Ira Levin - Rosemary’s Baby

“Hail Rosemary,” Helen Wees said.

The others took it up. “Hail Rosemary.” “Hail Rosemary.” Minnie and Stavropoulos and Dr. Sapirstein. “Hail Rosemary.” Guy said it too. “Hail Rosemary.” Laura-Louise moved her lips but made no sound.

“Hail Rosemary, mother of Adrian!” Roman said.

She looked up from the bassinet. “It’s Andrew,” she said. “Andrew John Woodhouse.”

“Adrian Steven,” Roman said.

Guy said, “Roman, look,” and Stavropoulos, at Roman’s other side, touched his arm and said, “Is the name of so great an importance?”

“It is. Yes. It is,” Roman said. “His name is Adrian Steven.”

Rosemary said, “I understand why you’d like to call him that, but I’m sorry; you can’t. His name is Andrew John. He’s my child, not yours, and this is one point that I’m not even going to argue about. This and the clothes. He can’t wear black all the time.”

Roman opened his mouth but Minnie said “Hail Andrew” in a loud voice, looking right at him.

Everyone else said “Hail Andrew” and “Hail Rosemary, mother of Andrew” and “Hail Satan.”

Rosemary tickled the baby’s tummy. “You didn’t like ‘Adrian,’ did you?” she asked him. “I should think not. ‘Adrian Steven’! Will you please stop looking so worried?” She poked the tip of his nose. “Do you know how to smile yet, Andy? Do you? Come on, little funny-eyes Andy, can you smile? Can you smile for Mommy?” She tapped the silver ornament and set it swinging. “Come on, Andy,” she said. “One little smile. Come on, Andy-candy.”

The Japanese slipped forward with his camera, crouched, and took two three four pictures in quick succession.