His Command Performance

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="12ad4c00dduajq.gif"> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="95" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 46 ><NOBR><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="46" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="91" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>More Stories</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> email: <FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#A6CAF0" FACE="Times New Roman" >sonoflawrence@yahoo.co.uk</FONT></div> <div> (Not live link. Cur & paste)</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFBF0" TEXT="#080000"> <bR> <bR> <div> <B>His Command Performance</B></div> <div> by</div> <div> S. T. Hedges</div> <div> Approx. 2,550 words</div> <bR> <bR> <div> EACH father's newest rival was screaming its primary right to the sacred nipple; and from the delivery room came the latest labourer's screams as she took turn in cursing the fate of all women. Sturdy nurses scurried in and out of the sluice, pounding backwards and forwards on the linoleum floors, for ever squealing in protest.  </div> <div> After thirteen weeks the maternity wing sounded all too familiar, certainly no place for a supposed period of rest. Poor Helen.  And he was late again, the sun already slanting through the high windows of the cheerless corridor, so that he'd have to play his silly game again, the one about not reading the sign over the ward entrance.  The hardest part was turning the corner at the end, where it looked straight at you.  He'd read it a hundred times and could recite it backwards. Amazing, that -that a thing like that could still have power to demand attention after three months. What chance was there for a man who couldn't even assert himself over a set of symbols?  Not only will you <I>not</I> read it, he thought, you won't even <I>look</I> at it.  Tonight's penalty for losing is... going without a cigarette till... Well, bedtime at least. The trick was to keep his eyes on the floor as he turned the corner. </div> <div> He managed it.  Now all he had to do was get passed Sister's office without being seen. He slowed down, putting less weight on the heels, for there was no point in alerting Cycloptrix unnecessarily, not she, the all-seeing guardian of impregnated down-trodden wives.  Reaching the ever-open door, he glanced  right.  She was sitting with her back to the door as he crept past. Now, <I>don't</I> look up! </div> <div> 'Mister Saunders!' </div> <div> Hell! How on earth?  Then his eyes rolled to the ceiling automatically.   </div> <bR> <div> STRICTLY TWO VISITORS AT ONE TIME</div> <div> VISITORS ARE REQUESTED TO </div> <div> REFRAIN FROM SMOKING</div> <div> NO DOGS</div> <div> NO CHILDREN UNDER TWELVE</div> <bR> <div> By Order of the Governors, 1963</div> <bR> <div> With legs astride, plump hands clasped over the place where no man in his right mind would have the temerity to explore, Sister Molloy stood fixing him with her man-eating stare. </div> <div> 'It's yourself, is it?  Late again, I see.  No matter.  Will you have the goodness to step inside my office for a few minutes?' </div> <div> Her one attraction was the Irish brogue. But why despise him? Did she despise all men, or only those who'd sullied their wives? </div> <div> She stood holding the door open, allowing him to pass, then brushed past and sat down, taking care to tuck her starched, formless skirt - at least, no form that would excite a man - beneath her gigantic buttocks, allowing Christ crucified to fall away from her neck and swing freely in the last rays of the sun.  Had she ever entertained the thought of Him having genitals like his own, he wondered. Perhaps she'd never heard of the bizarre relic in that Italian church that boasted possession of the true holy foreskin?  How good it would feel to enlighten her!  </div> <div> To the sound of ice crackling underfoot, the mass of her bosom then smothered the blotting pad as she reached for a small trumpet-like object at the back of her desk.  She turned without looking up, then began tapping it against the palm of her hand.  </div> <div> 'Mr Saunders, we think it's time you learned that it's been almost a week since we heard the baby's heartbeat.'  Without raising her eyes, she continued:  'Of course, this may or may not be significant.' Her voice was flat, the matter-of-fact tone of someone simply doing her job. But then she looked straight into his eyes.  God! She's telling me our baby's probably dead, and she's waiting for my reaction!  </div> <div> He said nothing. </div> <div> She continued: 'Sometimes it's just a temporary obstruction. If the baby moves behind a major organ, for instance...  Anyway, we can't be sure. Not till tomorrow, when Mr England makes his rounds.' </div> <div> 'I see. And…'  </div> <div> 'I'm afraid we must ask you to keep this to yourself, Mr Saunders. There's no point alarming your good wife unnecessarily, now is there?' </div> <div> 'Ah, she doesn't know?' </div> <div> 'Sure, and what would be the sense in that?  If she's lost the child, won't we need all her co-operation when the time comes? Surely even a man can see that?' </div> <div> In the courtyard, roses still bloomed, birds still sang, the world was doing its usual thing, carrying on as normal...  If she's lost the child... when the time comes... 'Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?'  </div> <div> 'Yes, I suppose…'</div> <div> 'There's no supposing about it. It's going to be a breech presentation, so it is. The Lord knows it'll be hard enough for the poor girl. And her being in hospital so long. But if  - ' She paused.  </div> <div> 'See here. Let me make it plain. Without your wife's contribution - without her fullest co-operation, you understand? - it could be serious.  Very serious indeed.' </div> <div> Breech presentation... Wife's contribution...  Eight years flashed by in a trice. </div> <div> 'I see.  And what exactly is a breech presentation?'</div> <div> 'Holy Mary,' she exclaimed, 'we have led a sheltered life, haven't we, Mr Saunders?' </div> <div> She went on to explain the condition.  'At one time it was almost always fatal for the mother. But nowadays it needn't be so, providing she's strong - and gives her fullest co-operation.'     </div> <div> 'Then shouldn't we be thinking of a Caesarean?'</div> <div> 'Out of the question.'</div> <div> 'Why?'</div> <div> 'Mr England. On principle. Like the good Catholic man he is. Against his principle to interfere in natural childbirth, so it is, unless the mother's life is in mortal danger. Which, at this stage, it is not.'</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Helen smiled. </div> <div> 'You're late again; thought you weren't coming. Beginning to think you'd forgotten me; taken out your lady-friend instead.'  </div> <div> Jest or quest?  He was never sure. </div> <div> Each day her face grew paler; dark hair no longer lustrous, grown dull and brittle through lack of care; no more the quickening fragrance, no longer did it entice his fingers. He bent low and kissed her ear, the side of her neck, the pale lips, cool and soft as mushrooms in the early meadow. </div> <div> 'Oh... er... Sister wanted a word with me.  Nothing much.'</div> <div> 'Oh?' </div> <div> Careful!  </div> <div> He eased the chair forward and sat down. </div> <div> 'Oh., like I said; nothing serious. Just wanted to know how I'm coping with Penelope by myself. Takes a keen interest in me, does Sister.' He took her hand and kissed her palm. She smiled. </div> <div> 'And how is she?' removing her hand and returning his to the quilt with a pat or two.</div> <div> 'She's fine.'</div> <div> 'Still choosing names for her new baby brother or sister?'</div> <div> 'Of course.'</div> <div> 'What's the latest?'</div> <div> 'Er... Christopher Robin for a boy, and - I think - Mother Goose for a girl.' </div> <div> She smiled weakly.  </div> <div> 'You're sure she's happy?' </div> <div> He squeezed her hand. 'She misses you, naturally, but otherwise she's fine. I do what I can to make it up to her. Talk about you all the time - about when you get home and all that.'</div> <div> 'You'll bring her again on Saturday?  Let me see her through the window?'</div> <div> 'Of course I will.'</div> <div> 'Make sure to dress her up - make her pretty?'      </div> <div> 'Well, that's not hard to do, is it?'</div> <bR> <bR> <div> He had to play the game again; and lost again.</div> <div> 'I'm afraid we have no good news for you, Mr. Saunders. Mr England confirmed it today. There's no heartbeat. No question now, the child will be stillborn.' </div> <div> Again she looked at him curiously. His lips parted, but no words came.  </div> <div> You do realise the important thing now is the mother? I can't stress too strongly that on no account must she be given this news. Being only six days from her time she could go into labour any day, and she'll need all her strength - mental and physical.'</div> <div> No heartbeat... stillborn ... needs all her strength... </div> <div> 'What about a Caesarean now?'</div> <div> 'I've already answered that question, Mr Saunders.'</div> <div> He stopped outside the ward to look through the round window.  Another command performance was needed. In the state he was in, he couldn't be sure another was in him. No new baby. How do you tell a four-year-old little girl that God's changed his mind?  Poor Helen. This'll have to be good. What will I do with my eyes? </div> <div> Poor, dear Helen.  He'd do anything to accept her pain. Physical pain was easy. The kind of anxiety he'd borne this last few months was quite another thing. </div> <div> She'd bullied him into taking a small part with 'The Players' soon after they met.  A few months later, on the last night, they'd announced their engagement during the party backstage, He'd done well, she said - all things considered.  'You've a long way to go yet, but -' He'd called her a fibber; said he'd never been more scared in his life. He'd rather walk naked through Piccadilly than set foot on a stage again. And he never did. It all came back to him as he looked through the porthole, still remembered the dry mouth, the stomach twitches, palms sweating, nails cutting in…  It was all happening again. </div> <div> You're on!  Move!  Push the bloody door!  But he couldn't.  Instinctively, a cigarette went to his lips and he began fumbling for matches. </div> <div> 'No smoking, Mr Saunders,' said Sister, sweeping past him into the ward. </div> <div> He needed to start again. Cursing his cowardice, he trudged out into the courtyard. </div> <div> Half a dozen spare visitors were lolling about outside, sucking cigarettes between pinched fingers, feet scribing patterns in the gravel. He lit up.  </div> <div> Remembering that night, he felt suddenly cold. After years of over-selling, most of his clients held larger stocks of stationery than his depot in Holborn.  They'd duped him at their sales school, saying he'd make a first-class salesman;  'throw enough mud at the wall' being the philosophy. Huh! They'd been better at selling him the job than he'd ever be at selling office supplies. He'd come home that night without taking a single order over a pound again, opened the front door and called out as usual: 'Missy Mouse, are you within?'  No answer.  No Helen.  No Penelope. Instead, red-haired Melissa had come hurrying from the living room, arms already lifting.</div> <div>  'John, darling, Helen's been taken in.  A haemorrhage.  Penny's with us.  Oh, John… I'm so sorry.' </div> <div> As the heavy briefcase hit the floor, she was inside his arms. He must rely on her. She'd see him through; didn't he know she'd loved him since that first Christmas. He untied her arms, stared blankly, and was gone. Yet the guilt would always be there. He'd wanted her. Oh yes, he'd wanted her. Once would have been enough.  And the offer was still there. It was so unfair he should feel so guilty over a non-event. Suddenly he was angry. Realizing he'd already broken penance for the evening, he threw down the cigarette, ground it into the gravel, and marched quickly to the ward.     </div> <div> He was even later than usual, and she made no attempt to hide her disappointment. </div> <div> 'Are you sure you're not seeing someone?'  </div> <div> Our baby's dead Helen. Dead! There are con-men, muggers, drug dealers, thieves, child-molesters, rapists, murderers still walking the earth; but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, because our baby's dead, Helen.  Dead!</div> <div> 'Car broke down,' he said.</div> <div> She looked at his hands. 'Sorry, John, you'll have to do better than that.'</div> <div> He looked at them, turned them over. </div> <div> 'I don't mean now... earlier... while I was working. Put me behind all day.' </div> <div> She gave him a look and asked after Penelope.</div> <div> 'No problems.'</div> <div> 'And Melissa?'</div> <div> He hesitated. 'Sorry, not with you.'</div> <div> 'Still coping with the extra load? Picking up Penelope and all that?'</div> <div> 'Oh... That. Yes. At least, she doesn't complain.'</div> <div> 'No. She's a good friend. I'll must make it up to her once baby's born.'</div> <div> 'I've told you, she doesn't complain.  Anyway, I think we should move.  Once you've recovered, I mean.  Once you're home and everything....'</div> <bR> <bR> <div> He lost again.</div> <div> 'Your wife gave birth to a full-time still-born this morning, Mr Saunders. I'm afraid she had a very bad time. You'll need to be gentle, make allowances. It took three nurses to hold her down and drag it from her, so it did.  The Lord knows it was quite a business. You're welcome to see him if you wish. D'you want to see him? '</div> <div> A son!  Not a baby; a 'stillborn' she calls it. No! God, no. Two weeks dead in the womb and she asks, do I want ...?  What kind woman <I>is</I> this?  </div> <div> 'No. No, I don't think so. Thanks.'</div> <div> 'Just as you say. It's probably just as well. He was rather emaciated, so he was, the wee thing. I must say, it may not seem much to you, but your wife's been through a terrible ordeal. She'll recover, but you'll need to be more considerate from now on. Not be making so many demands. Try and be a little more sensitive - aware of her loss. Try to understand her feelings.'  </div> <div> Perhaps he should thank God that, so far as Sister was concerned, he had no feelings.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Her eyes were closed.  She lay peacefully, like a child silent with fever; hair shiny with sweat, plastered to her forehead, womb empty, cheated breasts ironically filling with milk. And her mind? He didn't know. He only knew he was free again. Free from fear; months of fear.  For despite a warrior's heart, he did know certain kinds of fear: fear of causing her death; of facing an orphan; of losing his job. </div> <div> He kissed her brow. Her eyes opened, and he took her hand. </div> <div> Full of explicit shock, her deep brown eyes were larger than ever. They grew larger still as a lens of tears began filling them. He touched a finger to her lips; it was his turn to speak first. </div> <div> 'I was on the road Helen, I didn't know. Had no idea until I arrived just now.  But I'm here now. And the important thing is: you're safe. We're safe. And we'll keep trying. One day it'll all be in the past. You'll see.'</div> <div> A puzzled expression crossed her face, followed by a look of sudden realisation, of horror, shock, fear, anger - he never knew which.  </div> <div> 'You don't care! My God! You don't care! I've lost my baby and you don't care! You didn't want it! You never wanted it. And you're relieved! You've pretended all along. I remember when I told you, it was one of the first things you said. ''We can't afford it,'' you said. You're glad! You weren't here as usual, and now you're glad! You're glad because - '</div> <div> He grabbed her arm. 'Helen!' </div> <div> 'Glad!'</div> <div> 'Helen! I <I>knew</I>!' </div> <div> Her eyes opened wide.</div> <div> 'You knew?' </div> <div> 'Yes. I knew he was dead. I've known for days. Had time to get... used to it... don't you see?'</div> <div> 'You knew?' </div> <div> He nodded sadly. 'Sister told me over a week ago.' </div> <div> She turned her face to the wall.  </div> <div> 'You <I>bastard</I>! I hate you. <I>Hate</I> you! I'll never trust you again so long as I live. <I>Never</I>! How could I? How could you...?' </div> <bR> <bR> <div> Though he changed his lines and went to the theatre every evening for several weeks afterwards, he could never surpass those early appearances. Eventually the curtain came down. One by one the players left the stage. All the lights went out.  Click! Clack! Everyone left, until nothing remained but the fact of those early inspired performances. And it's many years since Penelope was barred from the ward, or held in her Daddy's arms.<FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#000066" FACE="Times New Roman" >    </FONT></div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> End</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>Return to index</B></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage </B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Copyright is reserved on all personal creative material, which may not be copied for redistribution to third parties without prior written consent. </div> <div> ©<FONT SIZE="1" COLOR="#A6CAF0" FACE="Times New Roman" > S.T. Hedges 2003</FONT></div> <bR> <div> <I><B><IMG SRC="140f4040.gif" border=0 width="500" height="4" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></I></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>