"Probably." His smile was gentle and quite without hope. "But that would take a very special kind of situation. It would have to be made to order, really. And that isn't likely to happen, is it?"
"No. I suppose not." And right then Nora picked up the binoculars which Paul used to scan the lake. Nora looked, seeing the glittering radiance of the sun which wrapped the water, all the little boats bobbing around, the lakeside.
And Nora suddenly cried: "Paul!" The second time it was a terrified shriek. "Paul! It's Bobby. He's in trouble!"
When Rita walked out of the boathouse, she was the human equivalent of a volcano ready to erupt. She had been kicked out like a stray cat by the man to whom she had offered her love. There was no doubt in her mind that she
had
loved Paul Anderson. Neither did she doubt that she now hated him. In fact, she hated the whole world and everybody in it. If, right then, she could have put her hands on an atomic bomb, she would have liked to blow up the whole, miserable, hateful, stinking world. She was that angry, from frustration, from injured vanity, from intolerable humiliation.
"Somebody is going to pay," she muttered as she strode along the lakeside. Almost anybody would do.
She came to where the BOBBY-O was anchored and stopped. It would be nice if Jerry Hilton were to show up and take her out for a ride. It might calm her down.
She turned, and it was like the answer to a prayer.
There came Jerry.
Annoyingly, the child, Bobby, was tagging along after him. He was an obnoxious child, to Rita's way of thinking. She didn't care for children anyway. And
this
little brat was always screaming, yipping his head off, when Jerry tried to teach him to swim. He screamed even louder when his father threatened to go away and leave him.
It occurred to her that it would be pleasant to take a hairbrush to the kid, or drop him in the water and tell him to swim or drown.
"My two favorite men," she cried sweetly, joyously. "Oh, Jerry, am I ever glad to see you! I'm just dying to go for a boat ride. Bobby, sweetheart, how're you doing, you little cutie, you?"
Little Bobby said, not very politely: "Go away. I don't like you."
Jerry, looking anything but overjoyed at the sight of her sun-bronzed loveliness, said stiffly: "I'm not taking the boat out today, Rita. I just came to get a few personal items I left here. My wife is in the hospital. I have to get right back."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Anything I can do to help?"
"Yeah," piped Bobby, holding fast to his father, trotting along across the dock to the small deck of the boat. "Go away. Stop bothering us."
It took all of ten minutes for her to persuade Jerry that a little ride to the far end of the lake and back might be a good idea, at that.
Since she was not a mind reader, Rita had no way of knowing that during the last few hours Jerry had managed to accomplish what he had not been able to do during twenty-six years of living. He had grown up.
He had gone to the hospital, and when he had looked down into Ethel's tortured eyes, he had seen not only her sorrow and heartbreak; he had also seen himself for what he was: a grown-up kid—a heel, in fact—who had failed completely as a husband and as man.
Sickened by this sudden picture of himself, he knew that he would not be able to stand living with himself unless he changed; unless he proved to himself that he had the guts to change. And he had to start somewhere.
"I'll have it out with this redhead," he thought now. Let her get it into her dizzy head that from now on this boat is off limits as far as she's concerned. I'll tell her the next time she sets foot on this deck, I'll call the cops. A boat was a man's castle, wasn't it? And a guy had the right to keep people he didn't want out of his castle, to take a gun to them, if needs be. That was what he would tell her.
So he said: "Okay, Reds. Let's you and me take that little ride." And to Bobby: "Look, kid. You scram up and play in the sand. Dig yourself a tunnel. By the time you get through to China, I'll be back."
It was the wrong thing to say. Instantly Bobby began to sob. "I don't want to go to any old China! Don't you go away and leave me! You're going away, and you won't come back, just like Mummy always said."
He kept on sobbing, the tears streaming down. "Don't leave me, Daddy."
Fury bubbled in Rita's blood. After all she'd had to put up with today, it was intolerable to have to cope with this wailing, insufferable child. Her hands itched to take hold of him, to slap him.
"For heaven's sake, Jerry, can't you make that kid shut up?"
"He's a worried little boy, Reds. He knows his mother had to go to the hospital."
"You should have some control over him. If he were my child—" she began, only to have Bobby scream at her: "I ain't your child. I hate you."
"If you'd take a strap to him occasionally, he might not behave like a little savage."
Jerry turned his back for a moment. He lit a cigarette, stared out over the shimmering lake, and debated whether or not to call the ride off. Why bother to explain anything to this dame? He should just tell her to get her pretty little self off his boat and stay off, then make it stick. That was the only way to deal with her kind: get a little rough, if necessary. He didn't owe her anything; not even a few polite words. So why bother to say those words, or to do a thing which might put the poor kid in a sick bed from sheer panic? Funny how Bobby got so upset about being left alone for a few minutes.
Having analyzed it all in his mind and reached a decision, Jerry began: "Look, Reds," and turned, just as it happened.
In a sudden frenzy because Bobby had started to beat at her with his fists, Rita's hands grabbed the child.
Through gritted teeth, she snapped: "I'll teach you to keep your grubby little paws off me!" She said further: "Now in you go—and if you don't want to swim, drown!"
She lifted the screaming boy and pitched him down into the water, then turned to glance at Jerry, who was shouting at her: "What the devil are you doing! Have you lost your mind?" And he ran, ran fast, not listening to Rita, who was explaining carelessly: "Oh, don't make a big deal of it, Jerry. The kid can't drown in water less than two feet deep."
That was perfectly true. Bobby was in little danger of drowning. He didn't drown. But after he picked himself up, he stumbled, fell flat on his face, and by the time Jerry got to him and lifted him back to his feet, he was trying to swallow and couldn't.
Within seconds it was apparent that he could not breathe properly. He made strangling sounds when he tried to, and as Nora and Paul came rushing up, Bobby's face was turning a frightening, bluish tinge.
Kneeling beside him, Nora cried: "He's swallowed something that can't get through." Maybe a little pebble, some tiny object caught in the sand.
"He's choking to death!"
Terrified, she looked up at Paul, who took over without hesitation.
Quickly running his finger around inside the child's mouth, he said in the tone of the sure, confident surgeon who knew exactly what he had to do and was perfectly capable of doing it. "Have you your first aid kit with you, Nora? Get me a knife, quickly. I'll have to do an emergency tracheotomy!"
Standing like a man in partial shock, Jerry managed to stammer: "You mean, cut into the poor kid's throat? You mean, do it here, now? But, Doc," his voice strengthened a little, "can't you wait until we get him to the hospital?"
"He'd be dead," Paul said, as Nora came racing back from her car and handed over the small, sharp-edged knife which she used to cut bandages.
Suddenly a shriek was heard. Rita was crying shrilly: "You'll kill that child. You're no good as a surgeon, and you know it. Somebody stop him! Jerry, why don't you stop him? He's going to cut into that boy's windpipe, and he'll kill him, and you'll have only yourself to blame."
"And besides," as if it were an important point, "I can't stand the sight of blood. It makes me ill."
About to make the incision which would let air in and out of the windpipe, Paul snapped: "Get that babbling female away from here, Jerry."
With a steady hand, with all the confidence of an experienced and skilled surgeon who did not know what the word fear meant, Paul went to work.
Afterwards; Nora was not at all sure that she breathed during those tense moments while the little knife was inserted, then began its slow, rhythmic turning; while she waited to see if Bobby would breathe again.
When he did, it was a small, choking sound, but it was enough. I've just seen
two
miracles performed, she thought wonderingly. He has saved Bobby, and he has saved himself.
Nora drove home slowly, at twilight. Now reaction was about to set in. She felt like a slowly deflating balloon, after all the hours of being so keyed up, under almost unbearable tension. The sense of relief had been almost unbearable, too.
Once, a short distance from the house, she stopped the car and sat perfectly still, thinking, living the afternoon over again.
After Paul had made the emergency incision that would save Bobby from strangling to death, they had taken the little boy to the hospital. Jerry had driven on ahead, and when they reached the emergency entrance, a cart was waiting to take the child into surgery.
Again there had been no hesitation on Paul's part. He went into the operating room with the assurance and steady hand of a surgeon who had no doubt about himself. "Say a little prayer for me," he said to Nora as she pulled up his face mask. And that was all he said.
Now it was all over. Bobby was in the recovery room, doing fine. He had swallowed a tiny rubber frog, and if Paul hadn't been there when it happened—
On the other hand, if it had not happened exactly when and as it had, Paul might never have overcome the almost psychotic fear which was destroying him.
For a moment Nora covered her face with her hands, and murmured under her breath: "Thank you, God, for everything." And then she added with a quavery little smile: "I'd appreciate it, too, if You'd fix things up with Paul and me."
But maybe it was too much to ask. She had no way of knowing how Paul felt about her now, or if he felt much of anything. "I missed you," he had said. But you could miss a good friend, or even an old pair of comfortable shoes.
He had not said in the boathouse: "I still love you." He had said only: "I was not pretending when I once said I loved you." But love could come to a dead end, like anything else. And before she left the hospital today, he had only told her: "I'll get in touch with you later," and said it fast. For he was on his way to take over another emergency case which had just been brought in.
Sighing, she drove on. When she reached the house, Andy was on the front porch, waiting to drive her mother back to the hospital.
She went up the steps, smiling to express the warm, friendly affection she truly felt for him. But that was all it was, all it could ever be, and the time had come to be honest and tell him so.
She said: "Andy, you're a wonderful friend. From the bottom of my heart I do appreciate everything you've done for me and mine, all that you've offered to do and give me."
But right there was the reason she would have said no to Andy, even if Paul had not been in the picture. Andy wanted someone to do things for, to give things to; someone to shield and protect and shower with expensive trifles, as if she were a helpless child. But she did not want this. Expensive gifts meant nothing to her. She did not want to be shielded, protected, have everything done for her.
From infancy, her life had meant struggling, serving, working in the hospital to relieve the pain and suffering of others, and dreaming of the time when she would work beside her man. Without all this, her life would have been empty and meaningless.
He was holding her hands, his smile kind and understanding. "I think I know what you're going to tell me, Nora. And don't worry about it. I'm a big boy, you know. When I was young, I made my money. When I reached the forties, I had my coronary attack. Then I had the pretty dream that frequently comes to a man who longs for a second chance at youth. But I guess I knew all along it was only a dream."
Bending, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "It's all right. I enjoyed my little dream, and all I really want is for you to be happy."
She turned away from him, deeply moved. Then, with a sudden smile, she turned back to say: "Andy, I do wish you could realize what a wonderful person Margaret Thorpe is. Maggie has just about everything: looks, brains, a warm, loving nature."
To her surprise, he laughed heartily, then took her arms to give her a little shake. "So now you've taken up match-making! You just can't get rid of the notion that you must fix up other folks' lives for them, can you? Well, you little fixer-upper, if you want to know, I have a date with Maggie. After I drop your ma at the hospital, I'm driving to Maggie's to have a game of canasta."
"Sure enough." Another laugh, another teasing shake. "So you worry about your own love life, child. I'll do the worrying about mine."
After Andy and Caroline drove away, that was exactly what Nora did. She went up to her room, sat on the bed, scowled at the phone, and wondered if it would ring. If it did not—Well, one thing was certain. If Paul still cared the least little bit about her, he would phone during the next hour, or say the next two hours. He might be held up at the hospital. But if he did not phone by nine o'clock, that would be that.
At quarter past nine she gave up her last forlorn little hope. She undressed, showered, got into bed, and resigned herself to a life of lonely, loveless, single blessedness. She thought drearily, It's probably my fate to end up another disgruntled, neurotic spinster who will be highly regarded as a really dedicated nurse. I'll be like Maggie. And look how lonely Maggie has been. Maggie didn't mind spending long hours at the hospital because, so she said, she dreaded going home to her little house where there was no one waiting for her except a canary bird and two stray cats who depended on her to feed them.