"Hello, hello, hello, little Knechtmann," said Heinz to the red prune on the other side of the glass. His voice echoed down the hard, bare corridor, and came back to him with embarrassing loudness. He blushed and lowered his voice. "Little Peter, little Kroll," he said softly, "little Friederich—and there's Helga in you, too. Little spark of Knechtmann, you little treasure house. Everything is saved in you."
"I'm afraid you'll have to be more quiet," said a nurse, sticking her head out from one of the rooms.
"Sorry," said Heinz. "I'm very sorry." He fell silent, and contented himself with tapping lightly on the window with a fingernail, trying to get the child to look at him. Young Knechtmann would not look, wouldn't share the moment, and after a few minutes the nurse took him away again.
Heinz beamed as he rode on the elevator and as he crossed the hospital lobby, but no one gave him more than a cursory glance. He passed a row of telephone booths and there, in one of the booths with the door open, he saw a soldier with whom he'd shared the waiting room an hour before.
"Yeah, Ma—seven pounds six ounces. Got hair like Buffalo Bill. No, we haven't had time to make up a name for her yet… That you, Pa? Yup, mother and daughter doin' fine, just fine. Seven pounds six ounces. Nope, no name… That you, Sis? Pretty late for you to be up, ain't it? Doesn't look like anybody yet. Let me talk to Ma again… That you, Ma? Well, I guess that's all the news from Chicago. Now, Mom, Mom, take it easy —don't worry. It's a swell-looking baby, Mom. Just the hair looks like Buffalo Bill, and I said it as a joke, Mom. That's right, seven pounds six ounces…"
There were five other booths, all empty, all open for calls to anyplace on earth. Heinz longed to hurry into one of them breathlessly, and tell the marvelous news. But there was no one to call, no one waiting for the news.
But Heinz still beamed, and he strode across the street and into a quiet tavern there. In the dank twilight there were only two men, tête-à-tête, the bartender and Mr. Sousa.
"Yes sir, what'll it be?"
"I'd like to buy you and Mr. Sousa a drink," said Heinz with a heartiness strange to him. "I'd like the best brandy you've got. My wife just had a baby!"
'That so?" said the bartender with polite interest.
"Five pounds nine ounces," said Heinz.
"Huh," said the bartender. "What do you know."
"Netman," said Sousa, "wha'dja get?"
"Boy," said Heinz proudly.
"Never knew it to fail," said Sousa bitterly. "It's the little guys, all the time the little guys."
"Boy, girl," said Heinz, "it's all the same, just as long as it lives. Over there in the hospital, they're too close to it to see the wonder of it. A miracle over and over again—the world made new."
"Wait'll you've racked up seven, Netman," said Sousa. "Then you come back and tell me about the miracle."
"You got seven?" said the bartender. "I'm one up on you. I got eight." He poured three drinks.
"Far as I'm concerned," said Sousa, "you can have the championship."
Heinz lifted his glass. "Here's long life and great skill and much happiness to—to Peter Karl Knechtmann." He breathed quickly, excited by the decision.
"There's a handle to take a hold of," said Sousa. "You'd think the kid weighed two hundred pounds."
"Peter is the name of a famous surgeon," said Heinz, "the boy's great-uncle, dead now. Karl was my father's name."
"Here's to Pete K. Netman," said Sousa, with a cursory salute.
"Pete," said the bartender, drinking.
"And here's to your little girl—the new one," said Heinz.
Sousa sighed and smiled wearily. "Here's to her. God bless her."
"And now, I'll propose a toast," said the bartender, hammering on the bar with his fist. "On your feet, gentlemen. Up, up, everybody up."
Heinz stood, and held his glass high, ready for the next step in camaraderie, a toast to the whole human race, of which the Knechtmanns were still a part.
"Here's to the White Sox!" roared the bartender.
"Minoso, Fox, Mele," said Sousa.
"Fain, Lollar, Rivera!" said the bartender. He turned to Heinz. "Drink up, boy! The White Sox! Don't tell me you're a Cub fan."
"No," said Heinz, disappointed. "No—I don't follow baseball, I'm afraid." The other two men seemed to be sinking away from him. "I haven't been able to think about much but the baby."
The bartender at once turned his full attention to Sousa. "Look," he said intensely, "they take Fain off of first, and put him at third, and give Pierce first. Then move Minoso in from left field to shortstop. See what I'm doing?"
"Yep, yep," said Sousa eagerly.
"And then we take that no-good Carrasquel and…"
Heinz was all alone again, with twenty feet of bar between him and the other two men. It might as well have been a continent.
He finished his drink without pleasure, and left quietly.
At the railroad station, where he waited for a local train to take him home to the South Side, Heinz's glow returned again as he saw a co-worker at the dry-cleaning plant walk in with a girl. They were laughing and had their arms around each other's waist.
"Harry," said Heinz, hurrying toward them. "Guess what, Harry. Guess what just happened." He grinned broadly.
Harry, a tall, dapper, snub-nosed young man, looked down at Heinz with mild surprise. "Oh—hello, Heinz. What's up, boy?"
The girl looked on in perplexity, as though asking why they should be accosted at such an odd hour by such an odd person. Heinz avoided her slightly derisive eyes.
"A baby, Harry. My wife just had a boy."
"Oh," said Harry. He extended his hand. "Well, congratulations." The hand was limp. "I think that's swell, Heinz, perfectly swell." He withdrew his hand and waited for Heinz to say something else.
"Yes, yes—just about an hour ago," said Heinz. "Five pounds nine ounces. I've never been happier in my life."
"Well, I think it's perfectly swell, Heinz. You should be happy."
"Yes, indeed," said the girl.
There was a long silence, with all three shifting from one foot to the other.
"Really good news," said Harry at last.
"Yes, well," said Heinz quickly, "well, that's all I had to tell you."
"Thanks," said Harry. "Glad to hear about it."
There was another uneasy silence.
"See you at work," said Heinz, and strode jauntily back to his bench, but with his reddened neck betraying how foolish he felt.
The girl giggled.
Back home in his small apartment, at two in the morning, Heinz talked to himself, to the empty bassinet, and to the bed. He talked in German, a language he had sworn never to use again.
"They don't care," said Heinz. 'They're all too busy, busy, busy to notice life, to feel anything about it. A baby is born." He shrugged. "What could be duller? Who would be so stupid as to talk about it, to think there was anything important or interesting about it?"
He opened a window on the summer night, and looked out at the moonlit canyon of gray wooden porches and garbage cans. "There are too many of us, and we are all too far apart," said Heinz. "Another Knechtmann is born, another O'Leary, another Sousa. Who cares? Why should anyone care? What difference does it make? None."
He lay down in his clothes on the unmade bed, and, with a rattling sigh, went to sleep.
He awoke at six, as always. He drank a cup of coffee, and with a wry sense of anonymity, he jostled and was jostled aboard the downtown train. His face showed no emotion. It was like all the other faces, seemingly incapable of surprise or wonder, joy or anger.
He walked across town to the hospital with the same detachment, a gray, uninteresting man, a part of the city.
In the hospital, he was as purposeful and calm as the doctors and nurses bustling about him. When he was led into the ward where Avchen slept behind white screens, he felt only what he had always felt in her presence—love and aching awe and gratitude for her.
"You go ahead and wake her gently, Mr. Netman," said the nurse.
"Avchen—" He touched her on her white-gowned shoulder. "Avchen. Are you all right, Avchen?"
"Mmmmmmmmmm?" murmured Avchen. Her eyes opened to narrow slits. "Heinz. Hello, Heinz."
"Sweetheart, are you all right?"
"Yes, yes," she whispered. "I'm fine. How is the baby, Heinz?"
"Perfect. Perfect, Avchen."
"They couldn't kill us, could they, Heinz?"
"No."
"And here we are, alive as we can be."
"Yes."
"The baby, Heinz—" She opened her dark eyes wide. "It's the most wonderful thing that ever happened, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Heinz.
(1954)
TOMORROW AND TOMORROW AND TOMORROW
THE YEAR WAS 2158 A.D., and Lou and Emerald Schwartz were whispering on the balcony outside Lou's family's apartment on the seventy-sixth floor of Building 257 in Alden Village, a New York housing development that covered what had once been known as. Southern Connecticut. When Lou and Emerald had married, Em's parents had tearfully described the marriage as being between May and December; but now, with Lou one hundred and twelve and Em ninety-three, Em's parents had to admit that the match had worked out well.
But Em and Lou weren't without their troubles, and they were out in the nippy air of the balcony because of them.
"Sometimes I get so mad, I feel like just up and diluting his anti-gerasone," said Em.
"That'd be against Nature, Em," said Lou, "it'd be murder. Besides, if he caught us tinkering with his anti-gerasone, not only would he disinherit us, he'd bust my neck. Just because he's one hundred and seventy-two doesn't mean Cramps isn't strong as a bull."
"Against Nature," said Em. "Who knows what Nature's like anymore? Ohhhhh—I don't guess I could ever bring myself to dilute his anti-gerasone or anything like that, but, gosh, Lou, a body can't help thinking Cramps is never going to leave if somebody doesn't help him along a little. Golly—we're so crowded a person can hardly turn around, and Verna's dying for a baby, and Melissa's gone thirty years without one." She stamped her feet. "I get so sick of seeing his wrinkled old face, watching him take the only private room and the best chair and the best food, and getting to pick out what to watch on TV, and running everybody's life by changing his will all the time."
"Well, after all," said Lou bleakly, "Cramps is head of the family. And he can't help being wrinkled like he is. He was seventy before anti-gerasone was invented. He's going to leave, Em. Just give him time. It's his business. I know he's tough to live with, but be patient. It wouldn't do to do anything that'd rile him. After all, we've got it better'n anybody else, there on the daybed."
"How much longer do you think we'll get to sleep on the day-bed before he picks another pet? The world's record's two months, isn't it?"
"Mom and Pop had it that long once, I guess."
"When is he going to leave, Lou?" said Emerald.
"Well, he's talking about giving up anti-gerasone right after the five-hundred-mile Speedway Race."
"Yes—and before that it was the Olympics, and before that the World's Series, and before that the Presidential Elections, and before that I-don't-know-what. It's been just one excuse after another for fifty years now. I don't think we're ever going to get a room to ourselves or an egg or anything."
"All right—call me a failure!" said Lou. "What can I do? I work hard and make good money, but the whole thing, practically, is taxed away for defense and old age pensions. And if it wasn't taxed away, where you think we'd find a vacant room to rent? Iowa, maybe? Well, who wants to live on the outskirts of Chicago?"
Em put her arms around his neck. "Lou, hon, I'm not calling you a failure. The Lord knows you're not. You just haven't had a chance to be anything or have anything because Cramps and the rest of his generation won't leave and let somebody else take over."
"Yeah, yeah," said Lou gloomily. "You can't exactly blame 'em, though, can you? I mean, I wonder how quick we'll knock off the anti-gerasone when we get Cramps' age."
"Sometimes I wish there wasn't any such thing as anti-gerasone!" said Emerald passionately. "Or I wish it was made out of something real expensive and hard-to-get instead of mud and dandelions. Sometimes I wish folks just up and died regular as clockwork, without anything to say about it, instead of deciding themselves how long they're going to stay around. There ought to be a law against selling the stuff to anybody over one hundred and fifty."
"Fat chance of that," said Lou, "with all the money and votes the old people've got." He looked at her closely. "You ready to up and die, Em?"
"Well, for heaven's sakes, what a thing to say to your wife. Hon! I'm not even one hundred yet." She ran her hands lightly over her firm, youthful figure, as though for confirmation. "The best years of my life are still ahead of me. But you can bet that when one hundred and fifty rolls around, old Em's going to pour her anti-gerasone down the sink, and quit taking up room, and she'll do it smiling."
"Sure, sure," said Lou, "you bet. That's what they all say. How many you heard of doing it?"
"There was that man in Delaware."
"Aren't you getting kind of tired of talking about him, Em? That was five months ago."
"All right, then—Gramma Winkler, right here in the same building."
"She got smeared by a subway."
"That's just the way she picked to go," said Em.
"Then what was she doing carrying a six-pack of anti-gerasone when she got it?"
Emerald shook her head wearily and covered her eyes. "I dunno, I dunno, I dunno. All I know is, something's just got to be done." She sighed. "Sometimes I wish they'd left a couple of diseases kicking around somewhere, so I could get one and go to bed for a little while. Too many people!" she cried, and her words cackled and gabbled and died in a thousand asphalt-paved, skyscraper-walled courtyards.
Lou laid his hand on her shoulder tenderly. "Aw, hon, I hate to see you down in the dumps like this."
"If we just had a car, like the folks used to in the old days," said Em, "we could go for a drive, and get away from people for a little while. Gee—if those weren't the days!"