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Fay was all right with the pregnancy. For an old gal, she was all right. We waited around at our place. Finally the time came. “It won’t be long,” she said. “I don’t want to get there too early.”

I went out and checked the car. Came back.

“Oooh, oh,” she said. “No, wait.”

Maybe she could save the world. I was proud of her calm. I forgave her for the dirty dishes and the New Yorker and her writers’ workshop. The old gal was only another lonely creature in a world that didn’t care.

“We better go now,” I said.

“No,” said Fay, “I don’t want to make you wait too long. I know you haven’t been feeling well.”

“To hell with me. Let’s make it.” “No, please, Hank.”

She just sat there.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

She sat there ten minutes. I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. When I came out she said, “You ready to drive?”

“Sure.”

“You know where the hospital is?” “Of course.”

I helped her into the car. I had made two practice runs the week earlier. But when we got there I had no idea where to park.

Fay pointed up a runway.

She was in bed in a back room overlooking the street. Her face grimaced. “Hold my hand,” she said.

I did.

“Is it really going to happen?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You make it seem so easy,” I said.

“You’re so very nice. It helps.”

“I’d like to be nice. It’s that god damned post office . . . ”

“I know. I know.”

We were looking out the back window.

I said, “Look at those people down there. They have no idea what is going on up here. They just walk on the sidewalk. Yet, it’s funny . . . they were once born themselves, each one of them.”

“Yes, it is funny.”

I could feel the movements of her body through her hand. “Hold tighter,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’ll hate it when you go.”

“Where’s the doctor? Where is everybody? What the hell!” “They’ll be here.”

Just then a nurse walked in. It was a Catholic hospital and she was a very handsome nurse, dark, Spanish or Portuguese.

“You . . . must go... now,” she told me.

I gave Fay crossed fingers and a twisted smile. I don’t think she saw. I took the elevator downstairs.

Other works by Charles Bukowski...



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