The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. She flailed against the doctor’s grip but after what seemed an eternity of kicking and flailing, amazingly, he had not seemed weakened in the slightest by her resistance. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. She knew she was pregnant when she missed her period in the first weeks of August that year. Capes flashed to an understanding of her intention, sprang to his feet, and opened the door for her retreat.
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