David Speranza

84 Boy

by David Speranza

"Rise and shine!"

Suzanne awoke to the clatter of trays and rubber wheels as Nurse Bullock rolled her cart into the room.

"And how are we feeling?"

The heavyset woman loomed over her, the dark skin of her face stretching into an impossibly cheerful smile.

"Like I just gave birth," groaned Suzanne. She felt a dry pain from below as she shifted on her elbows to receive the tray of food. [This story copyright © David Speranza]

"That's good," said the nurse, "Considering you did."

"How is he today?"

"He's doing just fine. Now you eat something so you can get your strength up."

Suzanne held the fork in front of her, poked at the round slab of meat on her plate. She felt a faint wave of nausea pass over her, the first she'd experienced since the early months of her pregnancy. She put the fork down, took a sip of apple juice. The nurse peered down at her expectantly.

"I'm not very hungry," offered Suzanne weakly in response.

"Um-hm," the nurse said, then moved briskly for the door, pausing on the way to wheel her cart into the hall. She reappeared in the doorway, stared across the room at Suzanne foraging through a tangled pile of boiled vegetables.

"Know what you're going to name him?" asked the nurse.

Suzanne looked up. "I haven't been able to decide. Maybe by tonight?"

"Hmpf," said the nurse, and with a peculiar air of disapproval vanished from the doorway. Suzanne heard the cart creak down the hallway to the next room. She stared at the closed door, her mind a blank.

A name, she thought.

No matter how many she'd scribbled across napkins and menus and over page after page of hospital stationery, none had sounded right to her. Ever since she'd decided to actually have the child, she'd consistently turned up one blank after another. A name. She stared at the wall, absently swallowing some soggy, unidentifiable vegetable.

Kevin? she thought.

What about Robert?

Charles?

No. Too typical, too old fashioned.

Doug?

 

"I'm feeling pain again," she said, releasing the bald, shrunken creature that was her son into the nurse's bulky arms.

"'Course you are," the nurse said. "It's been less than 48 hours since this little Christmas turkey came outta you."

Could that really have come out of me? thought Suzanne wonderingly. A sudden pain reassured her that it had.

"What about some Tylenol with codeine?" she asked through tightened teeth.

"What about it?"

"Shouldn't I take some more?"

"Not till the doctor says you should. We need your system as clean as possible till we're sure those complications of yours are over with."

"I'll still be leaving tomorrow, though, won't I?"

"You'll have to ask the doctor."

Suzanne watched as the nurse deftly swaddled the baby in its little blanket then cupped it to her voluminous bosom. As nurse and child moved for the door, Suzanne almost burst into tears at the thought of her son leaving her: only a last-minute force of will kept her from reaching out pitifully for the departing infant.

"Anything?" Nurse Bullock said abruptly from the door.

Suzanne tore her gaze from the tiny bundle of life pressed to its caretaker's breast.

"No," she said. "I'm still working on it."

"Deadline's nine a.m. tomorrow," the nurse said. "I'll be back tonight for the eight o'clock shift."

A low gurgling noise, like a draining sink, came from the baby's throat, then the light from the hall was replaced by the lonely square of the door's checkered window.

Thomas? she thought.

She shook her head. Too British.

Tom?

 

At the approaching creak of wheels Suzanne quickly doused the overhead TV with the remote. She turned, noticing an unexpected tightness in her stomach at sight of the opening door. Then a nurse she'd never seen wheeled in a cart that seemed unusually bare. Instead of the usual food trays it held only three large, worn books.

"What's that?" Suzanne asked.

"Nurse Bullock thought you might need some help," the woman said, squeaking to a halt beside Suzanne's bed. "You know, some research."

Suzanne reached for the nearest volume, lifted it to read the spine.

"There's a dictionary, a Holy Bible, and a book of names," said the nurse. "She said that should be enough to get you started. Just hit the call button if you decide on something."

And then the nurse padded from the room and was gone, the cart and its books the only evidence she'd been there at all.

Suzanne returned the first book, picked up the Bible. King James Version, it said. Words of Christ in Red.

James? she thought. Jesus?

She let the book drop to her lap with a sigh. Too biblical.
 

 

Edgar. Edward. Eddie?

The door opened with a thud, startling her.

"Any luck?" Nurse Bullock said, a crisp white and brown blur trundling towards her.

Suzanne let the book sag in her hand as the nurse produced a thermometer strung to a small battery pack.

"Nothing jumps out at me," she said, taking the plastic sheath beneath her tongue.

The nurse glanced at her reprovingly, then down at the digital readout. She held Suzanne's wrist between two sturdy fingers, seeming to listen as much as feel, her eyes shifting to a large, almost masculine watch. The second hand ticked away insistently.

"Amb I alibe?" Suzanne said through the plastic between her teeth. The little box beeped up at her.

"For now," the nurse replied drily, withdrawing the thermometer and noting the readout. "But if you don't come up with a name for that boy of yours, we may be forced to do something drastic."

Suzanne searched the nurse's face for some indication of humor, thankfully found one in a minutely raised brow.

"You know the hospital's policy," the nurse continued, scratching down figures on a clipboard. "You've got 72 hours to come up with a name that we can put in our records. After that, the administration has no choice but to provide one of its own."

Suzanne looked at her hopefully. Maybe that wasn't so bad, she thought. The way she felt the last two days, it would be a relief to entrust the decision to someone else. If only Rick were here to share the responsibility. No, she corrected herself. Then he'd have to know he had a son, wouldn't he? And that wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all.

"I wouldn't get that idea in my head if I were you," Nurse Bullock warned, seeming to sense her thoughts. "The hospital's not known for its creativity in these matters. Once we had a woman who couldn't make up her mind between Harold and Henry. Next thing she knew, 72 hours were up and she had a son named 84 Boy."

"84 Boy?"

"That's right. He was the eighty-fourth boy born that week, and without a proper name that's the only way we could identify him. So I'd advise you to come up with something soon."

84 Boy. Suzanne felt something like a shiver pass through her. It was a horrible thought, her child reduced to a number and a sex. What would she call him for short? Boy?

"I was thinking of Chip," she said experimentally. "Chip Fletcher."

A look of distaste insinuated itself across Nurse Bullock's features, like a guest politely swallowing her host's experimental first meal.

"What's wrong with Chip?" Suzanne asked, wondering why she was so anxious for the nurse's approval.

"Nothing wrong with it," Nurse Bullock replied. "A little too modern for my tastes, is all. What'll his grandkids call him? Grandpa Chip? That's almost as bad as a grandmother named Bambi."

"It's better than 84 Boy," Suzanne returned tartly.

"Not much," said the nurse. She picked up the Holy Bible. "What about something biblical? There ain't never enough Davids or Pauls or Matthews in the world."

Suzanne shook her head.

"I've never been much for religion," she said. "I'd feel like a hypocrite."

Nurse Bullock snorted, dropping the Bible back onto the cart.

"Well, I don't much see how religion enters into it. A good name's a good name. There's somethin' to be said for the classics."

"Homer?" Suzanne said suddenly. "Perseus?"

"Now you're just graspin', child. You think about it some more, and I'll be back later."

The nurse clucked her tongue and strode out into the hall. Outdoors it had begun to rain, and the wet sounds washed away the last trace of her heavy footsteps.

Jason? Suzanne thought. Oedipus?

No, that was just asking for trouble.

Zeus?

 

"Anything?"

Suzanne's eyes jolted open at the sharp voice that barked at her from the door.

"Whuh...?

Through the pale fluorescent light she made out the clock above the doorway: 11:23 P.M. She'd been asleep nearly two hours. Splayed open across her chest lay one of Nurse Bullock's thick books. Nurse Bullock herself stood glaring at her from beneath the clock.

"Well? Did you come up with anything?"

"Did I come up with...?" Suzanne trailed off groggily. What was the woman talking about? Why was she here? It was still three hours until her next medication...

"A name," the nurse said. "Did you think of a name?" She paused. "For the boy."

"Oh," Suzanne said with emerging consciousness. "A name."

She lifted the book from her chest and studied its blurred pages. The nurse raised a hopeful brow.

"No," Suzanne said finally. "Not yet. Can you come back later?"

With a scowl and what Suzanne took for an affirmative grunt, Nurse Bullock snapped off the light and disappeared into the hall. Suzanne felt her eyelids slide shut as the door swung snugly into its frame. Outside, the rain tapped at the windowpane like tiny wet fingers, lulling her back to sleep.

Darren? she thought, for no particular reason.

No. Reminded her of a sitcom.

 

"Time to take your medicine!"

Suzanne shot up in bed, her eyes still sealed with sleep as she mechanically extended one hand for her medication. She'd grown accustomed to this nightly call to arms, and had learned to endure it with as little consciousness as possible. One at a time the more crucial circuits clicked on in her brain: equilibrium, sound, smell. The air tasted thick, a gloppy odor of bodies and disinfectant. Outside, the rain had increased, its earlier tapping now a steady pounding. Suzanne cracked open an eyelid to admit a dim sliver of light from the nightstand. She looked up at her hand grasping empty air, saw Nurse Bullock looming large and dark in the background.

"Well?"

Suzanne blinked. The nurse was leaning towards her, a miniature cup of medicine held like a thimble between her thick fingers, just out of Suzanne's reach.

"Well what?" was all she could muster. And then her field of view widened to include the cart of books, and she suddenly remembered.

"You want a name, don't you?" she sighed wearily.

The nurse nodded.

"And you're not going to give me my medicine until I pick one?"

At this Nurse Bullock seemed to soften, her smile a gentle sweetener to an obviously sour mood.

"Now, child, you know I'm not allowed to do that."

With some reluctance she handed Suzanne the tiny cup, along with a slightly larger one filled with water. Suzanne took both gratefully, conscious in her awakened state of a dull pain beginning to throb in her abdomen. She swallowed the pills.

"'Course," Nurse Bullock went on, "if I thought it would help..."

Suzanne peered out from behind her cup, unsure this time whether the nurse was smiling or if it was only a trick of the light.

"I'll have a name in the morning," she said, handing back both cups. "I promise."

"I'm sure you will," said the nurse. "But it may not be one you like."

And with that she shook her head and crumpled Suzanne's empty cups into the trashcan. The metal can clunked loudly as her foot dropped with unusual force on the pedal. Suzanne thought she heard something snap, but before she could investigate for any damage the light flickered out and the door closed and she was left listening to the low rumble of approaching thunder.

 

It wasn't the thunder that woke her.

Nor was it the great bursts of lightning that pierced the darkness to light the insides of her eyelids.

It was a flapping sound. A slow, gentle beat of wings, like a large bird gliding along the upper reaches of the atmosphere, pushed along by an otherworldly breeze and the occasional steadying downward thrust.

Flap. Glide...

Flap. Glide....

Suddenly it stopped. There was a long pause and Suzanne felt herself falling, for now she realized it was she who had been so wondrously in flight. She dropped through the still air, her wingless arms beating wildly for resistance. Once or twice they caught, like leftover teeth in a shattered gear, to slow her descent, but then she was falling even faster than before.

Helplessly she watched the ground swell beneath her, felt her hair dance wildly about her face; then, a moment before impact, she was awake.

Flap.

Through crusty eyes she peered around the room. The sound had followed her from her sleep.

Flap.

In one corner Nurse Bullock sat beneath a low lamp, a book propped in her lap. She turned a page.

Flap.

Suzanne sat up carefully, knowing if she moved too quickly it would bring pain. Rubbing the grit from her eyes she saw the nurse glance up at her from the large, sickly green chair, a single bar of fluorescent light buzzing down on her from above, highlighting the ridges of her face and darkening what remained. Suzanne stared at her, feeling a nervousness pinch at her from the other side of sleep.

"Nurse Bullock?" she said quietly, her voice just audible above the thick patter of rain against the window.

Lightning flashed suddenly, turning the room white and casting a flicker of detail across Nurse Bullock's features. Her eyes stared back at Suzanne, weary but determined, and then the room sunk back into shadows. Suzanne opened her mouth to speak, but the lightning's thunderous echo boomed through the room to reprimand her into silence. She stared mutely at the figure in the green chair, her mouth ajar as the thunder dissipated and the steady splash of rain once more filled the room.

Nurse Bullock shifted her gaze back to the book. She turned another page.

Flap.

Suzanne shivered at the sound. It still reminded her of wings, but now they belonged to something small and bat-like.

"George," said Nurse Bullock suddenly.

Suzanne's heart jumped at this sudden, forceful declaration.

"Meaning 'husbandman,'" continued the nurse, meeting her gaze. "Of German origin."

Suzanne squinted across the room in puzzlement.

"Gerald," said the nurse, turning back to the page. "'Spear-wielding.' Diminutive: Geoffrey. Not to be confused with Gerard, meaning 'spear-hard.'"

As realization grasped for a foothold, Suzanne's head began to gently bob, like one of those toy lions that stare out from the rear of a car. In a twisted sort of way, it was beginning to make sense.

"Gilbert," the nurse continued. "Meaning 'bright hostage.' Diminutives: Gib, Gil. Next, Godfrey: 'God's peace.'"

At this Nurse Bullock paused and looked up from the page.

"That's nice, isn't it? God's peace..."

"Miss Bullock—"

But the nurse was reading again.

"Gregory: 'watcher.' Of German origin. Diminutive: Greg. And that does it for the G's. Shall I go on to the H's, or do you prefer something else?"

"Miss Bullock, I appreciate your help in all this, but I really don't think this is the best time."

"'Course it is. Why isn't it?"

"Well..." Suzanne thought for a moment, not expecting so obvious a question. "For one, it's five o'clock in the morning!"

Nurse Bullock nodded in stern agreement.

"Which means you have just four hours to find a name for that darling boy of yours." She turned back to the book. "Hector. It means 'holding fast'." She glanced at Suzanne significantly. "Henry—'house ruler'. Stop me if you hear one you like. Oh, here's a good one: Herman. 'Warrior.' I didn't know that meant warrior."

Suzanne slumped back against her pillow, knowing she lacked the strength for a prolonged struggle.

"Can I at least have some of my medicine? I'm starting to feel pain again."

Nurse Bullock held her watch up to the light, considering.

"Don't see why not. You're due in ten minutes anyway."

When she had taken the medicine Suzanne leaned back and closed her eyes. From the corner of the room she heard Nurse Bullock settle into her chair with a grunt.

"Horace," the nurse resumed, her voice muffled somewhat by the downpour outside. "Hubert."

Suzanne shook her head and held up one hand.

"Skip the H's," she said. No one she liked ever had a name starting with H.

Nurse Bullock flipped forward several pages with obvious satisfaction.

"To where?"

Suzanne thought a moment.

"J is a good letter. Start at J."

"Jack," said Nurse Bullock. "Jacob. James—"

"Jacob," Suzanne interrupted. "What does it mean?"

"Follower, planter, deceiver."

"Never mind. That's what I get for trying something religious. What's after James?"

Two hours passed. Nurse Bullock read while Suzanne listened. They continued into early morning, past the J's and K's and L's, over Jerome and Kenneth and Louis, to Xavier and Yves and Zachary. When morning came and Suzanne still found nothing satisfactory, they circled around to the A's and made their way hoarsely back to where they'd begun. As the gray light of dawn inched across the windowpane, turning the raindrops into miniature lightbulbs, the two women found themselves once more trudging through the vast familiar plain of the R's.

"Randolph."

"No."

"Raoul."

"Too Italian."

"Raphael."

"Are you kidding?"

"It means 'God heals.'"

"I don't care what it means. Next."

"Raymond."

"No."

"Reginald. Reynold. Ronald."

"No, no, no!" Suzanne cried. "Oh, God, no more names! I can't take any more! I need a break!"

"No time for a break," said the nurse, glancing at her watch. "It's 8:30. In half an hour the hospital decides for you."

"Isn't your shift over by now?" asked Suzanne in desperation.

"Honey, my shift was over at three. I'm doin' this purely from the kindness of my heart."

"What!?" Suzanne stared at her in disbelief. Why?"

The nurse shifted in her chair to address her sternly.

"Because I always swore no patient of mine would ever be stuck with a number for a baby, that's why. Call it professional pride."

For reply, Suzanne slumped onto her pillow and stretched the blankets into a tight cocoon over her head.

"That's it," she said, her voice muted beneath the covers. "I'm done. Name it whatever the hell you want. I just don't care anymore!"

The nurse remained unmoved.

"Can't do that, child. What if you don't like it a year from now? You'll say, 'Oh, it was just a name some nurse came up with,' and maybe you'll change it. How's the boy gonna feel about that? What are your friends gonna say when they find out you went and gave him a new name?"

Suzanne sat up from beneath the blankets. Was this woman insane?

"I want to see him," she said suddenly.

"What's that?"

"My boy. It's time for him to eat. Bring him to me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Miss Fletcher."

"What do you mean? Why can't you?"

"Not until he's got a name."

"Are you actually using my own child as blackmail against me?"

"You can call it what you want. But you ain't seein' that boy until you can tell me his name. We're not havin' no 84 Boys on this floor. No ma'am."

"You can't do that!"

"Sure I can. As your nurse, I can say you're not fit to see the baby right now—too tired, nerves shot. You might drop him."

"But you're not even on duty!"

"Sure I am. Just went back on five minutes ago."

Suzanne felt a scream trembling at the base of her throat, and felt an unsettling urge to throw a tantrum like she used to as a child. But then she dismissed the thought: she was too tired for a tantrum, and it would likely only bring pain. She took a deep breath, then another, then closed her eyes and tried to think of how wonderful it would be once she was home with her little boy. Mommy and her little... blank. Her little what? Her little Blank. Why was this so difficult? She opened her eyes and faced the nurse.

"Skip the R's," she said, her voice hardening. "Go straight to S."

Nurse Bullock flipped gratefully to the next page, fatigue beginning to dominate her dour features.

"Sam?"

 "No."

"Saul?"

"No. Skip down further."

"Sidney... Simon... Solomon. Stanley."

Suzanne shook her head, suppressing an unexpected wave of emotion about to squeeze out the corners of her eyes.

"Wait a minute," said the nurse. "What about this?"

Nurse Bullock sat up straight in her chair and met Suzanne's trembling gaze.

"Stephen," she said. Then, significantly: "With a 'ph'."

There was a long pause as the two women stared at each other across the tiled floor, two weary combatants waiting for the final bell. The rain beat down outside as a tear made its long, slow descent down Suzanne's cheek.

"Stephen," Suzanne repeated numbly, hearing something catch in her voice.

"With a 'ph'," confirmed the nurse. "It means 'crown.'"

"Stephen," Suzanne said again. She nodded slowly, blinking away another tear.

Stephen. Crown.

As in crowning achievement. Stephen.

She liked it. Why hadn't it come to her sooner?

"Well? Shall I go on?" Nurse Bullock tapped her foot impatiently, but she could see in Suzanne's eyes the fight had been won.

"What do you think?" said Suzanne, hearing the anxiousness in her tone.

"What do I think? I think it's a good name. I used it for one of my own sons. What do you think?"

"I like it. 'Stephen Fletcher.' It has a nice ring, doesn't it? Stephen Fletcher..."

"So it's official? We're going with Stephen?"

"Stephen," Suzanne said happily. "Yes, it's official. My boy's name is Stephen!"

She smiled, and her body shook a little with a deep breath of emotion.

"It's over," she murmured. "It's finally over..."

She glanced at the clock above the door: 8:50 A.M. Ten minutes to spare.

"Can I see him now?" she asked, sitting up eagerly. "I want to see him. I want to see my Stephen. I have to tell him the good news."

But to Suzanne's surprise the nurse shook her head sadly.

"What do you mean?" she shouted, her relief turning quickly to rage. "Bring me my baby!"

"I'm sorry, honey, there's still something else we gotta do."

"What do you mean? What do we have to do?"

The nurse raised her book solemnly and reopened it to the first page as a rumble of fading thunder crept through the room. She turned to Suzanne.

"—Now we've got to give him a middle name."