Well—be a credit to that extremely kind young doctor. Cold cream, skin
food, astringent, rouge, powder, lipstick. Enormous grey eyes I have,
fringed with thick black lashes. And an awfully white skin, considering
how black and straight my hair is.
Wonder if it is true that my great grandfather found romance with an
Indian girl, and that that accounted for the straight, very black hair.
Wonder if he was nice to her.
Black hair, black eyebrows, lovely shoulders, very white. And a lot they
had got me, first and last. More than anything else had got me, though,
at that.
“A woman five feet one, weighing a hundred nine pounds” . . . would I be
a paragraph in various newspapers among the day’s casual deaths?
Probably not.
Be a credit to that young doctor, who was taking a good deal of trouble
on my account. Wear the Jane Regny original that the manufacturer sold
me for a song and a couple of ads for Women’s Wear. Soft grey tweeds, a
grey wolf collar and deep cuffs, a cream-coloured blouse. Its scarlet
piping matches the close fitting hat, and the shining flat purse.
Brilliant scarlet and blue scarf, grey mocha gloves that matched my
stockings, precisely, and black lizard sports’ shoes. A small, slim,
scared, extremely smart young figure.
“I may not be pure, but thank heaven I look immaculate.”
Five to ten. Find a handkerchief that exactly matches the blue in the
scarf. Is that important? What is important? That dead baby Patrick,
little and fragrant and toothless and rosy-lipped. To die when his
mother had gone away and left him. Sentimentality, that. Well, this one
would not live to die.
Put some perfume on handkerchief and hair. Just a little essence of
gardenia, faint aroma for daytime.
Peter, Peter.
Doorbell ringing. The maid will answer. “The Doctor, ma’am.”
“Tell him I’ll be in in a minute, Nora.”
Purse, money, gloves.
“Good morning, Doctor.”
“You are looking very well. I hope you don’t feel nervous.”
(Hell. I just feel dead.)
“Not at all, Doctor, shall we start?”
In the taxi. “You are going to survive this, you know. You are the
healthy, glandularly normal sort that can survive a great deal with no
ill effects. I should be interested in seeing you do it. This may sound
rather—unethical—but I do wish, if you and your husband separate, that
you would let me know, from time to time, how you are getting along.
“You are very young, and life holds a great deal for you.”
(Isn’t he sententious?)
He went on: “I should appreciate the privilege of taking you to dinner
sometime, when you’ve forgotten about this whole—unfortunate—affair.
Do feel free to telephone me at any time, it would give me great
pleasure.”
(A nice young man. Rather attractive. Peter, Peter, are you thinking
about me at all? In the midst of re-writing City News copy, are you
thinking about me—five minutes?)
“Doctor, do you mind if I ask—does this take very long?”
“At most—twenty minutes. I strongly advise against gas, if you think
you can maintain your poise, at all. The heart—”
“Whatever you advise, Doctor.” (Did I want this baby? No sense to wonder
about that now.)
“You are being extremely kind, Doctor. I am appreciative. I shall look
forward to telephoning you one day, soon, and ask if you are free for
dinner?”
He beams. Well, it is a lovely tweed ensemble, and I am clear-skinned
enough to wear a bright red hat.
“Here we are. Now remember, I’ll be close by, and it will be all over
within the half hour.”
(Be a corpse by then, maybe? Oh, don’t lose your nerve, Patricia. A
thousand a day in the city of Chicago, they say.)
Dingy waiting room. Green plush livingroom set. No magazines. Patients
can contemplate their thoughts, I suppose. Drawn curtains, a desiccated
potted palm.
My doctor is holding my hand, in an entirely impersonal and very helpful
way. A man and a girl come in. Her clothes were bought on the Bowery,
but she is a lovely, gentle-faced blonde child, and so amazingly young.
Seventeen at most.
She looks at that boy as if he were her saviour. He is a nice boy, too,
blue eyed Jewish. Waistline coat. Maybe he is as old as twenty-one.
“Doctor,” (very softly.) “That girl is nothing but a child.”
“I noticed. These places depress me. Ah—Dr. Cohen.”
“My patient.”
The Paris tweeds impress Dr. Cohen. What a hard face he has, but
efficient, clean hands.
“Come this way.”
(Office is camouflage obviously. Operating room looks very sanitary,
I’ll say that for it. Room with five beds in back. Nurse. Isn’t she
pretty? Sort of lavender kimona, she gives one. Wonder if the colour is
symbolic, or if they got a lot of them at a sale. Give the nurse five
dollars. She is pleased.)
“Now don’t be frightened, madame. I hear your doctor advised against
gas. That’s sensible, really.”
“May I hold your hand, nurse?”
“Of course, dearie.”
Set one’s teeth. Now.
* * * * *
Bed feels very comfortable. Here is my doctor. I have to think of
something to say to him, something appropriate? Would it do to say,
“Well, I lived through it and I don’t care if I did?”
“Don’t try to talk. You are a courageous young woman.” (Just because I
would not cry in front of that disgusting doctor who made a joke about
the price of pleasure.) “I’m going to give you a hypodermic. Try to
sleep, and I’ll be back to take you home in a couple of hours.”
He is gone.
Just to rest—not to think. Here is that young blonde child getting into
her lavender kimona, slowly. She wants to talk.
“Listen, does it hurt much?”
(Give the little girl a hand.) “It’s not bad, my dear, and soon over.”
What a brilliant yellow chemise she has on. Amazing. And what a pretty
undeveloped figure.
She is very scared. Undressing so slowly. She wants to talk some more.
Maybe I can stay awake.
“Gawd, I’m scared. But my boyfriend’s worse. He’s sitting in front
wipin’ sweat off his forehead.”
“I saw him. I thought he was very handsome.”
“Say, that boy’s grand. He gave me this chemise. I wore it to make me
feel brave.”
Poor little devil.
“It’s soon over, you know.”
“Him and I’d get married in a minute, and I wouldn’t have to do this,
only his ma’s orthodox Jewish and she’d die if he married a girl who
wasn’t kosher. He’s good to his ma.”
The vivid yellow chemise comes off. The kimona of sorts goes on. The
child takes my hand. “It isn’t very bad, is it?” The nurse is calling
her.
“No, really. Hold your breath and say, ‘I can last another five
minutes’. Good luck.”
She smiles, gallantly.
The door of the operating room is ajar. That hard voice, “Are you paying
for gas, young woman?”
Her ardent, rough young voice, “Why . . . why, I guess so. My boyfriend
said for me to have all the trimmings.” The door of the operating room
slams.
Sleep, sleep now. Patrick, Peter—wonder if this one might have been a
daughter . . . well, better to sleep.
* * * * *
“All right?”
“Quite convalescent, Doctor, thank you. I’ll dress now.”
The blonde child is asleep, looking altogether tranquil. Never see her
again. Like to give her a present. That cloisonne compact. Slip it in
her hand, that closes on it, like a . . . like a baby’s.
“Will you tell her, nurse, I wanted her to have this?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Good-bye. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
* * * * *
That night Peter said, “I’m sorry you feel so badly . . . could I make
you some soup or anything?”
“Thanks, no.”
“Look here, Pat, I’m sorry about you and me, but it would be easier for
you if you could let go . . . if you didn’t try to hold on so hard.”
It is worse when he is kind. Fight it through. One might have some luck.
“Only nine weeks of servitude left, Pet-ah.” He said nothing. He went
out.
All insane, all ridiculous, all horrible; but fight it through.
Committed to that. Cannot think any more; cannot feel much; but play for
a little more time. Hilda is stupid. She may be stupid in time to save
me.
Another week, and another, and another. He kept all her letters in the
top drawer of his desk. The drawer was not locked. Curious that he could
place such dependence on a decent upbringing. He could, too . . . but if
I knew what she was writing, what they were planning, perhaps I could
think of something to do.
Meanwhile I was grateful for the advertising business. The Christmas
rush. Two more weeks gone.
Peter twisted my wrist one night when, overtired, I did a parody of
Hilda explaining why she was pure. I thought my wrist was broken. He
left me crying, raging, pleading. That had got to be chronic. As soon as
I began to protest, anything, he left for the evening. Sometimes for the
night.
I had a curious suspicion that he sometimes went to see Judith,
just-divorced wife of a well-meaning dullard. Judith had always looked
avidly at Pete. That was odd, if he went to see her now. But too
complicated for me to evaluate, along with Hilda. Those letters. My
wrist throbbed, most painfully. If I knew what was in those letters
. . .