Mr. Adam

Mr. Adam Read Online Free PDF

Book: Mr. Adam Read Online Free PDF
Author: Pat Frank
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 stations—Glenwood, Greystone, Hastings-on-Hudson, Dobbs Ferry. Finally there came Irvington, and the next stop was Tarrytown.
    There was a taxi at the station. “Do you know,” I asked the driver, “where Rosemere is? I think it’s an estate.”
    The hackman removed the stub of a cigar from his mouth. “Sure,” he said, “been living here all my life. You want to go to Rosemere?”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, throwing the bags into the back seat.
    â€œDon’t you want to put them in the trunk compartment?” the driver asked.
    â€œNo!” I said. “No! They are perfectly okay.”
    â€œYou’re in an awfully big hurry, fellow,” the driver ventured.
    I didn’t 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.
    â€œStephen,” Marge said, “sit back and take it easy. You can’t make it go any faster.”
    We crawled up the hill, and the cab stopped before stone gateposts with a chain stretched between them, and a gravel drive beyond. “You want to go to the big house?” the hackman asked. “I hear it’s closed up. The people go South this time every year.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “The gatehouse.”
    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. “You’re Smith,” 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.
    â€œI’m Smith,” I said, “and this is Mrs. Smith.”
    â€œHow d’you do,” he said, “I’m Blandy. Can’t shake hands. Just washed ’em. Ostenheimer told me about you. She didn’t say anything about Mrs. Smith.”
    â€œI just horned in,” said Marge. “If I’m in the way—”
    â€œNot at all. I’ve 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.” 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, “Hello.”
    â€œHello,” he said, and got to his feet, unbelievably stretching out to some six feet plus four or five or even six inches. “I’m Adam.”
    â€œYou’re what?”
    â€œAdam. Homer Adam.”
    â€œYou’re the—”
    â€œYes, I’m going to have a baby. I mean Mary Ellen is.” 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.
    â€œNow, look, fellow,” I said with what I believed to be cheerful confidence, “take it easy. My name is Steve Smith, from the AP. I’m here to help you. Don’t be so nervous. You’d think there’d never been a baby born
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