Sourland

explain to the deputy that she had to leave the courthouse immediately — her husband was in the Summit Hill Hospital, fifteen miles away. “I have to leave now. I have to see him. His name is Tracy. He can’t be left with strangers. He’s waiting for me…he will be anxious, if I’m not there.” Adrienne was thinking how, in the past day or so, for no reason, unfairly, for he’d been sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking and not always knowing where he was, Tracy had squinted at her and said in a hurt accusing voice, “Adrienne? Where the hell have you been? I don’t see much of you these days.”

Long she would recall the hurt, and the injustice.

Don’t see much of you these days.

When he’d loved her, he’d called her Addie. The full, formal name Adrienne meant something else.

Or maybe — this was another, quite distinct possibility — he’d said, after he’d died, and Adrienne arranged to have his body delivered to a local crematorium, in a voice beyond accusation or even sadness the man who’d been her husband for thirty-two years said Well! We won’t be seeing each other for a while.

“This way, ma’am. You are not authorized to leave Probate Court just yet.”

The deputy handed Adrienne a tissue with which to wipe her inflamed eyes, blow her nose — as she led her back into the waiting room — how vast this room was, Adrienne could only now appreciate — how many were waiting here! — as far as the eye could measure, individuals who’d died, or were waiting to die, or had managed to avoid death temporarily, yes this was Probate Court and all who were here had not died but had survived.

This was their punishment, that they had survived, and that they were in Probate.

“Ma’am, slip on one of these.”

Without Adrienne’s awareness and certainly without Adrienne’s consent, the deputy had escorted her through the waiting room and into a corridor, she’d brought Adrienne into a windowless room, and shut the door firmly. What was this? Where was this? Adrienne’s tear-blinded eyes could barely make out rows of cubicles — cubicles separated from one another by plywood partitions — the air in this place was close, stale, smelling of the anguish and anxiety of strangers’ bodies.

How the gigantic pulse in Adrienne’s head throbbed! She’d become confused. It had begun to seem probable to her that her husband was still alive — not yet dead — and that Adrienne had come to the hospital herself, to the first-floor radiation unit where women went for mammograms.

She had postponed her yearly mammogram, out of cowardice. Yet somehow she must have made the appointment, for here she was.

“Ma’am? You will please slip on one of these.”

A second woman, in a bailiff’s uniform — this was made of a drab, dun-colored fabric, while the sheriff’s deputies’ uniforms were a more attractive gray-blue — had appeared, and was handing Adrienne a paper smock — a paper smock! — which Adrienne had no choice but to accept. If she wanted to be released from this hellish place.

The bailiff instructed Adrienne to step inside one of the cubicles and remove all her clothing — outerwear, underwear — her boots and her stockings and her jewelry — to place her possessions on the bench inside the cubicle — to put on the smock, and a pair of paper slippers — and to come back out when she was ready. Inside the cubicle, Adrienne began to undress like one in a trance. How grateful she was, there was no mirror in the cubicle — she was spared seeing the widow’s wan, frightened face.

I love you so much. There is no other reason.

Her husband had told her this, too. He’d loved her so much. Many times he’d told her and yet she could not now recall a single, singular time.

Adrienne was removing her clothing, another time she would have to remove her boots, and this time her stockings. And her beige lace brassiere that fitted her loosely now and her tattered white nylon panties which in fact she’d slept in the previous night beneath a flannel nightgown in terror of being summoned to the hospital another time wakened from her deep stuporous sleep to drive hurriedly to the hospital to be ushered into her husband’s hospital room approximately five minutes after a young Asian doctor she’d never seen before had declared him dead — Mrs. Myer there was nothing to be done your husband’s blood pressure plummeted and his heartbeat raced.

She had loved him, her husband. The man who’d been her husband. But her love had not been enough to save him. Her love had not been enough to save either of them. All that had ended.

Trembling she removed her rings. She was wearing no other jewelry just rings. Hard to remove, these rings. The engagement ring — a beautiful diamond surrounded by a cluster of smaller diamonds — and the engraved white-gold wedding band — though her fingers seemed to have become thinner yet it was hard for her, it made her wince, it made her cry, like a small child or a small hurt bird crying, to remove these rings and to place them carefully beneath her clothing neatly folded on the wooden bench for safekeeping.

Her black cashmere coat, her handbag, briefcase — these she placed carefully on the bench. Thinking Everything will be safe here. This is Probate Court.

She put on the ridiculous paper smock, that barely came to her hips. How embarrassing! And the paper slippers! These looked as if they’d been used before, and were scuffed and creased.

The bailiff tugged at the curtain — “Ma’am? Step out here, please.”

Adrienne obeyed. No choice except to obey. She hadn’t been able to tie the smock behind and the little paper sashes hung loose and ticklish against her bare back.

“Ma’am. You will please remove your garment.”

“Remove it? I just put it on.”

The bailiff was heavyset, humorless, with a coarse sooty-white skin and no eyebrows. Her dun-colored uniform included a heavy leather holster and — was it a handgun? — a pistol? — and on her left breast, a brass badge like a glaring eye.

Awkwardly Adrienne tried to shield her breasts with her arms. The bailiff pulled her arms aside.

“Ma’am! You will submit to the examination. You will cooperate.”

“‘Examination’ — but — ”

“Did you sign a waiver in the Sur’gat office, ma’am? What’s that waiver say?”

“I–I don’t know. I wasn’t aware — ”

“You signed a waiver, ma’am. You came to Probate of your own volition. You have entered the Courthouse — you are in the territory of the State.”

The territory of the State! The bailiff spoke as if reciting words many times uttered, worn smooth and implacable as stones. Adrienne’s mouth was dry with apprehension.

Was it a good sign, or not such a good sign, that there was no one else in the examination room, only just Adrienne? The air was steam-heated, humid and oppressive. A fine film of perspiration already gleamed on the sooty-skinned woman’s face. With a flourish she pulled on latex gloves saying, “Ma’am, stand very still. Very still, and you will not be hurt.”

With her deft latex fingers the bailiff palpitated Adrienne’s armpits — was she looking for lumps, swollen lymph glands? Before Adrienne could steel herself she began to palpitate Adrienne’s breasts — the pressure was sudden, vise-like and unbearable,

“Ma’am, you may breathe.”

Adrienne had been holding her breath, in a trance of terror. Such intimacy, and such pain.

“Ma’am. Raise your arms, please.”

Frowning, the bailiff cupped Adrienne’s breasts in both hands — her hands were large as a man’s, and strong — and exerted pressure upward, as if shaping resistant clay. Adrienne cried aloud, tears started from her eyes.

Her breasts were waxy-white, and had shrunken in the past week. The nipples were berry-sized, small and hard, sensitive as exposed nerve endings.

Her stomach too seemed to have shrunk, yet the skin was flaccid, like an ill-fitting body stocking. There were thin white striations in her belly and thighs like stitches in the flesh that had worked loose.