The door was closed. If he asked, he could probably open it. “The baby.”

“The baby is resting,” she said.

“Oh.” He noticed his hands playing over the giraffe. When you really felt it, the whorls and patterns were probably as soft as on a real giraffe. “The baby is resting,” he said.

“You may go in, but your wife is very weak. She delivered a few hours ago, and …”

“And?”

“And, well, yes, she would need to see you now.”

“What’s wrong?”

The nun stood, and with a care not to make too much noise, allowed the door to open.

He brought the giraffe in. Its hooves scuffed against the floor. The room was white, the windows were tall and faced a garden of cedars and olives and trees used for medicine in biblical times. Inside, the room was swollen with flowers. Everyone in Hollywood had sent flowers, beginning the moment Mildred had gone into labor. There were arrangements from all the studios, from friends, from enemies, from people who didn’t even know them, a pageant of smells and colors that should have been cheerful.

Mildred lay under the covers. Her hair was plastered to her head, the occasional pinwheel curl loose against the pillow. There was a terrible human smell in the air, the smell of fear, of medicines, of unwashed linens, and something sickly, like hot milk in a rubber bottle.

When he walked toward her, Mildred’s eyes spilled over. “Oh, Charlie,” she whispered. “Oh, my darling Charlie.”

He swallowed. She was extending her arms, and he held the giraffe toward her, but she did not want it. So he hugged her.

Upon his touch, she dissolved into sobs. He could feel the hopeless effort she was making to hold him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She was gulping between words. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” he whispered. “It’s all right, Mildred. I love you. Shh. It’s all right.”

An ingénue was most beautiful when on the verge of tears, but only on the verge. Now, her body jerking with each hysterical convulsion, Mildred was ugly. He still wanted to tell her he was in love. He would never leave her just because she had become ugly. That wasn’t something he would do. If something terrible had happened, he would stay with her forever. Her ugliness would be the price he paid for all the terrible things he had done. He remembered to kiss her face, his eyes closed, and murmured to her whatever was in his head, kind words. He was asking her if she remembered when they were happy, how they had met at the beach—oh, yes, the car before that—weren’t they happy then? It was awkward, in that he had to bend from the waist next to the bed, and the giraffe was looming next to him like a lamppost.