cw.imarriedadeadman-第7部分

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　It　was　a　pleasant　room。　An　infinitely　pleasant　room。　This　could　not　have　been　a　haphazard　effect　achieved　at　random。　It　was　too　immediate；　too　all…pervading；　every　chord　it　struck　was　the　right　one：　whether　of　color；　proportion；　acoustics；　bodily　tranquility　and　wellbeing；　and　above　all；　of　personal　security　and　sanctuary；　of　belonging　somewhere　at　last；　of　having　found　a　haven；　a　harbor；　of　being　let　be。　The　height　of　scientific　skill　and　knowledge；　therefore；　must　have　entered　into　it；　to　achieve　that　cumulative　effect　that　her　mind　could　only　label　pleasant。
　The　over…all　effect　was　a　warm　glowing　ivory　shade；　not　a　chill；　clinical　white。　There　was　a　window　over　to　her　right；　with　a　Venetian　blind。　And　when　this　was　furled；　the　sun　came　through　in　a　solid　slab…like　shaft；　like　a　chunk　of　copper…gold　ore。　And　when　it　was　unfurled；　the　dismembered　beams　blurred　and　formed　a　hazy　mist　flecked　with　copper…gold　motes　that　clung　to　the　whole　window　like　a　halo。　And　still　at　other　times　they　brought　the　slats　sharply　together；　and　formed　a　cool　blue　dusk　in　the　room；　and　even　that　was　grateful；　made　you　close　your　eyes　without　effort　and　take　a　nap。
　There　were　always　flowers　standing　there；　too；　over　to　her　right　near　the　head　of　the　bed。　Never　the　same　color　twice。　They　must　have　been　changed　each　day。　They　repeated　themselves；　but　never　in　immediate　succession。　Yellow；　and　then　the　next　day　pink；　and　then　the　next　day　violet　and　white；　and　then　the　next　day　back　to　yellow　again。　She　got　so　she　looked　for　them。　It　made　her　want　to　open　her　eyes　and　see　what　color　they　would　be　this　time。　Maybe　that　was　why　they　were　there。　The　Face　would　bring　them　over　and　hold　them　closer　for　her　to　see；　and　then　put　them　back　again。
　The　first　words　she　spoke　each　day　were：　〃Let　me　see　my　little　boy。〃　But　the　second；　or　not　far　behind；　were　always：　〃Let　me　see　my　flowers。〃
　And　after　awhile　there　was　fruit。　Not　right　at　first；　but　a　little　later　on　when　she　first　began　to　enjoy　appetite　again。　That　was　in　a　different　place；　not　quite　so　close；　over　by　the　window。　In　a　basket；　with　a　big…eared　satin　bow　standing　up　straight　above　its　handle。　Never　the　same　fruit　twice；　that　is　to　say；　never　the　same　arrangement　or　ratio　of　the　various　species；　and　never　any　slightest　mark　of　spoilage；　so　she　knew　it　must　be　new　fruit　each　day。　The　satin　bow　was　never　the　same　twice；　either；　so　presumably　the　basket　was　a　different　one　too。　A　new　basketful　of　fresh　fruit　each　day。
　And　if　it　could　never　mean　quite　as　much　to　her　as　the　flowers　that　is　because　flowers　are　flowers　and　fruit　is　fruit。　It　was　still　good　to　look　at　in　its　way。　Blue　grapes　and　green；　and　purple　ones；　with　the　sunlight　shining　through　them　and　giving　them　a　cathedral…window　lustre；　bartlett　pears；　with　a　rosy　flush　that　almost　belonged　to　apples　on　their　yellow　cheeks；　plushy　yellow　peaches；　pert　little　tangerines；　apples　that　were　almost　purple　in　their　apoplectic　fullbloodedness。
　Every　day；　nestled　in　cool；　crisp；　dark…green　tissue。
　She　hadn't　known　that　hospitals　were　so　attentive。　She　hadn't　known　they　provided　such　things　for　their　patients；　even　patients　who　only　had　seventeen　cents　in　their　purses…or　would　have；　had　they　had　purses…when　they　were　admitted。
　She　thought　about　the　past　sometimes；　remembered　it；　reviewed　it；　the　little　there　was　of　it　But　it　brought　shadows　into　the　room；　dimmed　its　bright　corners；　it　thinned　even　the　thick　girder…like　shafts　of　sunlight　ing　through　the　window；　it　made　her　want　the　covers　closer　up　around　her　shoulders；　so　she　learned　to　avoid　thinking　of　it；　summoning　it　up。
　She　thought。
　I　was　on　a　train。　I　was　closeted　in　the　washroom　with　another　girl。　She　could　remember　the　metallic　sheen　of　the　fixtures　and　the　mirrors。　She　could　see　the　other　girl's　face；　three　dimples　in　triangular　arrangement；　one　on　each　cheek；　one　at　the　chin。　She　could　even　feel　the　shaking　and　vibration；　the　slight　unsteadiness　of　footing；　again；　if　she　tried　hard　enough。　But　it　made　her　slightly　nauseated　to　do　so；　because　she　knew　what　was　ing　next；　in　a　very　few　seconds。　She　knew　now；　but　she　hadn't　known　then。　She　usually　snapped　off　the　sensory　image；　as　if　it　were　a　lightswitch；　in　a　hurry　at　this　point；　to　forestall　what　was　surely　ing　next。
　She　remembered　New　York。　She　remembered　the　door　that　wouldn't　open。　She　remembered　the　strip　of　one…way　tickets　falling　out　of　an　envelope。　That　was　when　the　shadows　really　formed　around；　good　and　heavy。　That　was　when　the　temperature　of　the　room　really　went　down。　When　she　went　back　behind　the　train…trip；　to　remember　New　York；　on　the　other　side　of　it。
　She　quickly　shut　her　eyes　and　turned　her　head　aside　on　the　pillow；　and　shut　the　past　out。　。　。　。
　The　present　was　kinder　by　far。　And　you　could　have　it　so　easy；　any　given　moment　of　the　day。　You　could　have　it　without　trying　at　all。　Stay　in　the　present；　let　the　present　do。　The　present　was　safe。　Don't　stray　out　of　it…not　in　either　direction；　forward　or　backward。　Because　there　was　only　darkness；　way　out　there　all　around　it；　and　you　didn't　know　what　you'd　find。　Sit　tight；　lie　tight；　right　where　you　were。
　She　opened　her　eyes　and　warmed　to　it　again。　The　sunlight　ing　in；　thick　and　warm　and　strong　enough　to　carry　the　weight　of　a　toboggan　from　the　window…sill　to　the　floor。　The　technicolored　burst　of　flowers；　the　beribboned　basket　of　fruit。　The　soothing　quiet　all　around。　They'd　bring　the　little　form　in　pretty　soon；　and　let　it　nestle　against　her；　and　she'd　know　that　happiness　that　was　something　new；　that　made　you　want　to　circle　your　arms　and　never　let　go。
　Let　the　present　do。　Let　the　present　last。　Don't　ask；　don't　seek；　don't　question；　don't　quarrel　with　it。　Hang　onto　it　for　all　you　were　worth。
　
　
　7
　
　It　was　really　the　flowers　that　were　her　undoing；　that　brought　the　present　to　an　end。
　She　wanted　one　of　them　one　day。　Wanted　to　separate　one　from　the　rest；　and　hold　it　in　her　hand；　and　smell　its　sweetness　directly　under　her　nose；　it　wasn't　enough　any　longer　just　to　enjoy　them　visually；　to　look　at　them　in　the　abstract；　in　group…formation。
　They'd　been　moved　nearer　by　this　time。　And　she　herself　could　move　now　more　freely。　She'd　been　lying　quietly　on　her　side　admiring　them　for　some　time　when　the　impulse　formed。
　There　was　a　small　one；　dangling　low；　arching　over　in　her　direction；　and　she　thought　she'd　get　that。　She　turned　more　fully；　so　that　she　was　pletely　sideward；　and　reached　out　toward　it。　。　。　。
　Her　hand　closed　on　its　stalk；　and　it　quivered　delicately　with　the　pressure。　She　knew　she　wouldn't　have　been　able　to　break　the　stalk　off　short　just　with　one　hand　alone；　and　she　didn't　want　to　do　that　anyway；　didn't　want　to　damage　the　flower；　just　borrow　it　for　awhile。　So　she　started　to　withdraw　the　stalk　vertically　from　the　receptacle；　and　as　it　paid　off　and　seemed　never　to　e　to　an　end；　this　swept　her　hand　high　upward　and　at　last　back　over　her　own　head。
　It　struck　the　bed…back；　that　part　that　was　so　close　to　her　that　she　could　never　have　seen　it　without　making　a　plete　head…turn；　and　something　up　there　jiggled　and　quivered　a　little；　as　if　threatening　to　detach　itself　and　e　down。
　She　made　the　plete　head…turn；　and　even　withdrew　out　from　it　a　little；　into　a　half…sitting　position；　something　she　had　never　attempted　before；　to　bring　it　into　focus。
　It　was　a　featherweight　metal　frame；　a　rectangle；　clasped　to　the　top　bar　of　the　bed；　loose　on　its　other　three　sides。　Within　was　held　a　smooth　mat　of　paper；　with　fine　neat　writing　on　it　that　blurred　until　it　had　stopped　the　slight　swaying　that　her　impact　had　set　in　motion。
　It　had　been　inches　from　her　head；　just　over　her　head；　all　this　time；　but　she'd　never　seen　it　until　now。
　Her　chart。
　She　peered　at　it　intently。
　Suddenly　the　present　and　all　its　safety　exploded　into　fragments；　and　the　flower　fell　from　her　extended　hand　onto　the　floor。
　There　were　three　lines　at　the　top；　in　neat　symmetry。　The　first　part　of　each　was　printed　and　left　inplete；　the　rest　was　finished　out　in　typescript。
　It　said　at　the　top：　〃Section…〃
　And　then　it　said：　〃Maternity。〃
　It　said　below　that：　〃Room…〃
　And　then　it　said：　〃25。〃
　It　said　at　the　bottom：　〃Patient's　Name…〃
　And　then　it　said：　〃Hazzard；　Patrice　（Mrs。）。〃
　
　
　8
　
　The　nurse　opened　the　door；　and　her　face　changed。　The　smile　died　off　on　it。　You　could　detect　the　change　in　her　face　from　all　the　way　over　there；　even　before　she'd　e　any　closer　to　the　bed。
　She　came　over　and　took　her　patient's　temperature。　Then　she　straightened　the　chart。
　Neither　of　them　said　anything。
　There　was　fear　in　the　room。　There　was　shadow　in　the　room。　The　present　was　no　longer　in　the　room。　The　future　had　taken　its　place。　Bringing　fear；　bringing　shadow；　bringing　strangeness；　worse　than　even　the　past　could　have　brought。
　The　nurse　held　the　thermometer　toward　the　light　and　scanned　it。　Then　her　brows　deepened。　She　put　the　thermometer　down。
　She　asked　the　question　carefully；　as　though　she　had　gauged　its　tone　and　its　tempo　before　allowing　herself　to　ask　it。　She　said；　〃What　happened？　Has　something　upset　you？　You're　running　a　slight　temperature。〃
　The　girl　in　the　bed　answered　with　a　question　of　her　own。　Frightenedly；　tautly。　〃What's　that　doing　on　my　bed？　Why　is　it　there？〃
　〃Everyone　who's　ill　has　to　have　one；〃　the　nurse　answered　soothingly。　〃It's　nothing；　just　a…〃
　〃But　look…the　name。　It　says…〃
　〃Does　the　sight　of　your　own　name　frighten　you？　You　mustn't　look　at　it。　You're　really　not　supposed　to　see　it　there。　Sh；　don't　talk　now　any　more。〃
　〃But　there's　something　I…But　you　have　to　tell　me；　I　don't　understand…〃
　The　nurse　took　her　pulse。
　And　as　she　did　so；　the　patient　was　suddenly　looking　at　her　own　hand；　in　frozen；　arrested　horror。　At　the　little　circlet　with　diamonds；　enfolding　the　third　finger。　At　the　weddingband。　As　though　she'd　never　seen　it　before；　as　though　she　wondered　what　it　was　doing　there。
　The　nurse　saw　her　trying　to　take　it　off；　with　flurried　little　tugs。　It　wouldn't　move　easily。
　The　nurse's　face　changed。　〃Just　a　moment；　I'll　be　right　back；〃　she　said　uneasily。
　She　brought　the　doctor　in　with　her。　Her　whispering　stopped　as　they　crossed　the　threshold。
　He　came　over　to　the　bed；　put　his　hand　to　her　forehead。
　He　nodded　to　the　nurse　and　said；　〃Slight〃
　H