tell you, Ralph. At least I tink I did. Bout dat day. C;osil, ain't I got a dumb old head!
Ralph waited a moment longer, uncomfortably poised between impatience and curiosity. "Well, don't feel bad about it, Trig. That was a long time ago."
"What the hell...?" Trigger asked himself. He gazed up at the ceiling of his little booth, as if the answer might be written there.
"Ralph, we ought to go," Lois said. "It's not just wanting breakfast, either."
"Yes. You're right." He got the Oldsmobile rolling slowly again.
"If you think of it, Trig, give me a call. I'm in the book. It was good to see you."
Trigger Vachon ignored this completely; he no longer seemed aware of Ralph at all, in fact. "Was it sumpin we saw?" he enquired of the ceiling. "Or sumpin we did? Gosh!"
He was still looking up there and scratching the frizz of hair on the nape of his neck when Ralph turned left and, with a final wave, guided his Oldsmobile down Hospital Drive toward the low brick building which housed WomanCare.
Now that the sun was up, there was only a single security guard, and no demonstrators at all. Their absence made Ralph remember all the jungle epics he'd seen as a young man, especially the part where the native drums would stop and the hero-Jon Hall or Frank Buck-would turn to his head bearer and say he didn't like it, it was too quiet. The guard took a clipboard from under his arm, squinted at Ralph's Olds, and wrote something down-the plate number, Ralph supposed. Then he came ambling toward them along the leaf-strewn walk.
At this hour of the morning, Ralph had his pick of the ten-minute spaces across from the building. He parked, got out, then came around to open Lois's door, as he had been trained.
"How do you want to handle this?" she asked as he took her hand and helped er out.
"We'll probably have to be a little cute, but let's not get carried away. Right?"
"Right." She ran a nervous, patting hand down the front of her coat as they crossed, then flashed a megawatt smile at the security guard. "Good morning, officer."
"Morning." He glanced at his watch. "I don't think there's anyone in there just yet but the receptionist and the cleaning woman."
"The receptionist is who we want to see," Lois said cheerfully.
It was news to Ralph. "Barbae Richards. Her aunt Simone has a message for her to pass along. Very important. just say it's Lois Chasse."
The security guard thought this over, then nodded toward the door.
"That won't be necessary. You go on right ahead, ma'am."
Lois said, smiling more brilliantly than ever, "We won't be two shakes, will we, Norton?"
"Shake and a half, more like it," Ralph agreed. As they approached the building and left the security man behind, he leaned toward her and murmured: "Norton? Good God, Lois, Norton?"
"It was the first name that came into my head," she replied. "I guess I was thinking of The Honeymooners-Ralph and Norton, remember?"
"Yes," he said. "One of these days, Alice... pow! Right to da moon!
Two of the three doors were locked, but the one on the far left opened and they went in. Ralph squeezed Lois's hand and felt her answering squeeze. He sensed a strong focusing of his concentration at the same moment, a narrowing and brightening of will and awareness.
All around him the eye of the world seemed to first blink and then open wide. All around them both.
The reception area was almost ostentatiously plain. The posters on the walls were mostly the sort foreign tourist agencies send out for the price of postage. The only exception was to the right of the receptionist's desk: a large black-and-white photo of a young woman in a maternity smock. She was sitting on a barstool with a martini glass in one hand. WHEN YOU're PREGNANT, YOU NEVER DRINK ALONE, the copy beneath the photo read. There was no indication that in a room or rooms behind this pleasant, unremarkable business space, abortions were done on demand.
Well, Ralph thought, what did you expect? An advertisement? A poster of aborted fetuses in a galvanized garbage pail between the one showing the Isle of Capriand the one of the Italian Alps? Get real, Ralph.
To their left, a heavyset woman in her late forties or early fifties was washing the top of a glass coffee-table; there was a little cart filled with various cleaning implements parked beside her. She was buried in a dark blue aura