Different Seasons

by Stephen King

  "You're pregnant," I said. "I don't believe you doubted it much, did you?"

  If there are to be tears, I thought, they will come now.

  "No," she said with perfect composure. There was no more a sign of tears in her eyes than there were rainclouds on the horizon that day. "I'm very regular as a rule."

  There was a pause between us.

  "When may I expect to deliver?" she asked then, with an almost soundless sigh. It was the sound a man or woman might make before bending over to pick up a heavy load.

  "It will be a Christmas baby," I said. "December tenth is the date I'll give you, but it could be two weeks on either side of that."

  "All right." She hesitated briefly, and then plunged ahead. "Will you attend me? Even though I'm not married?"

  "Yes," I said. "On one condition."

  She frowned, and in that moment her face was more like the face of Harriet White than ever. One would not think that the frown of a woman perhaps only twenty-three could be particularly formidable, but this one was. She was ready to leave, and the fact that she would have to go through this entire embarrassing process again with another doctor was not going to deter her.

  "And what might that be," she asked with perfect, colorless courtesy.

  Now it was I who felt an urge to drop my eyes from her steady hazel ones, but I held her gaze. "I insist upon knowing your real name. We can continue to do business on a cash basis if that is how you prefer it, and I can continue to have Mrs. Davidson issue you receipts in the name of Jane Smith. But if we are going to travel through the next seven months or so together, I would like to be able to address you by the name to which you answer in all the rest of your life."

  I finished this absurdly stiff little speech and watched her think it through. I was somehow quite sure she was going to stand up, thank me for my time, and leave forever. I was going to feel disappointed if that happened. I liked her. Even more, I liked the straightforward way she was handling a problem which would have reduced ninety women out of a hundred to inept and undignified liars, terrified by the living clock within and so deeply ashamed of their situation that to make any reasonable plan for coping with it became impossible.

  I suppose many young people today would find such a state of mind ludicrous, ugly, even hard to believe. People have become so eager to demonstrate their broad-mindedness that a pregnant woman who has no wedding ring is apt to be treated with twice the solicitude of one who does. You gentlemen will well remember when the situation was quite different--you will remember a time when rectitude and hypocrisy were combined to make a situation that was viciously difficult for a woman who had gotten herself "in a scrape." In those days, a married pregnant woman was a radiant woman, sure of her position and proud of fulfilling what she considered to be the function God put her on earth for. An unmarried pregnant woman was a trollop in the eyes of the world and apt to be a trollop in her own eyes as well. They were, to use Ella Davidson's word, "easy," and in that world and that time, "easiness" was not quickly forgiven. Such women crept away to have their babies in other towns or cities. Some took pills or jumped from buildings. Others went to butcher abortionists with dirty hands or tried to do the job themselves; in my time as a physician I have seen four women die of blood-loss before my eyes as the result of punctured wombs--in one case the puncturing was done by the jagged neck of a Dr Pepper bottle that had been tied to the handle of a whiskbroom. It is hard to believe now that such things happened, but they did, gentlemen. They did. It was, quite simply, the worst situation a healthy young woman could find herself in.

  "All right," she said at last. "That's fair enough. My name is Sandra Stansfield." And she held her hand out. Rather amazed, I took it and shook it. I'm rather glad Ella Davidson didn't see me do that. She would have made no comment, but the coffee would have been bitter for the next week.

  She smiled--at my own expression of bemusement, I imagine--and looked at me frankly. "I hope we can be friends, Dr. McCarron. I need a friend just now. I'm quite frightened."

  "I can understand that, and I'll try to be your friend if I can, Miss Stansfield. Is there anything I can do for you now?"

  She opened her handbag and took out a dime-store pad and a pen. She opened the pad, poised the pen, and looked up at me. For one horrified instant I believed she was going to ask me for the name and address of an abortionist. Then she said: "I'd like to know the best things to eat. For the baby, I mean."

  I laughed out loud. She looked at me with some amazement.

  "Forgive me--it's just that you seem so businesslike."

  "I suppose," she said. "This baby is a part of my business now, isn't it, Dr. McCarron?"

  "Yes. Of course it is. And I have a folder which I give to all my pregnant patients. It deals with diet and weight and drinking and smoking and lots of other things. Please don't laugh when you look at it. You'll hurt my feelings if you do, because I wrote it myself."

  And so I had--although it was really more of a pamphlet than a folder, and in time became my book, A Practical Guide to Pregnancy and Delivery. I was quite interested in obstetrics and gynecology in those days--still am--although it was not a thing to specialize in back then unless you had plenty of uptown connections. Even if you did, it might take ten or fifteen years to establish a strong practice. Having hung out my shingle at a rather too-ripe age as a result of the war, I didn't feel I had the time to spare. I contented myself with the knowledge that I would see a great many happy expectant mothers and deliver a great many babies in the course of my general practice. And so I did; at last count I had delivered well over two thousand babies--enough to fill fifty classrooms.

  I kept up with the literature on having babies more smartly than I did on that applying to any other area of general practice. And because my opinions were strong, enthusiastic ones, I wrote my own pamphlet rather than just passing along the stale chestnuts so often foisted on young mothers then. I won't run through the whole catalogue of these chestnuts--we'd be here all night--but I'll mention a couple.

  Expectant mothers were urged to stay off their feet as much as possible, and on no account were they to walk any sustained distance lest a miscarriage or "birth damage" result. Now giving birth is an extremely strenuous piece of work, and such advice is like telling a football player to prepare for the big game by sitting around as much as possible so he won't tire himself out! Another sterling piece of advice, given by a. good many doctors, was that moderately overweight mothers-to-be take up smoking ... smoking! The rationale was perfectly expressed by an advertising slogan of the day. "Have a Lucky instead of a sweet." People who have the idea that when we entered the twentieth century we also entered an age of medical light and reason have no idea of how utterly crazy medicine could sometimes be. Perhaps it's just as well; their hair would turn white.

  I gave Miss Stansfield my folder and she looked through it with complete attention for perhaps five minutes. I asked her permission to smoke my pipe and she gave it absently, without looking up. When she did look up at last, there was a small smile on her lips. "Are you a radical, Dr. McCarron?" she asked.

  "Why do you say that? Because I advise that the expectant mother should walk her round of errands instead of riding in a smoky, jolting subway car?"

  " 'Pre-natal vitamins,' whatever they are ... swimming recommended ... and breathing exercises! What breathing exercises?"

  "That comes later on, and no--I'm not a radical. Far from it. What I am is five minutes' overdue on my next patient."

  "Oh! I'm sorry." She got to her feet quickly, tucking the thick folder into her purse.

  "No need."

  She shrugged into her light coat, looking at me with those direct hazel eyes as she did so. "No," she said. "Not a radical at all. I suspect you're actually quite ... comfortable? Is that the word I want?"

  "I hope it will serve," I said. "It's a word I like. If you speak to Mrs. Davidson, she'll give you an appointment schedule. I'll want to see you again early next month."


  "Your Mrs. Davidson doesn't approve of me."

  "Oh, I'm sure that's not true at all." But I've never been a particularly good liar, and the warmth between us suddenly slipped away. I did not accompany her to the door of my consulting room. "Miss Stansfield?"

  She turned toward me, coolly enquiring.

  "Do you intend to keep the baby?"

  She considered me briefly and then smiled--a secret smile which I am convinced only pregnant women know. "Oh yes," she said, and let herself out.

  By the end of that day I had treated identical twins for identical cases of poison ivy, lanced a boil, removed a hook of metal from a sheet-welder's eye, and referred one of my oldest patients to White Memorial for what was surely cancer. I had forgotten all about Sandra Stansfield by then. Ella Davidson recalled her to my mind by saying:

  "Perhaps she's not a chippie after all."

  I looked up from my last patient's folder. I had been looking at it, feeling that useless disgust most doctors feel when they know they have been rendered completely helpless, and thinking I ought to have a rubber stamp made up for such files--only instead of saying ACCOUNT RECEIVABLE OR PAID IN FULL OR PATIENT MOVED, it would simply say DEATH-WARRANT. Perhaps with a skull and crossbones above, like those on bottles of poison.

  "Pardon me?"

  "Your Miss Jane Smith. She did a most peculiar thing after her appointment this morning." The set of Mrs. Davidson's head and mouth made it clear that this was the sort of peculiar thing of which she approved.

  "And what was that?"

  "When I gave her her appointment card, she asked me to tot up her expenses. All of her expenses. Delivery and hospital stay included."

  That was a peculiar thing, all right. This was 1935, remember, and Miss Stansfield gave every impression of being a woman on her own. Was she well off, even comfortably off? I didn't think so. Her dress, shoes, and gloves had all been smart, but she had worn no jewelry--not even costume jewelry. And then there was her hat, that decidedly out-of-date cloche.

  "Did you do it?" I asked.

  Mrs. Davidson looked at me as though I might have lost my senses. "Did I? Of course I did! And she paid the entire amount. In cash."

  The last, which apparently had surprised Mrs. Davidson the most (in an extremely pleasant way, of course), surprised me not at all. One thing which the Jane Smiths of the world can't do is write checks.

  "Took a bank-book out of her purse, opened it, and counted the money right out onto my desk," Mrs. Davidson was continuing. "Then she put her receipt in where the cash had been, put the bank-book into her purse again, and said good day. Not half bad, when you think of the way we've had to chase some of these so-called 'respectable' people to make them pay their bills!"

  I felt chagrined for some reason. I was not happy with the Stansfield woman for having done such a thing, with Mrs. Davidson for being so pleased and complacent with the arrangement, and with myself, for some reason I couldn't define then and can't now. Something about it made me feel small.

  "But she couldn't very well pay for a hospital stay now, could she?" I asked--it was a ridiculously small thing to seize on, but it was all I could find at that moment on which to express my pique and half-amused frustration. "After all, none of us knows how long she'll have to remain there. Or are you reading the crystal now, Ella?"

  "I told her that very thing, and she asked what the average stay was following an uncomplicated birth. I told her six days. Wasn't that right, Dr. McCarron?"

  I had to admit it was.

  "She said that she would pay for six days, then, and if it was longer, she would pay the difference, and if--"

  "--if it was shorter, we could issue her a refund," I finished wearily. I thought: Damn the woman, anyway!--and then I laughed. She had guts. One couldn't deny that. All kinds of guts.

  Mrs. Davidson allowed herself a smile ... and if I am ever tempted, now that I am in my dotage, to believe I know all there is to know about one of my fellow creatures, I try to remember that smile. Before that day I would have staked my life that I would never see Mrs. Davidson, one of the most "proper" women I have ever known, smile fondly as she thought about a girl who was pregnant out of wedlock.

  "Guts? I don't know, doctor. But she knows her own mind, that one. She certainly does."

  A month passed, and Miss Stansfield showed up promptly for her appointment, simply appearing out of that wide, amazing flow of humanity that was New York then and is New York now. She wore a fresh-looking blue dress to which she managed to communicate a feeling of originality, of one-of-a-kind-ness, despite the fact that it had been quite obviously picked from a rack of dozens just like it. Her pumps did not match it; they were the same brown ones in which I had seen her last time.

  I checked her over carefully and found her normal in every way. I told her so and she was pleased. "I found the pre-natal vitamins, Dr. McCarron."

  "Did you? That's good."

  Her eyes sparkled impishly. "The druggist advised me against them."

  "God save me from pestle-pounders," I said, and she giggled against the heel of her palm--it was a childlike gesture, winning in its unselfconsciousness. "I never met a druggist that wasn't a frustrated doctor. And a Republican. Pre-natal vitamins are new, so they're regarded with suspicion. Did you take his advice?"

  "No, I took yours. You're my doctor."

  "Thank you."

  "Not at all." She looked at me straightforwardly, not giggling now. "Dr. McCarron, when will I begin to show?"

  "Not until August, I should guess. September, if you choose garments which are ... uh, voluminous."

  "Thank you." She picked up her purse but did not rise immediately to go. I thought that she wanted to talk ... and didn't know where or how to begin.

  "You're a working woman, I take it?"

  She nodded. "Yes. I work."

  "Might I ask where? If you'd rather I didn't--"

  She laughed--a brittle, humorless laugh, as different from a giggle as day is from dark. "In a department store. Where else does an unmarried woman work in the city? I sell perfume to fat ladies who rinse their hair and then have it done up in tiny finger-waves."

  "How long will you continue?"

  "Until my delicate condition is noticed. I suppose then I'll be asked to leave, lest I upset any of the fat ladies. The shock of being waited on by a pregnant woman with no wedding band might cause their hair to straighten."

  Quite suddenly her eyes were bright with tears. Her lips began to tremble, and I groped for a handkerchief. But the tears didn't fall--not so much as a single one. Her eyes brimmed for a moment and then she blinked them back. Her lips tightened ... and then smoothed out. She simply decided she was not going to lose control of her emotions ... and she did not. It was a remarkable thing to watch.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "You've been very kind to me. I won't repay your kindness with what would be a very common story."

  She rose to go, and I rose with her.

  "I'm not a bad listener," I said, "and I have some time. My next patient cancelled."

  "No," she said. "Thank you, but no."

  "All right," I said. "But there's something else."

  "Yes?"

  "It's not my policy to make my patients--any of my patients--pay for services in advance of those services' being rendered. I hope if you ... that is, if you feel you'd like to ... or have to ..." I fumbled my way into silence.

  "I've been in New York four years, Dr. McCarron, and I'm thrifty by nature. After August--or September--I'll have to live on what's in my savings account until I can go back to work again. It's not a great amount and sometimes, during the nights, mostly, I become frightened."

  She looked at me steadily with those wonderful hazel eyes.

  "It seemed better to me--safer--to pay for the baby first. Ahead of everything. Because that is where the baby is in my thoughts, and because, later on, the temptation to spend that money might become very great."

  "All right," I said. "But please r
emember that I see it as having been paid before accounts. If you need it, say so."

  "And bring out the dragon in Mrs. Davidson again?" The impish light was back in her eyes. "I don't think so. And now, doctor--"

  "You intend to work as long as possible? Absolutely as long as possible?"

  "Yes. I have to. Why?"

  "I think I'm going to frighten you a little before you go," I said.

  Her eyes widened slightly. "Don't do that," she said. "I'm frightened enough already."

  "Which is exactly why I'm going to do it. Sit down again, Miss Stansfield." And when she only stood there, I added: "Please."

  She sat. Reluctantly.

  "You're in a unique and unenviable position," I told her, sitting on the comer of my desk. "You are dealing with the situation with remarkable grace."

  She began to speak, and I held up my hand to silence her.

  "That's good. I salute you for it. But I would hate to see you hurt your baby in any way out of concern for your own financial security. I had a patient who, in spite of my strenuous advice to the contrary, continued packing herself into a girdle month after month, strapping it tighter and tighter as her pregnancy progressed. She was a vain, stupid, tiresome woman, and I don't believe she really wanted the baby anyway. I don't subscribe to many of these theories of the subconscious which everyone seems to discuss over their Mah-Jongg boards these days, but if I did, I would say that she--or some part of her--was trying to kill the baby."

  "And did she?" Her face was very still.

  "No, not at all. But the baby was born retarded. It's very possible that the baby would have been retarded anyway, and I'm not saying otherwise--we know next to nothing about what causes such things. But she may have caused it."

  "I take your point," she said in a low voice. "You don't want me to ... to pack myself in so I can work another month or six weeks. I'll admit the thought had crossed my mind. So ... thank you for the fright."

  This time I walked her to the door. I would have liked to ask her just how much--or how little--she had left in that savings book, and just how close to the edge she was. It was a question she would not answer; I knew that well enough. So I merely bade her goodbye and made a joke about her vitamins. She left. I found myself thinking about her at odd moments over the next month, and--