Seed on the Wind

Stupid too to have refused the money. Why shouldn’t she take it? Twenty dollars — that was four dollars more than she had got for the watch she sold yesterday — the watch Pete Halliday had given her. Almost would she have preferred to cut off her hair and sell it, the hair Pete had braided — not that, enough of that. She bit off a thread, compressed her lips, and started the other edge. She should have taken Anne’s money, why not? Idiotic stupid pride — if she wasn’t above that she might as well give up. Nothing in god’s world mattered but the baby, she was going to have that baby — ha, wasn’t she though! But it was about time she used her intelligence, everything she did was stupid. These coat-linings — she couldn’t possibly do more than fifteen a day — at eight cents that was a dollar twenty — the rent alone was nearly a dollar. Imbecile. Instead of jumping at this the minute that little tailor suggested it she should have waited, looked around for something worthwhile. She was handicapped by her condition, of course; she couldn’t get a job in a store or an office with her front bulging out magnificently like a dahlia and ready to burst; anyway, she simply had to lie down once in a while. If she could have stood it the baby couldn’t, she felt sure of that. If she could only see it! It was dumb to fix it so it couldn’t be seen; there ought to be an opening somewhere so you could look in, so you could touch it even; what if one of its legs got twisted or its arm doubled under? Lord, it would be ugly, an awful-looking thing probably, but how she would love to see it! You could see it move too, it certainly did move, no doubt about that.

She took another thread. Damn the coat-linings; even if you worked like the very devil each one must take at least thirty minutes; she wished she had her watch so she could time herself. Or the alarm clock from the flat; that was stupid too, not to have brought anything that had belonged to Steve. Pride, ha! Pride was well above the subsistence level.

But something, Anne’s visit perhaps, or the natural progression of her own intelligence and will, had cleared her head a little. This was not only stupid, it was dangerous. If she didn’t look out, she reflected, she’d be having her baby in a charity ward or on the sidewalk, and she did not propose to do either. To hell with the coat-linings; she wasn’t such a boob, she’d find something. When the boy came at six o’clock she gave him the finished coats and told him not to bring any more.

The next morning, a warm June day, she put on the thin dark grey coat, which didn’t look bad at all with the buttons moved over, and started out. The man at the drugstore liked her, he might have something — what about making pills for instance, somebody had to make them. No, he was sorry, nothing. Mr. Pitkin, at the office where she had worked the summer before, was genial but had no suggestions to offer; he cracked a joke or two and tendered a ten-dollar bill which she took calmly with a smile of thanks. By noon she had about exhausted her list of possibilities, and she was dead tired; she had been unable to keep her breakfast. She stumbled into a bookshop and sank into a chair, but after a few minutes saw that that wouldn’t do; obviously she wasn’t welcome, and anyway she couldn’t hold her head up. So she got back to her room, somehow climbed the stairs, and tumbled onto the bed without taking off her coat. She was furious; I’m nothing but a damn weakling, she thought, it makes me sick, some girls work hard right up to the very day. That gave her a start — could she have counted wrong? She lay on her back with her eyes closed, touching her fingers one by one, naming the months aloud. No, she was right, it wouldn’t be for five weeks yet, maybe more.

It was the woman at the tea-room who told her the next day about Palichak. She had been told by Joe Curtis, who of course would know. It appeared a remote chance to Lora, but by that time she was desperate, so she trudged down to Macdougal Alley and rang the bell at Number Seven. Palichak himself, short and dark and massive, let her in; inside were a couple of girls drinking cocktails and a man with a beard at the piano.

“I came to see you because I’m pregnant,” said Lora. “Mrs. Crosby at the tea-room said you wanted a model.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, his thick accent almost unintelligible.

“Enceinte, mon vieux,” called the man with the beard. “Beremenna.”

Palichak took her in with a swift inclusive glance. “Of course, how very nice,” he bowed. “You would like to work?”

“I don’t know,” Lora hesitated. “I came to see, I don’t know anything about this.”

“Ah. If you would be so kind — par ici — you take your clothes off—” He led her to the rear of the room, where an enormous metal screen enclosed a corner.