Pressure Drop

by Peter Abrahams

  “That’s not possible. All of our donors remain strictly anonymous. Beyond knowing that they are free of all hereditary disease and will be genetically matched to you regarding blood type and a few other characteristics they will remain that way.”

  “What other characteristics?”

  “Race, for example. Although that would be automatic, since all our donors are white.”

  “I wasn’t aware that the Nobel was restricted.”

  “Oh, it’s not, Ms. Kitchener. It’s just that—”

  “Your clientele is all white.”

  Dr. Crossman smiled. This time the rest of his face joined the act. “Fourteen hundred,” he said.

  “Fourteen hundred?”

  “I’ll bet that’s what you scored on your SATs. You get to be a good judge of things like that, sitting on this side of the desk.” He wrote “1400” beside “No: P’s, B’s, S’s.” Then he folded the sheet of paper, pocketed it and said: “Thank you for coming. We’ll let you know.”

  “Know what?”

  “If you’re a suitable candidate. The committee meets on Thursday. We bend over backwards to be fair.”

  Nina almost said, “Don’t bother.” Almost.

  Nina went home. She looked up her SATs: 1420.

  Thursday was the twenty-fourth. Kitchener and Best had their Christmas party. Nina was the last to leave. She didn’t want to go back to her apartment. On a whim, she went to Rockefeller Center, rented skates and circled the rink with many others. She skated for hours, but it didn’t tire her at all. She finally quit when her knee began to hurt; it hadn’t bothered her in years.

  She went home. It’s a Wonderful Life was on television. She poured herself a drink and sat down in front of the screen, the remote control in her hand. The phone rang.

  “Ms. Kitchener? This is Dr. Crossman.”

  “Yes?”

  “When was your last period?”

  “Why do you want to know that?” Nina said, making no attempt to mask her annoyance.

  “Because we have to set the date for your procedure, Ms. Kitchener. Congratulations. You’ve been chosen.”

  “I have?”

  “You passed with flying colors, Ms. Kitchener. Merry Christmas.”

  5

  “My name is Percival,” said the man in the black suit, extending a plump hand that felt soft and slightly hot when Nina shook it.

  “Are you in charge of the procedure?” she asked. Nina could hear the anxiety in her voice. She wasn’t ready for the procedure. She still hadn’t made up her mind. But if she hadn’t made up her mind, what was she doing back at the Human Fertility Institute?

  “Procedure?” said Percival with a laugh. He had a throaty laugh: he might have just swallowed a bowlful of thick cream. The laugh seemed to suit him: with his bald head, round, soft face and clear pink complexion, Percival could have been a country squire from the days before the discovery of cholesterol. “Goodness no,” he said, handing a card across the desk.

  “Ablewhite, Godfrey, Percival & Glyde,” it read, adding a midtown address and a phone number that ended in three zeroes. “I’m just in charge of the paperwork.”

  “Paperwork?”

  “It never ends,” Percival said. “Please sit down.”

  Nina sat in a red leather chair. She was on the second floor of the institute, in a plush office down the hall from Dr. Crossman’s. It had leaded windows, through which she could see falling snowflakes, browning fast in city air; heavy gold curtains of the type that would just fail to conceal Peter Sellers’ feet in an Inspector Clouseau movie; and a framed photograph of the weak-chinned man whose oil portrait hung in the lobby. In the photograph the weak-chinned man was shaking hands with the Duke of Windsor.

  Percival opened a briefcase, took out papers and stacked them on the desk. “Here are some forms that need your signature,” he said.

  “What kind of forms?”

  “Legal ones,” he said, pushing the stack toward her, “so look them over.”

  Nina had a look at the papers. Percival described them as she flipped through. “That’s the financial contract—straightforward exchange of payment for services rendered. That one’s the malpractice waiver—you agree to absolve the institute from acccountability for any pregnancy difficulties or birth defects. That’s the support form—the institute shall have no responsibility for the support, medical expenses, upbringing, room, board, education or any other expenses of or pertaining to any resulting issue. That’s the anonymity form—the donor shall remain anonymous and neither you nor any resulting issue shall make any attempt to learn the donor’s identity. And that’s the estate rider—neither you nor any resulting issue shall make any claim on the estate of the donor after his death.”

  Nina looked up. Percival was picking his nose. He quickly folded his hands on the desk. “How can I sign for ‘any resulting issue’?” she asked.

  Percival smiled. He had big teeth, yellow as old piano keys. “Of course you don’t have to,” he said.

  “I don’t have to?”

  “In the same sense that you don’t have to register if you don’t want to vote.”

  “Perhaps you’ve missed my point,” Nina said. “How can I sign anything in the name of someone who doesn’t even exist yet?”

  Percival was still showing her his yellow smile. “I didn’t miss it, Ms.”—he glanced down at a file folder—“Kitchener. You’re free to consult your attorney about this or any other question.”

  Nina thought about her attorneys: she had Janet for taxes and Louise for contracts; there was also Jason’s friend Larry the Litigator, who had represented her successfully in the bicycle crash lawsuit, gaining a settlement of ten thousand dollars, of which he had taken five. Nina didn’t want to consult any of them. Neither was it necessary: she knew what they would say, and she didn’t think she wanted to hear it. A thought sprang up in her mind, grew out of proportion to all the others swirling around there: I want to register. I want to vote.

  The next moment Nina heard herself ask: “Have you got a pen?” She felt dizzy, as though suddenly swept up in a powerful current: baby-making had a momentum all its own.

  “Why, certainly.” Percival reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He had two—a fat gold fountain pen and a common blue ballpoint. He came around the desk and handed Nina the ballpoint, politely pointing the inky end at himself. Standing beside her, Percival sorted through the stack of papers. His soft round fingers, graceful in their natural element, danced through the pages. “Sign here,” he said.

  Nina signed.

  “Now here.”

  She signed.

  “And here. And here. And here. Initial this corner. And this. And once more. Good.” The pages flew by.

  The phone rang. “Yes?” Percival said into it. “I’ll take it.” Percival listened, his free hand caressing the stack of signed papers on the desk. The hem of his black suit jacket brushed Nina’s shoulder, rested there. She shifted away. “I understand,” Percival said. “Yes, that’s taken care of.” He laughed his creamy laugh. “That’s a good one.… Not at all, Mayor. Goodbye.” He hung up, smiled, walked around the desk, sat down.

  “Well then,” he said, his smile fading, “any questions?”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Shall I buzz the nurse?”

  “Okay.”

  The nurse who liked pink zinfandel arrived. She smiled at Nina, a smile half the size and brightness of her drunken one, and said: “All set?”

  “All set,” Percival answered for her.

  Nina rose and followed the nurse to the door. “Best of luck,” Percival called after her, locking the papers in his briefcase.

  The nurse led Nina into a tiny elevator at the end of the hall. It had a sliding brass grille door and a suede bench along the back wall. The nurse pushed button number 5. The elevator shuddered for a moment or two and then began to rise at a stately pace. “Don’t you just love this elevator?” the nurse said. “It
’s so romantic.”

  Nina, on her way to an assignation with frozen sperm, said nothing.

  At the fifth floor, Nina and the nurse stepped out of the elevator and into utilitarian surroundings: uncarpeted hallway, bare green walls, fluorescent lighting. Behind them the elevator shuddered again and returned to the elegance below.

  “Right in here,” said the nurse, opening the door to a small room: white Formica counters and wall cabinets, a sink, a high stool, an examination table with stirrups, a blue paper dress on a hanger. “If you’ll just get into this.”

  The nurse went into an adjoining room. Nina took off her clothes, put on the blue paper dress. It came halfway down her thighs. Through the open doorway, she saw the nurse uncovering a large metal container that looked like one of Ali Baba’s urns. Puffs of liquid nitrogen vapor rose from it, reminding Nina first of genies, then of swamps that the monster rises from in drive-in horror movies. Using tongs, the nurse removed a stoppered test tube and read the label. She clamped the test tube in a centrifuge and pressed a button. The contents of the test tube whirled in a white blur.

  “What’s happening?” Nina asked.

  “Spinning forces the strongest swimmers to the top,” replied Dr. Crossman, entering by the other door. “In theory. And the strongest swimmers are the ones we want.” He smoothed his red mustache. “Hi, I’m Dr. Crossman.” His eyes made a furtive trip: down, up. Nina finished tying the paper ribbons behind her. “And you’re”—he consulted a clipboard—“Nina. Right?”

  She nodded. She had been Ms. Kitchener when they last met, but then she hadn’t been wearing a paper dress that showed her legs and wouldn’t close in the back.

  Dr. Crossman studied the top page on the clipboard. “I just got your bloods from the lab,” he said. “You’re ovulating.” He turned a few pages. “Let’s see. Your last ovulation was the tenth of January, according to Dr. Berry, and I saw you …” He flipped through the pages.

  “The day of your Christmas party.”

  Dr. Crossman frowned. “That doesn’t sound right,” he said. He began going through the pages more carefully. “I don’t usually see anyone …” His voice trailed off. “Oh, yes, here you are,” he said, still sounding puzzled. He stuck a pastille in his mouth and read for a while. “Today’s the day, then,” he said, more sure of himself now. He finished reading, removed a file folder from the clipboard and handed her the computer printout that was inside. “Meet the father.”

  Nina felt the paper dress dampening under her arms as she read the printout:

  VT-3(h)

  White male/U.S. citizen

  Origins: N. Euro.

  Ht.: 6'

  Wt.: 175

  Hair: Lt. Brn.

  Eyes: Bl.

  Skin: Fair

  Blood: A

  Hered. Disease: None

  Eyesight: 20/20

  Build: Med.

  Hat sz.: 7

  Ft. Sz.: 11B

  Rng. sz.: ?

  Educ.: M.F.A. (Music)

  Athl.: Varsity soccer

  IQ: 128

  Status: Professional

  Comments: Left-handed

  “So,” said Dr. Crossman. “How do you like him?”

  No reply came to mind. Nina was still searching for one when the nurse came in, carrying a syringe containing a button of milky liquid. “Here we go,” said Dr. Crossman, pulling on surgical gloves. “If you’ll get up on the table …”

  The table was high, but there was no footstool to step on. Nina put her bare back against the side, placed her hands on top and, with a little jump, launched herself just high enough to land awkwardly on the padded table, her paper dress rising above her waist. She tugged it down as well as she could, looking up in time to see Dr. Crossman’s eyes shifting away. He had caught the whole performance. What did it matter? Moments later, she was in the stirrups and he was standing between her legs, brow furrowed in thought, like an actor in The Story of Louis Pasteur. He switched on a bright overhead light.

  The nurse rolled in a table of instruments. “Betadine, please,” said Dr. Crossman.

  The nurse opened a bottle of brown liquid. Dr. Crossman dipped a gauze swab into it, leaned forward and dabbed inside Nina. He didn’t have a light touch, but he didn’t hurt her. Perhaps she couldn’t have felt it if he had: she was trying to shut off all physical sensation. She thought of the long freckled fingers under the translucent plastic, and of frogs and baloney.

  “We’re ready, Sal,” said Dr. Crossman.

  The nurse attached a clear plastic tube to the syringe and handed it to him. He glanced at the printout. “VT-three-h?” he said.

  Sal read the label on the empty test tube. “Check,” she said.

  Dr. Crossman bent forward again, a speculum in one hand, the syringe and plastic tube in the other. Nina glimpsed the white fluid; then all the tools were out of sight, hidden by the raised hem of the paper dress.

  “Wait!” she wanted to call out, but didn’t. She felt the plastic tube slip into her antiseptic insides; felt the hairs on Dr. Crossman’s bare forearm brush against her thigh, once, twice, high, higher; felt the pressure of his gloved hand as he slowly squeezed the syringe. It seemed to remain in her for a long time. She thought about having an abortion.

  Dr. Crossman withdrew the syringe. His bare forearm brushed her again. Dr. Crossman’s eyes moved up to Nina’s face. “Stay like that for a few minutes,” he told her. His red mustache twitched, as though it were itchy but he didn’t want to scratch it with his hands in their present state. He left the room.

  Sal looked down at her. “Not so bad, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” said Sal. She wheeled the instruments away. “Back in a jiff.” The door closed. Nina wondered if she would ever have an orgasm again.

  Soon the door opened. “Oh, you didn’t have to stay like that,” said Sal. “Not in the stirrups. He meant on your back, that’s all.”

  Nina felt herself blushing. “Can I get up now?”

  “Sure. I’ll take you down to the business office.”

  Nina put on her clothes, leaving the paper dress hanging on a stirrup. Sal left her in the business office on the ground floor. “Keep your fingers crossed,” she said.

  Nina was handed a bill for five hundred dollars. “What if it hasn’t worked?” she asked.

  “Didn’t you read the financial contract?” the clerk replied.

  “I don’t remember,” Nina said, making no attempt to soften her tone.

  The clerk blinked. “You return at no additional cost,” he said. He blinked again. “Paragraph thirteen D.”

  Nina wrote a check for five hundred dollars. “I guess I didn’t get a laureate,” she said, remembering the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-premium.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said, taking the check. “Can I just see your driver’s license?”

  Nina went home with VT-3(h) inside her and her mind still not made up. She had a long shower, as hot as she could stand.

  Thirty-five days later, Dr. Berry said: “Congratulations.” Nina must have replied something, but she wasn’t conscious of what.

  She walked out of Dr. Berry’s office into driving freezing rain. It was the most miserable day of the year. But the sun was shining on Nina and it was eighty degrees. None of the pained-looking sufferers on the street seemed to notice; nor did they have any idea of the secret she bore. It was the happiest moment of her life.

  Not long after, soaked to the skin, Nina found herself entering the antique shop halfway between her apartment and the office. The man at the desk looked up from Vogue. “And how may I help you?” he asked.

  “I’d like to buy Achilles.”

  “Achilles?”

  “The rocking horse. With the red saddle.”

  “Oh dear,” said the man. “It was sold yesterday, I’m afraid. But here’s an adorable nineteenth-century doll from Bavaria.”

  6

  The last day of July turned out to be a bad o
ne for N. H. Matthias. It began badly because he had to wear his necktie. It was his only necktie, the necktie he always wore when neckties had to be worn. Matthias had paid $3.95 for it at a Woolworth’s in Raleigh, North Carolina, in 1972. His necktie was maroon with a pattern of abstract figures that might have been green sunbursts; its width had been in and out of style several times. Now it seemed to be on the way out again. Matthias told himself that he hated wearing neckties only because they were uncomfortable, especially in Miami on the last day of July, when the temperature stood at ninety and the humidity was a little higher. But there was a lot more to it than that.

  Ties mean business: all the men and most of the women working in the Carib-American Bank on Biscayne Boulevard were wearing them, including the tellers, the loan officers, the vice-presidents of this and that, and Dicky Dumaurier. Dicky sat behind a little plastic sign that said, MR. DICKY DUMAURIER, ASSISTANT MGR. Matthias had been dealing with him for more than ten years. It was a sporadic relationship, conducted mostly on the phone and through the mail, but they called each other by their first names and had even had drinks together once. Matthias, to appear businesslike, had worn his tie on that occasion too. Mr. Dicky Dumaurier had downed three planter’s punches, two mai tais and a blue margarita; at one point, they had watched a bored-looking naked woman dance with a bored-looking naked snake; soon after, Matthias had helped Dicky into a taxi. This friendly shared history must not have made it easy for Dicky to say no to Matthias. But he wasn’t an Assistant Mgr. for nothing, and rose to the challenge.

  “I’m really sorry, Nate,” he said. Dicky had a prominent Adam’s apple; it throbbed in silent counterpoint to his words. “Really and truly very sorry. And I mean that. I want you to know I mean it. In this business, as in any business—you’re in business, so you know what I’m talking about—we sometimes say things we don’t really mean. This isn’t one of those times. Please believe me. But …” Dicky sighed, a rich, breathy sigh that conveyed hopelessness, disillusion, surrender. “But, but, but. It can’t be done.”

  Matthias should have walked out at that moment; the idea occurred to him. Instead he ignored the message of the sigh, and said: “Does that mean you can’t do it, or you won’t?”