The maternity ward in a Chicago hospital. January, 1939.
Ike looks at his newest son in amazement. “Margaret, the messenger said I had a daughter.”
Margaret responds drowsily. “Some of the hospital staff got confused. He sings in a real high voice.”
“Sings?” Ike’s face reflects concern. “I suppose he also talks?”
“Yes, and rather a lot. Rambles on about himself and his evil brother. Calls him ‘Donald.’ And he keeps proclaiming some prophecy about elderly women who will spread his teachings far and wide. Near as I can make out, they will keep his teachings in some sort of great net thing called ‘the Enter Net.'”
Margaret looks down at the infant next to her as its father examines the baby’s elephantine ears. “Yes, Margaret,” Ike intones, “He is The Chosen One. As he learns to make use of his brother’s talent and industry, this one, whom I dub ‘Baby Boy Phil,’ shall know Fame and Fortune.”
Margaret corrects her husband. “He shall be called St. Phil, and by my efforts shall he prosper.”
Margaret yawns, and Ike touches his wife’s pale cheek. “Margaret, you look so tired. The labor has taken its toll on you.”
“Actually, Ike, the birthing wasn’t so bad. It’s just that I’m not getting any help. Where are the babysitters and wet nurses?”
Secretly, Ike is glad none have appeared. In a public hospital in a big city, such things could be hard to explain.