Three Stories by J. D. Salinger

Author:J. D. Salinger
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-11-28T05:00:00+00:00

Paula

On the fourth of May 1941 Hincher returned home from work at 6:30 to discover his wife sitting up in bed reading. Hincher inquired affectionately:

“What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

“Not too well,” said Mrs. Hincher, setting down her book.

“Oh,” said Hincher “Getting up for dinner?”

“I don’t think so dear. Do you mind terribly?”

“No. No. Of course not. What are you doing? Reading?”

“Mmm,” admitted Mrs. Hincher.

At the same time the following evening, Mrs. Hincher was still in bed.

“Shall I send for Dr. Bohler?” Mr. Hincher asked solicitously.

Mrs. Hincher laughed her warm, delicious laugh. “I don’t think so dear,” she said. “I don’t think there’s anything he can do.”

“How so? What do you mean?” Hincher sat down on the edge of his wife’s bed.

‘’You big nut!” said Mrs. Hincher good humouredly. “I’m going to have a baby.”

Stupification set into Hincher’s face, followed by sheer ecstasy. Then quickly he bent to kiss his wife first excitedly, then tenderly, and he began to make great promises and predictions. But he interrupted himself.

“I knew the damn fool was wrong,” he exclaimed happily. “What did he say?”

“Who, darling?”

“Dr. Bohler.”

“Dr. Bohler!” said Mrs. Hincher contemptuously, but not unpleasantly. “Darling, a woman knows whether she’s going to have a baby or not. At least this woman.”

“But I thought—”

“—Darling, I know I don’t have to see Dr. Bohler or Dr. Whoosis-Whatsis. I know. I always knew I’d know.”

“But I just thought—” said Hincher. “I thought Dr. Bohler said you couldn’t have one. I mean didn’t he say that?”

Mrs. Hincher laughed gloriously. She reached up two hands and gently took her husband’s concerned face between them.

“Darling, don’t worry,” said Mrs. Hincher, laughing softly. We’re going to have a baby.”

Finally, leaving the bedroom to wash up for dinner, Hincher called back:

“Getting up for dinner, sweetheart?”

“No, darling, I’d rather not.”

***

Weeks and then months passed and Mrs. Hincher stayed in bed, leaving it only to make certain small, obvious excursions to her bathroom, to her bureau drawers, to her dressing table,—and one afternoon when Sophie, the housemaid, begged off to see her dentist, Mrs. Hincher, in maroon wrapper and feathery mules, ventured downstairs to see if her Saturday Evening Post had been delivered. But all her little trips, side- and direct considered, approximately 23 hours of the day, 165 hours of the week, 644 hours of the month, Mrs. Hincher resided under counterpane. She breakfasted, lunched and dined in bed. She read and knitted in bed, all current newspapers and magazines, bags of wool and graduated sizes of knitting needles, within her reach. There was a silver hand-bell on her night table. Two shakes of it, and Sophie, the maid, instantly dried her hands, or turned off the vacuum cleaner, or snipped her cigarette, and literally came running. Sophie received her instructions from Mr. Hincher at the same time he had raised her salary.

***

“Darling. Will you come here a minute?”

Hincher re-entered his wife’s bedroom.

“Darling, I’m going to ask something strange of you. You’ll probably think I’m utterly mad.

Hincher smiled, “What is it little girl?”

“I want to stay in bed, sweet.

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