Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  So, against her sisters’ strong opposition, Maureen had come to the hospital directly from the train that had brought her from Chicago.

  She had been alone.

  Alone when she rode in the cab to the hospital. For once, she’d wished for a talkative driver. It might have proven a distraction from the inevitability of her destination. But, just her luck, the driver kept his eyes on the road and his own counsel as the meter ticked away.

  Alone when she checked into the hospital. She hadn’t been a hospital patient since a childhood appendectomy. This process was new to her but routine to the clerk, who, like Joe Friday of “Dragnet,” got just the facts, in just about the same disinterested, mechanical manner as the fictional police officer had used.

  From the registration desk, Maureen was taken to her room, which she would share for the moment with another maternity patient. This woman had just lost her baby through complications during delivery. All this, Maureen learned by just one question. After that, it was clear the woman did not want to discuss her private tragedy further. She was merely waiting for the process of discharge. So, once again, at a time when Maureen wanted to talk to someone, especially one who had been through the actual event, she was, instead, very much alone.

  This business of loneliness had dogged her footsteps for the past six months. And that time had taken its toll.

  In the beginning it had been self-inflicted; she had freely removed herself from her relatives and friends to endure exile in a city of strangers. Now it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It seemed that everywhere she turned for companionship, she found only walls of isolation and silence. It was more than beginning to reach her.

  There was another decision she’d made that was making her think again. That was the determination to use no anesthetics or painkillers. She wasn’t trying to be either heroic or idiotic. She feared that if this process were in any way numbed or deadened by painkillers, she would too easily forgive what Charles Nash had done to her.

  She reasoned that if she tasted to the dregs whatever measure of discomfort and pain that pregnancy and delivery might entail, and if she endured without the solace loved ones would normally contribute, she would never, ever, forget or forgive Charles Nash.

  ACCORDING TO the wall clock, she had been in labor now for almost thirteen hours.

  That was longer—much longer—than she had expected, even though her doctor had cautioned that labor with a first child could be prolonged—and perhaps problematic. The doctor had been right on the money: This child was a problem.

  For a considerable time, contractions had been coming every five to seven minutes. At first, she tried to swallow the pain. She did not want to appear a weakling, particularly since it had been her own idea to forgo any painkilling drugs.

  After a while, it just wasn’t worth the effort to appear brave. She started to whimper. But once the barrier had been lowered, she cried out unreservedly. All that accomplished was a slight venting of emotion; it did nothing to alleviate the pain.

  The contractions intensified in their now all-too-predictable regularity. The baby stayed floating comfortably in its warm amniotic fluid. The womb retained its occupant. The nurse continued her periodic visits, measuring the cervical dilation, taking Maureen’s blood pressure, checking the baby’s heartbeat.

  The nurse seemed genuinely solicitous. But as much as she might wish to stay with Maureen, it was impossible; there were other laboring mothers to tend. So, once again, Maureen was alone and in incredible agony.

  In her misery, she resolved not to make any more resolutions. Then she sank once more into the dreadful depths.

  THERE WERE SCREAMS that didn’t seem to stop. Why wouldn’t they stop? Through the haze of grinding pain, she felt a hand on her arm. It was her doctor, and, as the screams abated, she realized they were her own screams. The doctor was talking to her, she knew that; she could see his lips moving. She tried to focus on what he was saying.

  The doctor, who was well aware of her decision to forgo drugs, was offering her a heavy dose of Demerol.

  Maureen wavered not an instant. She declined the doctor’s humane offer.

  After that, there was nothing for him to do but wait for her to deliver. And there was nothing for her to do but wait for whatever it was that persuaded an unborn baby to be born.

  The doctor did not want to see her suffer. But it did make things easier for the child. Because any analgesic she received would pass on to her baby. And, so far as anyone knew, the baby did not need a painkiller.

  It was also better for the postpartum mother in that without drugs her recovery would be far more speedy.

  And so, everyone waited. There was nothing else to be done. For Maureen’s part, she would never, ever, forget this ordeal.

  Then, it happened.

  Or so it seemed.

  Her water broke. Her cervix dilated measurably. “It’s time, honey,” the nurse said.

  Like a well-oiled machine, a tried and true routine slipped into high gear. Maureen was wheeled into the delivery room. All that white was replaced by green. Her doctor arrived almost simultaneously, along with another nurse, who, in time, seemed redundant. Maureen’s feet were once again placed in stirrups. The position was so familiar by now, she felt like a pony express rider hopping from horse to horse.

  The doctor’s head disappeared behind the sheet stretched across her knees. “It’ll be just a little while now, Maureen.”

  She groaned.

  “Lucy,” the doctor addressed the nurse positioned next to Maureen’s head, “did I tell you about the guy who was touring in Ireland and was having trouble finding a place to stay the night in one of those little villages?”

  “No … not that I remember,” she said tentatively.

  Maureen almost bit through her lip.

  “He finally got to the last possible bed-and-breakfast place in the village, but the owner told him they had no rooms. So the tourist was reduced to begging for any place to sleep. Finally, the owner said he did have one empty bed, but it was in a room where another man was staying. And this guy snored so loud he kept the cows awake; the tourist would never get any rest in that room.”

  Maureen could not find any humor anywhere in the world.

  “But the tourist assured the owner that arrangement would be fine. So, against his better judgment, the owner let the tourist have the extra bed. Next morning the tourist was up bright and early for breakfast, well rested and everything. The owner couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘You slept?’ he asked.

  “‘Like a baby,’ the tourist answered.

  “‘How’d you do that? … with that snorer in the room and all that?’

  “‘Simple,’ the tourist said. ‘Just before I went to bed, I kissed him.’”

  Maureen screamed.

  Light-humor time was over. “Okay,” the doctor said, “when I tell you, push.”

  The nurse, so close that her head was almost touching Maureen’s, began coaching her to breathe in rhythm with the contractions.

  “Now!” the doctor commanded.

  With a half scream, half grunt, Maureen complied.

  Several “Nows” later, the doctor said, “Okay, here we go! Now!”

  The nurse repeated the “Now.” Maureen, covered with perspiration, pushed with what was left of her might. Would this go on forever? Logic told her it would end. But logic had little impact in the face of this protracted pain.

  “Uh-oh,” the doctor said. “We’ve got a stargazer …” The rest of his words were lost to Maureen.

  “What? What?” Maureen tried to see what was going on, but, on the one hand, she couldn’t raise her head enough, and, on the other, the draped sheet blocked her vision.

  “The baby was coming out face up,” the nurse explained. “The doctor has to turn it.”

  “Oh, my God!” Maureen shrieked.

  “Oh, Lord!” the doctor exclaimed, “Now it’s turned sideways! I’m gonna have to use forceps. Okay, Maureen, hold
on. Don’t push for a minute.”

  She fainted.

  She came to as the nurse was, as gently as possible, shaking her and slapping her face.

  “What? What? Stop!” Maureen shrieked.

  “Okay, Maureen,” the doctor said. “I’ve got the baby turned and it’s ready to come out. We need your help. Now, again, when I tell you, push!”

  She did, again and again, grunting with the effort and screaming with the pain. But her screams grew increasingly guttural and her grunts weaker. Maureen was at the end of her rope.

  Then, through the wracking waves of agony, something seemed to break, then something was sliding out of her. Her tears came at the same time as the smile that widened into a grin.

  “Okay,” the doctor said, “come on. We’re ready for you.”

  There were a few brief moments of silence as the final stages of this miracle of birth were played out.

  “This,” the doctor said, “is where your decision not to have any drugs is going to pay off. Although I don’t know whether, after all you’ve gone through, it will be worth it. But you’re alert, and your baby is not at all groggy. You’ll see in a little while when you start to nurse a very frisky baby.”

  “Doctor,” Maureen said weakly, “doctor, what is it?”

  “Oh, yeah. Plumb forgot to mention that. Maureen, you’ve got a fine, healthy girl.”

  Maureen closed her eyes. Her smile was almost beatific.

  “Perfect,” she said, and relaxed.

  C H A P T E R

  18

  HE STUDIED the birth certificate for a full minute. Then he looked across the coffee table at Charles Nash. There was no expression on his face whatsoever. His eyes held some sentiment, but it was impossible to tell what it might be.

  His name was Rick Chardon. He was of average height, with thick, dark hair, brushed back and clinging tightly to his patrician head. His eyes, as already described, were very much alive, but with an intent frequently veiled.

  Wordlessly, he handed the certificate back to Nash.

  “What,” Nash asked, “is wrong with that certificate?”

  “Your name is on it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Nash had used Chardon’s services several times in the past, mostly to get information on Nash’s immediate superiors or fellow workers at Lowell Development Corporation. Information that could compromise their professional and/or private lives. Information that could undercut their standing at Lowell. It was one of the telling ways Nash had climbed the corporate ladder to his present position—one rung from the top.

  Chardon simply did whatever he was paid to do. His services did not come cheap, but they were virtually guaranteed.

  One never needed to tread lightly or be at all squeamish with Chardon. Everything was conducted in a business milieu wherein that which some might consider morality had no bearing.

  Chardon in no way worked for Nash. Chardon free-lanced. He could not, of course, advertise. His reputation grew by word of mouth from a series of satisfied customers.

  “I need to have my name taken off that record,” Nash said. “My name, and all other statistical information about me.”

  Chardon nodded. “I’m not familiar with the Wayne County Clerk’s Office. Is there any problem getting a copy of a record?”

  “None. I got this copy without showing any identification at all. You ask for a record—anyone’s—birth, marriage, death, you pay the fee, you get the record. Simple as that. No questions asked.”

  Again Chardon nodded.

  Nash knew that already Chardon was hatching a plan. There was no substitute for dealing with a professional. “So, do you have any ideas?”

  Chardon nodded.

  “I suppose it would be good to talk money,” Nash said.

  Chardon shrugged. “A little early. I don’t know yet what it will take.”

  Nash looked concerned. “Time is a factor. At the end of each month, they send all these records to Lansing. They’re kept in the state capital, as well as in the county. That means you’re going to have to take care of this by the end of the month. That leaves a little more than three weeks. Not too bad, except it has to be done within that time frame. Otherwise we’ll have to have someone doctor the records in the county and in the State.”

  Slight frown lines surfaced on Chardon’s forehead. “Three plus weeks.”

  “That’s all we’ve got.” Nash felt a tightening in his chest. He was so confident in Chardon’s efficiency that he hadn’t even considered the outside chance that this undertaking might be impossible, even for Chardon. “We can’t squeeze out anything more. Those are the rules. The records are kept by the state as well as by the various counties. We’ve got just to the end of November, and then the job gets twice as hard.”

  Chardon shook his head. “Not twice as hard, damn near impossible.”

  “Well, can you do it? Can you get the record changed before December?”

  Chardon said nothing for several moments. Then he looked squarely at Nash. “The price just went up.”

  “You haven’t quoted me a price.”

  “I know. But it just went up.”

  “My resources aren’t bottomless.”

  “They will be.” Chardon almost smiled.

  Nash read Chardon’s words as well as his demeanor and concluded that Chardon’s price would not only be fair, but that Chardon’s appraisal of Nash’s financial future was that it would be endlessly promising—and that he was counting on many future commissions from Nash.

  It was Nash’s turn to nod. “Do you need any more information?”

  Chardon took the birth certificate from the end table where Nash had laid it. “Not any more than this. You want your name and identification off this record. You don’t want it ever to get back on it. And you want it done before the end of this month.”

  “That’s it.”

  Chardon tipped his head sharply. “Done.”

  HE CASED THE OFFICE of the county clerk several times. He always kept moving, under the theory that you’re less likely to be noticed if you seem to know what you’re doing. People tend to take you for granted.

  He was canvassing the women clerks. He knew what he was looking for, but he was having trouble finding the perfect foil. Yet he was confident he would. No racist, he weighed black women as well as white. But after several near misses, he was almost ready to compromise.

  Then he saw her.

  She was perfect. Mousy, her hair pulled back and pinned in a bun so tightly it almost made her eyes appear oriental. Her dress was carefully modest, with lace at the high neck and long sleeves. She had a habit of compressing and rolling her lips inward, making a tight line of her mouth. She glanced fully at applicants just long enough to check their physical appearance against the record’s description—if the customer was asking for his or her own record. The rest of the time, she kept her eyes modestly cast down. Her ring finger was bare.

  She was it.

  Now, he needed a new identity. He had already done his research. He had all the information he needed.

  The next day, Chardon returned to the clerk’s office. This time he stood for an extended time, seemingly trying to make up his mind which line to enter. He waited until he knew she’d noticed him. Then he took his place at the end of her line.

  As the line moved forward, he knew she was glancing at him, taking him in surreptitiously.

  In time, he was at her station. “I need a copy of my birth certificate. My name’s Peter Arnold.”

  “And your date of birth?” She almost stammered. She noticed his smile. And of course she couldn’t bank on it, but she sensed that he was taking some interest in her. She was reluctant to believe her own intuition.

  He smiled again. “Sorry. November 7, 1939.”

  “Just a moment, please.” Her heart was beating more rapidly, and she felt her cheeks flush. She tried to control her emotions. This was silly. She was just doing her job. Then she did some quick mental arithmet
ic. She was good at her job.

  She made the copy, returned to her station. She handed him the copy, holding her end of it a trifle too long and too firmly, so that he was momentarily slightly surprised. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Today I am a man, as they say. Uh … I don’t mean to be too forward, but … would you be willing to help me celebrate? Dinner, maybe?”

  There was only the briefest hesitation. “Well … yes … I guess that would be all right.”

  “Great. What time do you get off work?”

  “Five-thirty.”

  “I’ll pick you up then.”

  From their first date through all the subsequent dates, which occurred almost daily, he knew that if it weren’t for the money, he wouldn’t be caught dead with her on a date.

  She slowly opened up to him, confiding her background, her academic experiences, her political preferences, her secret ambitions. He created a portfolio for himself that closely resembled all she told him about herself.

  It was a cautious and painstaking beginning. He forced himself to appear not only interested, but obsessed with every detail of her life.

  After the ice was broken, Agnes Ventimiglia poured out her soul to this marvelous man. After a lifetime of hoarding her feelings, secrets, aspirations, she finally had an outlet, another human being in whom she could confide. It was wonderful. She couldn’t bring herself, she couldn’t dare hope, to believe that this was the man of her dreams. Could this be the one she was destined to marry and, with him, spend the rest of her life? She could only pray.

  Chardon was measuring time carefully.

  His objective was to gain her absolute trust. In this there were no shortcuts. There needn’t be. It would take only a few minutes at most to alter that birth record. It would not pay to scrimp on any single bit of preparation. Because if this didn’t work, he’d have to fall back on something a lot more fraught—something that would involve break-ins or bribery.