Free Rich Friends by Jacqueline; Briskin Page A

blond one has the family nose,” said Mrs. Van Vliet.
    â€œWe’re calling him Van Vliet,” Em said. “Vliet.”
    â€œHe’s prettier.”
    â€œRoger,” Em said, careful not to stammer, “that’s the dark one, he’s stronger. And I think smarter.”
    The warm smile that Em always had considered Caroline’s preserve broke.
    â€œThat he is, that he is,” said Mrs. Van Vliet. “You’re a good mother, Em. You’ll try never to show partiality.”
    â€œThey’re both mine.” Em’s face was fierce.
    Mrs. Van Vliet patted hospital linen over Em’s knee. “I’m giving them each a five-hundred-dollar bond.”
    â€œOh Grandma! That’s awfully generous. Of course we’ll save it for their education.”
    â€œWhat a serious child it is,” said Mrs. Van Vliet, leaning forward to touch her lips to Em’s cheek. She smells, Em thought, like spring flowers. “My first great-grandchildren. Em, truly, my cup runneth over.”
    Sheridan took an hour off to drive his wife and sons home. Caroline and Mrs. Wynan were in the dinette, where the babies would sleep. Crowded next to the secondhand crib that Sheridan had sanded stood a new Baby Line with cutouts of frolicking blue lambs. Unhesitating, Em put Vliet into this magnificence. Sheridan laid Roger, who was wet and howling, in the refinished crib.
    â€œIt’s amazing how different they are!” Caroline exclaimed.
    â€œDouble trouble,” Sheridan beamed, lighting a White Owl, one of the box he’d handed around.
    Em pushed at him. “Not in here,” she cried.
    She was always pooped. Yet never could she resist a phoned, “Is it all right to drop by?”
    She wanted everyone to see her pride of sons.
    Van Vliets bearing blue-satin-tied boxes descended on the tiny apartment. Omega Deltas flocked to exclaim over the babies and to stare, awed, at Em as though she’d been elevated to a Greater Panhellenic. Beverly Linde (she was very quiet and pale) dropped by with Mrs. Linde. Old and new neighbors. Mr. Cambro and his employees came by.
    There had been a constant stream of company that Sunday afternoon—the twins were almost six weeks old. Em finally succumbed to her weariness. For the first time she left Sheridan in charge of the boys while she dozed on her bed. Sheridan played with the twins on the couch. Vliet somehow toppled down onto the rug. The baby screamed bloody murder while a large bruise promptly rose on his forehead. Em dialed the pediatrician, careless (for once) of expense, insisting on a house call. The doctor pronounced the infant fine, but added that vomiting is a sign of skull fracture and to watch for it.
    Em watched. She was still watching at five the next morning.
    Sheridan yawned his way into the dinette-nursery. “Everything okay?”
    â€œHe hasn’t thrown up.”
    â€œGood,” Sheridan said, both hands on her aching shoulders. “Now get some sleep.”
    She shrugged him off.
    â€œI’ll keep an eye on him,” Sheridan said.
    â€œThat’s what you were doing.”
    â€œYou’re making something out of nothing, Em. A kid falls off a couch—big deal. Holy God, I fell from a second-story window.”
    â€œThese aren’t slum children!”
    He looked at her, startled as if he’d been bitten by a shrew he’d mistaken for a tame little mouse. “I looked away one second, no more, I swear it,” he muttered. “He’s fine. You can’t go without a whole night’s sleep.”
    â€œOh can’t I? I can stay awake as long as I have to. I’m strong. You don’t understand that, Sheridan. You make a lot of noise, but you don’t know what real strength is. You think it’s war and hitting with belts. Well, it isn’t. Strength is carrying on when you want to drop. It’s finishing what you start.” Her heart hammered