paper, and we fidgeted over a couple of milk shakes until it left.
It was an absurd train that crawled up the Hudson, pausing like a crosstown trolley at every intersection. I ticked off the stationsâGlenwood, Greystone, Hastings-on-Hudson, Dobbs Ferry. Finally there came Irvington, and the next stop was Tarrytown.
There was a taxi at the station. âDo you know,â I asked the driver, âwhere Rosemere is? I think itâs an estate.â
The hackman removed the stub of a cigar from his mouth. âSure,â he said, âbeen living here all my life. You want to go to Rosemere?â
âThatâs right,â I said, throwing the bags into the back seat.
âDonât you want to put them in the trunk compartment?â the driver asked.
âNo!â I said. âNo! They are perfectly okay.â
âYouâre in an awfully big hurry, fellow,â the driver ventured.
I didnât say anything. I kept wondering what sort of people lived in the gatehouse. Probably, I thought, servants. Probably a butler and an upstairs maid had had some sort of an affair.
âStephen,â Marge said, âsit back and take it easy. You canât make it go any faster.â
We crawled up the hill, and the cab stopped before stone gateposts with a chain stretched between them, and a gravel drive beyond. âYou want to go to the big house?â the hackman asked. âI hear itâs closed up. The people go South this time every year.â
âNo,â I said. âThe gatehouse.â
He unhooked the chain, and the cab crept up the driveway for fifty yards. The gatehouse was a compact, squat, two-story cottage, solidly constructed of field stone, with a mangy oak arched over the faded red tiles of its roof. There was a forty-six Buick sedan parked in front, with the little green marker that identifies the physician attached to its license plate. I gave the hackman a dollar, he backed down the driveway, and I pushed the bell and then knocked loudly on the door.
The door swung open, and Marge and I entered, carrying our weekend bags. âYouâre Smith,â said a stocky, red-faced, perspiring man, perhaps forty-five, perhaps fifty. He was coatless, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. He looked as if he had been working.
âIâm Smith,â I said, âand this is Mrs. Smith.â
âHow dâyou do,â he said, âIâm Blandy. Canât shake hands. Just washed âem. Ostenheimer told me about you. She didnât say anything about Mrs. Smith.â
âI just horned in,â said Marge. âIf Iâm in the wayââ
âNot at all. Iâve got a good nurse upstairs, but there are plenty of things you can do later. Anyway, your first job is to take care of him.â Blandy nodded towards a corner which I had dismissed as being inhabited completely by a grand piano. Then he puffed up the steps.
In the corner, half-hidden by the piano, and seated on a green hassock, utterly uncomfortable and miserable, with his long chin cupped in his hands, and his knees and elbows askew, was a man. I said, âHello.â
âHello,â he said, and got to his feet, unbelievably stretching out to some six feet plus four or five or even six inches. âIâm Adam.â
âYouâre what?â
âAdam. Homer Adam.â
âYouâre theââ
âYes, Iâm going to have a baby. I mean Mary Ellen is.â He kept putting his hands into his coat pockets and taking them out again. They were long, bony hands, and they were trembling. His shock of bright red hair appeared to be attempting to fly off his scalp in all directions.
âNow, look, fellow,â I said with what I believed to be cheerful confidence, âtake it easy. My name is Steve Smith, from the AP. Iâm here to help you. Donât be so nervous. Youâd think thereâd never been a baby born