The third Deadly Sin exd-3 Page 11

  "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 separat
ing 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 up 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?"

  "Oh no, Berthe. No, no, no. You know me better than that. But I think it's a kind of punishment for her. That's how she sees it."

  "Punishment for what? Has she done something?"

  "Such a question. How would I know?"

  "Come, let's eat."

  They went into the dining room. It was full of shadows.

  "I don't think she's done something," he tried to explain. "I mean, she doesn't want punishment because she feels guilty. I think she feels unworthy."

  "My husband the psychologist."

  "Well, that's what I think it is," he repeated stubbornly. "She comes every month for an examination she doesn't need and that she hates. It's punishment for her unworthiness. That's how she gets her gratification."

  "Sha," his wife said. "Put your cigar down and eat your soup."

  The cramps were bad. None of her pills helped. The pain came from deep within her, in waves. It wrenched her gut, twisted her inside. It was a giant hand, clawing, yanking this way and that, turning her over. She wanted to scream.

  She left work early on Wednesday night, April 9th. Mr. Pinckney was sympathetic when she told him the cause.

  "Take tomorrow off," he said. "We'll manage."

  "Oh no," she said. "I'll be all right tomorrow."

  She went directly home and drew a bath as hot as she could endure. She soaked for an hour, running in more hot water as the tub cooled. She searched for telltale stains, but the water remained clear; her menses had not yet started.

  She swallowed an assortment of vitamins and minerals before she dressed. She didn't care what Dr. Stark said; she was convinced they were helping her survive. And she sipped a glass of white wine while she dressed. The cramps had diminished to a dull, persistent throbbing.

  She regretted the necessity of going up to the Filmore on West 72nd Street to put on makeup and don her new strawberry blond wig. But she didn't want to risk the danger of having her neighbors and doorman see her transformed.

  Also, there was a risk of going directly from her apartment house to the Hotel Coolidge. The cabdriver might remember. A circuitous route was safer.

  She had selected the Coolidge because the hotel trade magazine, in its directory of conventions and sales meetings, had listed the Coolidge as hosting two conventions and a political gathering on the night of April 9th. It was an 840-rocm hotel on Seventh Avenue and 50th Street. Close enough to Times Square to get a lot of walk-in business in its cocktail lounges and dining rooms.

  She wore fire-engine-red nylon lingerie embroidered with small hearts, sheer pantyhose with a reddish tint, her evening sandals with their "hookers' heels." The dress, tightly fitted, was a bottle-green silk so dark it was almost black. It shimmered, and was skimpy as a slip, suspended from her smooth shoulders by spaghetti straps.

  Two hours later she was seated alone at a small banquette in the New Orleans Room of the Hotel Coolidge. Her trenchcoat was folded on the seat beside her. She was smoking a cigarette and sipping a glass of white wine. She did not turn her head, but her eyes were never still.

  It was a small, dimly lighted room, half-filled. A three-piece band played desultory jazz from a raised platform in one corner. It was all relatively quiet, relaxed. Zoe Kohler wondered if she might do better in the Gold Coast Room.

  Most of the men who entered were in twos and threes, h
atless and coatless, but bearing badges on the lapels of their suit jackets. They invariably headed directly for the bar. There were a few couples at the small tables, but not many.

  Shortly after 11:00 p.m., a single man came to the entrance of the New Orleans Room. He stood a moment, looking about.

  Come to me, Zoe Kohler willed. Come to me.

  He glanced in her direction, hesitated, then moved casually toward the wall of banquettes.

  Lover, she thought, not looking at him.

  He slid behind the table next to hers. She pulled her shoulder bag and trenchcoat closer. The cocktail waitress came over and he ordered a bourbon and water. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone.

  He was tall, more than six feet, hunched, and almost totally bald. He wore rimless spectacles. His features were pleasant enough, his cheeks somewhat pitted. The backs of his hands were badly scarred. He wore the ubiquitous name-badge on his breast pocket. Zoe caught a look at it. hello! call me jerry.

  They sat at their adjoining tables. She ordered another glass of wine, he another bourbon. They did not speak nor look in each other's direction. Finally…

  "I beg your pardon," he said, leaning toward her.

  She turned to look coldly at him. He blushed, up into his bald head. He seemed about to withdraw.

  "Uh, I, ah, uh, wondered if I could ask you a personal question?"

  "You may ask," she said severely. "I may or may not answer."

  "Uh," he said, gulping, "that dress you're wearing… It's so beautiful. I want to bring my wife a present from New York, and she'd look great in that." He added hastily, "Not as good as you do, of course, but I wondered where you bought it, and if…" His voice trailed away.

  She smiled at him.

  "Thank you-" She peered closer at his badge as if seeing it for the first time. "Thank you, Jerry, but I'm sorry to tell you that the shop where I bought it has gone out of business."

  "Oh," he said, "that's too bad. But listen, maybe you can suggest a store where I can buy something nice."

  Now they had turned to face each other. He kept lifting his eyes from her shoulders and cleavage, and then his eyes would slide down again.

  They talked awhile, exploring. He was from Little Rock, Arkansas, and was regional manager for a chain of fast-food restaurants that sold chicken-fried steaks and was about to go the franchise route.

  She touched the scars on the backs of his hands.