Seven

It was Saturday morning, and everyone was around the apartment. In his room Dave the Poet worked on a poem about the world's fattest man. He'd been at it for a day and a half without any sleep, keeping himself up with coffee and speed. He'd gotten the idea from a show on television about a man in Scotland who weighed over eight hundred pounds. I told him I didn't think anyone in Scotland really weighed that much. They always looked so bony and hardy. He said you could believe most of what you saw, especially on TV. The work was two hundred pages long and still growing, composed in what he called "clandestine dithyrambs." I took this to mean free verse, but I never got a full explanation.

Melinda had gone back to Wisconsin for the week, and we'd kept in touch by phone. I thought we were too young to get married, but she wasn't so sure. Whenever we talked about what to do, I could see a Methodist church deep in her face. We had to do something soon, one way or another. She was getting more pregnant, not less, and while it created a bond between us that hadn't existed before, it also placed an obstacle.

The day after she learned the results of the test, we went down by the lake, walking all the way through the park, past the entrance to Lincoln Park Zoo, where the ratty bears slept in the cages and the lions were too tired to come outside on a hot summer day. We passed the statue of Shakespeare hidden in a bunch of bushes across from the Conservatory -- all you could see was the top of his bald head sticking above some trees. In the Conservatory itself the city grew exotic plants, many of which you could find in your grandmother's living room: rubber trees, snake plants, and patches of baby tears. We turned right on Fullerton and went by a group of picnickers barbecuing spareribs. Their kids ran around in circles just to be running, but the adults were already wilted at eleven in the morning, that's how hot it was. One fat woman sat on a blanket with her legs spread, staring blankly at the ground. She didn't move as long as we were there, and when I turned at the end of the block, she was still in that position. They'd chosen a spot right next to the parkway, which was filled with cars and noise; on the other side was the sidewalk. There should have been a sign in the ground that said The American Family, Modern Era. If they thought this site was bucolic and peaceful, what kind of neighborhood were they from? Other families were picnicking in the parking lot itself.

At the end of the zoo was the rookery, with a small lagoon surrounded by flat rocks and trees, and some ducks clacking. It wasn't much, but a few young couples were scattered around the place, trying to fall in love. Melinda pointed at a couple holding hands and kissing with just the tips of their lips, as if they were birds. They looked like the sort of people who would dress in matching T-shirts that said "I Love Bob" and "I Love Bonnie."

We walked through the spooky underpass at Lake Shore Drive, which was cool but smelly. You could hear the cars roaring overhead. It seemed each tire left a thin trail of rubber, like a snail. Everything was connected by heat, sweat, and endurance. The day was so brightly overexposed, it gave you an ache between the eyes.

The worn triangle of grass at Fullerton Beach was beginning to fill with sunbathers. Few bothered with the water, which in Chicago, even in later summer, could be pretty cold. Stripping down to our bathing suits, we sat on a concrete ledge, watching the hectic families try to keep their kids from drowning. There was a clear separation of social groups. We were the singles, aloof and cool, with perfect bodies. They were chaotic, elemental, and real -- to be avoided at all cost. A pack of kids, sand and mud all over their bodies, ran into the lake, shrieking with delight. The mothers sank back into their gothic romances.

Melinda put her lips to mine, pretending we were Bob and Bonnie.

"Kiss, kiss," she quacked, then stuck her tongue in my mouth. She smelled salty and earthy.

"I love you, Holder," she whispered.

"I love you, too."

"Say it like you mean it."

"I love you, too," I said.

A motor boat went by just beyond the buoys dividing the swimming area from miles of lake beyond, bouncing on the waves with a spanking, tinnish sound. Two hotshots inside waved their cans of beer.

"What are we going to do?" Melinda asked.

"I don't know," I said squinting out at the water.

"You do, too," she said. "You want an abortion."

I denied it, but we both knew what would happen, and that night, back in the apartment, sweating, I called the number Melinda had gotten from a friend who'd gone through an abortion last year. Everything had worked out well.

The phone rang and as instructed, I asked for Dr. Wells.

The answering service said someone would call right back. Abortions were illegal, except, we'd heard, in London and Kansas City. London and Kansas City? It didn't make any sense. But you could also get one in Chicago, if you called Dr. Wells.

A long half an hour later, the telephone rang.

I picked it up nervously.

"You want Dr. Wells?" said a tough male voice. It sounded like he had a cigar in his mouth and was calling from a pay phone.

"Yes, someone gave me your number. She said you provided

. . .a certain service."

"Yeah, that's right. What kinda service you lookin' for?"

"Uh, well . . ." I couldn't bring myself to say it. What if the moment I said "abortion" the vice squad broke down the door?

"My friend is pregnant," I said, voice trailing into the wire.

"You tellin' me you want an abortion?"

"Yes," I managed. "Yes. Yes, that's right."

"Don't worry, kid," he said, "it happens all the time. You knocked her up, you can unknock her, right? You got seven hundred?"

"Seven hundred dollars?"

"Yeah."

"I think I can get it," I said. Seven hundred was everything I had. I could feel the blood draining out of my face.

"Here's how it works. You drive her to the Evergreen Shopping Center, nine o'clock Tuesday morning, section Nine-F of the parking lot. You got that?"

"Un, yeah..."

"Yuh better not write this down. Just remember, o.k.? There'll be a blue van parked at section Nine-F of the Evergreen Shopping Center. There will be no windows on the van. She gets out of the car and you drive away, right? You don't come along, just her. She climbs inside the back of the van and closes it, and she sits there in the dark. It's scary, right, but she's o.k. Somebody comes along and locks the back door, but that's no sweat, 'cause that's me. Then this somebody drives her to see Dr. Wells, but before she gets out of the van she has to put on a blindfold. Then this somebody walks her into a place and she lies down on a table. It's nice and clean in there, and it's o.k. The doctor comes in. He does his little job, and a little later it's back in the van."

"I want to come along," I said.

"No way."

"How do I know she's going to be safe?"

"She's got me, pal. You got any problem with that?"

"I'm sure you're fine," I said, "but how about the doctor? How do I know he's going to do it right?"

"You a doctor or something?" His voice became suspicious and feral. "If you're a doctor, you can do it yourself," he said, and the phone went dead on the other end.

"What was that all about?" said Melinda.

"You wouldn't believe it."

"I've got another number," she said, digging into her front jeans pocket, "but it's in Milwaukee.

A week later, I picked up Melinda in Richland Center. She was living with her aunt and uncle, and she told them we were going shopping. Mr. Farrer was in the living room, sitting back in his Barcalounger and reading the paper. He greeted me vaguely and I sat down on the couch.

"How do you like Chicago?" he asked.

"Oh, fine," I said looking at the gun rack and cabinet near the wall behind him.

"Big town," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "It sure is."

Melinda's aunt came into the room wearing her weekend clothes. She was a nurse for a local school system, and even at home she wore the tight-fitting, spongy white shoes.

"How come you're going all the way to Milwaukee?" she said. "If you want to go shopping, there's lots of stores right here."

"Got the Lewisville Mall," said Mr. Farrer.

"I've got to return a sweater," I lied.

"Seems a long way to drive to return a sweater," she said.

"Hell of a long way," said the owner of the guns.

"Well, I'm thrifty that way. No sense letting it go to waste."

Mercifully, Melinda came down the stairs. "Hi. Ready to go?" she said. This was her June Allyson voice, but it wasn't working too well. There was a tremor of anxiety in the way she talked, and dark circles under her eyes.

"Are you all right, hon?" asked Mrs. Farrer. A twenty-four hour school nurse.

She said she was, but needed an aspirin. She took three Bayers and kissed her aunt, and we drove all morning east to Milwaukee. The man on the phone, who sounded vaguely British, had said three hundred dollars, and all you had to do was walk in the door. I could come along, and nobody had to wear blindfolds. Along the way, we listened to the radio and talked about people we knew. She sat in the middle of the front seat, hands in her lap, looking straight ahead.

It was noon when we got there, and we grabbed a bite to eat at the edge of town. It was a fancy hamburger place called the Tee-Pee, and the center part of the restaurant was a stucco teepee, naturally. Above the cashiers's head, a chandelier hung down from the vaulted ceiling.

"Suburban Brown Derby," I said.

"You're pretty big-city, aren't you" she said, giving me a look.

"Just relax," I said.

The waitress took our order, and when she brought it back, she said we looked real cute. "You two remind me of somebody on TV," she said. "You know the weatherman on channel seven?"

We didn't.

"He's got hair just like yours," she said, pointing at my head.

"What? Disappearing?" said Melinda.

We arrived at the address, which was in a black neighborhood, and got out of the car. It looked like a doctor's office, all right, but just barely. There was no name on the door, which was locked, and nobody responded when I knocked. Standing on tiptoe, Melinda peeked through the window.

"It looks pretty dirty," she observed.

You could see the waiting room from the window. All the furniture was piled in the corner, including the lamps. The room was dark and dusty-looking, as if it hadn't been used in years.

"This doesn't look good," I said.

"Maybe we should forget it, Holder." She was wearing an oversized orange T-shirt and jeans. In the middle of the ugly sidewalk, she looked incredibly fragile.

"There's a phone booth on the next corner," I said. "Let's call the number and see if he's there."

Sure enough, he was. He picked up on the second ring, and his voice was friendly and open, just like before.

"How may I help you?" he said. The question had about seven tonal levels, rising and plunging like music.

"This is Mr. Holder. I called you last week?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holder. We're expecting you any moment."

"We tried the front door but nobody answered."

"You have the right place, all right. Come back again, and you'll find it open." He exuded warmth and common sense, and I imagined him wearing an old tweed jacket, slippers, and holding a pipe. He would be sitting in a comfortable office with a spaniel at his feet, and as we entered from the devastated waiting room, he would rise to greet us with athletic grace like Robert Young of Father Knows Best.

We went back, and the door opened easily. As we stepped into the waiting room, a woman in her thirties, wearing sharply creased pants and a man's sport coat, walked out of the inner office, a purse hanging from her shoulder. I thought for a moment she was there to greet us, but she passed us with a curt nod of the head and went into the street.

The doctor stepped to the inner doorway and motioned to us to enter. He was a tall negro man of medium build, wearing tan slacks and warm-weather loafers, the kind only negro men, old aristocrats and gay men wear. The silk shirt was loosely cut and of European design.

"How do you do, Mr. Holder?" he said, shaking my hand. "And this is?"

"I'm Melinda Farrer," she said, offering her hand.

"We don't have to use last names," he said with a bow. "It's so official. But I'm delighted to meet you."

He led us down the wide hall, in the middle of which was an old wooden desk with papers on top. There was plenty of light, an old-fashioned office chair, and photos and framed certificates hanging from the wall. One was a medical certificate from the Antipodes School of Medicine in the name of Randolph Mitchell. It was printed over a drawing, in gold, of a spreading coconut palm, which seemed to be the school's official emblem. Another frame contained a black-and-white photograph of some men standing in a tropical location. All were wearing white shirts and smiling broadly. It looked like a graduation photo. The one I took to be Dr. Mitchell beamed his optimism into the camera.

"You're Dr. Mitchell?"

"That is correct."

"Where's the Antipodes?" I wondered.

"It's anywhere you wish," he said, "provided your point of view is the other side of the world."

I didn't know what he meant, but it seemed a social comment. I imagined party lanterns stretching from tree to tree at night. I could feel them shake as a hurricane struck the island, and guests fled into the house or quickly departed in cars. I could hear musical laughter disappear across a lawn, in a place surrounded entirely by blue water.

A white woman with black hair appeared at a door behind us. She was not wearing a uniform, but her blouse and skirt were very neat, and she exuded confidence.

"Please come with me," she said to Melinda. Melinda gave me a look of assurance, and the two of them disappeared through a brown door in a paneled wall.

A small black-and-white TV played soundlessly on the other side of the desk. The picture was very blurry. It looked like one of the roundup sports shows. One second there was a bicycle race, and next someone was doing a triple gainer off a high platform.

"I have the money here," I said, pulling out my wallet and counting out three hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills.

"That is fine," said Dr. Mitchell, not bothering to count it a second time. He stuffed the wad into his pocket casually.

"How long will it take?"

"About twenty minutes. The nurse is preparing Melinda now."

"I'm worried," I said. "What if something goes wrong?"

"It is a simple procedure," he said suavely, with confidence. His long fingers elegantly gestured disregard for trouble, and he headed for the door. "You know how it works, of course."

"Not really."

"Dilation and curettage, or D and C. We introduce an object into the uterus that causes it to open, then a surgical instrument is used to scrape the walls of the uterus. The fetus is detached and is automatically expelled by the patient's own contractions. It is somewhat like birth itself, in that way only."

He seemed apologetic about the last detail, but it was clear he did this with all the patients, so they knew what to expect. If he weren't an abortionist, I thought, he'd make a pretty good doctor.

"Please wait here," he said. "I will return shortly."

As he opened the door, I could see Melinda in the corner of a very large room, lying down on what appeared to be a gynecological examination table. There was a drape over her knees, and her shoulders were bare.

The doctor was gone, as if he had never existed. I was in an abandoned building some shyster had taken over for the afternoon only. There had been no nurse, and Melinda herself was an illusion. This desk was an apparition. I could probably pass my hand through it, touching only the thick, dusty air of a Wisconsin summer.

But at least the television was on. That was a pretty good sign of the world's reality. I sat down and watched a pole vaulter miss one attempt and then another. On the third try, he placed the pole but lost his nerve and ran straight through the pit. It was humiliating for him, and the camera showed the serious faces of the crowd. Then I was drawn into the photograph of the young doctors, the sea behind them, palm trees moving in the wind. It was very pleasant. I was lost in thought.

The door opened again. "Mr. Holder, please," he said, rubbing his long fingers together. "You may come in now." Melinda was still on the table, and the nurse gave me a terse little smile. She was straightening up from the operation. There wasn't any evidence of what had happened. A couple of stainless-steel bowls sat next to a sink, and there was a cabinet near it; but they were the only things in the room.

"She may get dressed now," said the nurse, and joined the doctor in the outer hall. Melinda and I were alone, and she was drowsy.

"It hurt," she said, pointing to her stomach.

"Are you all right?"

"He didn't put enough pain-killer in, and had to do it twice -- the whole thing twice. I think he gave me too much."

"How are you feeling now?"

"O.k. Sleepy."

I helped her get to a sitting position, and the drape fell to her waist. She was entirely nude, but her clothes were neatly piled on a chair.

"I don't feel so good, Holder."

"You'll be all right," hoping desperately I was right.

Slowly, with my help, she got dressed, and I walked her into the hall. She was starting to recover her equilibrium, almost a step at a time. We were very close at that moment, but both of us knew it was over. We'd go back to her aunt and uncle's house, I'd mumble something to them, and I'd drive away. She would hate me and hate me and then an ocean of indifference would open between us.

On the way back to Richland Center, in brilliant sunshine we said very little. She sat where she had before, holding the bottle of Tylenol with codeine the nurse had given her. Halfway there, we passed a small flower stand, and I pulled over. The guy had carnations and roses, that's all. I bought two dozen red roses, each bunch tied with a piece of string, and walked back to the car.

"For God's sake, Holder," said Melinda with a tired smile.

We headed down the road, one dozen flowers in her right hand, trailing down onto the floor, and the other dozen on the seat between us. Halfway to her aunt and uncle's place, without a word, she tossed one dozen out the window and they scattered on the freeway behind us. The huge truck following us ran over them, and the driver's eyes were big in the window as he tried to figure out what was going on.

But nothing was going on. Melinda didn't say anything, and she didn't turn to look. A little farther down the road, she threw out the second dozen. I looked in the rearview mirror; the truck was no longer there. The roses bounced onto the empty freeway.