by Philip Roth
Past his hat brim, from the comer of his eye, he saw Ted had stopped in a doorway at the end of the corridor. Two interns stood there smoking, listening to Ted. Eli ignored it.
No, even Eckman wouldn’t make him take it off! No! He’d wear it, if he chose to. He’d make the kid wear it! Sure! Cut it down when the time came. A smelly hand-me-down, whether the kid liked it or not!
Only Teddie’s heels clacked; the interns wore rubber soles—for they were there, beside him, unexpectedly. Their white suits smelled, but not like Eli’s.
“Eli,” Ted said, softly, “visiting time’s up, pal.”
“How are you feeling, Mr. Peck? First child upsets everyone….”
He’d Just pay no attention; nevertheless, he began to perspire, thickly, and his hat crown clutched his hair.
“Excuse me—Mr. Peck….” It was a new rich bass voice. “Excuse me, rabbi, but you’re wanted … in the temple.” A hand took his elbow, firmly; then another hand, the other elbow. Where they grabbed, his tendons went taut.
“Okay, rabbi. Okay okay okay okay okay okay….” He listened; it was a very soothing word, that okay. “Okay okay everything’s going to be okay.” His feet seemed to have left the ground some, as he glided away from the window, the bassinet, the babies. “Okay easy does it everything’s all right all right—”
But he rose, suddenly, as though up out of a dream, and flailing his arms, screamed: “I’m the father?’
But the window disappeared. In a moment they tore off his jacket—it gave so easily, in one yank. Then a needle slid under his skin. The drug calmed his soul, but did not touch it down where the blackness had reached.