Once a Widow by Lee Roberts

which little Jack Shannon looked forward to with almost as much pleasure as Pop Corn Night during the winter. When school was in session Pop Corn Night occurred on Friday evening. After dinner on this night Celia Shannon popped corn and served it in the living room with orange soda or root beer for Jack, and beer for Shannon and herself, with the doctor sometimes substituting a bourbon highball. His choice of beverage was determined by the condition of certain patients at the time, the possibility of an obstetric call, and his surgical schedule for Saturday morning. It was one of the prices a doctor paid for his profession. Not that Shannon ever drank to excess, but except when he was away from Harbor City and his practice he could not ever really relax. Often he would have liked an extra cocktail before dinner, or more than one nightcap, but he refrained in the interest of a clear head and a steady hand, not to mention the dubious reaction of patients and colleagues to alcoholic fumes on his breath at a bedside, or in the antiseptic aura of the operating room.
    The boy ran to Shannon as he got out of the car carrying the packages. “Did you bring the marshmallows, Daddy?”
    “Sure. It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
    “Cook-out night!” the boy cried, dancing about.
    Shannon crossed the lawn to where Celia sat beside the picnic table already laid with paper napkins, cups and plates. Shannon placed his packages on the table and smiled at his wife. “How about a martini?”
    “I’d love one. You were gone quite a while. Complications?”
    “Some.” He told her about the woman found on Snake Island, about Lewis Sprang’s attack, and ended by saying, “I’ve scheduled Lew for surgery in the morning. He’s pretty old, but tough—I think he’ll make it. John Kovici is handling the anesthesia. The woman should be okay in a day or two.”
    “Who is she?”
    “We don’t know. She was in shock and couldn’t talk—I didn’t force it. Middle-aged, but quite attractive. George Yundt said he’d seen her at the Y, but didn’t know her name. Mort Watson called the Y, thinking that someone there could identify her so that her family could be notified, but the Y office is closed on Sunday afternoon. Mort tried to reach Russ McClory, the physical director, but he’s out of town for the weekend. We can check in the morning, if it’s necessary. Anyhow, she’s in no danger. She should be able to talk by tonight and I’ll learn who she is then.” Shannon dumped briquettes into the barbecue burner. “Any calls while I was gone?”
    “One—Ed Malone. He thinks his wife is about due.”
    Shannon sighed. “He could be right. I’ve got her down for next week, but you can never tell about Alice Malone.” He poured lighter fluid over the charcoal and applied flame from a match. The charcoal flared and then subsided to a steady licking flame which would soon result in an even glow. The boy clapped his hands and whirled about in five-year-old antics.
    Celia said, “Ed Malone just wanted to alert you, I guess. He said he’d call again.”
    Shannon nodded, patted his wife’s cheek and entered the house to make a small pitcher of martinis.

 
CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    It was after visiting hours when Shannon reached the hospital. The corridors were hushed and dimly lit. Miss Martha James, the head night nurse, smiled at him as he stopped by her desk in the south wing.
    “Quiet evening?” he asked, placing his bag on the floor.
    “So far.” Miss James was a plump, cheerful woman, about thirty, with black hair and milky skin. “We’ve three customers in the labor room.”
    “Who?”
    She laughed, a rich, pleasant sound. “Oh, don’t worry—none of them are your patients. If you get called out of bed tonight it won’t be to deliver a baby.”
    “Don’t be too sure. Alice Malone is due.”
    “Oh,” Miss James said. “Alice usually cuts it pretty close.” She sighed and gazed down the corridor leading to the main part of