Solomon's Knife

by Victor Koman

  When Shirley had left the cubicle, Valerie took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. Telling her boss that she needed a second day off this week was going to be tough. She felt a knotting in her stomach that any number of deep breaths would not alleviate. For a moment, the chill thought that there was something alive in her making that knot sent an unbidden shudder through her shoulders and back. She walked over to the vice president's office and knocked, then opened the door.

  "Ernie," she said, "I need another favor."

  Ernest Sewell sat on the couch across from his desk, legs stretched out, a sheaf of printout resting on his shins and held from spilling onto the floor by upturned feet. As if reading a scroll, he looked over each page, then pulled up another from the stack below, gathering the remainder in his hands. He wore a rust-colored polo shirt and dark beige slacks that pleasantly enhanced his milk-chocolate skin. Laying the computer pa-per on his lap, he looked at Valerie.

  "If it's another day off, Val, that'll be a problem. How was your doctor visit?" She took a deep breath. "I may be out on Friday. I have to have some surgery tomorrow evening." Her boss set the stack of paper on the floor and rose to walk over to her. "What's wrong, Valerie?"

  "It's nothing. It's outpatient surgery. Just something I have to take care of right away. I'm sorry that it-"

  "Never mind about a thing, Val." He put a hand on her shoul-der. "If you need tomorrow and Friday, take them both. Just take care of yourself. You're no good to me sick." Relieved that she didn't have to explain anything further, she returned to her cubicle and telephoned Ron. He was in court, his secretary said. Could she take a message?

  "Just tell him that Thursday is on."

  The two major crises out of the way, Valerie moved through the day mechanically, performing only the most necessary activities. She tried not to look over the edge of her cubicle at the clock on the wall a few yards away, but every time her eyes reflexively glanced up, her stomach clenched as she re-alized that so little time had passed. Yet the end of the day caught her by surprise, and she noticed that she had accom-plished very little in eight hours.

  Knuckles rapped as best they could against the grey, brushed fabric that lined the outside of her cramped enclosure. Sewell stood in the opening, clutching a stack of floppy disks in one hand, a thick programming book in the other.

  "Your sentence has been served, Val. You're a free woman."

  "Thanks, Warden. I just want to finish up the Pro-Dos team roster that Paul gave me." Sewell hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes gazing around Valerie's office as if looking for clues. His voice softened.

  "If it's anything serious," he said, "maybe we should talk."

  "What?" Her voice almost cracked.

  "You're so full of high tension I'm afraid to bring these disks near you. One touch and you'd degauss them. Is this surgery something serious?"

  Under her desk, Valerie's right leg began to shake with slight uncontrollable movements. Her stomach fluttered. Taking a sharp breath that was almost a snort, she tried to sound dis-missive.

  "It's nothing. Abdominal surgery. A small growth. I hear they do it with lasers now. In and out. You know."

  Her boss mulled it for a moment. "If this new position is giving you an ulcer already, take my advice. Self-fulfillment isn't worth it if you kill yourself."

  "I'm not killing"-she caught her breath-"myself. I'm fine. I'll be back in on Monday. Friday, even, if all goes well." She pointed to her bulging briefcase. "And I'm taking that home to work on over the weekend."

  Sewell frowned. "Don't even think of it. I don't want you carrying that in Monday and blowing your stitches or seals or whatever they'll close you up with. Just rest."

  "Thank you," she said softly. Realizing that she didn't sound too managerial, she cleared her throat and reached for the briefcase. "I'll need something fun to read in the waiting room. If I need any assistance carrying it, I'll use the hired help."

  He snorted a mild laugh and smiled. "Good night, Val."

  "Good night, Ernie."

  When he had gone, she let out a sigh of tired relief. It'll be over tomorrow, she thought, trying to comfort herself as she gathered together her belongings. The briefcase in one hand counterbalanced a stack of progress reports in the other. A series of "Good night" murmurs followed her out of the office area. She made a point of returning each one, even though her thoughts darted feverishly around to her plans for Thurs-day.

  Maybe I should take the day off. "Good night, Marcie." I can't eat beforehand. "Good night, Jer." I'll leave a Top Shelf or two for Ron to heat up. "G'night, LeRoy." I wonder if I will be able to do any work this weekend. "`Night, Faouzi."

  She took her favorite scenic route home, up to Malaga Cove, where towering eucalyptus trees swayed in the sea breeze to conceal million-dollar homes. A quick spin past the sea-cliff estates on Paseo del Mar. She had not yet found out which one belonged to Frank Sinatra, but she would keep at it until she did. Every new rumor she overheard mentioned a different mansion, and she thought it too snoopy to ask. Palos Verdes people never pried, and after just three years of owning a small, older house in the Lunada Bay area, she and Ron considered themselves consummate residents. They were not aware whether anyone else considered them so. After all, they were now Palos Verdes people. And Palos Verdes people never pry.

  IV

  Valerie spent Thursday watching old movies on the VCR. Following the instructions in the pamphlet Dr. Fletcher had given her, she ate a light breakfast-unusual for her, since she generally skipped morning meals. She knew, though, that she'd be ravenous by lunchtime without it.

  Wrapped in a mountain-sky-blue satin peignoir she'd just the month before bought at Victoria's Secret, she sat in bed with a serving tray over her lap, the VCR remote reposing in the magazine caddy. She had decided that morning, after Ron had left early for Century City, to pamper herself without guilt. With Daddy gone five years now and her mother still in Colo-rado Springs, she needed to feel as if she were home from school.

  The bloated briefcase sat atop the progress reports in the third bedroom, which they had converted into an office. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Fred Astaire swirled fluidly across the dance floor, with Gin-ger held gracefully in his slender arms. She watched them move in tones of gray on the screen atop Ron's bedroom dresser. The dancer's death had saddened her more than the usual regret she felt at hearing of the passing of other aging movie stars. She felt that he could have, should have, kept danc-ing forever, that the world had benefited gloriously by his be-ing here and had suffered greatly at his loss.

  Her finger punched the remote, stopping the tape and switch-ing to cable. It had been set for "CNN

  Headline News." An-other anencephalic baby had been delivered to a nearby hos-pital in a recently revived organ harvesting project. It was to be put on life support. Parents of other children nervously awaited its brain death so that its vital parts might be used to save their own children's lives. Valerie shuddered at the thought of a baby born without a brain. She'd inadvertently seen a photograph of one on the news but hadn't turned away fast enough: sunken skull, like a doll that had been stepped on, seemingly golfball-sized eyes protruding.

  A chill trembled across the backs of her arms and shoul-ders. What pain the mother must have felt to have gone for so long, gone all the way, and then...

  She climbed out of bed to change tapes. Forbidden Planet. Leslie Neilsen, Anne Francis, and Walter Pidgeon. That will be fun. She hit the Play button and climbed back into bed. It's better this way, she thought. You never know what might happen. She was not certain that she would be a good enough mother to tolerate even a moderately sickly child. She feared that she would not be strong enough to endure a child de-formed or dying.

  Abortion was best.

  She found that she could think of the word without hesita-tion, without substituting a euphemism such as "pregnancy termination."

  She imagined her life spreading before her like a river. She cou
ld take any one of an infinite number of streams that branched away. Some paralleled the main flow; others turned sharply away into unknown darkness, still others meandered aimlessly into dry lake beds. A child at this point in her life would break her away from the flow, push her into a backwa-ter, stop the momentum her life had gained. The M-G-M lion roared. Eerie electronic tonalities filled the room. She ceased thinking about her life, content to finish her egg and back bacon on toasted muffin, drink her orange juice, and watch the Technicolor world of robots, lust, and Monsters from the Id.

  There were no children on Altair IV.

  "

  The opening and shutting of the front door awakened Valerie from a slumber. At first, she thought it was morning. The out-side world was dark, she was in bed. The TV, though, was on. Then she remembered closing her eyes while watching Rossano Brazzi profess his love for Alida Valli in Noi Vivi. The tape must have run out, for the TV had switched back to cable.

  Ron stepped into the bedroom. "It's five-thirty, Val." He saw her staring at the TV. "Are you okay?" Valerie nodded sleepily. It always took her longer to awaken from a nap than it did from a full night's sleep. She took a deep draught of water from the Waterford set on her nightstand, sat up, and smiled at him.

  "I'm fine, honey. I just drifted off. I'll be ready in time." He moved to her side of the bed, threw his arms around her, and squeezed with loving tenderness.

  "You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to."

  She returned the hug. "If I don't, you won't be able to say the same thing in the delivery room." A silence passed between them for a moment.

  "Then you'd better get dressed," Ron said, giving her a pat on her backside. " They drove to Bayside in Ron's silver-gray BMW 320i. Valerie wore a loose-fitting cotton sarong skirt in understated forest green purchased just the week before at Banana Republic. The pamphlet told her to avoid tight pants or anything encumber-ing. Her Costa Brava shirt in the same shade came from the identical source.

  Though the March evening was warm and the sun had only just set, she wore a mock-aviator's jacket of dark olive cotton and still felt a shiver coming on.

  Ron had not bothered to change from his charcoal-gray busi-ness suit. He drove silently, not attempting to engage her in any conversation. For her part, Valerie stared out the window, watching the planes fly in and out of Torrance, their lights bright and fairylike in the twilight. As the car smoothly turned off PCH into the parking lot, past the white and blue sign that read Bayside University Medical Center, Valerie broke the silence by quietly asking, "This is what you want, isn't it?"

  He pulled into the nearest available parking space. "I want what's best for you, Valerie. You're not ready to be a mother, and I don't think I'm ready to be a father. Maybe in a few years. We have time to think about it. This will give us time to plan it, save for it, prepare our heads." He killed the engine, pulled the keys, and shut down the lights. "It's your body. You have to make the final decision." Valerie nodded and stepped out of the car.

  They moved quietly up the walkway to the Reproductive Endocrinology Department. Valerie glanced around, relieved to see that the line of picketers had dispersed for the night. A cool evening breeze ruffled the palms and the trio of giant bird-of-paradise plants, brushing their leaves against the of-fice windows on the second story. The yellow-orange light from low-pressure sodium vapor lamps imparted harsh shadows to the dark corners of the entrance. Only a few lights glowed from the windows. She was so grateful that she would not be walking back to the car alone. She felt that she might have been able to enter the building, moving toward its marginal warmth and protec-tion. To leave it after her surgery, though, to step out into the eerie darkness of a nearly empty, windy parking lot, was some-thing she doubted she could do without a nagging murmur of fear.

  Ron held her hand in his warm, firm grasp. The doors opened before them with a pneumatic hiss. Overhead, a tiny red light winked like a knowing, vulgar eye. We know what you're here for. The receptionist, a tired old woman with gray-blue hair and gravity-worn face, checked the calendar, then handed Valerie a clipboard, pen, and form.

  "Fill this out, honey," she said in a voice that could sand furniture, "and give it back to me when you're done."

  Valerie glanced over the release form, searching for the blanks to fill in. All it required was the date, a few initials, and her signature.

  "Wait." Ron took the form from her. "Professional curiosity," he said, carefully reading each paragraph.

  "Looks like a standard waiver and release from responsibil-ity," he muttered. "Four pages is probably longer than stan-dard, but if those pickets outside have tried any legal mischief, they're probably trying to cover their asses."

  Valerie nodded, reaching for the papers. He held it back to read the last page. He looked up at the receptionist.

  "What's this `waiver of claim to any tissues removed' part?" The receptionist eyed him with bored weariness. "If you want to take it home with you, hon, you'll have to ask the doctor."

  It took a moment for Ron to realize what she meant. Valerie had already turned white at the thought of the nurse's sugges-tion. She seized the papers from his hands and signed them.

  "Thanks, honey." The receptionist's tone was flat, almost mechanical.

  "What a gross-" Ron began to whisper before Valerie shushed him.

  "You do that every time I have to sign something," she said in a low, clipped tone. "This is a university hospital, for God's sake. They're not going to have me sign my soul away."

  "You haven't heard about as many malpractice cases as I have." He looked up at the receptionist. Her gray-blue hair shimmered oddly in the fluorescent lights. "Excuse me," he said in a commanding lawyer's voice.

  "Yes?"

  "We'd like a copy of this." He handed her the form.

  "Sure, hon," she said without looking up.

  They sat in the waiting room. No one else was there. Occa-sionally, an elevator door would open somewhere nearby, and an orderly or resident would come around the corner to pass through wordlessly. Valerie felt strange, as if she were moving through her paces in some sort of low-grade horror film set in a hospital. Everything seemed to acquire altered meanings. The glance of an orderly, the clatter of gurney wheels against linoleum, the smell of Lysol and formaldehyde. She put her arm through Ron's and held tightly. His other hand stroked her blond head. A tan, leggy nurse entered through a doorway. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with deep auburn hair and hazel eyes. She looked as if she should have been in some vaudeville skit as a beautiful yet brainless comic foil. She carried herself with grace and dignity, though, and her icepick gaze belied any sense of vacuity.

  She picked up a folder from the receptionist and said, in a voice with just the barest trace of a European accent, "Valerie Dalton, please follow me."

  "May I be there?" Ron asked, standing.

  "I'm sorry, sir. The doctor doesn't allow that."

  Valerie rose, paused, then hugged Ron as hard as she could. "I love you," she said.

  "I love you, too, sweetheart. I'll be right here."

  "And I'll be right back."

  He nodded, a sudden look of concern on his face. He tried to smile. "You do that." She turned to join the woman. The pair disappeared behind the light green door.

  "They never let the man in there, hon," the receptionist said in her tobacco-scoured voice. "You guys just keep fainting."

  He gave her a withering glance that went nowhere, since she wasn't looking up at the moment. He sat back and picked through the magazines on the table. If men spend their time out here, he thought, how come all they have is Redbook and Cosmopolitan?

  The outer doors opened. Another couple walked in. The woman was in her twenties, brown haired, sweet looking. She wore a loose-fitting kaftan in a natural beige tone. Her purse was a leather hobo sack that hung lightly from her shoulder. She was about Valerie's height and seemed imbued with a nervous good cheer. She kept an arm around her escort.

>   The man she was with was a sort of sandy blond. His skin was sunburned pink, with the characteristic white zone around his eyes that marked him as a skier recently returned from the slopes. An aquamarine cotton windbreaker covered a blue shirt and jeans. He was muscular without being husky and radiated a ready enthusiasm.

  Probably do this all the time, Ron thought with minimal char-ity.

  The receptionist looked up and smiled. "Head right in. Nurse Dyer will get you ready." He frowned, his suspicion confirmed. Preferred customers. The blond man sat at the far side of the room, pulled a paper-back novel from his jacket, and calmly started to read. Ron shook his head. Some people could be too cavalier about it. " Valerie followed the nurse into a larger than normal exami-nation room containing white enamel cabinets and medical equipment.

  "Is this where she'll do it?" she asked the nurse.

  "Yes. Please undress and put this on." The tall woman handed Valerie a blue dressing gown. Valerie took it, thanked her, and waited for her to leave before disrobing. She hung her skirt and shirt on a hanger behind the door, put her panties in her purse, and slipped into the dressing gown. The rough fabric was cold to the touch.

  She looked at the centerpiece of the room-a padded table with padded metal stirrups, padded metal armrests, handgrips, and headrest, all in dark green.

  Is this right? she wondered. I can't back out now. I'd just be up on that thing again in seven months with a bigger problem.

  She tried to envision being a mother to a crying, demanding baby. She didn't think she possessed the necessary calm pa-tience that child care required. I could never be like Mom. No one could be that loving and kind all the time anymore.

  The door opened. In stepped Dr. Fletcher wearing a crisp white paper surgical gown, her hair tucked under an equally white cap. She wore light green paper slacks, and on her feet were light green paper shoes. The tall nurse followed, simi-larly dressed.

  "Good evening, Valerie," Dr. Fletcher said with a warm smile. "How are you feeling?"