o.btrusively solicitous, and patted me on the shoulder so heavily I almost went down. ”Little Ms. Teagarden! Prettier than ever!” I smiled uneasily as he turned back to Angel.
Angel stoically recited her symptoms: occasional exhaustion, occasional queasiness, lack of energy. I winced when I thought of asking Angel to help me mow the yard the day before. Now quiet and intent, Dr. Zelman began examining her from head to toe, including a pelvic, which Angel clearly hadn't expected (I hadn't either) and which she barely endured.
”Well, Mrs. Youngblood,” Dr. Zelman said thoughtfully, rooting for his pencil in his graying hair (it was stuck behind his ear), ”it's really too bad your husband didn't come with you today, because we have a lot to talk about.”
Angel and I both blanched. I reached out and grabbed her hand.
”Because, of course, Mrs. Youngblood, as I'm sure you guessed, you are are pregnant.” pregnant.”
Angel and I gasped simultaneously.
”I'm sure you knew, right? You must have missed two periods. You're at least ten weeks along, maybe more. Of course, with your wonderful physique, you're not showing.”
”I'm not regular at all,” Angel said in a stunned way. ”I really didn't notice, and it didn't occur to me to wonder, because my husband . . . has had a vasectomy.”
I sat down abruptly. Fortunately, there was a chair underneath.
For once, Dr. Zelman looked nonplused. ”Has he had a recheck done recently?” he asked.
”Recheck? He got snipped! Why should he have a recheck?” For once, Angel's voice rose.
”It's wise, Mrs. Youngblood, wise indeed, to have that recheck. Sometimes the severed tubes grow back. I'm sorry I gave you the news so blithely, since it seems you and your husband had not planned to have any children. But a baby's on the way, Mrs. Youngblood. Well on the way. You're in such excellent condition and so slim that the baby may not show at all for another month or so, especially since this must be your first pregnancy.”
Angel was shaking her head from side to side, disbelievingly.
”If your husband wants to talk to me,” Dr. Zelman said gently, ”I can explain to him how this happened.”
”I'm pretty sure he's going to think he knows already,” Angel said dismally. ”But I would never in this world .. .” She shook her head, finis.h.i.+ng the rest of her sentence in her head.
I had to help Angel dress, she was so deeply shocked. I tried not to burble, since she was upset, but I was so excited by proxy that it was hard.
A baby.
”How can I work?” Angel said, but not as if she was really concerned.
”Pooh, as a bodyguard? I don't need a bodyguard anymore, now that Martin's out of-that mess,” I said soothingly. ”If you still want to help me out around the place, we'll work something out. Maybe I could keep the baby for you? Some?”
She heard the yearning in my voice.
”This should be happening to you,” she said with a faint smile on her thin lips.
”Oh, Martin's worried about his age,” I said, and thought right away of kicking myself: Shelby Youngblood was Martin's age, forty-seven, and Angel was twenty-eight to my thirty-two and a half. ”Anyway,” I said bracingly, ”you tell him to call Dr. Zelman, okay? He may get kind of upset, having had a vasectomy and all.”
”Oh, I just bet he will,” she said grimly.
Angel walked out to the car in a state of stunned silence. I made sure she was in the car and then I ran back in to get my purse, which I'd left in the examining room. You could tell I was excited and upset, since normally I'd be as likely to leave my arm as my purse. I explained to Trinity Zelman, who waved me on back, and Linda was waiting at the door to the examining room with the purse in hand.
”Knew you'd come back for it,” she said. ”Give me a call, now!” She hurried down the hall to the little lab, and I turned to go out, pa.s.sing the first examining room on one side and Dr. Zelman's office on the other on my way to the waiting room. Dr. Zelman's office door was typically ajar, and I heard Mr. Dryden's pleasant accentless voice inside. He'd finally gotten his five minutes with the doctor.
”I see that the widow has urged me to talk with you about her husband's condition,” Dr. Zelman was saying without much enthusiasm. ”So I'll answer your questions.”
I walked slower.
”In your opinion, was Jack Burns an alcoholic?” Dry-den asked directly.
”Yes,” said Dr. Zelman. ”Just this past two or three years, he came to me on several occasions with drink-related injuries. He'd hit his head when he fell, one time. Another time, his car had hit a tree. There were a couple more things like that.”
”Did it seem to you, from what you knew of Jack Burns, that his judgment was impaired?”
”Yes, he . . .” and then I had no excuse to loiter, though I dearly wanted to, because Trinity came out of the reception area and started to go to the doctor's office with some files.
I had more to think about than I could cram in my brain. I'd dropped Angel off at home, promising to take her prescription for maternity vitamins to the pharmacy on my way home from work. Angel clearly wanted some time to herself, and I could understand why. Telling your forty-seven-year-old vasectomied husband that he's about to be a dad was not an enviable proposition. I wanted to talk the situation over with Martin, but of course I couldn't tell him Angel was expecting until she told her own husband. So probably it was just as well I had to go to work.
The Lawrenceton Public Library is a large two-story block with a low addition to the rear of the building for offices. This brand-new addition, achieved mostly by a bequest from an anonymous patron, a few other donations, and matching community improvement funds, is easily the nicest part of the library, and it's a pity I get to spend so little time in it. It consists of a large employee break room with a row of bright lockers for personal possessions, a microwave, refrigerator, table and chairs, and a stove; Sam Clerrick's office (with s.p.a.ce outside for a secretary, though now he only has a volunteer part-time); and a ”community interest” room, where various clubs can meet free of charge if they are careful to schedule it well ahead of time. And there's a nice employee bathroom.
The rest of the library, where I get to spend my working hours, is a plain old creaky public building, with indoor-outdoor carpeting that resembles woven dead gra.s.s with trampled-in mustard, the usual row upon row of gray metal shelves, a two-story entrance and nice staircase up to the second floor, which has a gallery running all the way around with various Dewey Decimal categories lining it, and lots of table-and-chair sets for kids doing homework or genealogists doing research. There's an area set aside by clever use of shelving and extra bulletin boards, and it's designated as the Children's Room.
Whatever its drawbacks, overall there is that wonderful smell of books, and the relaxing, intelligent feeling of being surrounded by generation after generation of thought.
I've got libraries in my blood.
Of course, there are a few things I have to put up with to work in this wonderful place, and one of them was bearing down on me. Lillian Schmidt, b.u.t.tons bulging and girdle creaking, had her eyebrows up in that ”Hah! I caught you!” look.
”Late today, aren't we?” Lillian fired as her opening shot.
”Yes, I'm afraid so. I had to take a friend to the doctor.”
”Wonder what would happen if all of us did that? Guess the library just wouldn't open!”
I took a deep breath.
”I'm late enough as it is,” I said with a smile. ”Excuse me, Lillian, but I can't stand here and chat.” I pulled out the little key to my locker, used it, and stuck my purse inside, pocketing the key in my khaki slacks. I was due to tell a story in two minutes.
The librarian I was replacing, at least temporarily, was the children's librarian.
Perhaps ten preschoolers were already seated in an expectant semicircle when I plopped down in the big chair in the middle.
”Good morning!” I said with enough glee to raise a hot-air balloon.
”Good morning,” the children chorused back politely. This was the First Church of G.o.d the Creator day-care group, with a couple of other loose kids thrown in, story-time regulars. The moms and the day-care providers sat in a little group over in one corner, their expression one of relief that someone else was shouldering the burden, at least for a few minutes.
”This morning, I'm going to tell you about Alexander's bad day,” I said, casting a covert glance at the book the volunteer for the morning, my friend Lizanne Sewell, had left by the chair: Alexander and the No-Good, Awful, Very Bad Day. Alexander and the No-Good, Awful, Very Bad Day. Most of the kids turned hopeful faces in my direction, though a few were looking anywhere but at me. Most of the kids turned hopeful faces in my direction, though a few were looking anywhere but at me.
”I'll bet some of you have had bad days at one time or another, am I right? What happened on your bad day, Irene?” This to a little girl with a wonderful, large easy-to-read name tag. Irene pushed her s.h.a.ggy black bangs out of her eyes and squashed the slack in her T-s.h.i.+rt in one grubby fist.