The cramps began the following morning and by noon the abortion was complete. Gillian flushed the shapeless mass away. Bye bye, baby, she thought. She dragged herself back to bed and the bleeding did not let up. She dozed off and awakened to feel the dampness spreading beneath her legs. She barely had time to call Dr. Hetterton before passing out again.
Within an hour, the doctor arrived. He gave Gillian an injection of ergot to stop the bleeding. And some follow-up tablets for the next day.
“Gillian Blake,” he said. “You know, I honestly had no idea who you were until I looked at the paper you filled out. I catch your program frequently.”
“Do you, doctor?”
“I especially liked the one the other day, the one about the God-is-dead theory. I mean, calling it the biggest publicity stunt of the decade. Imagine! God as PR man, planting God-is-dead theologians around to start controversy, to bring His name into the limelight—that was a master stroke!”
“I’m so tired, doctor.”
“But seriously,” he said, “something like that can start people back on the road to doing some serious reevaluating.”
“Even you, doctor?”
“Maybe not me,” he said. “But some people.”
“One last question, doctor—does my husband, does Billy have to know about this?”
“Not if he stays away from you, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” Gillian said. “And I don’t think that will be a problem.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “You know there’s a lot of people who feel you must have the ideal marriage. What is it your announcer says? You know, about the reality of marriage in the crucible of modern living. Well, people listen to you and you seem to have all the answers.”
“I’m so very sleepy now,” she said.
“Of course, of course,” he said. “I’ll want to see you when you’re up and around.”
“Good night, doctor,” she said. “Good night and thank you.”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Mrs. Blake.”
A few days passed before Gillian felt her old self again. Still, she didn’t go back for the checkup. A few weeks. A month. And then on a Thursday in February, Gillian examined herself in the full-length mirror. The reflection was smooth. She thought of that old joke—the patient died but the operation was a success; she decided the time had come.
Thursday afternoon she went to the doctor’s office. This time, with the pale gray end-of-day light streaming through the windows, she was unaware of the colors clashing. And this time there was a third party, a nurse—a tiny sparrow of a woman, Gillian decided, yes, a large-mouthed small-breasted sparrow.
“Do you have an appointment with Dr. Hetterton?”
“Well, not exactly,” Gillian said. “But the doctor asked me to stop in for a checkup.”
“I’ll have to see if the doctor can take you,” the nurse said. “The name, please.”
“Mrs. Brown,” Gillian said.
“I’ll see if he can take you,” she said.
Gillian had to smile at that. If he can take you—the waiting room was conspicuously empty, and dust had gathered on the magazine rack. That nurse, she was as dreary as everything else connected with the office.
“Mrs. Brown,” the doctor was saying, “yes, of course. Won’t you please come right in? Is there anything wrong, anything.…”
“I have this terrible aching feeling,” Gillian was saying as the door closed behind them, shutting the sterile little nurse out in the sterile little antechamber.
“Where?” the doctor said.
“That’s nonsense,” Gillian said. “I feel fit as a fiddle. But you did say to stop by for a checkup.”
“So I did, so I did,” he said. “And I must say I’m glad you came. Any trouble at home? Any … complications?”
“Not a one,” Gillian said. “Of course, I haven’t … done anything that might be considered risky. I didn’t dare.”
“I’ll write out a prescription for feosol,” he said. “That will keep your pep up. I don’t suppose there’s anything else I can do?”
“Don’t you even want to examine me?” Gillian said. “After all, you’re the doctor.”
“I suppose I may as well,” he said, “just to be on the safe side. Why don’t you go into the room while I get the nurse …?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gillian said. “I think I can trust you now.”
When Dr. Hetterton joined Gillian in the small chamber she was standing in front of the disrobing screen. She had placed the white robe over her clothes on the small chair. Her long hair tumbled freely over her pale shoulders. Her breasts, unfettered now, seemed to defy the laws of gravity and probability. She swiveled calmly to face him; it was then she noticed the trembling in his hands.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, “in a minute.…”
“Don’t go,” she said. “I think every artist should enjoy his handiwork.… I haven’t thanked you properly, doctor. The only reason I haven’t thanked you properly is that I haven’t been able to thank you properly. Am I able to now?”
“Mrs. Blake, you’re able to do anything now. Anything at all. You don’t need me any more.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken—can I call you Alan? That’s where you’re mistaken, Alan. If I can do anything at all, then I need you right now.”
“But the nurse.…”
“The nurse is out there,” Gillian said. “She is out there two doors away and we’re here.”
“That nurse is my wife; she’s Gerda.”
“Come here, Alan.”
He didn’t move, and Gillian walked the three short steps to him. His arms moved slowly to hold her and she reached her hands to his neck and stroked his hair gently. Then she urged him with her hands to follow her backward to the examination table. She fell back onto the table, her feet still touching the floor, and he bent over her. Gillian nibbled at his ear lobes, and her lips ran feverishly over his throat. His mouth groped for her mouth before he moved down toward her breasts.
As he continued to kiss her breasts and then advanced upon her stomach, Gillian remained calm. So strange. She felt no physical attraction to this strange round-faced man who was coming at her with increasing urgency. She did not particularly like his looks. She felt nothing but embarrassment for his fumbling ways. And yet even he—even this flawed and damaged specimen of a man—could arouse her, could lick at her center of passion, perhaps could even satisfy her.
She pushed the doctor back then and reached for his belt. She efficiently undid the belt, then the zipper, smiled as the trousers fell down around his ankles. He mounted her, entered her, probed with his rigid flesh where he had once poked with a speculum. Gillian realized idly that she had never before made love in this position. His frenzy controlled her then, and the climax of the one sparked the climax of the other, his ejection riding the waves of her spasmodic contractions.
“Alan!”
It was a scream and the two of them looked at the door, at the small woman in the starched uniform. Her mouth seemed suddenly smaller, perhaps because of the size of her eyes. Gerda had entered at the wrong moment; there was no way for her husband to stop, to apply brakes, to turn back, to explain. He drove home his final thrusting motions under the gaze of his outraged wife. Even later he made no effort to undo the damage.
Trousers around his ankles hobbled him, and Gillian’s legs encircled him. He looked at his wife—hopelessly, helplessly—and the three of them seemed frozen in positions that were individually ludicrous. Then Alan felt the warmth returning, felt the motions of the woman beginning anew. He made no effort to stop himself and he responded slowly to Gillian’s encouraging undulations.
“Alan, get off her right now!”
“Go away, little bird,” Gillian said. “Go away unless you want to see your husband in a new light.”
“Go away, Gerda,” the doctor said. “This re
ally doesn’t concern you at all.”
“It’s better the second time”—Gillian raised her voice so that Gerda could hear each syllable—“it’s always better the second time, lover.”
“Alan,” Gerda said, “I’m not going to ask you again.”
Looking back at Gerda one last time, Alan turned then and settled his mouth into Gillian’s throat. Neither of them took any visible notice as the door slammed behind Gerda. Gillian, at that moment, felt a surprising sense of disappointment. The disappearance of the audience, particularly a disapproving audience, took some of the edge off it. Live and learn, live and learn. Still, she did not convey her disappointment to the good doctor—she relaxed, rising and falling with his ebb and flow. Then methodically she drained him a second time, emptied him, calmed him and gentled him.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” she said finally. “I didn’t intend to ruin your marriage—seriously I didn’t come here to do that.”
“It was ruined a long time ago,” the doctor said. “Just one thing—did you take any precautions this time?”
“Yes,” she said. “But it was nice of you to ask, Alan.”
“I was just curious,” he said.
Before facing Gerda, Hetterton went again to his locked cabinet. This time he dropped four of the tiny pills onto the spoon. And then he sat down in his empty office and waited for the drug to take effect. When the shaking in his hands was under control, he walked over to the house and faced a strangely composed Gerda. To his surprise, she said she did not want a divorce. She said that she still loved him and would remain with him on two conditions. Alan agreed that never again would he see Mrs. Brown. He also agreed to the purchase of a $545 electronically amplified guitar for his son.
Gillian never saw Alan Hetterton again—and she was not surprised or disappointed by this. However, from time to time, she heard rumors. Rumors linking Alan Hetterton and Maxine, Alan Hetterton and a fifteen-year-old candy striper at Huntington Hospital, Alan Hetterton and a sixty-four-year-old spinster school teacher. And then in June she read the final chapter in a newspaper gossip column—
“North Shore set is still talking about the messy situation involving a local general practitioner who sidelined on the abortion circuit. Seems his frau caught him in the arms of a female impersonator and decided to do a little cranial surgery on the two of them—with a double-bitted axe. Police intervened just in time. Whole thing was hushed up by the local constabulary but both Md. and his Mrs. have left town, last seen heading in the general direction of the divorce courts.”
EXCERPT FROM “THE BILLY & GILLY SHOW,” FEBRUARY 7TH
Billy: You seem especially bright and chipper today, dear.
Gilly: Why not? It’s a nice day, we’re having lovely weather for this time of year, and I had a splendid time at the doctor’s yesterday.
Billy: Oh … you didn’t tell me.
Gilly: It wasn’t anything important, sweetheart. Just a yearly checkup.
Billy: Well, what’d it show?
Gilly: That’s just it. According to the doctor, I’m in splendid shape. Marvelously healthy.
Billy: I don’t know what he gave you, but you look radiant.
Gilly: It’s probably psychological, but I do feel at the top of my form.
Billy: If you’ll allow me to say so, dear, your form has always been tops.
Gilly: Why, thank you, kind sir. You are a sweetie, today.
Billy: It’s just my natural charm, hon. But seriously, I’ve always admired your ability to keep in shape.
Gilly: Well, I think it’s very important for people to stay in condition. I mean, I can’t see physical conditioning as an end in itself, but certainly the body does house the brain, and it pays to be healthy.
Billy: Of course, there are some people who have natural physiques.
Gilly: Yes, some athletes are like that.
Billy: That’s true. But there are others who go to pot the minute they stop training. For instance, there’s nothing sadder than an ex-prizefighter who lets himself get fat. Some of them turn into balloons.
Gilly: That’s a shame when it happens, because I think some fighters have the best builds of all. You know, the ones with the broad shoulders and the muscular arms who taper down into narrow waists.
Billy: I remember when I had a narrow waist.
Gilly: Well, it’s still quite slim, dear, thanks to all that squash and tennis you play.
Billy: Now, it’s my turn to thank you.
Gilly: Also, there’s something so reassuring about a strongly built man.
Billy: Really?
Gilly: Yes, I think there’s a wonderfully masculine quality in thick biceps.
Billy: But seriously, don’t you think women are more interested in a man’s mind than in his muscles? Don’t you think they’re more concerned about his … uhm, personality, his intelligence?
Gilly: Certainly, over the long haul. But it doesn’t hurt if he looks good, too. There’s nothing worse than spindly shoulders and a potbelly. I’m half-kidding, of course, but muscle men are quite stimulating. After all, it’s the same the other way around. What about pin-ups? And you can’t tell me that a man who meets a girl with a figure like Sophia Loren’s for the first time is thinking about her brain.
Billy: I’ll have to admit you have a point, there.
Gilly: So it’s the same with a woman. I mean you might not want to spend your life with Hercules, but you wouldn’t mind watching him lift weights. Or something.
Billy: Let’s watch that something.
Gilly: Oh Billy, you’re awful.
Billy: Actually, I’ll settle for watching Sophia Loren model bikinis.
Gilly: Right. The body beautiful in action. I think every woman enjoys watching a Pancho Gonzales playing tennis. Or a Cassius Clay boxing. I think prize fighters are especially exciting. All that concentrated violence. They’re so direct. So beautifully brutal.
Billy: I know what you mean. It’s like watching Billy Blake play squash.
Gilly: That’s pure poetry, dear.
Billy: You do know the way to a man’s ego, hon.
Gilly: And don’t forget his biceps.
PADDY MADIGAN
THE wind, which bore only a twinge of its Canadian origin, had long since blown the last of the leaves from the twin oaks in the backyard. Now it stacked them like a fragile brown dam against the bottom of the privet hedge that lined the southwest side of the half-acre that Agnes Madigan called “our estate.”
That is, Agnes said “our estate” to neighbors and strangers. When her only company was her husband, Paddy, she called it “my estate.” And she said it because it was so.
The deed was in Agnes’s name. And so was Paddy for that matter. The money had originated with Paddy, but he had realized years earlier that without her guidance the money would have disappeared. Everything disappeared without Agnes. All that he had was because of Agnes. She had told him this, and he knew it was true. He had become hers, both body and soul, because he had purchased the refuge of her mother-arms.
On this mild winter Thursday, Paddy was casting about for the leaves under the hedge with a wire rake. He knew it was late in the year to rake leaves but it was something to do. The tines of the rake caught in the roots of the hedge and Paddy cursed under his breath. As he cursed, he glanced instinctively at the house even though he knew that Agnes had gone to the hairdresser’s. Agnes didn’t like cursing. She didn’t like cursing or sleeping in church or drinking beer in the parlor, and when Paddy violated any of these rules he looked over his shoulder.
The rake jammed into a root and was caught there. Paddy said “shit.” He looked behind at the house and shrugged his shoulders. Then he heard laughter from the backyard across the split-log fence. It was from either the Blake place or the one where the Earbrows used to live.
“Oh, honey,” the voice said, “you don’t want to let some little thing get you all in an uproar. Don’t let a little thing like leaves goose you.”
<
br /> Paddy took his time finding the voice. Women embarrassed him, and women who talked like bartenders frightened him. He knew what Agnes said about women like that and she was right. Agnes was always right. Finally he saw the her of the voice. She was leaning against a birch tree. She was wearing a cape she’d had made from a Peruvian blanket and it didn’t button in the front. It was loose and Paddy looked at her and wondered what held her breasts up that way. They lolled and swayed in the loose, low jersey she wore under the blanket jacket.
Paddy gulped and started to sweat. He looked up at the house again. Agnes would kill him. He had to do something. But he just stood there and wondered about the breasts. He was dressed in blue jeans, sneakers and an undershirt that allowed his muscles the rippling freedom they needed. It was much too cold for just an undershirt and Agnes would talk to him about that, but still it felt nice, nice and cool. The breeze softly stirred the gray reddish hair on his arms, chest and shoulders but inside he was stirring as if his viscera were caught in the eye of a hurricane.
“You’re Mrs. Blake,” Paddy said.
“Call me Gilly,” she said. She was laughing, laughing at the way he talked—it was like Red Skelton talked at a show they once did together. But Red Skelton had been kidding and Paddy Madigan was not kidding.
Gillian cut the laugh short. She had assumed that the rough, tough approach would be best with Paddy but now she was not so sure. She had mentally slotted Paddy Madigan beside Ernie Miklos, the late Ernie Miklos, in a category she thought of as, simply, Musclemen. But now, for the moment, she was not so sure.
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