Mrs Goodhall expressed, albeit coldly, her admiration for the severity and the duration of Dr. Larch's 'undertakinG' and her respect for how much experience Larch and his assistants had with administering St. Cloud's; perhaps they all could be invigorated by a younger assistant. 'A young intern-a willing toiler, and with some new ideas in the obstetrical field,' Mrs. Goodhall suggested.

'I keep up with the field,' Dr. Larch said. 'And I keep up with the number of babies born here.'

'Well, then, how about a new administrative assistant?' Mrs. Goodhall suggested. 'Leave the medical practice to you-I'm talking about someone with a grasp of some of the newer adoption procedures, or just someone who could handle the correspondence and the interviewing for you.'

'I could use a new typewriter,' Dr. Larch said. 'Just get me a new typewriter, and you can keep the assistant – or give the assistant to someone who's really doddering around.'

The new man on the board was a psychiatrist; he was rather new at psychiatry, which was rather new in Maine in 194-. His name was Gingrich; even with people he had just met, he had a way of assuming he understood what pressure they were under-he was quite sure that everyone was under some pressure. Even if he was correct (about the particular pressure you were under), and {332} even if you agreed with him (that there indeed was a certain pressure, and indeed you were under it), he had a way of assuming he knew other pressures that preyed upon you (which were always unseen by you). For example, had he seen the movie that began with the Bedouin on the camel, Dr. Gingrich might have assumed that the captive woman was under great pressure to marry someone -although it was clearly her opinion that all she wanted was to get free. His eyes and introductory smile communicated a cloying sympathy that you perhaps did not deserve-as if he were imparting by the imposed gentleness of his voice and the slowness with which he spoke, the assurance that everything is much more subtle than we can suppose.

The older members of the board-all men, all as elderly as Larch-were intimidated by this new man who spoke in whispers and by this new woman who was so loud. In tandem, they seemed so sure of themselves; they viewed their new roles on the board not as learning experiences, or even as an introduction to orphanage life, but as opportunities for taking charge.

Oh dear, Nurse Edna thought.

There's going to be trouble, as if we need any, Nurse Angela thought. It wouldn't have hurt to have a young intern around, or an administrative assistant, either; but she knew that Wilbur Larch was protecting his ability to perform the abortions. How could he accept new appointees without knowing the person's beliefs?

'Now, Doctor Larch,' Dr. Gingrich said softly, 'surely you know we don't think of you as doddering.'

'Sometimes I think of myself as doddering,' Larch said defensively. 'I suppose you might think so, too.'

'The pressure you must be under,' Dr. Gingrich said. 'Someone with all your responsibilities should have all the help he can get.'

'Someone with my responsibility should stay responsible,' Larch said.

'With the pressure you must be under,' said Dr. {333} Gingrich, 'it's no wonder you find it hard to delegate even a little of that responsibility.'

'I have more use for a typewriter than for a delegate,' Wilbur Larch said, but when he blinked his eyes he saw those bright stars that populated both a clear Maine night and the firmament of ether, and he wasn't sure which stars they were. He rubbed his face with his hand, and caught Mrs. Goodhall scribbling something on the impressively thick pad before her.

'Let's see,' she said-sharply, by comparison to Dr. Gingrich's wispy voice. 'You're in your seventies, now-is that correct? Aren't you seventy-something?' she asked Dr. Larch.

'Right,' said Wilbur Larch. 'Seventy-something.'

'And how old is Missus Grogan?' Mrs. Goodhall asked suddenly, as if Mrs. Grogan weren't present-or as if she were so old that she was incapable of answering for herself.

'I'm sixty-two,' Mrs Grogan said pertly, 'and I'm as lively as a spring chicken!'

'Oh, no one doubts you 're not lively!' said Dr. Gingrich.

'And Nurse Angela?' Mrs. Goodhall asked, not looking up at anyone; the scrutiny of her own writing on the pad before her required every ounce of her exhaustive attention.

'I'm fifty-eight,' Nurse Angela said.

'Angela is as strong as an ox!' Mrs. Grogan said.

'We don't doubt it!' said Dr. Gingrich cheerfully.

'I'm fifty-five or fifty-six,' Nurse Edna offered., before the question was raised.

'You don't know how old you are?' Dr. Gingrich asked meaningfully.

'Actually,' said Wilbur Larch, 'we're all so senile, we can't remember-we're just guessing. But look at you!' he said suddenly to Mrs. Goodhall, which did get Mrs. Goodhall to raise her eyes from her pad. 'I guess you have such trouble remembering things,' Larch said, 'that you have to write everything down.' {334}

'I'm just trying to get the picture of what's going on here,' Mrs. Goodhall said evenly.

'Well,' Larch said. 'I suggest you listen to me. I've been here long enough to have the picture pretty clearly in mind.'

'It's very clear what a wonderful job you're doing!' Dr. Gingrich told Dr. Larch. 'It's also clear how hard a job it is.' Such a warm washcloth kind of sympathy was leaking from Dr. Gingrich that Larch felt wet-and grateful that he wasn't sitting near enough to Dr. Gingrich for Dr. Gingrich to touch him; Gingrich was clearly a toucher.

'If it's not asking too much, in the way of your support,' Dr. Larch said, 'I'd not only like a new typewriter; I'd like permission to keep the old one.'

'I think we can arrange that,' Mrs. Goodhall said.

Nurse Edna, who was not accustomed to sudden insights-or, despite her years, hot flashes-and was completely inexperienced with the world of omens and signs or even forewarnings, felt a totally foreign and breathtaking violence rise from her stomach. She found herself staring at Mrs. Goodhall with a hatred Nurse Edna couldn't conceive of feeling for another human being. Oh dear, the enemy! she thought; she had to excuse herself-she was sure she was going to be ill. (She was, but discreetly, out of sight, in the boys' shower room.) Only David Copperfield, still mourning the departure of Curly Day, and still struggling with the language, spotted her.

'Medna?' young Copperfield asked.

'I'm fine, David,' she told him, but she was not fine. I have seen the end, she thought with an unfamiliar bitterness.

Larch had seen it, too. Someone will replace me, he realized. And it won't be long. He looked at his calendar; he had two abortions to perform the next day, and three 'probables' near the end of the week. There were always those who just showed up, too.{335}

And what if they get someone who won't perform one? he thought.

When the new typewriter arrived, it fitted-just in

time-into his plans for Fuzzy Stone.

'Thank you for the new typewriter,' Larch wrote to the board of trustees. It had arrived 'just in time,' he added, because the old typewriter (which, if they remembered, he wanted to keep) had completely broken down. This was not true. He had the keys replaced on the old typewriter, and it now typed a story with a different face.

What it typed were letters from young Fuzzy Stone. Fuzzy began by wanting Dr. Larch to know how much he was looking forward to being a doctor' when he grew up, and how much Dr. Larch had inspired him to make this decision.

'I doubt that I will ever come to feel as you do, regarding abortion,' young Fuzzy wrote to Dr. Larch. 'Certainly, it is obstetrics that interests me, and certainly your example is responsible for my interest, but I expect we shall never agree about abortion. Although I know you perform abortions out of the most genuine beliefs and out of the best intentions, you must permit me to honor my beliefs accordingly.'