Larch?' Mrs. Channing-Peabody said cautiously, as if the panties had provided her with a clue to Larch's identity.
I should simply leave now, Wilbur Larch thought, but he said, 'Yes, Doctor Larch,' and bowed to the woman —a great gunship of a woman, with a tanned face and a head helmeted in silver-gray hair, as sleek and as dangerous-looking as a bullet.
'You must come meet my daughter,' the woman said. 'And all the rest of us!' she added with a booming laugh that chilled the sweat on Wilbur Larch's back.
All the rest of them seemed to be named Charming or Peabody or Channing-Peabody, and some of them had first names that resembled last names. There was a Cabot and a Chadwick and a Loring and an Emerald (who had the dullest brown eyes), but the daughter whom Mrs. Channing-Peabody had designated to meet Dr. Larch was the plainest and youngest and least healthy-looking of the bunch. Her name was Missy.
'Missy?' Wilbur Larch repeated. The girl nodded and shrugged.
They were seated at a long table, next to each other. Across from them, and about their age, was one of the young men in tennis whites, either the Chadwick or the Cabot. He looked cross, or else he'd just had a fight with Miss Channing-Peabody, or else he would rather have been seated next to her himself. Or maybe he's just her brother and wishes he were seated farther away from her, thought Wilbur Larch.
The girl looked unwell. In a family of tans, she was pale; she picked at her food. It was one of those dinners where the arrival of each course caused a complete change of dishes, and as the conversation lapsed and failed, or at least grew fainter, the sound of china and silverware grew louder, and a tension mounted at the dinner table. It was not a tension caused by any subject of conversation—it was a tension caused by no subject of conversation. {88}
The rather senile retired surgeon who was seated on Wilbur's other side—he was either a Channing or a Peabody—seemed disappointed to learn that Larch was an obstetrician. Still, the old codger insisted on knowing Dr. Larch's preferred method of expelling the placenta into the lower genital tract. Wilbur Larch tried, quietly, to describe the expression of placenta to Dr. Peabody or Dr. Channing, or whoever he was, but the old man was hard of hearing and insisted that young Larch speak up't Their conversation, which was the dinner table's only conversation, thus progressed to injuries to the perineum—including; the method of holding back the baby's head to prevent a perineal tear—and the proper mediolateral incision for the performance of an episiotomy when a tear of the perineum seems imminent.
Wilbur Larch was aware that Missy Channing-Peabody's skin was changing color beside him. She went from milk to mustard to spring-grass green, and almost back to milk before she fainted. Her skin was quite cool and clammy, and when Wilbur Larch looked at her, he saw that her eyes were almost completely rolled up into her head. Her mother and the cross young man in tennis whites, the Cabot or the Chadwick, whisked her away from the table—'She needs air,' Mrs. Channing-Peabody announced, but air was not in short supply in Maine.
Wilbur Larch already knew what Missy needed. She needed an abortion. It came to him through the visible anger of young Chadwick or Cabot, it came to him over the babbling senility of the old surgeon inquiring about 'modern' obstetrical procedure, it came to him through the absence of other conversation and through the noise of the knives and the forks and the plates. That was why he'd been invited: Missy Channing-Peabody, suffering from morning sickness, needed an abortion. Rich people needed them, too. Even rich people, who, in Wilbur Larch's opinion, were the last to learn about anything, {89} even rich people knew about him. He wanted to leave, but now it was his fate that held him. Sometimes, when we are labeled, when we are branded, our brand becomes our calling; Wilbur Larch felt
I should simply leave now, Wilbur Larch thought, but he said, 'Yes, Doctor Larch,' and bowed to the woman —a great gunship of a woman, with a tanned face and a head helmeted in silver-gray hair, as sleek and as dangerous-looking as a bullet.
'You must come meet my daughter,' the woman said. 'And all the rest of us!' she added with a booming laugh that chilled the sweat on Wilbur Larch's back.
All the rest of them seemed to be named Charming or Peabody or Channing-Peabody, and some of them had first names that resembled last names. There was a Cabot and a Chadwick and a Loring and an Emerald (who had the dullest brown eyes), but the daughter whom Mrs. Channing-Peabody had designated to meet Dr. Larch was the plainest and youngest and least healthy-looking of the bunch. Her name was Missy.
'Missy?' Wilbur Larch repeated. The girl nodded and shrugged.
They were seated at a long table, next to each other. Across from them, and about their age, was one of the young men in tennis whites, either the Chadwick or the Cabot. He looked cross, or else he'd just had a fight with Miss Channing-Peabody, or else he would rather have been seated next to her himself. Or maybe he's just her brother and wishes he were seated farther away from her, thought Wilbur Larch.
The girl looked unwell. In a family of tans, she was pale; she picked at her food. It was one of those dinners where the arrival of each course caused a complete change of dishes, and as the conversation lapsed and failed, or at least grew fainter, the sound of china and silverware grew louder, and a tension mounted at the dinner table. It was not a tension caused by any subject of conversation—it was a tension caused by no subject of conversation. {88}
The rather senile retired surgeon who was seated on Wilbur's other side—he was either a Channing or a Peabody—seemed disappointed to learn that Larch was an obstetrician. Still, the old codger insisted on knowing Dr. Larch's preferred method of expelling the placenta into the lower genital tract. Wilbur Larch tried, quietly, to describe the expression of placenta to Dr. Peabody or Dr. Channing, or whoever he was, but the old man was hard of hearing and insisted that young Larch speak up't Their conversation, which was the dinner table's only conversation, thus progressed to injuries to the perineum—including; the method of holding back the baby's head to prevent a perineal tear—and the proper mediolateral incision for the performance of an episiotomy when a tear of the perineum seems imminent.
Wilbur Larch was aware that Missy Channing-Peabody's skin was changing color beside him. She went from milk to mustard to spring-grass green, and almost back to milk before she fainted. Her skin was quite cool and clammy, and when Wilbur Larch looked at her, he saw that her eyes were almost completely rolled up into her head. Her mother and the cross young man in tennis whites, the Cabot or the Chadwick, whisked her away from the table—'She needs air,' Mrs. Channing-Peabody announced, but air was not in short supply in Maine.
Wilbur Larch already knew what Missy needed. She needed an abortion. It came to him through the visible anger of young Chadwick or Cabot, it came to him over the babbling senility of the old surgeon inquiring about 'modern' obstetrical procedure, it came to him through the absence of other conversation and through the noise of the knives and the forks and the plates. That was why he'd been invited: Missy Channing-Peabody, suffering from morning sickness, needed an abortion. Rich people needed them, too. Even rich people, who, in Wilbur Larch's opinion, were the last to learn about anything, {89} even rich people knew about him. He wanted to leave, but now it was his fate that held him. Sometimes, when we are labeled, when we are branded, our brand becomes our calling; Wilbur Larch felt
Similar Books
