Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(21)

The girl sat up and removed the paper jacket and put on her own clothes once more. When he returned she was seated on the table waiting for him.

So, he said. Miss Roubideaux, as I expect you already know, you are pregnant. Something over three months, I’d say. Closer to four. When was your last period?

She told him.

Yes. Well, you can expect to have a baby in the spring. The middle of April, I calculate, give or take two weeks on either side. But I’m wondering, I don’t know whether this is good news to you or not.

I already knew, if that’s what you mean, the girl said. I felt sure of it.

Yes. I thought you must have, he said. But that doesn’t answer my question.

He put her chart out of the way on the counter. He drew a chair up and sat near her in his blue suit and white shirt, looking at her where she sat slightly above him on the examining table, her hands in her lap, waiting, her face flushed and guarded.

I want to be straightforward with you, he said. This doesn’t have to go anywhere but right here. Do you understand? You and I talking. Having a brief conversation in the privacy of this room.

What do you mean? the girl said.

Miss Roubideaux, he said. Do you want this baby?

Quickly she raised her eyes to him. She was frightened now, her eyes dark and intent, waiting.

Yes, she said. I want it.

You feel certain of that, do you? Absolutely certain.

She looked at his face. Do you mean if I want to put it up for adoption?

That too, perhaps, he said. But more, I meant are you going to keep this baby? Carry it full-term and give birth to it?

I plan to.

And you do want it, don’t you.

Yes.

And now that you’ve told me that, you’re not going to do anything foolish such as trying to stop it by yourself by some means.

No.

No, he said. That’s fine then. I believe you. That’s what I need to know. You will have various kinds of trouble, I expect. That’s what happens. Many teenage mothers do. You’re not supposed to be having babies yet. Your body’s not ready. You’re too young. On the other hand, you do seem strong. You don’t appear to be the hysterical kind. Are you the hysterical kind, Miss Roubideaux?

I don’t think so.

Then you should be all right. Do you smoke?

No.

Don’t start. Do you drink alcohol?

No.

Don’t start that either, not now. Do you take any drugs of any kind?

No.

You’re telling me the truth? He looked at her and waited. That’s important. Because everything you take in goes to the baby. You know that, don’t you.

Yes. I know.

You need to eat right. That’s important too. Mrs. Jones can help you with that. I expect she’s a good cook. You need to gain some weight but not too much. Yes, well. All right then. I’ll see you again in a month, and once each month until the eighth month, then I’ll see you every week. Do you have any questions?

For the first time the girl released the hold on herself a little. Her eyes welled up. It was as if what she wanted to ask him was more important and more frightening than anything either one of them had said or done so far. She said, Is the baby all right? Would you tell me that?

Oh, he said. Why yes. So far as I can tell, everything is fine. Didn’t I make that clear? There is no reason why that should change, so long as you take care of yourself. I didn’t mean to frighten you.

She let herself cry silently just a little, while her shoulders slumped forward and her hair fell about her face. The old doctor reached up and took her hand and held it warmly between both of his hands for a moment and was quiet with her, simply looking into her face, serenely, grandfatherly, but not talking, treating her out of respect and kindness, out of his own long experience of patients in examination rooms.

Afterward, when she was calm again, after the doctor had left, she went into the air outside the Holt County Clinic next to the hospital, and the light in the street seemed sharp to her and hard-edged, definite, as if it were no longer merely a late fall afternoon in the hour before dusk, but instead as if it were the first moment of noon in the exact meridian of summer and she was standing precisely under the full illumination of the sun.





Guthrie.

In the last period of the day he sat at his desk at the front of the room, listening to their speeches and glancing out the window toward the place where the sun shone aslant on the few bare trees risen up along the street. It looked cold and bleak outside.

The tall girl talking at the head of the class was just finishing. Something to do with Hamilton. She had spent half of her speech on the duel with Burr. What she was saying was scarcely coherent. She finished and glanced at Guthrie and approached his desk and handed over her notes. Thank you, he said. She turned and sat down at her desk near the west windows, and he made a note about what to say to her in conference and again consulted the list before him and looked out at their faces. They looked as if they were waiting for some inevitable doom and disaster. Unless they had already given their speeches. Then they were bored and indifferent. Glenda, he said.

A girl in the middle row said, Mr. Guthrie?

Yes.

I’m not ready today.

Do you have your notes?

Yes. But I’m not ready.

Come ahead. You’ll have to do what you can.

But I don’t know about this, she said.