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.
'
