Solomon's Knife

by Victor Koman

  II

  Valerie Dalton stared blankly at the line of men and women before her. She hadn't seen them from the parking lot. Only when she reached the level of the sidewalk leading to the Re-productive Endocrinology wing of Bayside University Medical Center did she realize that some sort of protest was in progress.

  The men and women dressed in the casual style endemic in Southern California. Their children accompanied them in an elliptical march along the sidewalk. The signs they carried were neatly printed in bright DayGlo colors.

  Abortion Is Murder read several of the signs. End the Si-lent Holocaust read another. One, held by a young woman, said Abortion Kills Unborn Feminists, Too!

  Valerie took a deep breath. She had seen such displays on TV but hadn't considered that she would ever need to cross such a line or even encounter such people.

  The continuing orbit brought new signs into view. Fertility Clinics Play God-God Is Angry. A small boy carried a sign obviously printed by someone trying to imitate a child's letter-ing. It read I Know Who My Mommy and Daddy Are, with a couple of letters drawn backward for authenticity. They've covered both sides, Valerie thought. I can't lie my way through. She let go her breath and walked forward.

  "Please don't kill your child," a man in a dark suit said as she passed between the marchers.

  "I'm not," she said. "I'm just going for a test." She didn't un-derstand why she felt the need to explain anything at all to him.

  A woman stopped to join them. She was older, already gray. She stared at Valerie with a flat, cold gaze. "There are other clinics you can go to. They'll provide the same tests and give you any counseling you need."

  Valerie pushed her way past the pair. "Please," she said. "I just need a test." Another woman stepped in her way, smiling warmly. "We want to help you avoid making a tragic decision. We know you don't want your baby to end up like this." She turned her sign around to thrust it in Valerie's face. She stared at the bloody, mangled remains of an aborted fetus. The photograph had been printed in the brightest, most lurid colors. Reds, yellows, grisly black tones swirled through the image.

  Valerie's vision faltered for a moment. Her breath hung sickly in her lungs, threatening to drop to her stomach in an elevator rush of shock, as if she were watching a real murder on the evening news. A firm hand grasped her arm. "Back off!" a woman's voice shouted with military intensity. "You know the rules. You touch anyone or interfere with free passage and your permit goes up in smoke." Dr. Evelyn Fletcher stared at the assembled group for a long moment before releasing Valerie's arm.

  "You use laws to keep us from throwing you off our property. Just be damn sure you follow them yourselves." She turned to Valerie. "Come on, miss. The receptionist's right inside." Picking up her two bags, the doctor led Valerie through the automatic doors. Before they closed, she shot another glance back at the pickets. Her eyes softened from anger to a weary kind of sadness. Turning, she strode silently past the recep-tionist and into her office. " Valerie always felt uneasy waiting in an examination room. The cool white walls, the antiseptic scent, the indecipherable buzz of voices outside imparted the same sense of mystery and mysticism she had felt since childhood. A doctor's office was like a church. One stepped in from the street into a hushed, different world, with its own unique smells and quiet intrigues. It made sense to her somehow. Priests struggled for the salva-tion of human souls. Doctors fought for the health of the body. Both listened to their charges with the same inscrutable ex-pression.

  Valerie had given up attending church long ago. She tried just as much to limit her visits to doctors. She fingered the wad of cotton in the crook of her left arm. Priests want tithes. Doctors demand blood. A crisp set of footsteps approached her door, followed by the zip of a folder being removed from the door tray. A long mo-ment of silence-pierced only by the faint sound of pages turn-ing-ended with the sharp crank of the doorknob.

  "Oh-it's you." The tallish greying woman who had come to Valerie's aid stepped in. "I'm Dr. Fletcher. Evelyn. May I call you Valerie?"

  The doctor extended her hand to her patient. Valerie stood to clasp it, returned the light shake, nodded, and sat down nervously.

  "Should I get undressed?" she asked.

  Dr. Fletcher shook her head while glancing at the forms in Valerie's folder. "Not for today. First I want to let you know that our test confirms your home test. It's positive, too. You're pregnant." She said it without any congratulatory smile, know-ing from the younger woman's demeanor that the answer would not be greeted as the best of news. Valerie's deep breath and slight lowering of the head confirmed her diagnosis.

  "What I'd like to discuss with you is your feelings about that and what you'd like to do." Valerie looked up with wet, panicked eyes. "This is the wrong time. I don't know what happened. Ron and I use the sponge. It's not supposed to happen. I just got a promotion where I work and I can't see my boss just letting me have a few months off to go have a baby which Ron and I weren't planning to do anyway. I mean, babies are nice and all, but we're not even married and we still haven't been to Europe and you can't just go running around Europe changing diapers and expect to have any fun. Not when you have your whole life ahead of you. We both have to work. I can't take any time off. We wanted to have a honeymoon and all that first-"

  Evelyn laid a hand on Valerie's arm. "The worst thing you can do," she said slowly, calmly, "is to feel trapped by preg-nancy. It won't make anything easier. There are options avail-able for you, especially since we caught this at an early stage."

  "I know." She unconsciously pulled her arm away from Fletcher's touch to restore the customary distance between a patient and her physician.

  The doctor nodded toward the door. "Ignore those boors outside. They're here once in a while when they can get a reporter to show up." She sat down beside Valerie and took her hand gently. "Whether to keep or end a pregnancy is one of the hardest decisions a woman can make. You have to deal with all the `what ifs' that arise. And I don't mean the medical uncertainties; a pregnancy termination is a lot safer now than giving birth. I mean your uncertainties."

  The older woman's voice softened. "When I was about nine-teen, I had an abortion. I was a first-year premed student and couldn't be bothered with pregnancy. I regretted my decision almost immediately afterward. I used to wonder what sort of child I might have had. Pregnancy is the first step on the road to forever. If you decide to give birth to a child, it will affect you all your life." She looked directly into Valerie's eyes with the gentle gaze of hard experience. "The decision to terminate the pregnancy will be with you forever, too, though. It's a rare woman that can put such an action completely behind her and get on with her life." She touched Valerie's arm again with soothing reas-surance. "I suffered a great deal of guilt and wondering when I had my abortion." Her fingers tightened. "If there were any way that I could let you make your decision without pain or fear or guilt, I would. Believe me." Her fingers released their grip the instant she realized that the contact unnerved Valerie more than it comforted her.

  Valerie gazed at the doctor with puzzlement. "You sound as if I've already made my choice."

  "Haven't you?"

  She stared at Dr. Fletcher with unchecked surprise. Her eyes lowered just a bit in realization. "Yes, I guess so. I don't think-I mean, I can't have a baby right now. If it had only been a couple of years from now, I-"

  "Valerie." Evelyn spoke quietly. "Don't let the if onlys sneak up on you. You're pregnant right now. You have to decide based on what your life is like right now. You have the right to termi-nate your pregnancy. It was a hard-won right and the battle"-she nodded again toward the outside world-"is still being fought." She gave Valerie's arm another reassuring squeeze, then turned her attention to the folder.

  "How does this Thurs-day sound? You've got a new job, so how about six-thirty in the evening?"

  "For-?"

  "The procedure."

  Valerie felt a strange panic overwhelm her. The bloody im-age on the picket sign
flashed crimson in her mind. "The abor-tion?"

  Dr. Fletcher let go a shallow, disapproving huff. "The preg-nancy termination. That's really all it is. If you don't want to be pregnant right now, we can grant your wish. Believe me, there are almost as many women in the fertility program here try-ing to become pregnant. It all evens out. We try to give everyone what she wants." After a moment, Valerie quietly said, "Six-thirty is all right." Dr. Fletcher made a few notes in the folder. "Fine. You might want to have someone drive you here and back. Are you going to discuss this with the father?"

  Valerie nodded.

  "Good. It's always best for a relationship not to have any secrets. Can you tell me a little bit about him?"

  Valerie took a tissue from her purse and worried at it. "He's just a wonderfully caring man-" Fletcher cut her off. "I mean his physical characteristics."

  "Well..." Valerie thought the question curious. "He's tall. Black hair. Brown eyes. He has a beard."

  "White?"

  Valerie frowned. "No, it's the same color as the rest of his hair."

  "I mean his race."

  Valerie answered slowly, unsettled by the nature of the ques-tion. People didn't ask questions like that anymore. Did they? "He's the son of Russian immigrants. You can't get much whiter than that. Why?"

  Dr. Fletcher sighed and looked up with a weary smile. "These damned federal forms are getting nosier every year, aren't they?" "

  So quickly, Valerie thought, driving along the Pacific Coast Highway. Five minutes for a test, boom-you know you're preg-nant. Then you're scheduled for an abortion. She took a deep breath, urged her yellow Porsche 914 into fourth gear, and raced through the amber light at PCH and Crenshaw. Light aircraft buzzed around Torrance Airport, dancing in the warmth of late morning. She looked out the passenger side of the car to steal quick glances at them. Small airplanes had always fascinated her, though she had never been up in one. They looked like toys, like kites, like wobbly little playthings. She always felt sad when she read or heard about one crash-ing, as if the people onboard had been punished cruelly and unjustly for wanting to have fun.

  She pulled over to the side of the road to watch the planes and suddenly began to cry. " Ron Czernek listened quietly. Sitting in the corner of the liv-ing-room sofa group, he held Valerie in his muscular arms while she told him of her decision.

  He was a large man, with black hair and beard trimmed for business and well-tailored suits to match. She had given him time to change into casual clothes and have a drink before telling him about her day.

  "I was a little subdued when you left this morning," she said, safely wrapped inside his embrace. "I'd realized that I'd missed my period." She turned to gaze up at him. "I went to the clinic at Bayside for a test." She lowered her head, closing her eyes. "I passed. I'm pregnant." Before Ron could say anything, she added, "I can't be preg-nant. Not right now. Too much is going on with us for me to throw the brakes on and become a mother."

  He nodded. Even speaking in quiet, intimate tones, his voice resonated. "You know that whatever choice you make, I'm with you all the way. It's our baby, but it's your body." He held her tighter. "You've got your job to think about. I've got mine. We haven't paid off the BMW yet." His voice caught for an instant. "I'm sure we could make it all work, anyway. I'm with you one hundred percent if you decide to. The classes, being there, everything."

  Her body began to tremble against his. He quickly added, "The same goes for the... other choice. I'll be with you. The whole nine yards." He smiled and ran a hand over her golden hair. "I'm a lawyer, not a judge. I only want to help you do what you want to do."

  "I love you, Ron." She pulled herself deeper into his arms. She could smell the scent of a day's work on him. The smoke from the office, the faint odor of self-serve gasoline, the aroma of her lover's flesh. He was eight years older than she, but she felt as if they were high school sweethearts. She clung to him as she did to her father so long ago. "Please go with me Thursday evening."

  "Of course."

  They sat together, silent.

  III

  Dr. Fletcher sorted through the charts kept in a fat, locking file folder on her desk. A cigarette glowed in the plastic ash-tray-a giveaway from some medical supply company whose logo in the bottom had long since been stubbed, melted, and ashed into illegibility. The cigarette itself was a Defiant, the brand with the highest dose of nicotine per milligram of tar. She had long ago decided that nicotine was the drug she sought in smoking, so logically she should get as much of it per ciga-rette as she could while minimizing the amount of other con-taminants. She had even convinced some of her chain-smok-ing colleagues to cut down from three packs a day of low-nico-tine cigarettes to her half pack of high-nic. She took occasional drags on the stick absentmindedly, giv-ing her sole attention to the papers before her. She had some-one now. Someone who matched well enough for everything to work. If she could pull this off, it would change everything. Everything. The medical advance would be almost trivial com-pared to the social revolution.

  She took another puff and sat back. Valerie Dalton was a superb prospect for Karen Chandler. Fletcher's quick eyes scanned Karen's file. Dark haired, but that's all right; her husband's blond. Gray eyes to her husband's brown. She glanced back to Valerie's New Patient form for the answers she had innocently given to Fletcher's questions.

  The father of the child was Caucasian, dark hair, dark eyes. Evelyn nodded. Blood tests rushed through indicated that se-rologies were negative. Good. Both women Rh positive-no problems there. She picked up the phone and punched the number on one of the forms.

  "Hello, Karen? Evelyn Fletcher... Fine, thanks. Do you think you could come to the office at six forty-five this Thursday evening?" She listened for a moment, then said, "Yes. I think we do.... Yes. Well, just be here on time and we'll do that."

  She hung up the phone, took a final, long drag on her ciga-rette, stubbed it, and leaned back in her leather chair, smil-ing. "

  The Saab sounded better on the short drive home.

  Dr. Fletcher lived just five miles from Bayside. The drive, which usually took around ten minutes, was slowed by the presence of a stalled car and tow truck on Crenshaw. She waited out the delay listening to music on the car radio. When-ever the sound degenerated into crackling fuzz, she fisted the dashboard gently a few times to restore it. The rapid move-ment of the Bach fugue amused her with its contrast to the snail's pace of evening traffic.

  Her thoughts again returned to the world of her work. Put-ting her driving skills on automatic, Evelyn mentally rehearsed Thursday's operations to anticipate any possible difficulties. The roar of anxious engines and the throb of city noise faded as she envisioned the movements of her hands, the position of the equipment, the delicate feel of the tissues she'd be han-dling. And blood. Always blood.

  "

  So much blood. The image on the picket sign haunted Valerie. She had used a different door to leave the hospital, but she could not cause the picture to depart her mind. In bed, she lay beside the warmth of her lover's body and spoke to him in low tones, as if they might be overheard.

  "She shoved it in my face. It was awful. It looked like a baby all cut up and dumped and covered with blood." She buried her face in the crook of his arm.

  Ron stroked her hair. "Don't think about it. I've read the tres-pass cases against their sort. They use pictures of third-tri-mester abortions to gross people out. A seventh-week embryo is probably the size of your thumb. It really isn't anything more than a bit of your tissue. It'll be painless." She squeezed him tighter. "The pamphlet says we won't be able to make love for six weeks." His hand snaked around her to touch a soft breast. "That depends on what you mean by `making love.'"

  "Make love to me tonight, Ron. Right now."

  With a single fluid motion, he slid easily, happily, hungrily, into her. She clung to him gratefully, just as hungrily, her need satisfied with every movement of their bodies.

  "

  Wednesday passed for Valerie
like a day spent numbed at the dentist. She tried to concentrate on her job, but the little red square she had drawn around Thursday in her Hallmark date book seemed to be seared into her optic nerve. The im-age of it followed her at every turn. She sat in her cubicle facing Shirley, the new word proces-sor they had permanently hired from the temp agency. She studied their contrast. As the new office manager, Valerie dressed in her most conservative creme-colored Oscar de la Renta suit. Her salon tan complemented the color nicely. The dark-haired twenty-year-old's flesh was white as death. She wore a black cowpunk outfit with silver steer-skull bolo and chain bracelets. Even Valerie, who had never been into the club scene, knew that the costume was outmoded. After all, she still read the L.A. Weekly.

  "Shirley," Valerie began without any preface, "your work here since we hired you from DayJob has not been as good as when you were a temp." She couldn't shake the impression that she was discussing something very minor in light of what would be happening tomorrow. "You've let your desk get cluttered with..." She looked at Shirley. Had this girl from Lawndale ever been pregnant, ever had an abortion?

  "With what?" Shirley asked, staring at her manager with impatient puzzlement.

  "Stuff. Just all those buttons and things. We don't appreciate stickers for groups such as Uranium Holocaust and Stark Fist slapped all over our desks."

  Shirley looked out at her workstation, made the sort of face teenagers make when acquiescing to Mom, and said, "Can I just stick them on my Wang?"

  Valerie felt an odd sort of flush envelop her. She fought it back.

  "Being absent three days in your first month also looks bad. Why don't you..." She found no words to complete the sen-tence, merely sat with her mouth half-open, gazing speech-lessly across her desk.

  "Are you on something, Ms. Dalton?"

  Valerie recovered quickly, saying, "It's been a tough morn-ing, Shirley. Just get back to work and see that you're not un-avoidably absent again."