At noon each day, Abraham Hancock set aside an hour when he could eat lunch and stretch out on the examining table to rest. He kept an embroidered pillow in his desk drawer, and his nurse -- Mrs. Tate, from across the Ohio at Chesapeake -- knew not to disturb him. She was also his bookkeeper and receptionist, and used this time to catch up on the accounts or to read at the novels she borrowed from the library but never seemed to finish. Hancock rarely ate out, bringing instead cold leftovers from the night before. He had just finished a biscuit and was paring an apple with his pen knife when Mrs. Tate knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply
      "Garnet Reeves has come in out here and would like to see you."
      "And she will, once I finish my lunch hour." He sliced a crescent moon-shaped piece of apple and slid it off the blade into his mouth, as though to end the conversation. At fifty-seven years old, he held great respect for brevity.
      "She hasn't an appointment."
      "Well, then give her one." He went back to the article open before him on the desk.
      "There are none this afternoon."
      Slowly, holding back a great impatience, he raised his head. Of all the weaknesses he disliked most in other people, he could tolerate indecision the least. He could not understand why the woman did not take care of this herself, why she insisted on having him decide for her. He had hired her to run that end of things, had trained her carefully to observe, question, diagnose. A simple maxim; expedient and efficient; why she could not follow something so simple baffled him.
      "Is it trouble with the baby?" Garnet Reeves was five months pregnant.
      "She wouldn't say. I don't think it's an emergency, but she's limping a little."
      He began re-packing his lunch, then realized there would be no time to eat more this afternoon. He crushed the remains into the paper and tossed it into the waste basket. "Give me a minute and send her in."
      "Yes, Doctor," she said and was gone.
      A benevolence he once thought inexhaustible had been exhausted, and he was now a selfish man. Had she been any of his other patients, he would have made her wait or come back another time. Most emergencies, he knew, were not emergencies at all, but merely hysteria brought on by the patients' ignorance of their own bodies. However, for Garnet Reeves, because he did not know her to be a crank , he would postpone his rest. Last year, she had lost a baby in the sixth month. One morning the fetus had simply stopped moving. Three days later she came to see him, and he broke her water and brought the labor on. It had been a girl child. He swept biscuit crumbs from the little place cleared on the blotter. The four corners of the desk were cluttered with papers and magazines arranged vaguely into stacks. The center was strewn with open envelopes and yellow sheets torn from a small notepad that sat on the far edge of the desk. Three medical journals lay on top of each other like spoons, open to the pages where he had stopped reading once he understood the gist of each article. For an instant, he was annoyed by the mess, as though he were noticing his sloppiness for the first time. But then just as quickly, he gave the clutter a backhanded wave and made a sound to assure himself that he could keep his desk however he wished.
      He had known Garnet Reeves since she was a child. He first met her the night her father had broken his leg falling from a horse. Delano Jeffries was an itinerant preacher who worked the coal camps in Mingo County. He was the type of man Hancock usually avoided. But Jeffries, who had lost a wife just months before the fall, had a fine sense of humor for a man so full of piousness and bad luck. Hancock respected this, and the two got along fairly well, even going fishing together occasionally for a time. Though Jeffries was still a patient of his, Hancock hadn't seen him socially for a few years.
      When she entered, he could see right away that she was indeed in some sort of pain (she walked slowly, leaning slightly to one side as though she had a cramp), but she seemed to be upset as well.
      "Mrs. Reeves, you've disturbed my lunch. " He dried his hands on a towel and motioned with his head toward one of the straightback chairs. "Sit."
      "I appreciate you seeing me."
      "You know it's my pleasure," he said. She was raised a country woman and by habit remained standing, hesitant until he motioned again toward the chair and rolled his own around to the front of the desk. "Please, sit." She eased herself slowly into the chair.
      "How's your father? Does he miss the circuit much?"
      "No, he says it isn't something a man would miss once he's gone from it."
      She looked at the floor and then at him, jerking her head up as if she had decided what to say and would now say it, even before he could ask.
      "I'm all swollen up," she said.
      "Of course you are. You're five months pregnant." She did not smile. It was a bad joke.
      "No. I mean down there."
      "Where down there?"
      She hesitated and then pointed down into her lap.
      "Your genitals are swollen." This was not a question. He knew now what she was talking about.
      "It hurts to walk."
      "I imagine it does." He stood and pushed his chair back, pleased this was solved so easily. Maybe he was wrong about the other. "Let me take a look. If it's what I think, and I'm sure it is, you'll be off your feet some from here on in." He motioned to the changing screen in the corner.
      "I'll get Mrs. Tate to fetch you a cover." He went out of the office and into the other room. Usually, he would stay at his own desk while the patient changed, asking further questions about the symptoms or just passing the time, but for some reason, possibly her shyness, because she seemed so peculiar today, he felt uncomfortable staying in the room.
      When he went back in, Garnet Reeves was on the examining table, her body covered by a white sheet.
      "All ready?" He stood at the end of the table near her head and talked down to her.
      "They came up bad this morning," she said. "When I woke. But they've been bothering me for a while now, just not bad enough to come in. I had a hard time walking this morning."
      "Let's take a look." He moved around to examine her, and as he expected, and, as she had said, the skin of her vulva was puffy and knotted-looking.
      "You've got a case of varicose veins."
      "There?" she said.
      "It'll happen in second pregnancies. They settle in sometimes and cause some discomfort, but most often they'll only stay with you through the delivery. After that, they generally disappear altogether."
      She shifted and seemed relieved.
      "How painful are they?" He knew this question often led nowhere with a country woman like Reeves. She was not hard, just resilient, not one to complain. At twenty-six, she seemed much older than she was.
      "It hurts enough. I laid around most of the morning."
      "No harm in that. You'll be doing more of it now, too. I want you to lie down whenever you can. Never more than a few minutes on your feet." He covered her, drawing the sheet down over her knees. She pushed herself up on her elbows, into a sitting position.
      "There's things I've got to get done."
      He knew she would say this and was half inclined to lead her on out the door and tell her to be gone then. Tell her to do what she thought she had to do. But he grunted instead and turned away. This and a moment of silence usually worked better than any lecture he could give. His back was to her and he wrote a note to himself on the pad and then pondered it for effect.
      Finally, he said, "You'll stay off your feet because you won't feel like being on them." He faced her again. "Isn't there someone who could come stay with you during the day? You've got sisters. Surely one of them could come down and help out."
      "I don't know. I suppose I could ask."
      "You do that. What time does your husband get home in the evening?" He watched her to see if there would be any change in her expression, but there was none.
      "He works all hours. He don't ever come home regular."
      "Well, he can help when he does get home."
      He waited to hear why he couldn't or wouldn't. There had been trouble between them before.
      "He tries to help as much as he can," she said.
      Once, a few years back she had come to him about their marriage. He had recommended she talk to her minister, but she said no, it was not something the preacher could help her with. She said the problem was with her body. She no longer had any desire for her husband, and in fact claimed she was in pain whenever they made love. She hoped he could prescribe something for her. He found this peculiar not because such help had not been sought from him before, but because she did not seem the type to handle such a problem in this way. Usually, these quiet, country girls would keep such trouble to themselves and suffer through with it, submitting to their husbands as though it were simply another in a life filled with submissions.
      She had wanted to solve her problem, and for this he admired her. But still he had found the situation unsettling and felt he had sent her away without adequately helping her. The truth was he did not know what to do for her. His own marriage had been so long without passion, that he could only guess at a solution.
      "Your boy, Nevitte, is he able to help you out any?"
      "He does what he can. He's not but eight."
      "That's old enough for a good many chores."
      "He's a good boy. He'll help if I ask him."
      "Then you go back this evening and ask him. And tell your husband he can wash the dishes. Just leave them in the sink till he gets home. That kind of standing will do you no good."
      He motioned toward the screen and turned away from her. "You can get dressed now." He went to his desk, determined to stay this time. He sat down to the open pad and began writing again, as though she had already left the room. She sat on the edge of the table a moment and then slipped off and walked softly to the screen, as if she were afraid to disturb him.

* * *

      Hancock stood at the sink, scrubbing his hands beneath the faucet. Steam rose from the boiling water on the stove behind him. A scattering of droplets like little balls of mercury seemed about to fall from the pale green ceiling.
      "You might have waited too long this time," he said. Garnet Reeves was on the kitchen table behind him, her bottom on the edge, her feet on two chairs. She wore a flower print gown. With a magician's tug, he snatched a stiff white towel from his bag on the counter. His wife kept a supply of clean ones for him in the foyer closet where he could restock on his way out.
      "Let's see where we are."
      He crouched down and examined her. She raised up on her toes, holding her breath as he pushed. By the timing of the contractions when she called, he had anticipated walking in and delivering the baby right away. It looked now that she was not as far along as he had thought.
      "The baby won't come till after midnight." The words were both a playful accusation and a sentencing. She let out her breath and tried to flatten her back onto the hard surface.
      "That long?" A contraction began and she flexed her body. Her voice sounded hopeless.
      "Relax," he said.
      "I can't."
      "Well, you keep tightening up and this baby'll stay in there all night."
      She lay silently, her eyes closed as she rushed into the solitude of the contraction. He rubbed her shoulder, kneading the tight muscle until the contraction ended and she shrugged him away, flattening out again on the table.
      "Where's your boy?"
      "I sent him next door to my neighbor just after I called you, " she said.
      "That's good. What time does your husband come home?"
      "I don't know."
      "Did you call him?"
      "I did, but his shift was already done. They don't know where he is."
      "Well, then he'll be in directly."
      She was obviously upset that her husband was neither here nor at work. Hancock had never known the man well enough even to be curious about his absence. He assumed the man had errands to run or had stopped off for a beer with friends, though this did seem rather irresponsible, considering that she was already a week overdue. He washed his hands again as he spoke.
      "You feel like sitting? Walking around would be the best thing, if you're up to it. Bring that baby on a little quicker and make the delivery easier, too."
      He took her elbow, and with his other hand guided her feet from the chairs. With great effort, she sat up and scooted awkwardly off the edge of the table, letting her gown fall down to cover her. She smoothed it with her hands, retying it around her huge waist. He pushed back the hair that had fallen in her eyes.
      "How's that feel? Much pressure?"
      "Better. I think I could walk some now."
      "Fine then. " He guided her across the kitchen to the sink. "You think Nevitte can stay there by himself if your neighbor comes over to sit with you?"
      "He can come on back too if he wants. He'll be fine," she said.
      "Yes," he said. "In the meantime, seeing as you're not up to cooking, I think I'll go on down to Bailey's for my supper. Can you stand or do you want to sit in the living room while I call?"
      "I'll be all right here." She closed her eyes and held onto the sink as another contraction came. He moved his hand up and down the back of her arm in a clumsy, paternal caress until she waved him away, her eyes still closed. He took his bag from the counter, set it on the floor, and waited in the doorway until the contraction ended.
      "What's your neighbor's name?"
      She opened her eyes finally and spoke. "It's in the little book by the phone. Neva Simms."
      He went to the phone and called next door. Mrs. Simms sounded excited to be a part of all this and said she'd be right over. When he called his wife to tell her he would not be home soon, his voice changed, became more neutral, not emotionless but rather flat and secure. His wife was disappointed; she had planned a special dinner, a pork roast, because she knew his day had not started well. This morning he had flooded his engine and had to take the trolley to work. Not that he minded the public transportation, but he missed his weekly Lodge breakfast because of the delay.
      Mrs. Simms arrived alone; the boy, Nevitte, was outside playing with another child up and down the thin walkway between the two houses. Simms, a plump woman born to help, gave Hancock a fluttering nod, a smile and a titter of recognition as she tumbled past him on her way to the kitchen. He followed hesitantly, already displaced by her. He took this as a good thing, said his goodbyes -- he would be back within the hour -- and left for Bailey's.

      When he returned, after a meal of pork chops that seemed to have lodged in his chest, the contractions were closer together. Her husband was not yet home and Garnet now focused much of her pain into anger about this. While Hancock was eating, the two women had paced through the house until Garnet felt now that the baby would surely come before midnight. Hancock examined her again and found she was correct.
      "Grease her face, Mrs. Simms. It'll be soon now."
      Neva Simms applied a thick coat of Vaseline around Garnet's mouth to keep the chloroform from burning her skin. At a quarter to eight, together, they delivered her of a baby boy.

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