In the next few hours I would not have traded Wizard's presence for a cordon of unpolluted police. An irate mob might charge a police line (I don't say we had the quantities of a mob), but our visitors had not the courage to face 125 pounds of belligerent unleashed German shepherd. It was incredible to me, or maybe just naive of me, that so many people could believe such a thing of Pat and Peter Kellogg, but the traffic past my house was inordinately heavy. I like to think that those who paused and were not growled at by Wizard had friendly intentions, but they were very few. I still can't figure out why people have to descend in such mobs on the unusual.
At any rate, the only one who entered the house until the police came was the telephone man, and he wouldn't pass the gate until Peter had snapped the choke-chain lead on Wizard.
I frankly don't remember much of the next few hours. I think we all sat around in a semi-stupor, with the exception of the practical Esther. We had brought some of the food left over in the cottage, but it wasn't enough, and more formula mixture was needed, so Esther went out… the back way. She returned shortly afterward and grumbled angrily under her breath the entire time she cooked lunch, though I don't know what it was she served us. Fortunately there were lusty, hungry, healthy babies to care for, and I think they saved our sanity. If I heard Chuck mutter it once, I heard it fifty times:
"We got the kids!"
With Wizard to guard the house, none of us paid any attention to our whilom visitors or hecklers until we heard the police siren whine down to inaudibility right outside the house.
"Well, they took their time," said Esther with righteous indignation.
Innocently we all filed out onto the porch. Wizard was impartial enough to resent police intrusion.
"Call off the dog. We're on official business," the first man ordered.
Wizard obediently retreated to Peter's side at command.
"You certainly took your time coming," Esther said acidly. "We've been plagued by…"
"Which one of you is Peter Kellogg?" the policeman interrupted her arrogantly.
Peter raised his hand.
"I have a warrant for your arrest. Incestuous fornication and adultery is a crime in this state, buddy." There was no doubt of his private opinion of such an offense. "Which of you women is Patricia Kellogg? I've got a warrant for her arrest on the same charge."
Chuck snatched the second warrant out of the cop's hand. When the policeman stepped forward to retrieve it, Wizard gave a warning snarl. Chuck read the document hastily.
"Christ! It is in order, Peter." Chuck had been angry before; now he looked defeated.
"Can't he read his own, mister?" sneered one of the cops. The other man jabbed him in the ribs and pointed to the dog.
"As you so perfectly well know, Joseph Craig," Esther replied, her fury so plain that Policeman Joseph Craig stepped back, "Professor Kellogg was blinded in Vietnam."
"I'm Dr. Henderson, Miss Kellogg's physician. I cannot permit her to answer this summons in person. She's under heavy sedation and incapable of supporting any additional strain."
"You can come with me then. Doctor, and tell it to the judge." Then the man informed Peter of his rights and gestured him off the porch.
Chuck turned to me. "Call"- he gave me a number - "and ask for Jasper Johnson and get him to work immediately."
"Hey, that dog can't come," the arresting officer complained, backing hurriedly away from Wizard's path.
"He's Professor Kellogg's Seeing Eye dog, and he…"
"Hell, he won't need any eyes where he's going!"
"Wizard had better stay here. Chuck," Peter said with quiet meaning. He bent down and cradled the dog's head in his hands. Wizard whined quizzically as if he already understood. Hard not to, with the atmosphere crackling with suppressed emotions.
"Wizard, guard Cecily. Guard the babies. Obey Crafty. Understand?"
Wizard whined, sneezed, and bowed his head but made no move to follow Peter, Chuck, and the policemen. But the moment some of the bystanders tried to crowd in at the gate, he renewed his vigilance with savage growls and risen hackles.
It seemed to take forever to get Johnson's number, and then they must have done an office-to-office search for this Jasper Johnson before his brisk voice came on the line. I explained the situation as tersely as possible. "For this I joined a fraternity ten years ago?" was his cryptic comment; then I heard him mmm-ing to himself for a moment or two. "For such extraordinary charges I'd better get up there. They have to accept bail, but I can do that by phone. I should be able to make it to your place in about two hours at this time of day." Then he groaned. "But my wife's going to hate me again."
His flippancy was oddly reassuring, and as I cradled the phone, the awful depression began to lift.
Chuck and Peter came home in a taxi about an hour later.
"Under the circumstances, I'm sure the neighbors would have preferred another four-alarm fanfare," Chuck said snidely as they came up the walk.
"You're forgetting what Sergeant Weyman said," Peter remarked.
"Yeah," and Chuck's expression brightened.
"George Weyman better be on our side," said Esther, her eyes blazing. "After all Allison did to save his wife and baby. So what did George say?"
"That this was the biggest load of shit he'd ever seen made official," said Peter with a grin.
"He read the riot act to Craig and his cohort and treated us with more courtesy than is customary in police routines. However, I can't be as charitable about His Honor."
"Who?" asked Esther.
"Colston."
That didn't surprise either of us.
"I assume by virtue of our speedy release on bail that you contacted Jasper. Is he coming up?"
"He gave himself two hours."
"Two hours? Well, I suppose he has to obey speed limits. He's only got a Mercury, poor deprived lad." Chuck gave one of his wicked laughs. "His last three babies paid for my Lincoln." His amusement faded, and he barged toward the kitchen. "I need a drink. We all need a drink to celebrate this third day of P.P.E."
"P.P.E.?" asked Peter.
"Yeah," Chuck called from the kitchen, where he was rattling bottles and glasses. He came back in with a laden tray. "Postpartum exogenesis."
Conversation lagged, and Peter, Chuck, Esther, and I sipped our drinks fairly meditatively. I knew I was trying to numb my perceptions even while I knew that drinking at this pace wouldn't do the trick. Then one of the babies started crying and just as suddenly stopped. Pat wandered in from the kitchen with Carla and a bottle.
"Hey," Chuck said, ushering her to a seat, "you shouldn't be awake yet."
Pat shrugged indifferently and settled the baby in the crook of her arm, smiling as her hungry wail was cut off by the nipple.
"I see that my job doesn't end with producing them," she said. "Funny thing. You know. Crafty, I miss their kicking. I waited for it as I was waking up, and I got a little panicky when I didn't feel it, and then I remembered I'd had the babies." Her tender reminiscent smile faded abruptly. "Ah, well. Good thing I'm their aunt, I can tell you. I'd just hate to have to give up all title to them."
Chuck and I exchanged worried frowns over her bent head. In all the unpleasantness I'd forgotten about the emotional impact of maternity on Pat. She was a mother, and she wasn't. She had had all the emotional, biological, and psychological distortion of pregnancy, and if the problem was not handled carefully, her involvement could become critical. In the ill-wind department perhaps this flap would provide sufficient, if salacious, distraction, and she might be damned glad - both psychologically and emotionally - to be relieved of any relationship with the two kids she'd borne.