memory.”
“Now, now,” the Fourth Man said in a conciliatory tone, “There’s no use our getting off on the wrong foot. Let’s hear what he has to say. How did it go in the hospital? Were you able to get in?”
“It was easier than any of us imagined,” Whitaker replied. “I just applied to become a volunteer and they took me.”
“No questions?”
“Oh, yes, there were some . . . but we anticipated everything the interviewer wanted to know. I’m not even sure whether she checked my story about part-time janitorial work at the Back Porch Theatre. But if she did, she found out that’s true. There were just a few papers to fill out. But, again, we anticipated everything they wanted to know.”
“No one recognized you?” asked the First Man.
“No, not that I know of. I try to stay aware of being recognized. But I don’t think anyone has.”
“I’m not surprised,” said the Fourth Man. “It was a long time ago that our pictures were in the papers.”
“Yes. And nothing was published about my parole. So, no one expected to see me.”
“Besides,” said the Fourth Man, “your disguise is very good. Those horn-rimmed glasses and your toupee make it difficult for even me to recognize you.”
“Couldn’t you afford a better rug?” the Third Man asked. “It looks cruddy. It looks like a small dog died and you had to decide whether to bury it or wear it. And you made the wrong decision.”
“It’s not my fault.” Whitaker seemed genuinely aggrieved. “They gave me only a pittance when I got out of here. And do you think an amateur theater group pays a part-time janitor a princely sum?”
“It’s all right,” the Fourth Man assured them. “It doesn’t matter what its quality is. The important thing is that it’s a good disguise . . . it is a good disguise, don’t you think?”
The First and Third Man concurred, the Third rather grudgingly.
“All right,” the Fourth Man continued, “you’ve penetrated the hospital’s security. That’s very good. Are you able to move about at all?”
“That’s the best part. . . .” Whitaker sniffed about fastidiously; there was some odor. . . . “I’ve tested that identification badge in almost every section of St. Vincent’s. No one questions it. Hardly anyone even looks at it. Sometimes people walk around the hospital with their ID badge flipped over and no one questions it even then.”
“Do you think you’ll need that theology diploma so they will accept you as a Protestant chaplain?” asked the First Man.
“Not necessary.”
“What about our plan to have you carry around a stethoscope so you can masquerade as a doctor?” the Third Man asked.
“I thought about that. But, no, not yet anyway. That might cause more problems than it cures.”
“All right,” the Fourth Man said. “Then what have you learned? Is it as bad as we feared?”
“Oh, yes. It is very, very bad. God knows what-all they’re doing. But just in one day I located their clinic. And I can only tell you the place is a veritable cesspool.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Such as . . .?”
“Birth control!”
“Artificial?”
“Very!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“How do you know?” the Fourth Man was barely controlling himself. In this, he was doing much better than his companions.
“I saw with my own eyes the pamphlets they’re handing out for distribution to women. Indiscriminately!”
“No!”
“With pictures?”
“Yes! Illustrated!”
“Did you bring any?”
“No. I was afraid I’d be searched.”
“Of course.”
“But that’s not all!”
“There’s more?”
“Oh, yes. They even have devices they give out free of charge!”
“Devices?”
“Yes. What do you call them, prophylactics?”
“Condoms?”
“Rubbers?”
“No! Prophylactics!”
“Same thing!”
“Oh.”
“How about abortions?”
“What about them?”
“Do they do them?”
“Abortions?” Whitaker repeated.
“Yes, dummy, abortions!” The Third Man never had possessed a long fuse.
“Not to the best of my knowledge. I mean, I didn’t actually see anything like that. But I’ll keep looking.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, yes. I don’t know exactly what was going on . . . but from the way the doctor was handling it, it seemed like it probably was wrong.”
“Whatinhell are you talking about?” the Third Man demanded.
“Watch your language,” the First Man admonished.
“My God, we’ve been in prison for years,” said the Third Man. “You’d think your vocabulary would expand a little.”
“Just because we’re in the mud doesn’t mean we have to wallow in it,” the First Man retorted.
“Will you two calm down,” the Fourth Man said. “Now, tell us, what was it you saw?”
“It was a woman—I’m pretty sure she wasn’t married—who’s had lots of kids, I suppose out of wedlock. Anyway, the doctor tested her and said she wasn’t pregnant. But he wanted to make sure she never got pregnant again.”
“What did he do?”
“Fitted her with one of those devices, I’ll bet.”
“A device?”
“An Inner Uterine Device! An IUD!”
“They’ve got them. The doctor mentioned that. For one reason or another, the IUD—whatever—didn’t work for this woman. No, this was going to be a foolproof way of avoiding pregnancy again.”
“What was it, for the love of God!”
“I didn’t understand the doctor very well. It sounded something like a ‘tutu migration.’ I tried to look it up in their medical library, but I couldn’t find it.”
“A tutu migration? A tutu migration! My God!” exclaimed the Third Man. “He’s talking about a tubal ligation!”
“What’s that?”
“When they tie off the woman’s Fallopian tubes. Then neither an egg or the sperm can get through,” the Third Man explained. “Why do we have to depend on this idiot to do our work for us?”
“Because he’s the only one of us who’s free.”
