Cautiously he turned his head and took a look at his wife. She was still sleeping quietly, showing no disposition to stir. That suited him; it would be better, he thought, to tell her what had happened after he had dosed her with orange juice. No point in scaring the kid.
He groped on his slippers, then hung his bathrobe around him, as his bare shoulders felt cold and the muscles were sore. His mouth tasted better after he had brushed his teeth; breakfast began to seem like a good idea.
His mind dwelt absent-mindedly on the past night, fingering his recollections rather than grasping them. These nightmares, he thought as he squeezed the oranges—not so good. Maybe not crazy, but definitely not so good, neurotic. Got to put a stop to ‘em. Man couldn’t work if he spent the night chasing butterflies, even if he didn’t fall over his feet and break his neck. Man had to have sleep— definitely.
He drank his own glass of juice, then carried the other into the bedroom. "Come on, bright eyes—reveille!" When she did not stir at once he began to sing. "Up with the buttercup, come on, get up, get up! Here comes the sun!"
Still she did not budge. He set the glass down carefully on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took her by the shoulder. "Wake up, kid! They’re movin’ hell—two loads have gone by already!"
She did not move. Her shoulder was cold.
"Cyn!" he yelled. "Cyn! Cyn!" he shook her violently.
She flopped lifelessly. He shook her arm. "Cyn darling— Oh, God!"
Presently the shock itself steadied him; he blew his fuses, so to speak, and was ready, with a sort of ashy dead calmness to do whatever might be necessary. He was convinced without knowing why, nor yet fully appreciating it, that she was dead. He could not find her pulse—perhaps he was too clumsy, he told himself, or perhaps it was too weak; all the while a chorus in the back of his mind shouted, "She’s dead ... dead ... dead—and you let her die!"
He placed an ear over her heart. It seemed that he could hear her heart beat, but he could not be sure; it might have been only the pounding of his own. He gave up presently and looked around for a small mirror.
He found what he wanted in Cynthia’s handbag, a little makeup glass. He polished it carefully on the sleeve of his robe and held it to her half-opened mouth.
It fogged faintly.
He took it away in a bemused fashion, not letting himself hope, polished it again, and put it back to her mouth. Again it fogged, lightly but definitely.
She was alive—she was alive!
He wondered a moment later why he could not see her clearly and discovered that his face was wet. He wiped his eyes and went on with what he had to do. There was that needle business—if he could find a needle. He did find one in a pin-cushion on her dressing table. He brought it back to the bed, took a pinch of skin on her forearm, said, "Excuse me, kid," in a whisper, and jabbed it in.
The puncture showed a drop of blood, then closed at once—alive. He wished for a fever hermometer, but they had none—they were both too healthy. But he did remember something he had read somewhere, something about the invention of the stethoscope. You rolled up a piece of paper—
He found one of suitable size and rolled it into a one-inch tube which he pushed against the bare skin just over her heart. He put his ear to the other end and listened.
Lubadup—lubadup—lubadup—lubadup—Faint, but steady and strong. No doubt about it this time; she was alive; her heart was beating.
He had to sit down for a moment.
Randall forced himself to consider what to do next. Call a doctor, obviously. When people were sick, you called a doctor. He had not thought of it up to this time because Cyn and he just never did, never needed to. He could not recall that either one of them had had occasion to do so since they had been married.
Call the police and ask for an ambulance maybe? No, he’d get some police surgeon more used to crash cases and shootings than anything like this. He wanted the best.
But who? They didn’t have a family physician. There was Smyles—a rum dum, no good. And Hartwick—hell, Hartwick specialized in very private operations for society people. He picked up the phone book.
Potbury! He didn’t know anything about the old beezer, but he looked competent. He looked up the number, misdialed three times, then got the operator to call it for him.
"Yes, this is Potbury. What do you want? Speak up, man."
"I said this is Randall. Randall. R-A-N-D-A-double L. My wife and I came to see you yesterday, remember? About—"
"Yes, I remember. What is it?"
"My wife is sick."
"What’s the trouble? Did she faint again?"
"No ... yes. That is, she’s unconscious. She woke up unconscious—I mean she never did wake up. She’s unconscious now; she looks like she’s dead."
"Is she?"
"I don’t think so—but she’s awful bad off, doctor. I'm scared. Can you come over right away?"
There was a short silence, then Potbury said gruffly, "I'll be over."
"Oh, good! Look—what should I do before you get here?"
"Don’t do anything. Don’t touch her. I’ll be right over." He hung up.
Randall put the phone down and hurried back to the bedroom. Cynthia was just the same. He started to touch her, recalled the doctor’s instructions, and straightened up with a jerk. But his eye fell on the piece of paper from which he had improvised a stethoscope and he could not resist the temptation to check up on his earlier results.
The tube gave back a cheering lubadup; he took it away at once and put it down.
Ten minutes of standing and looking at her with nothing more constructive to do than biting his nails left him too nervous to continue the occupation. He went out to the kitchen and removed a bottle of rye from the top shelf from which he poured a generous three fingers into a water glass. He looked at the amber stuff for a moment, then poured it down the sink, and went back into the bedroom.
She was still the same.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had not given Potbury the address. He dashed into the kitchen and snatched the phone. Controlling himself, he managed to dial the number correctly. A girl nswered the phone. "No, the doctor isn’t in the office. Any message?"
"My name is Randall. I—"
"Oh—Mr. Randall. The doctor left for your home about fifteen minutes ago. He should be there any minute now."
"But he doesn’t have my address!"
"What? Oh, I’m sure he has—if he didn’t have he would have telephoned me by now."
He put the phone down. It was damned funny—well, he would give Potbury three more minutes, then try another one.
The house phone buzzed; he was up out of his chair like a punch-drunk welterweight. "Yes?"
"Potbury. That you, Randall?"
"Yes, yes—come on up!" He punched the door release as he spoke.
Randall was waiting with the door open when Potbury arrived. "Come in, doctor! Come in, come in!" Potbury nodded and brushed on by him.
"Where’s the patient?"
"In here." Randall conducted him with nervous haste into the bedroom and leaned over the other side of the bed while Potbury took his first look at the unconscious woman. "How is she? Will she be all right? Tell me, doctor—"
Potbury straightened up a little, grunting as he did so, and said, "If you will kindly stand away from the bed and quit crowding me, perhaps we will find out."
"Oh, sorry!" Randall retreated to the doorway. Potbury took his stethoscope from his bag, listened for a while with an inscrutable expression on his face which Randall tried vainly to read, shifted the instrument around, and listened again. Presently he put the stethoscope back in the bag, and Randall stepped forward eagerly.
But Potbury ignored him. He peeled up an eyelid with his thumb and examined her pupil, lifted an arm so that it swung free over the side of the bed and tapped it near the elbow, then straightened himself up and just looked at her for several minutes.