It seemed to her that, for self-preservation, she could not, should not stop. She was rational enough to recognize the dangers, to plan coldly and logically. But logic was limited. It was not an end in itself, a way of life. It was a means to an end, to a transfigured life.
The gratification was not sexual. Oh no, it was not that, although she loved those men for what they had given her. But she did not experience an orgasm or even a thrill when she—when those men went. But she felt a thawing of her hurts. The adventures were a sweet justification. Of what, she could not have said.
“It’s God’s will,” her mother was fond of remarking.
If a friend sickened, a coffee cup was broken, or a million foreigners died in a famine—“It’s God’s will,” her mother said.
Zoe Kohler felt much the same way about what she was doing. It was God’s will, and her newfound sensibility was her reward. She was being allowed to enter a fresh world, reborn.
Dr. Oscar Stark, an internist, had his offices on the first floor of his home, a converted brownstone on 35th Street just east of Park Avenue. It was a handsome five-story structure with bow windows and a fanlight over the front door said to have been designed by Louis Tiffany.
The suite of offices consisted of a reception room, the doctor’s office, two examination rooms, a clinic, lavatories, storage cubicles, and a “resting room.”
All these chambers had the high, ornate ceilings, wood paneling, and parquet floors installed when the home was built in 1909. The waiting room and the doctor’s office were equipped with elaborate, marble-manteled fireplaces. There were window seats, wall niches, and sliding oak doors.
Dr. Stark and his wife of forty-three years had found it impossible to reconcile this Edwardian splendor with the needs of a physician’s office: white enameled furniture, stainless steel equipment, glass cabinets, and plastic plants. Regretfully, they had surrendered to the demands of his profession and moved their heavy antiques and gloomy paintings upstairs to the living quarters.
Dr. Stark employed a receptionist and two nurses, both RNs. His waiting room was invariably occupied, and usually crowded, from 9:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M. These hours were not strictly adhered to; the doctor sometimes saw patients early in the morning, late in the evening, and on weekends.
Zoe Kohler had a standing appointment for 6:00 P.M. on the first Tuesday of every month. Dr. Stark had tried to convince her that these monthly visits were not necessary.
“Your illness doesn’t require it,” he had explained with his gentle smile. “As long as you keep on the medication faithfully, every day. Otherwise, you’re in excellent health. I’d like to see you twice a year.”
“I’d really prefer to get a checkup every month,” she said. “You never can tell.”
He shrugged his meaty shoulders, brushed cigar ashes from the lapels of his white cotton jacket.
“If it makes you feel better,” he said. “What is it, exactly, you’d like me to do for you every month?”
“Oh …” she said, “the usual.”
“And what do you consider the usual?”
“Weight and blood pressure. The lungs. Urine and blood tests. Breast examination. A pelvic exam. A Pap test.”
“A Pap smear every month?” he cried. “Zoe, in your case it’s absolutely unnecessary. Once or twice a year is sufficient, I assure you.”
“I want it,” she said stubbornly, and he had yielded.
He was a short, blunt teddy bear of a man in his middle sixties. An enormous shock of white hair crowned his bullet head like a raggedy halo. And below, ruddy, pendulous features hung in bags, dewlaps, jowls, and wattles. All of his thick face sagged. It waggled when he moved.
His hands were wide and strong, fingers fuzzed with black hair. He wore carpet slippers with white cotton socks. Unless a patient objected, he chain-smoked cigars. More than once his nurse had plucked a lighted cigar from his fingers as he was about to start a rectal examination.
He was, Zoe Kohler thought, a sweet old man with eyes of Dresden blue. He did not frighten her or intimidate her. She thought she might tell him anything, anything, and he would not be shocked, angered, or disgusted.
On the first Tuesday of that April, the first day of the month, Zoe Kohler arrived at Dr. Stark’s office a few minutes early for her 6:00 P.M. appointment. Mercifully, there were only two other patients in the waiting room. She checked in with the receptionist, then settled down with a year-old copy of Architectural Digest. It was 6:50 before Gladys, the chief nurse, came into the reception room and gave Zoe as pleasant a smile as she could manage.
“Doctor will see you now,” she said.
Gladys was a gorgon, broad-shouldered and wide-hipped, with a faint but discernible mustache. Zoe had once seen her pick up a steel cabinet and reposition it as easily as if it had been a paper carton. Dr. Stark had told her that Gladys was divorced and had a twelve-year-old son in a military academy in Virginia. She lived alone with four cats.
A few moments later Zoe Kohler was seated in Dr. Stark’s office, watching him light a fresh cigar and wave the cloud of smoke away with backhand paddle motions.
He peered at her genially over the tops of his half-classes.
“So?” he said. “Feeling all right?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Regular bowel movements?”
She nodded, lowering her eyes.
“What about your food?”
“I eat well,” she said.
He looked down at the opened file Gladys had placed on his desk.
“You take vitamins,” he noted. “Which ones?”
“Most of them,” she said. “A, B-complex, C, E, and some minerals.”
“Which minerals?”
“Iron, zinc, magnesium.”
“And? What other pills?”
“My birth control pill,” she said. “The blood medicine. Choline. Alfalfa. Lecithin and kelp.”
“And?”
“Sometimes a Librium. Midol. Anacin. Occasionally a Darvon for my cramps. A Tuinal when I can’t sleep.”
He looked at her and sighed.
“Oy gevalt,” he said. “What a stew. Believe me, Zoe, if you’re eating a balanced diet the vitamins and minerals and that seaweed just aren’t needed.”
“Who eats a balanced diet?” she challenged.
“What about the choline? Why choline?”
“I read somewhere that it prevents premature senility.”
He leaned back and laughed, showing strong, yellowed teeth.
“A young woman like you,” he chided, “worrying about senility. Me, I should be worrying. Try to cut down on the pills. All right?”
“All right,” she said.
“You promise?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said, pushing a buzzer on his desk. “Now go with Gladys. I’ll be along in a minute.”
In the examination room, she took off all her clothes and put them on plastic hangers suspended from the top edge of a three-paneled metal screen. She draped a sheet about herself. Gladys came in with an examination form fastened to a clipboard.
Zoe stepped onto the scale. Gladys moved the weights back and forth.
“One twenty-three,” she announced. “How do you do it? One of my legs weighs one twenty-three. Better put on your shoes, dear; the floor is chilly.”
She handed Zoe a wide-mouthed plastic cup.
“The usual contribution, please,” she said, motioning toward the lavatory door.
Zoe went in there and tried. Nothing. In a few moments Gladys opened the door a few inches.
“Having trouble?” she asked. “Run some warm water on your hands and wrists.”
Zoe did as directed, and it worked. She came back into the examination room bearing half a cup of warm urine. She had filled the cup but, embarrassed, had poured half of it down the sink. She handed the cup to Gladys without looking at her.
Dr. Stark came in a few moments later. He set his cigar carefully aside. Zoe sat in an
armless swivel chair of white-enameled steel. The doctor sat on a swivel stool facing her. His bulk overflowed the tiny seat.
“All right,” he said, “let’s get this critical operation going.”
The nurse handed a stethoscope to Stark. He motioned Zoe to drop the sheet. She slid it from her shoulders, held it gathered about her waist.
He warmed the stethoscope on his hairy forearm for a moment, then applied the metal disk to Zoe’s chest, sternum, ribcage.
“Deep breath,” he said. “Another. Another.”
She did as he commanded.
“Fine, fine, fine,” he said. He spun her chair around and moved the plate over her shoulders, back. He rapped a few times with his knuckles. “All the machinery is in tiptop condition,” he reported.
He hung the stethoscope around his neck and reached to Gladys without looking. The nurse had the sphygmomanometer ready and waiting. Stark wrapped the cuff about Zoe’s upper arm and pumped the bulb. Gladys leaned down to take the readings.
“A little high,” the doctor noted. “Just a tiny bit. Nothing to worry about. Now let’s do the Dracula bit.”
Gladys handed him the syringe and needle. She swabbed the inside of Zoe’s forearm. Zoe looked away. She felt Dr. Stark’s strong fingers feeling deftly along her arm. He found a vein; the needle went in unerringly. He had a light, butterfly touch. Still she felt the needle pierce, her body penetrated. Her tainted blood drained away.
In a few moments, the doctor pressed her arm, withdrew the needle and full syringe. He handed it to Gladys. The nurse set it aside, applied a small, round adhesive patch to the puncture in Zoe’s arm.
“Now for the fun part,” Dr. Oscar Stark said.
He hitched his wheeled stool closer and stared critically at Zoe Kohler’s naked bosom through his half-glasses. He began to palpate her breasts. She hung her head. Through half-closed eyes she watched his furred fingers moving over her flesh. Like black caterpillars.
He used the flats of his wide fingertips, moving his hand in a small circle to feel the tissue under the skin. He examined each breast thoroughly, probing to the middle of her chest and under her arms. He finished by squeezing each nipple gently to detect exudation. By that time, Zoe Kohler had her eyes tightly shut.
“A-Okay,” Stark said. “You can wake up now. Do you examine your breasts yourself, Zoe?”
“Uh … no, I don’t.”
“Why not? I showed you how.”
“I, ah, rather have it done by a doctor. A professional.”
“Uh-huh. Do you jog?”
“No.”
“Good. You’d be surprised at how many women I’m getting with their boobs down to their knees. If you start to jog, make sure you wear a firm bra. All right, let’s ride the iron pony.”
Gladys assisted her onto the padded examination table, adjusted the pillow under her head. She placed Zoe’s heels in the stirrups, smoothed the sheet to cover her body down to the waist. Dr. Stark, propelling himself with his feet, wheeled over to place himself between Zoe’s legs. The nurse helped him into rubber gloves.
He leaned close, peering. He examined the vulva, using one hand to open the entrance to the vagina. He pushed back the clitoral hood. Then he reached sideways, and the nurse smacked a plastic speculum into his palm.
“Tell me if it hurts,” the doctor said. “It shouldn’t; it’s your size.”
He inserted the speculum slowly and gently, pressing with one finger on the bottom wall of her vagina to guide the instrument. Once inserted, the handle was turned to spread and lock the blades. They locked with an audible click. Zoe was expecting the sound, but couldn’t resist twitching when she heard the crack.
“All right?” Dr. Stark asked.
“Fine,” she said faintly.
She stared at the ceiling, biting on her lower lip. She felt no pain. Only the humiliation.
“Relax,” he said. “It’ll help if you try to relax. You’re all rigid. Take deep breaths.”
She tried to relax. She thought of blue skies, fair fields, calm waters. She breathed deeply.
“Spatula,” the doctor said in a low voice.
She felt nothing, but knew he was getting the Pap smear, the plastic spatula scraping cells from her cervix. Part of Zoe Kohler ravaged and removed from her.
Stark and the nurse worked swiftly, efficiently. In a moment, the spatula was withdrawn, the speculum closed. She understood it was being withdrawn. Something, a stretched fullness, was subsiding.
Then Dr. Oscar, that sweet, sweet teddy bear of a man, was standing between her legs.
“Don’t tense up,” he cautioned.
He inserted two gloved fingers into her vagina slowly, pressing the walls apart as he went. He placed his other hand flat on her groin. Fingers pressed gently upward, palm downward.
“Pain?” he asked.
“No,” she gasped.
“Tenderness?”
“No.”
He began to probe her abdomen, feeling both sides, the center, down toward the junction of her thighs.
“Pain here?”
“No.”
“Anything here?”
“No.”
“Here?”
“No.”
“Just another minute now.”
She waited, knowing what was coming.
Slowly, easily, he inserted one gloved finger, coated with a jelly, into her rectum. Between that finger and the one still within her vagina, he felt the muscular wall separating the two passages as the fingertips of his other hand pressed deep into her groin.
She had been staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. She was determined not to cry. It was not the pain; she felt no pain. A twinge now and then, a sensation of being stretched, opened to the foreign world, but no pain. So why did she have to fight to hold back her tears? She did not know.
Slowly, easily, gently, fingers and hands were withdrawn. Dr. Stark stripped off his gloves. He slapped her bare knee lightly.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Not a thing wrong. You’re in great shape. Get dressed and stop by my office.”
He reclaimed his cigar and lumbered out.
Gladys helped her off the table. Her legs were trembling. The big nurse held her until her knees steadied.
“Okay?” she asked.
“Fine. Thank you, Gladys.”
“There are tissues in the bathroom if you have any jelly on you. You can go right into the doctor’s when you’re dressed.”
She put on her clothes slowly. Drew a comb through her hair. She felt drained and, somehow, satisfied and content.
Dr. Stark was slumped behind his desk, his glasses pushed up atop that cloud of snowy hair. He rubbed his lined forehead wearily.
“Everything looks normal,” he reported to Zoe. “We’ll have the reports of the lab tests in three days. I don’t anticipate anything unusual. If there is, I’ll call. If not, I won’t.”
“Can I call?” she asked anxiously. “If I don’t hear from you? In three or four days?”
“Sure,” he said equably. “Why not?”
He put the short stub of his cigar aside. He yawned, showing those big, stained teeth. Then he laced his fingers comfortably across his thick middle. He regarded her kindly.
“Regular periods, Zoe?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Twenty-six or -seven or -eight days. Around there.”
“Good,” he said. “When’s the next?”
“April tenth,” she said promptly.
“Still have the cramps?”
“Yes.”
“When do they start?”
“A day or two before.”
“Severe?”
“They get worse. They don’t stop until I begin to bleed.”
He made an expression, a wince, then shook his head.
“I told you, Zoe, I can’t find any physical cause. I wish you’d take my advice and see, uh, a counselor.”
“Everyone wants me to see a shrink!” she burst out.
He looked u
p sharply. “Everyone?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “A friend.”
“And what did you say?”
“No.”
He sighed. “Well, it’s your body and your life. But you shouldn’t have to suffer that. The cramps, I mean.”
“They’re not so bad,” she said.
But they were.
At about 8:30 that evening, Dr. Oscar Stark pushed a button fixed to the doorjamb of his office. It rang a buzzer upstairs in the kitchen and alerted his wife that he’d be up in ten or fifteen minutes, ready for dinner.
He had already said goodnight to his receptionist and nurses. He took off his white cotton jacket. He washed up in one of the lavatories. He donned a worn velvet smoking jacket, so old that the elbows shone. He wandered tiredly through the first floor offices, turning off lights, making certain the drug cabinet was locked, trying doors and windows.
He climbed the broad staircase slowly, pulling himself along with the banister. Once again he vowed that he would retire in two years. Sell the practice and the building. Spend a year breaking in the new man.
Then he and Berthe would leave New York. Buy a condominium in Florida. Most of their friends had already gone. The children had married and left. He and Berthe deserved some rest. At peace. In the sun.
He knew it would never happen.
That night Berthe had prepared mushroom-and-barley soup, his favorite, and a pot roast made with first-cut brisket. His spirits soared. He had a Scotch highball and lighted a cigar.
“It was a hard day?” his wife asked.
“No better or worse than usual,” he said.
She looked at him narrowly.
“That Zoe Kohler woman?” she said.
He was astonished. “You know about her?”
“Of course. You told me.”
“I did?”
“Twice,” she said, nodding. “The first Tuesday of every month.”
“Oh-ho,” he said, looking at her lovingly. “Now I understand the mushroom-and-barley soup.”
“The first Tuesday of every month,” Berthe said, smiling. “To revive you. Oscar, you think she … Well, you know, some women enjoy … You told me so.”
“Yes,” he said seriously, “that’s so. But not her. For her it’s painful.”
“Painful? It hurts? You hurt her?”
Second Deadly Sin Page 53