The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice

by Noah Gordon

  “Excuse me,” she said to Mrs. Kingsmith, and went to the den. The television was reporting that in Florida a Right-to-Life activist named Michael F. Griffin had shot and killed Dr. David Gunn, a physician who worked at an abortion clinic.

  Anti-abortion activists were raising money to buy Griffin the best defense lawyer available.

  It made R.J. weak with fear.

  When she left the Kingsmiths’ she went straight to David’s house and found him in the office.

  He held her, comforted her, listened as she talked about the distorted faces she had passed on so many Thursday mornings in Jamaica Plain. She told him of the eyes filled with hate, and revealed that now she knew what she had always expected on Thursdays: a gun pointed at her, a finger pulling the trigger.

  She visited Eva more often than was necessary from a physician’s perspective. Eva’s apartment was just down the street from R.J.’s office, and she had come to admire the old woman and to use her as a means of knowing what the town was like when it was younger.

  Usually she brought ice cream, and they sat and ate it and talked. Eva had a clear mind and a good memory. She told R.J. of the Saturday night dances that used to be held on the second floor of the Town Hall and that everybody in town came to, bringing their children. And of the days when there was an ice house at Big Pond, and a hundred men at a time swarmed out on the ice and cut it up into blocks. And of the spring morning when a loaded ice wagon and a team of four horses went through the ice and down, down in the black water, and all the horses and a man named Chink Roth were drowned.

  Eva became excited when she learned where R.J. lived. “Why, I lived only a mile or so from there most of my life. That was our farm, that place on the upper road.”

  “Where Freda and Hank Krantz live now?”

  “Yes! They bought from us.” In those days R.J.’s land was owned by a man named Harry Crawford, Eva said. “He had a wife named Rosalie. He bought your land from us, too, and built your house on it. He had a small mill on the banks of the Catamount, with a millrace to supply power. He took logs from your forest and made and sold all kinds of wooden things—buckets, butter molds, paddles and oars, ox yokes, napkin rings, sometimes furniture. The mill burned down years ago. You should be able to see the foundation on the riverbank, if you look carefully.

  “I remember, I was … oh, perhaps seven or eight years old, and I used to walk down there all the time and watch them sawing and hammering, building your house. Harry Crawford and two other men. I don’t remember who the other two were, but I recollect Mr. Crawford made me a little ring out of a two-penny nail.” She took R.J.’s hand and smiled at her warmly. “This makes me feel you and I are neighbors, don’t you know.”

  R.J. questioned Eva closely, thinking that the history of the Crawfords might shed some light on the tiny bones found when her pond was dug. But she learned nothing that was any help at all.

  A couple of days later she stopped in at the old frame house on Main Street that was the Woodfield Historical Museum and sifted through the historical society’s records, some of them yellowed and musty. The Crawfords had had four children. A son and a daughter, Tyrone Joseph and Linda Rae, had died young and were buried in the main town cemetery. Another daughter, Barbara, had died in adulthood in Ithaca, New York; her married name had been Sewall. A son, Harry Hamilton Crawford, Jr., had moved to California many years ago, and his whereabouts were unknown.

  Harry and Rosalie Crawford had been members of the First Congregational Church of Woodfield. They had buried two children in the town cemetery; was it likely, R.J. asked herself, that they would have placed another infant into mucky, unconsecrated ground without a headstone?

  It wasn’t. Unless, of course, there was something connected to that birth that the Crawfords were overwhelmingly ashamed of.

  It remained a puzzlement.

  R.J. and Toby Smith had developed into more than employee and employer. They were becoming close friends who could talk in confidence about the things that counted. It made R.J. more vulnerable in her failure to help Toby and Jan achieve a pregnancy.

  “You say my endometrial biopsy was fine, and that Jan’s sperm is okay. And we’ve been very good about doing exactly what you’ve advised us to do.”

  “Sometimes we just don’t know why there’s no pregnancy,” R.J. told her, feeling somehow guilty that she hadn’t been able to help them. “I think you should go to Boston to see a fertility specialist. Or up to Dartmouth.”

  “I don’t think I could get Jan to go. He’s tired of the whole thing. We both are, damn tired,” Toby said peevishly. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  So R.J. spoke frankly to her about David.

  But Toby said little in reaction.

  “I don’t think you like David all that much.”

  “That isn’t true,” Toby said. “I think David’s just fine. Most people I know like him, but nobody I know has become close to him. He kind of … lives within himself, if you know what I mean.”

  R.J. did.

  “The important question is, do you like him?”

  “I do, but that’s not the important question. The important question is, do I love him?”

  Toby lifted her eyebrows. “So, what’s the important answer?”

  “I don’t know. We’re so completely different. He says he’s a religious doubter, but he lives in a very spiritual place, a more spiritual place than I’m ever going to be able to share with him. I used to have faith only in antibiotics.” She smiled ruefully. “Now I don’t even have faith in them.”

  “So … where are you two heading?”

  R.J. shrugged. “I’ll have to make up my mind soon, otherwise it won’t be fair to him.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever being unfair to anyone.”

  “You’d be surprised,” R.J. said.

  David was working toward the finishing chapters of his book. They were forced to see each other less often, but he was coming to the end of a long, hard effort, and she was happy for him.

  She spent what little spare time she had by herself. Walking along the river, she found the foundation of Harry Crawford’s mill, great blocks of hewed stone. Brush and trees had grown up, hugging and hiding the foundation, and several of the stone blocks had slipped into the riverbed. She couldn’t wait until David was free so she could show him the mill site.

  Next to one of the big stone blocks she found a small heartrock, of a blue stone she couldn’t identify. It didn’t seem likely to her that it contained magic.

  On impulse, she gave Sarah a call. “Want to go see a movie with me?”

  “Uh … sure.”

  Dumb idea, she told herself severely. But to her pleasure, it worked out well. They drove to Pittsfield, where they had supper in a Thai restaurant and saw a movie.

  “We’ll do it again,” she said, meaning it. “Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  But she became busy, and three or four weeks went by. Several times she saw Sarah on Main Street, and Sarah smiled to see her. It was becoming easier and more pleasant to run into her.

  One Saturday afternoon Sarah surprised her by riding Chaim down her driveway and tying his reins to a rail of the porch.

  “Hey. How nice. You want tea?”

  “Hi. Yeah, please.”

  R.J. had just finished baking scones from a recipe given to her by Eva Goodhue, and she served them.

  “Maybe it’s missing an ingredient. What do you think?” she said doubtfully.

  Sarah hefted one. “Could be lighter … Can lots of things cause you to miss a period?” she said, and R.J. forgot her baking problems.

  “Well, yes. Lots of things. Is it the first time a period hasn’t appeared on schedule? And is it only one period that’s been missed?”

  “Several periods.”

  “I see,” R.J. said cheerfully, in her most controlled friendly-doctor voice. “Are there any other symptoms?”

  Nausea and vomiting, Sarah told her. “What you might
call morning sickness, I suppose.”

  “Are you asking about these things for a friend? And would she like to come and see me at the office?”

  Sarah picked up a scone and appeared to consider whether or not to bite, and then returned it to the dish. She looked at R.J. in much the same way as she had looked at the scone. When she spoke, her voice held only the smallest amount of discernible bitterness, and just the slightest tremble.

  “I’m not asking for a friend.”

  PART THREE

  HEARTROCKS

  29

  SARAH’S REQUEST

  Sarah wore her hair that year in the fashion of dozens of smart young models and film actresses, in long, tangled ringlets. Her tender, troubled eyes were made larger and more luminous by the thick glasses. Her full-lipped mouth trembled slightly, and her hunched, tense shoulders seemed to expect the vengeful blows of a punishing God. The pimples on her chin were back, and there was another in the crease at the side of her nose. Even now, while carefully damming up her despair, she looked like the dead mother whose pictures R.J. had studied so covertly, but Sarah was tall and had inherited some of David’s stronger facial features; she held the promise of a beauty more interesting than had been evident in the snapshots of Natalie.

  Under R.J.’s careful questioning, what Sarah had described as “several” missed periods turned out to be three.

  “Why didn’t you come to see me sooner?” R.J. asked.

  “My period is so irregular anyway, I kept thinking it would come.”

  And then too, Sarah said, she hadn’t been able to make up her mind about what to do. Babies were so wonderful. She had spent lots of time lying on her bed, imagining the sweet softness, the warm helplessness.

  How could this be happening to her?

  “You used no contraception?”

  “No.”

  “Sarah. All those programs in your school about AIDS,” R.J. couldn’t keep from saying with ill-disguised bitterness.

  “We knew we wouldn’t get AIDS.”

  “How could you possibly know a thing like that?”

  “We hadn’t ever gone all the way before with anybody, either of us. Bobby used a condom the first time, but we didn’t have one the next time.”

  They didn’t know zilch. R.J. fought for calm wisdom. “So … have you talked about this with Bobby?”

  “He’s scared stupid,” Sarah said flatly.

  R.J. nodded.

  “He says we can get married, if I want to.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “R.J. … I like him a lot. I even love him a lot. But I don’t love him … you know, for always. I know he’s way too young to be a good father, and I know I’m too young to be a good mother. He has plans to go to college and law school and be a big shot lawyer in Springfield like his father, and I want to go to school.” She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “I want to become a meteorologist.”

  “You do?” Somehow, because of her rock collection, R.J. would have guessed at geology.

  “I study the television reports all the time. Some of those weather assholes are just comedians who don’t know a thing. Scientists keep learning new stuff about the weather, and I think a smart woman who works hard can go places.”

  Despite what she was feeling, R.J. found herself smiling, but only briefly. She could see clearly where the conversation was heading, but she was waiting for Sarah to take them there. “What are your plans, then?”

  “I can’t raise a baby.”

  “Are you considering adoption?”

  “I thought about it a lot. I’ll be a senior in the fall. It’s an important year. I need a scholarship to go to college, and I won’t earn one if I have to deal with a pregnancy. I want to have an abortion.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t take long, does it?”

  R.J. sighed. “No, it doesn’t take a lot of time, I guess. So long as there aren’t complications.”

  “Are there often complications?”

  “Not very often at all. But there can be complications with anything. It’s an invasive procedure.”

  “But you can bring me someplace good, really good, can’t you?”

  The freckles stood out in the pale face and made Sarah appear very young and so vulnerable that R.J. found it hard to speak normally. “Yes, I could bring you someplace really good, if that’s what you end up wanting to do. Why don’t we talk it over with your father?”

  “No, he’s not to know a damned thing! Not a single word, do you understand?”

  “That’s such a mistake, Sarah.”

  “You can’t tell me it’s a mistake. You think you know my father better than I do? When my mother died, he became a falling-down drunk. This could make him drink again, and I won’t risk it. Look, R. J., you’re good for my father, and I can tell he thinks a lot of you. But he loves me too, and he has … an unrealistic picture of me in his mind. I’m afraid this would really do it for him.”

  “But this is a terribly important decision, Sarah, and you shouldn’t have to make it alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I have you.”

  It forced R.J. to say four very hard words. “I’m not your mother.”

  “I don’t need a mother. I need a friend.” Sarah looked at her. “I’m going to do this with or without your help, R.J. But I really need you.”

  R.J. looked back. Then she nodded. “Very well, Sarah. I’ll be your friend.” Either her face or the words revealed her pain, and the girl took her hand.

  “Thank you, R.J. Will I have to go away overnight?”

  “From what you’ve told me, I believe you’ve entered the second trimester. An abortion in the second trimester is a two-day procedure. Afterwards, there will be bleeding. Perhaps no more than a heavy menstrual flow, but possibly more. You’ll have to plan on being away from home at least one night. But, Sarah … in Massachusetts a female under eighteen needs the written consent of her parents to have an abortion.”

  Sarah started. “You can give me the abortion, here.”

  “No.” No way, friend. R.J. took her other hand too, feeling the reassuring youthful vigor. “I’m not set up to do an abortion here. And we want you to be as safe as possible. If you’re absolutely certain you want an abortion, you have only two choices. You can go to a clinic in another state, or you can request a hearing before a judge who can grant you permission to have an abortion in this state without parental consent.”

  “Oh, God. I have to go public?”

  “No, not at all. You would see the judge in the privacy of his chambers, just the two of you.”

  “What would you do, R.J.? If you were in my place?”

  She was cornered by this direct question. No evasion was possible, and she owed the girl an answer. “I’d see the judge,” she said briskly. “I could set up the interview for you. They almost never refuse permission. And then you could go to a clinic in Boston. I used to work there, and I know that it’s very good.”

  Sarah smiled and wiped her eyes with her fingertips. “That’s what we’ll do then. But, R.J. … what will it cost?”

  “A first-trimester abortion costs three hundred and twenty dollars. A second-trimester abortion, the kind you need, is more complicated and more expensive, five hundred and fifty dollars. You don’t have that kind of money, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll pay half. And you must tell Robert Henderson that he has to pay half. All right?”

  Sarah nodded. For the first time, her shoulders began to shake.

  “But right now, I have to arrange for you to have an examination.”

  Despite what she had told Sarah, she already half thought of her as … not her daughter, exactly, but at least someone with whom she had a strong personal connection. She could no more do an internal examination of Sarah Markus than if she herself had suffered the labor pains of Sarah’s birth, or been there in the department store elevator when Sarah had made water on the carpet, or brought
her to the first day of school.

  She picked up the telephone and called Daniel Noyes’s office in Greenfield and made arrangements to bring Sarah in for an office visit.

  Dr. Noyes said that as near as he could tell, Sarah had been pregnant for fourteen weeks.

  Too long. The girl’s firm young stomach was barely convex, but it wouldn’t stay that way much longer. R.J. knew that with each passing day cells would multiply, the fetus would grow, and abortion would become that much more complicated.

  She arranged a judicial hearing before the Honorable Geoffrey J. Moynihan. She drove Sarah to the courthouse, kissed her before leaving her in the judge’s chambers, and sat on the hard bench of polished wood in the marble corridor, waiting.

  The purpose of the hearing was to convince Judge Moynihan that Sarah was mature enough to have an abortion. To R.J., the hearing itself was a conundrum: if Sarah wasn’t mature enough to have an abortion, how could she be mature enough to bear and raise a child?

  The interview with the judge took twelve minutes. When Sarah emerged she nodded somberly.

  R.J. put her arm around the girl’s shoulders, and they walked that way to the car.

  30

  A SMALL TRIP

  “After all, what is a lie? ’Tis but the truth in masquerade,” Byron wrote. R.J. hated the masquerade.

  “I’m taking your daughter to Boston for a couple of days, my treat, if it’s okay with you, David. Girls only.”

  “Wow. What’s in Boston?”

  “There’s a revival road company production of Les Misérables, for one. We’ll pig out and do some very serious window-shopping. I want us to get to know one another better.” She felt demeaned by the deception, yet she knew no other way.

  He was delighted, kissed her, and sent them off with his blessings, in high good humor.

  R.J. telephoned Mona Wilson at the Jamaica Plain clinic and told her she would be bringing in Sarah Markus, a seventeen-year-old patient who had entered the second trimester of pregnancy.