As for Claire, life evolved into dancing lessons, practice, more practice, exercises, preparing meals for Moe, having sex with Moe, being at Moe’s beck and call.
She did not mind in the slightest that they never went out together. It would be a while yet before Moe was able to divorce his unloving wife and marry Claire.
She did not mind seeing newspaper photos of Dr. and Mrs. Moses Green. He was a high-profile celebrity in the fast lane of society. She understood.
Margie was aware of the affair. It was one of many. She never expected fidelity from her husband.
Moe was more than satisfied.
Then, one night, after intercourse, Claire turned on her side so her head was cradled on his shoulder. “I hate to say this, love, but I think something’s wrong.”
“Oh?”
“I missed my period.”
“Just one? That’s not unusual.”
“It is for me. I’m regular as rain, ‘member? I told you that when we discussed rhythm. It would be so easy for me because I’m so regular. That’s why I’m concerned about missing even one period.”
“You’re not going to bug me about that rhythm thing again! I told you I have no intention of making love by calendar.”
Claire propped herself up on one arm. “No, honey, not rhythm. I know how you feel about that. I’m just worried there might be something wrong with me.”
Green considered the situation. “Well, okay. You got dance class tomorrow morning, right?”
Claire, brow furrowed, nodded. She really was concerned.
“Okay,” Green continued. “After you get done, come to my office. We’ll run a couple of tests.”
“Thanks, honey. That makes me feel a lot better.” And to prove how much better she felt, she began again a leisurely foreplay.
The next day she appeared at his office immediately after class. He administered several tests in only one of which he was really interested. That test revealed that Claire was pregnant.
She had missed but one period. The fetus was in its earliest stages. It would have to go. With her strong Catholic upbringing she would, he knew, be utterly opposed.
In everything else she had been docile. Making love … the varieties of lovemaking … being a mistress … she had done it all, and more. All of which were sins in her Catholic training.
But abortion! Green knew she would not under any condition cross that line.
That night, when he arrived at their apartment, he greeted her. “Now I don’t want you to worry, but there’s a little something we have to check.”
She began to tremble.
“Don’t do that!” He could not tolerate cowardice in any form. “I’m going to do some further tests. The problem may require some surgery. But I’ll handle the whole thing. You got confidence in me?”
She quieted the tremors. “You’ve given me everything. Why shouldn’t I trust you?”
A very anxious Claire McNern checked into the hospital. She was lonely and apprehensive. Once the wristband was snapped shut, she felt that she was nothing more than an animated number, rather than a person. Indeed, the admissions clerk related to her as if she were an appliance that needed repair.
And so it went throughout the preparation for what she assumed would be further tests and possibly surgery.
The staff all seemed too busy to give her any expression of reassurance. Only one person, the nurse who would assist Dr. Green, treated Claire with kindness and empathy. Claire drew strength from this sympathetic nurse, Lana Kushner, R.N.
When Claire was fully prepped, Dr. Green made his entrance. Even in his scrub uniform, he was only slightly less imposing than paintings she had seen of God. In his hand, he held a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it and a pen. “How are you doing, Claire?”
“Better now that you’re here,” she said, feeling some small bravery for the first time. “Lana has been a big help.”
“That’s nice.” He did not even glance at the nurse. “Claire, there’s a formality before we take care of you. Just a lot of legal gobbledygook, but we have to have your signature on this line.” Still holding the clipboard, he lowered it so she could sign.
She took the pen, but began to read the paper.
“We haven’t got time to waste on reading this stuff. It just says you give me your consent to take care of you. Haven’t lost confidence in me, have you?” As he ended the question, his voice grew stern.
“Of course not.” She signed.
She did not see the single word typed in describing the treatment for which she had given her consent.
Hysterectomy.
She was wheeled into the operating room and transferred to the operating table. An anesthetist injected her. She drifted quickly into dreamless sleep.
The procedure moved along without complication. Dr. Green removed the uterus containing a fetus so undeveloped he was able to mask its presence by folding the womb over in the receptacle that held it.
No word was spoken during the operation. That was as expected. Surgeons differed in many ways one from the other. Some talked quite freely; some demanded strict silence unless there was an emergency requiring speech communication.
As Green was closing, stitching Claire together, Nurse Kushner reached for the dish holding the amputated uterus.
“Leave it alone!” Green commanded sharply. “I want to take it to pathology myself. I want to follow this thing through right away.”
Kushner was only slightly surprised. Usually, the trip to pathology was taken by a nurse. But … doctors could do whatever they pleased. What did puzzle her was the appearance of the uterus. But she said nothing. No use being raked over the coals on a matter of mere curiosity.
On his way to pathology he stopped at his locker. He made certain no one else was around. He deposited the healthy uterus in a plastic bag, sealed it, wrapped it in abundant paper toweling, and dropped it in the wastebasket. From his locker he took a package containing solidified carbon dioxide—dry ice—and some diseased connective tissue from a previous hysterectomy. This—the cancerous tissue—he delivered to pathology.
The deed was done.
He would have told Claire nothing. He would have left her sterile, without her realizing it.
But that was impossible. She would never again experience menstruation. There was no uterine wall to slough off since there was no longer a uterus. So he had to tell her what had happened to her. What he had done to her. But not everything—and, of course, not the reason.
He told her she’d had a cancerous growth on her uterus and the entire organ had to be sacrificed. It was, indeed, fortunate that she had called his attention to that abnormal condition of the missed period. And lucky that he’d been on the case. He understood that this naturally would come as a shock to her. But it was important that they return to normal sexual activity as soon as possible. It was good for her speedy recovery. And, of course, it would be a solace to him as well.
She reacted with expected dismay. A good part of what made her a woman was suddenly gone. In the face of this, she found only mild relief that a life-threatening situation had been excised.
So she set her mind on being a good mistress.
But something was wrong. She couldn’t identify it, but there was something. …
The “something” was Green’s reaction to Claire’s present physical condition. It surprised even him. He reassured her as well as himself that while the nursery was gone, the playpen was still there.
He had not anticipated this. Given his sexual proclivity, he was edging toward impotence. Intercourse was still possible with Claire. But he no longer was ready instantly. Nor did he last as long.
There was no doubt whatsoever that he did not want a child with Claire. So he had expected their sexual relations would soar to new heights once she had been rendered sterile.
The removal of her reproductive organ had been no part of his long-term plan. But when Claire’s concern over her missed period arose, he had seized
the opportunity to remove any possibility of pregnancy. However, the practical consequences of the operation did not provide the aphrodisiac that he had expected.
What was the problem?
It came to him one day with unexpected clarity: He was making love to a cripple—a freak. Oh, not on the surface; externally, of course, Claire was as beautiful and desirable as ever.
But potency and impotency exist largely in the mind. And Moe Green’s mind was focusing on the uterus he had removed. That perfectly normal healthy organ was gone. Claire was not whole. That’s what had been distracting him; that’s what was impeding his performance to the point where the situation was adversely affecting his entire life.
What was to be done?
He could try to rationalize himself out of this tight corner into which he’d painted himself. He could see one of his psychotherapist colleagues; a few sessions on the couch might restore things to their normal level.
Simple—but he knew that he would never go that far; he would never trouble himself to that degree.
Why should he? There were plenty of other potential mistresses around. And the next time, he would be more careful. He would make certain that the next woman—women?—would take every precaution … with the certain knowledge that being with child would automatically mean being without Moe.
But first he must get rid of Claire.
Dr. Green was not disposed to the soft touch or the language of diplomacy. He tried intercourse with her one more time. It was a near disaster.
As he abruptly left the bed and reached for his clothes, Claire pulled the sheet up around her. She was, of course, aware there was a problem. She had no idea what the cause was; she only hoped that somehow Moe would solve it. She had abiding faith in him.
“Claire,” Green said as he pulled on his shorts, “I think it’s time we went our separate ways.”
“Wh-what?” Her heart began to pound.
“A relationship like ours doesn’t last a lifetime. It’s time we recognized that and moved on.”
“But … but you’re going to divorce your wife. When … when it’s time. That’s what you said. I know we’re having problems … but we can work them out. I know we can. Maybe it’s something I’m doing wrong. We can talk about it. It’ll get better, you’ll see. I can be a perfect wife. Please, Moe, let’s talk.”
“Talk time is over. You’re a good kid. But you have to take a more realistic approach to life. For one, you’re never gonna be a dancer. I’ve had to pay your teacher over scale just to keep you as a student. Haven’t you noticed that Jake hasn’t moved you up in the chorus line?”
Ignoring the hurt and vulnerability on her face, indeed in every line of her body, he swept on. “As for sex, ours is deteriorating. Even you admit that. Take it from me, you gotta read the signs of the times. And, with us, the signs all point to the end of the game. It’s over. What we gotta do now is bury it. Let’s do this like civilized people, without making an unseemly fuss. Whad’ya say?”
“Moe, I don’t have to be a dancer—not if I’m your wife!”
“My wife! That’ll be the day! Margie’s a shark when she has to be. She wouldn’t give me a divorce unless she walked away with everything. And I’m kinda used to everything.”
“But you said …”
“I say lots of things. Some I mean and some I’m not so sure.”
“Moe, what’s going to happen to me?” She pulled the sheet higher about her neck. It was as if she were nude in this room with a stranger. The rare glimpses she’d gotten of Moe’s ruthless side had been quickly glossed over. Now she could see the truth. This Moe Green who was discarding her like a card in a poker game was the real Moe Green, the genuine lowdown article.
Nothing she could do or say would prolong their relationship. It was now a matter of salvaging whatever she could. “Moe, what’s going to happen to me?” she repeated.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t know.” He really didn’t give a damn, but he didn’t want to push her over the edge into anger. At the moment she was defensive. That was the state of mind he wanted to deal with.
“You can stay here,” he said, “for a little while. But there’s got to be a time limit on this arrangement—say, a month, two at the outside. You can find a job. Look around. I’ll even help you if I can. But”—his voice was harsh—“not dancing. Nobody can help you there.”
Now fully dressed, he paused in the doorway. “Have a nice life, Claire. But first, get one.” And he was gone.
In just a little more than two weeks her newly found lifestyle had not only crumbled, it had virtually evaporated.
It had all begun when she’d told Green of her missed period. What if she had gone to another doctor? She could have had the operation and he would have been in the dark, none the wiser.
What if? What if? What if?
It was over.
She was alone.
Tears flowed. Sobs racked her. She wished fervently that she had never met Dr. Moses Green.
THE PRESENT
Father Koesler was impressed. Of all the people he’d met in his entire life, surely no one appeared to be as amoral as Dr. Moses Green.
Still, Koesler did not second-guess himself on granting this wake. If deceased people needed a consensus to be granted a religious funeral, he wondered how many would qualify.
“Well, what did you do then?”
“First of all,” Claire said, “I made up my mind I wasn’t going to be beholden to him for anything. I cleared out of the apartment the next day. I had saved up some money. So I got a decent place to stay even before I started looking for a job.
“Thank’s to Moe’s laying it all on the line, I didn’t waste any more time trying to be a dancer. I took stock of what I had to offer. I’m good looking—that’s not vanity, Father; that’s the truth.”
“Honest humility is the truth,” Koesler said. “And I would second your assessment: You are good looking.”
“And I’ll third it!” Stan Lacki was grinning.
“So,” Claire continued, “I figured there was good money in waiting restaurants, if the tips were generous. After checking around, I settled on Carl’s Chop House. Lots of men go there. I counted on their appreciating a good-looking waitress. And I was right. That’s”—she smiled broadly—“where I met Stan.”
“The guys at the station go there maybe once every week or two,” Lacki said. “Course I picked up on Claire right away.”
“He was more than a real gentleman,” Claire said. “He was very respectful to me. And I needed that. I could joke with the guys at the restaurant, but it was just kidding. Whenever any of them started coming on to me, I’d cut ’em off at the pass. I’d just had it with sweet-talkers. Good old Moe Green cured me of falling for sweet talk. Stan was real mannerly.”
“She’s a lady.”
“So, anyway,” Claire went on, “about a year ago we started going out. Then we got serious and … well, we’ve been sort of engaged for the past five months. And, you know, Father …” She blushed again, then smiled and said firmly, “We wanted to wait awhile to get married—you know, to be sure?”
Koesler nodded understandingly.
“But then, a little while back, when we decided to plan our wedding … well, we ran into trouble. A lot of trouble, it turns out.”
“Oh?” Koesler said. “You’re both Catholic, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Either of you married before?”
“No.”
“You’re both entering this marriage freely?”
“Yes.”
“Then, I’m at a loss. What’s the problem?”
“I’d say,” Lacki interjected, “the problem is the priest who was handling our marriage preparation.”
“Oh? What’s his name?” Koesler asked.
“He’s standing right back there—against the back wall,” Lacki said, pointing.
“That’s Father Reichert!” Koesler was surprised.
“Don
’t we know it!” Lacki said.
“But he’s retired,” Koesler said. “Why would he have anything to do with your marriage?”
“We had no reason to question that,” Claire said. “Why shouldn’t he take care of marriages? He’s been a priest for tons of years, hasn’t he?”
“Well, yes, but …” Koesler’s shook his head in puzzlement. “What did he do … as far as your wedding goes, I mean?”
“Just told us we couldn’t get married,” Lacki said. “At least not in the Catholic Church. He said if we were determined to get married, we should look up some justice of the peace, or a judge or a minister.”
“Why? What reason did he give you for denying a Catholic ceremony?”
“He said,” Claire explained, “that the purpose of marriage is to have children and raise them Catholic. And that since I’d had a hysterectomy, we would never be able to have children—that every time we had intercourse, we would be making a mockery of marital love. That’s what he said. Then he told us to go away.”
Koesler shook his head again. If Joe Btfsplk’s black cloud had been in the church, it would have been directly above Koesler.
“Well, then, we got to thinking,” Lacki said. “This Dr. Green is such a … uh …” He seemed to be rejecting a series of colloquial epithets that were not fit for polite conversation, especially when the circle included a priest. “… such a rotten guy, that we wondered if he’d actually done what he said he did.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Koesler said to Claire. “I mean, you’re either having periods or you’re not.”
Claire was surprised that a celibate man would know that much about female physiology. “Well, we thought that maybe he lied to us. Lies were mother’s milk to him. Maybe whatever he’d done could be reversed or repaired. Like sometimes tying the tubes can be reversed.…”
“She was going to go to a gynecologist and have it checked out,” Lacki said.
“But,” Claire interrupted, “something told me there was a better way. Remember that nurse I mentioned—the one who was so kind to me when I was operated on? She was right there, as far as I know, assisting the doctor. We thought maybe she could tell us exactly what really happened.”
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