“Want the baby or the other?”
“Want the other … A baby,” she said, “a baby might be a pleasure.”
“You want it then?”
“Don’t you? Don’t you think a little baby might be a pleasure for us?”
“Lib, it’s just now. It’s just how long can we keep being the victims of everything. I’m starting to think there’s some conspiracy going.”
“A lot of people look forward to having a baby.”
“I look forward to it too. Don’t accuse me, sweetheart. It’s just not now … Why aren’t you eating?”
“I told you a hundred times already. I’m nauseous! Don’t you believe me?”
“You want a baby, Libby, we’ll have a baby.”
“I don’t want anything you don’t want.”
“I’m not saying I don’t want it. I’m only saying now. I feel like a snowball being pushed downhill. Things are getting out of hand.”
“Every day somebody has a baby they hadn’t planned on.”
“All right then. We’ll just let it ride.”
“I mean what kind of way is that to have a family? To just let it ride.”
“Don’t raise your voice, I said.”
“Well, what kind of way is it?”
“It’s no way.”
“Then you want to call him back?”
“I think maybe we ought to think about it.”
“We can’t think about it forever,” Libby whined. “If you have a thing like that done it has to be soon.”
“What are you talking about having it done? I just thought you didn’t want to have it done. I thought now you wanted to have a baby.”
“But you don’t.”
“It isn’t that I don’t—”
Solly rapped with a knuckle on the counter. “What’s a matter, you kids can’t decide what movie? See Ten Commandments—it’s got a beautiful message.”
“Thanks, Solly, no,” Paul said. “Libby’s got a cold.”
“How about a piece of boiled chicken?” Solly asked.
“No, thank you,” Libby said.
“Lib,” Paul said, “let’s save this conversation. Let’s talk at home.”
She agreed. But while eating his stuffed peppers, he couldn’t prevent his mind from working. “If I call, Libby, I’ve got to call from here. I can’t talk from the hall.”
“Then you’re going to call.”
“Drink your tea at least.”
As he pulled back his chair once again, Solly addressed the salami he was slicing: “There’s a kid likes cold food.”
This time his control was much better; he had no trouble making out the number, and his mouth moved into the mouthpiece at just the moment he wanted it to. His voice was his own when he asked for the doctor.
“He’s eating,” the woman said. “Didn’t you call before?”
“This is an emergency. You better let me talk to him.”
There was no response. Was he supposed to say he was Mr. Motta? “Hello — hello?” he said.
The voice from the other end was now a man’s. “Doctor Tom speaking.”
“Dr. Smith?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Doctor, I’m calling about my wife. She’s been having some menstrual trouble. I wondered if you might have a look at her.”
“Think it’s a matter of structural derangement, do you? Has she been to an osteopath before? Someone suggest to you that the fundamental condition was a lesion?”
“I don’t understand, Doctor.” The mumbo jumbo was making him perspire. “She’s not menstruating properly. She’s not menstruating on time. We’re a little concerned.”
“I see.”
“Dr. Esposito gave me your name.”
“Maybe you’d better bring her over for a checkup. Give her a once-over.”
“Do you understand me, Doctor?”
“Why don’t you get her over here in half an hour, all right?”
“Just for a checkup though …”
“I’ll take care of her. What’s your name, son?”
After he told him — his name and his wife’s too — he could have cut out his tongue.
On the bus they sat in the last two seats in the back. Paul did all the talking. “We’re not obliged to do anything, Lib. Don’t be glum, please. We’ll let him look at you. The worst it’ll be is a checkup. I want you to make up your own mind. We don’t have to tell him anything, we’re not involved in any way. There’s no reason, though, why we shouldn’t investigate all the possibilities. If it sounds complicated, if there’s anything you don’t like about it, then we forget it. I’m sure it’s a very simple procedure. People go back to work the next day. You could stay at home a week, though — that isn’t what I mean. What I mean is you don’t have to worry, you don’t have to feel that we’re helplessly entangled in anything. You say no and it’s no. We have the name, we have the address — we’ll just go. Most people who want to do it and don’t, don’t because they can’t even find out who to go to. It goes on all the time, Lib. There are probably I don’t know how many every day of the year. People like us, in our circumstances, unprepared for a child. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t at least inquire about a way out. I don’t see why every rotten thing that falls our way has to be accepted. Don’t you agree? You don’t have to say a word, Lib. You don’t have to say a thing. When we come out, you say yes or no, and that’s that. You say no, that’s fine with me. All right? Is that all right?”
“This is the stop,” she said.
The office was in a ten-story apartment building near Grand Circus Park. In the entryway downstairs there was a brass plate:
THOMAS SMITH
DOCTOR OF OSTEOPATHY
ROOM 307
Passing the plate, Paul thought for the first time about the police.
The nurse said, “Herz?” when they walked into the waiting room, and then disappeared into the doctor’s office; she wore glasses and had fat red peasant cheeks. Libby picked up a copy of Look and held it in her lap. Paul flipped sightlessly through an osteopathic journal. A close-shaven, gray-at-the-temples corporation executive came out of the doctor’s office. “Hello there. I’m Doctor Tom,” he said. “Come on in.”
In the examination room both Herzes stood at attention before his desk. When he motioned for them to sit down, only Libby obliged. The doctor himself — chiseled features, leathery skin, a large brown mustache — placed himself on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging athletically. Paul noticed his hands: large and sculpted.
“Well,” the doctor said, “what’s the fundamental condition here?”
“We think my wife is pregnant. We want an abortion.”
The only noise in the room was made by Libby — a small sound, neither of denial or agreement. Following a moment of blinding fatigue, Paul took command. “We had a rabbit test,” he said. “The result was positive.”
“Uh-huh.” The doctor stood up, cracked his knuckles and furrowed his brow, thoroughly professional. “When was your last period?” he asked Libby.
They had themselves been over and over this ground; she answered instantly. “January sixth to January eleventh.”
“Young man,” said Dr. Smith, “why don’t you step out of the room?”
He hung back for only a second, then did not look at Libby as he left. The nurse was stretched out on a leather chair in the waiting room. Above her hung a painting of two men duck hunting. One of her shoes dangled from either hand, and from her feet rose an appalling but universal odor. Not the doctor, but the nurse, was along the lines of what he had been expecting. In all her pores, all he saw was dirt, dirt and germs. He began to read in one of the osteopathic magazines about Dr. Selwyn Sales of Des Moines, the Osteopath of the Month.