“Is this Dr. Abrahms?”
“Yes.... You are the lady my friend phoned me about. Sit down my dear lady.” The office smells of something like arnica. Her heart joggles desperately between her ribs.
“You understand ...” She hates the quaver in her voice; she’s going to faint. “You understand, Dr. Abrahms
that it is absolutely necessary. I am getting a divorce from my husband and have to make my own living.”
“Very young, unhappily married ... I am sorry.” The doctor purrs softly as if to himself. He heaves a hissing sigh and suddenly looks in her eyes with black steel eyes like gimlets. “Do not be afraid, dear lady, it is a very simple operation.... Are you ready now?”
“Yes. It wont take very long will it? If I can pull myself together I have an engagement for tea at five.”
“You are a brave young lady. In an hour it will be forgotten.... I am sorry.... It is very sad such a thing is necessary.... Dear lady you should have a home and many children and a loving husband ... Will you go in the operating room and prepare yourself.... I work without an assistant.”
The bright searing bud of light swells in the center of the ceiling, sprays razorsharp nickel, enamel, a dazzling sharp glass case of sharp instruments. She takes off her hat and lets herself sink shuddering sick on a little enamel chair. Then she gets stiffly to her feet and undoes the band of her skirt.
The roar of the streets breaks like surf about a shell of throbbing agony. She watches the tilt of her leather hat, the powder, the rosed cheeks, the crimson lips that are a mask on her face. All the buttons of her gloves are buttoned. She raises her hand. “Taxi!” A fire engine roars past, a hosewagon with sweatyfaced men pulling on rubber coats, a clanging hookandladder. All the feeling in her fades with the dizzy fade of the siren. A wooden Indian, painted, with a hand raised at the streetcorner.
“Taxi!”