Fortune's Hand (13 page)

Billy, who had been asleep in his usual place under
the mulberry bush, got up when the car stopped and wagged his tail.

He's getting old, Robb thought again. We ought to get a puppy, or maybe a pair. Children need to live with dogs in the house.

Mrs. Vernon, who had been summoned from retirement for the week, came to the door and gave Robb a hug. She was jubilant.

“To think I was here to hug Mr. Grant when Ellen and Arthur were born. I don't feel that old, but now I know I am.”

“You're not old. You're young as the morning, Mrs. Vernon. Where's my Julie—oh, there you are! Has anyone told you about the new baby?”

“Grandpa called up.”

“You'll be seeing him day after tomorrow. He's coming home. He's a nice big boy. Looks like your doll, Timmy.”

“With overalls like Timmy's?”

“Not yet. But we'll buy him some as soon as he can wear them. Blue, like Timmy's.”

“With a cap?”

“Certainly with a cap. Come. Give me your hand, and we'll walk in to supper. I'm starved. Are you starved, my Julie?”

“I think so. Can we call the baby Timmy, Daddy?”

“No, darling. He already has a name. He came with a name, you see.”

“Oh.” Julie thought about that. “What is it?”

“Penn,” Robb said joyously. His boy. His son. Penn.

E
llen walked out of the publisher's office as though she had been pumped with energy. And so she had been, for they loved her book! Her robins had found a home in a light-blue binding with a bold, bright bird on the front cover and a photograph of herself on the back.

“It will make a great Christmas gift,” the editor had said. “Aren't you glad you finally decided to do your own story, for your own illustrations?”

Yes, she was glad. She had even come to the meeting with her idea for the next book already taking shape.

“It's to be about our setter, Billy. He just died after a long, happy life. I know there must be a million dog books, but this will be different, I promise. An original. My little girl adored him. I plan to work her into the story, too.”

“Is she your only child?”

The editor, who looked like a grandfather, had made
her feel very comfortable, even expansive. And she answered eagerly, “No, we have a boy almost six months old. Someday I'll have to work him into a book, too.”

“You're a fortunate young woman, having it both ways, children plus what I see as a very promising career.”

She was aware as she walked down the avenue that her smile was still on her face. But who could help smiling? Everything sparkled in New York's windy spring, so different from spring at home. Here they had walked together, she two days a wife, he with a tourist's camera and craned head counting the height of the buildings. Here they had eaten a marvelous dinner, up there they had danced, and over here at this gallery they had stopped to see the paintings. Robb had admired one; she remembered it well, as she remembered everything, a landscape in the modernist mode: dark strokes of trees, the milky, bare suggestion of a pond, and hints of changing weather in the sky. She had wanted to use part of their honeymoon money to buy it for his future office, but he had refused.

“Too expensive,” he had insisted.

She looked at her watch. There would be plenty of time to do some shopping before the plane left; toys for the children, a little memento for Mrs. Vernon, who was baby-sitting, and something luxurious for Robb. Always he resisted luxury, not for her but for himself. And she looked at her watch again. First the toy store, which would be quick, and then for Robb some handsome ties, a fine sweater or maybe two. Let him protest!
He certainly wasn't going to go back to New York to return them.

With the errands finished and still some time to spare, she went up Fifth Avenue toward the park and sat on a bench to watch what her father called “the passing parade.” Traffic streamed, and chrome glittered in the sunshine. Interesting people walked by, sloppy teenagers and fashionable women, some of these wheeling beautiful baby carriages, either leaving or entering the park.

After a while one of them came to the bench, placing her carriage in Ellen's full view of a pink baby in a pink bonnet.

“Adorable,” Ellen said. “How old is she?”

“Six months. She insists on being propped up on the pillows. Now that she can sit, she doesn't want to lie down. I think she's simply nosy, and doesn't want to miss what's happening in the world,” the mother added with some pride.

As she was expected to do, Ellen laughed. “A precocious child.”

“Not really. They're expected to sit up at her age.”

“I guess I've forgotten. My little girl is almost four.”

Had Julie sat up and been so active? For this baby was gurgling and waving her rattle with zeal. Goodness knows Julie is lively enough now, she thought. The way time flows and months merge into each other, it's hard to remember.

But Penn doesn't act like this baby. Mrs. Vernon calls him “old man,” since he never smiles.…

Because the other woman was friendly, Ellen had to
invent some conversation. But it was cold on the bench with the sun gone in and the wind scattering a gust of blossoms from the trees. An unexpected restlessness altered her mood. She was in a hurry to get home. Suddenly, it made more sense to spend a few hours waiting in the airport rather than sitting here.

The plane was late on both ends of the flight. The taxi home caught every red light, and it was long past dark when it drew up before the house. Julie was already asleep when Ellen arrived.

“Everything's fine,” Mrs. Vernon said. “No problems. Did you have a good trip? Mr. MacDaniel said to tell you they're having a meeting at the office, so don't expect him before ten or eleven.”

“How is Penn?”

“Well, the usual. I was up a lot with him last night. Tried to keep him quiet so his father and Julie could sleep, but otherwise he's fine.”

“Has he tried to sit up?”

“Why, no. Why? Did you expect a big change in two days?” Sometimes Mrs. Vernon talked to Ellen as if they were mother and daughter. She had an intimate, gentle way of teasing. “Maybe you expected him to say his ABCs by the time you got back?”

“No, but shouldn't he be sitting up? All of a sudden I'm worried. I saw a baby just his age today, and I've been thinking all the way home that maybe Penn is weak. Or—”

“There isn't a thing in the world the matter with Penn. He eats like a young wolf, and sick children don't eat.”

Unreasonable doubts, these were, simply because of that baby today. Unreasonable.

“I know Julie as well as the back of my hand, and I knew you, too, when you were her age, so I ought to know what I'm talking about when it comes to Penn.”

Upstairs the hall light was dimmed between the children's rooms. Penn was a rounded mound under his covers, his round cheeks just visible enough to show the place where babies' dimples appear when they smile. Except that he never smiled. Mrs. Vernon had admitted that much.
Solemn
, she called him. An infant? Solemn?

For over a week now, Ellen had not wheeled Penn anywhere, especially not to the pond and back. It was a pleasant walk over level ground, and young mothers liked to gather there. Quite naturally, much of the talk concerned their respective babies. Oh, comparisons are odious, Ellen thought, yet they are what everyone, including me, is secretly doing. And not always so secretly, either, for yesterday among the mothers, she had caught some meaningful, questioning glances toward Penn.… She was in a panic. Tomorrow, and not a day later, she would make a special appointment with the doctor.

“Yes,” said Dr. Polk, “his development is rather slow, Ellen. I've taken note of that.”

“Just taken note?”

“I wanted to wait and see.”

“Wait to see what?” She had not intended to let her voice ring as sharply as apparently it had, for the doctor's reply was deliberately soothing.

“The last thing I wanted was to alarm you. Obviously, not all infants grow at the same rate. Penn is a little slow, that's all. It may mean nothing.”

“It ‘may'? That means it also may not!” Now there was a wail in her voice. “And we never knew there could be anything wrong. Blissfully ignorant, that's what we've been.”

“You're seeing some kind of calamity, Ellen. It's natural for parents to worry, but there's not much sense worrying until you have to, is there? What's made you so anxious all of a sudden, anyway?”

“I've been looking at snapshots and recollecting how Julie was. Penn is entirely different. When he's not upset, he's—he's dull. Now it's becoming clear to me. Why didn't I see it before?”

“Because there hasn't been that much to see. When I know something definite, believe me, I'll tell you. Go on home, Ellen. Relax and tell your husband to do the same.”

A weakness spread from a hollow, chilled place in her chest and traveled down into her legs, which did not want to keep her upright. There was something very wrong that Dr. Polk had not revealed. She was fond of him. When you watched his way with children, jolly with a well child or calm and firm with a sick one, you knew that he had chosen the perfect specialty for himself. Yet now his very calmness and his kindness troubled her.

“He's meandering in a circle,” Robb said, “postponing the disagreeable moment when he will have to tell us what or whether anything is wrong.”

And she knew that Robb was not even admitting the extent of his fears. There was always the hope that one is imagining something, or that if there really is something, it will go away.

Robb said at last, “We need a second opinion. We're not getting anywhere with Polk, nice as he is.”

“You know,” said Eddy, “I can connect with a slew of people in Washington or New York. Let me get a name, a top guy, the best.”

Robb, thanking him, explained why a long trip by plane would be impossible. “And we certainly couldn't go by car. Penn's too restless. It's just not worth the effort. And there are no miracles up there, anyway.”

“How about a private jet? No airport waiting, no passengers to complain about the kid's noise. You'd be there in no time. Devlin'll be glad to lend his jet. How about it?”

It didn't seem to make any sense to Robb, and he hesitated. And yet, you never knew. Maybe it was worth the trip. Maybe.

“You're awfully good to us, Eddy. I'll ask Ellen.”

“She'll say yes. She'd go from here to China for the kid.”

“That's true. And so would I.”

Dr. Evan Muller sat in a plush office ten stories above the street. Ellen had a definite sensation: this day was to bring the moment of decision. The man behind the desk was brisk and professional in a way that Ray Polk was not; his keen eyes and his very posture revealed a nature
concerned with facts, not feelings. He was almost intimidating.

“But then we're back where we started?” she asked. “What do you mean? Where did you start?”

“Well, our doctor said that his development is slow.”

“That's one way of saying it.”

“What other way is there?”

“Slow or late are the same. They're what people say when they don't like to use the word ‘retarded.' ”

The room contracted as if its walls were cloth, collapsing like a tent, and she heard her own sharp cry. “Retarded! It means—”

“It means that the child will not attain normal adult development,” Dr. Muller said quietly.

“But what does ‘normal' mean? Is the word even definable?” Robb demanded.

“Certainly. It can be and it is defined, probably not exactly, but with fair enough accuracy. Depending on I.Q., a case is graded mild or moderate or severe. The ‘mild' learns to care for himself, grows up, and goes to work. He can be self-supporting in a simple job. And so on, in stages downward, to the most severe, who has to be cared for all his life. Time will tell.”

Robb was looking to see how she was surviving. Staring back at him, she saw that his hands were shaking. After a moment, he spoke in a steady voice.

“But you can't predict yet for Penn. Is that what you're saying?”

“That's it.”

Now Ellen saw how hard it would have been for Ray Polk, who knew them both so well, them and their
lovely Julie, to speak these words that had just dropped like stones into the room. Surely it must not be exactly easy for this man, either.

Far below them, a blaring fire engine passed, impatient horns were sounded by people in a hurry, and Penn MacDaniel had just been condemned. In one degree or another, condemned. And now Ellen's tears finally broke.

“Let me ask you,” Robb persisted. “Is there anything you see, anything at all, just a clue—and don't spare us, please—that can give some idea of how severe this is?”

“Your child has barely begun to sit up, but he doesn't crawl yet or stand, so I'd say he's rather far behind. Still, I don't, I really don't, want to predict anything.”

“Why? Why?” Ellen cried.

“Is that a philosophical question, or a medical one?”

“Both,” she said.

“The first I cannot answer. Some clergymen may say it's God's will. A doctor can give you a list of explanations: rubella, maternal alcoholism, obstetrical difficulties, and so on and on. But you've had all possible tests, I see here, and ruled out every one.”

“So then it's simply a thing that happens? Genetics?” Robb asked.

“The brain is complex, Mr. MacDaniel, an incredible web of genes. Are you using the word to mean ‘inherited'? If so, I can tell you that almost sixty percent of the most severe cases are inherited.”

Ellen shook her head. “There's nothing like that in our families.”

For a few minutes, no one spoke. The pause was so odd, that she turned toward Robb.