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　who　contradict　each　other。　This　fear　has　long　informed　my　relationship　with　doctors；　that　they　would　lose　interest　in　me；　instruct　their　receptionists　to　call　other　names　before　mine；　take　my　dying　for　granted。
　　I　waited　in　the　car　while　Babette　and　Wilder　went　into　the　medical　building　at　the　end　of　Elm。　Doctors'　offices　depress　me　even　more　than　hospitals　do　because　of　their　air　of　negative　expectancy　and　because　of　the　occasional　patient　who　leaves　with　good　news；　shaking　the　doctor's　antiseptic　hand　and　laughing　loudly；　laughing　at　everything　the　doctor　says；　booming　with　laughter；　with　crude　power；　making　a　point　of　ignoring　the　other　patients　as　he　walks　past　the　waiting　room　still　laughing　provocatively—　he　is　already　clear　of　them；　no　longer　associated　with　their　weekly　gloom；　their　anxious　inferior　dying。　I　would　rather　visit　an　emergency　ward；　some　urban　well　of　trembling；　where　people　e　in　gut…shot；　slashed；　sleepy…eyed　with　opium　pounds；　broken　needles　in　their　arms。　These　things　have　nothing　to　do　with　my　own　eventual　death；　nonviolent；　small…town；　thoughtful。
　　They　came　out　of　the　small　bright　lobby　onto　the　street。　It　was　cold；　empty　and　dark。　The　boy　walked　next　to　his　mother；　holding　her　hand；　still　crying；　and　they　seemed　a　picture　of　such　amateurish　sadness　and　calamity　that　I　nearly　started　laughing—laughing　not　at　the　sadness　but　at　the　picture　they　made　of　it；　at　the　disparity　between　their　grief　and　its　appearances。　My　feelings　of　tenderness　and　pity　were　undermined　by　the　sight　of　them　crossing　the　sidewalk　in　their　bundled　clothing；　the　child　determinedly　weeping；　his　mother　drooping　as　she　walked；　wild…haired；　a　wretched　and　pathetic　pair。　They　were　inadequate　to　the　spoken　grief；　the　great　single…minded　anguish。　Does　this　explain　the　existence　of　professional　mourners？　They　keep　a　wake　from　lapsing　into　ic　pathos。
　　〃What　did　the　doctor　say？〃
　　〃Give　him　an　aspirin　and　put　him　to　bed。〃
　　〃That's　what　Denise　said。〃
　　〃I　told　him　that。　He　said；　'Well；　why　didn't　you　do　it？'〃
　　〃Why　didn't　we？〃
　　〃She's　a　child；　not　a　doctor—that's　why。〃
　　〃Did　you　tell　him　that？〃
　　〃I　don't　know　what　I　told　him；〃　she　said；　〃I'm　never　in　control　of　what　I　say　to　doctors；　much　less　what　they　say　to　me。　There's　some　kind　of　disturbance　in　the　air。〃
　　〃I　know　exactly　what　you　mean。〃
　　〃It's　like　having　a　conversation　during　a　spacewalk；　dangling　in　those　heavy　suits。〃
　　〃Everything　drifts　and　floats。〃
　　〃I　lie　to　doctors　all　the　time。〃
　　〃So　do　I。〃
　　〃But　why？〃　she　said。
　　As　I　started　the　car　I　realized　his　crying　had　changed　in　pitch　and　quality。　The　rhythmic　urgency　had　given　way　to　a　sustained；　inarticulate　and　mournful　sound。　He　was　keening　now。　These　were　expressions　of　Mideastern　lament；　of　an　anguish　so　accessible　that　it　rushes　to　overwhelm　whatever　immediately　caused　it。　There　was　something　permanent　and　soul…struck　in　this　crying。　It　was　a　sound　of　inbred　desolation。
　　〃What　do　we　do？〃
　　〃Think　of　something；〃　she　said。
　　'There's　still　fifteen　minutes　before　your　class　is　due　to　start。　Let's　take　him　to　the　hospital；　to　the　emergency　entrance。　Just　to　see　what　they　say。〃
　　〃You　can't　take　a　child　to　an　emergency　ward　because　he's　crying。　If　anything　is　not　an　emergency；　this　would　be　it。〃
　　〃I'll　wait　in　the　car；〃　I　said。
　　〃What　do　I　tell　them？　'My　child　is　crying。'　Do　they　even　have　an　emergency　ward？〃
　　〃Don't　you　remember？　We　took　the　Stovers　this　past　summer。〃
　　〃Why？〃
　　〃Their　car　was　being　repaired。〃
　　〃Never　mind。〃
　　〃They　inhaled　the　spray　mist　from　some　kind　of　stain　remover。〃
　　〃Take　me　to　my　class；〃　she　said。
　　Posture。　When　I　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　church；　some　of　her　students　were　walking　down　the　steps　to　the　basement　entrance。　Babette　looked　at　her　son—a　searching；　pleading　and　desperate　look。　He　was　in　the　sixth　hour　of　his　crying。　She　ran　along　the　sidewalk　and　into　the　building。
　　I　thought　of　taking　him　to　the　hospital。　But　if　a　doctor　who　examined　the　boy　thoroughly　in　his　cozy　office　with　paintings　on　the　wall　in　elaborate　gilded　frames　could　find　nothing　wrong；　then　what　could　emergency　technicians　do；　people　trained　to　leap　on　chests　and　pound　at　static　hearts？
　　I　picked　him　up　and　set　him　against　the　steering　wheel；　facing　me；　his　feet　on　my　thighs。　The　huge　lament　continued；　wave　on　wave。　It　was　a　sound　so　large　and　pure　I　could　almost　listen　to　it；　try　consciously　to　apprehend　it；　as　one　sets　up　a　mental　register　in　a　concert　hall　or　theater。　He　was　not　sniveling　or　blubbering。　He　was　crying　out；　saying　nameless　things　in　a　way　that　touched　me　with　its　depth　and　richness。　This　was　an　ancient　dirge　all　the　more　impressive　for　its　resolute　monotony。　Ululation。　I　held　him　upright　with　a　hand　under　each　arm。　As　the　crying　continued；　a　curious　shift　developed　in　my　thinking。　I　found　that　I　did　not　necessarily　wish　him　to　stop。　It　might　not　be　so　terrible；　I　thought；　to　have　to　sit　and　listen　to　this　a　while　longer。　We　looked　at　each　other。　Behind　that　dopey　countenance；　a　plex　intelligence　operated。　I　held　him　with　one　hand；　using　the　other　to　count　his　fingers　inside　the　mittens；　aloud；　in　German。　The　inconsolable　crying　went　on。　I　let　it　wash　over　me；　like　rain　in　sheets。　I　entered　it；　in　a　sense。　I　let　it　fall　and　tumble　across　my　face　and　chest。　I　began　to　think　he　had　disappeared　inside　this　wailing　noise　and　if　I　could　join　him　in　his　lost　and　suspended　place　we　might　together　perform　some　reckless　wonder　of　intelligibility。　I　let　it　break　across　my　body。　It　might　not　be　so　terrible；　I　thought；　to　have　to　sit　here　for　four　more　hours；　with　the　motor　running　and　the　heater　on；　listening　to　this　uniform　lament。　It　might　be　good；　it　might　be　strangely　soothing。　I　entered　it；　fell　into　it；　letting　it　enfold　and　cover　me。　He　cried　with　his　eyes　open；　his　eyes　closed；　his　hands　in　his　pockets；　his　mittens　on　and　off。　I　sat　there　nodding　sagely。
　　On　an　impulse　I　turned　him　around；　sat　him　on　my　lap　and　started　up　the　car；　letting　Wilder　steer。　We'd　done　this　once　before；　for　a　distance　of　twenty　yards；　at　Sunday　dusk；　in　August；　our　street　deep　in　drowsy　shadow。　Again　he　responded；　crying　as　he　steered；　as　we　turned　corners；　as　I　brought　the　car　to　a　halt　back　at　the　Congregational　church。　I　set　him　on　my　left　leg；　an　arm　around　him；　drawing　him　toward　me；　and　let　my　mind　drift　toward　near　sleep。　The　sound　moved　into　a　fitful　distance。　Now　and　then　a　car　went　by。　I　leaned　against　the　door；　faintly　aware　of　his　breath　on　my　thumb。　Some　time　later　Babette　was　knocking　on　the　window　and　Wilder　was　crawling　across　the　seat　to　lift　the　latch　for　her。　She　got　in；　adjusted　his　hat；　picked　a　crumpled　tissue　off　the　floor。
　　We　were　halfway　home　when　the　crying　stopped。　It　stopped　suddenly；　without　a　change　in　tone　and　intensity。　Babette　said　nothing；　I　kept　my　eyes　on　the　road。　He　sat　between　us；　looking　into　the　radio。　I　waited　for　Babette　to　glance　at　me　behind　his　back；　over　his　head；　to　show　relief；　happiness；　hopeful　suspense。　I　didn't　know　how　I　felt　and　wanted　a　clue。　But　she　looked　straight　ahead　as　if　fearful　that　any　change　in　the　sensitive　texture　of　sound；　movement；　expression　would　cause　the　crying　to　break　out　again。
　　At　the　house　no　one　spoke。　They　all　moved　quietly　from　room　to　room；　watching　him　distantly；　with　sneaky　and　respectful　looks。　When　he　asked　for　some　milk；　Denise　ran　softly　to　the　kitchen；　barefoot；　in　her　pajamas；　sensing　that　by　economy　of　movement　and　lightness　of　step　she　might　keep　from　disturbing　the　grave　and　dramatic　air　he　had　brought　with　him　into　the　house。　He　drank　the　milk　down　in　a　single　powerful　swallow；　still　fully　dressed；　a　mitten　pinned　to　his　sleeve。
　　They　watched　him　with　something　like　awe。　Nearly　seven　straight　hours　of　serious　crying。　It　was　as　though　he'd　just　returned　from　a　period　of　wandering　in　some　remote　and　holy　place；　in　sand　barrens　or　snowy　ranges—a　place　where　things　are　said；　sights　are　seen；　distances　reached　which　we　in　our　ordinary　toil　can　only　regard　with　the　mingled　reverence　and　wonder　we　hold　in　reserve　for　feats　of　the　most　sublime　and　difficult　dimensions。
　　17
　　Babette　said　to　me　in　bed　one　night；　〃Isn'