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"Now Sam, you know that you can't buy flowers this
time of the year for less than $15. We've got other places
for our money. Honestly, Sam dear, I don't need flowers."
Sam stared at her, unanswering.
"Well," she went on, faltering a little, "if you really want
to buy something, get a nice ivy plant or a geranium or
something. You know I'd like a nice plant for the kitchen."
It was settled. Sam never argued. When they were mar
ried, he had said she would always have things the way she
wanted them, and it had been that way. Her way, the sensi
ble way, had been so clear last night.
And now it was another night and the clatter of food
trays sounded down the hall.
"M-m-m, doesn't it smell good? Chicken, maybe?" Anne
asked, and then laughed. "Honestly, I feel like a pig wait
ing at its trough, I'm so hungry."
Irene laughed, too. "Motherhood must agree with us."
Companionably, they discussed in delighted detail their
new babies all through the creamed chicken, as they had
through lunch and breakfast. Their trays were removed
and the nurse came in with pans of water so they could
pretty, up before evening visiting hours.
"Golly, I just love this routine," Anne exclaimed glee
fully. "I can take hours to put on my face. At home, I'm in
such a hurry, I feel all thrown together."
Irene lightly powdered her nose, ran a comb through her
dark brown hair, and lay back against the pillow to watch
Anne. It was really a wondrous display. The fat gold-capped
bottles, the slender perfume jars, lipsticks, fluffy powder
puffs. When at last Anne was through, she tied a pink satin
ribbon around her long curling hair in back and fluffed up
the bangs in front with a few brisk motions.
The nurse came in again, and Anne asked for the pink
jacket from her suitcase. It was a lovely thing, all satin and
lace, and when Anne had it on she looked like a doll, Irene
thought, an exquisite, fragile doll.
Irene glanced hastily at the mirror on her own table and
away again. She asked for nothing from her suitcase. She
had nothing pink and lacy to put on. She smoothed her hair
back again. Well, all right, she wasn't beautiful. But she
wished, for Sam's sake, she was just a little.
The thought struck her that it was night and no plant had
been delivered to her. She was angry with herself for her
sudden uneasiness. She hadn't wanted one and Sam knew
it. Yet
Anne's husband burst in with a shout, carrying packages
and magazines. He stopped silently at his wife's bed and
stood looking at her for a moment Then he gathered the
smiling doll into careful arms. The head of the house had
come, the protector.
Irene felt a queer prickle" in her nose. She wouldn't cry.
There was no reason to. Certainly a full-grown woman
doesn't cry because she has just realized that no man had
ever looked at her as though she needed to be cherished.
Maternity weeps this must be she'd heard of such a thing.
But she certainly wouldn't cry!
Sam would be here soon. Maybe he was working. Some
times he worked way past dinnertime.' Sometimes he got
so involved that he forgot the time. Oh Sam, please come.
Mrs. Jordan appeared in the doorway. She had a huge
white box under her arm. "This is for you," she said to
Irene and waited to see what was inside. Irene wondered
at the swift excitement that made her breathless, made her
fingers tremble on the heavy satin ribbon. The green waxy
paper! They didn't send geraniums that way. She opened
the paper and saw the yellow roses. Two dozen of them,
creamy yellow with drops of moisture clinging to the ten
der buds. Yellow roses! .
Irene picked up the card, dimly aware of Mrs. Jordan's
awed exclamations. The card, in Sam's writing, said: "Nev
ertheless, I insist my beautiful wife have roses today!"
Mrs. Jordan hustled importantly out of the room with
the roses in search of a vase, and Irene sat staring at the
card for a long moment.
Then her hands began to search feverishly through the
crumpled paper on her lap. The wetness of tears on her
cheeks surprised her a little, but she had no time for this.
She had to hurry and find a piece of ribbon to tie in her
hair before her husband arrived.
Family Weekly, February 14, 1960
19
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Page 2: Religious News Service.
Page 4: UPI.
Pages 16, 17: Margaret Olwine.
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