Tears welled up in my eyes. I'd been so sure.
Clara said, 'Don't cry,
I dried my eyes and gave her a big hug; she Wrapped her arms about my neck.
'Sweet girl. We'll keep trying. You'll have a little brother soon. Or maybe a little sister.'
Clara gave me a wet kiss and told me she loved me. Children give their love so freely. It was so long ago; it's remarkable that I'm tearing up about it now, isn't it?
Where was I? Oh, Dr. Isaacs. When I looked back up at him the pitying expression on his face infuriated me. I thought he pitied me my failure to be pregnant. Gathering up my handbag and kerchief, I stood.
'Well. I certainly don't understand why you felt the need for an appointment to tell me
The doctor grimaced and ran a hand over his face. He glanced at Clara. 'Please sit down. That wasn't the only reason I asked you to come in. I need to discuss your pregnancy screening tests with you.'
His tone alarmed me; I sat. 'What? Tell me. Have I got cancer? A venereal disease? The wild card? What?'
Something in his expression told me I'd guessed the truth. The world went strange and flat. I pressed my kerchief to my lips. Clara's hand was on my arm; her worried little face looked up Wide-eyed at me, asking me what was wrong.
'Tell me which.'
'Perhaps we should have Nurse Clifford take Clara outside,' he said.
***
Once we were alone, he told me what you must have already guessed, that it was the wild card.
'It's a standard test for pregnant women. I'm sorry.'
'Whatever are you apologizing for?' I had my composure back by then. 'Obviously you've confused my blood sample with someone else's. I don t associate with those sorts of people. I go out of my way to avoid jokers. There's no way I could have been exposed.'
Unless, it occurred to me, Brandon had been visiting houses of ill repute, or joker drug dens, or had a secret life as a 'weekend hippie.' Weekend hippies looked and acted normal during the week but then put on wigs and bellbottoms and love beads and peace signs at night or on the weekends, grew sideburns and read bad poetry to each other and smoked marijuana cigarettes till their brains leaked out their ears.
And I knew he'd tried that marijuana stuff at a recent American Bar Association convention. He'd brought a marijuana cigarette home and I'd flushed it down the commode, terrified the police would break in and arrest us both at any minute, or that mere skin contact might be enough to tie my unborn children's chromosomes into pretzels. He'd laughed at me.
Brandon. Brand could have picked it up someplace disreputable and given it to me.
But Dr. Isaacs was shaking his head. 'You could live alone on a desert island and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. The spores are all over the world by now and they aren't transmitted from human to human. They're airborne. Or genetic. Those are the only two ways you can contract it. And since we know you
'But I feel fine!'
He was shaking his head again. 'The virus is dormant in you right now. It could remain dormant forever, or it could express itself tomorrow.'
I remained silent, just looking at him.
He went on, 'There are things about this situation that you can't control, and things you can. You can't control the fact that you have the virus. But it's possible that the virus will never express itself in you. You could live out a very normal, fulfilling life.
'But I must strongly advise you against a second pregnancy. The child would be at high risk of being a carrier. And the stress of the pregnancy and labor would almost certainly cause the virus to express itself in you.
'The wild card is a life-threatening illness and I won't lie to you: the prognosis is not good if it is triggered. The vast majority of wild card victims die a very painful death, and most of the rest end up with severe deformities. I've lost a sister to the disease and I can assure you, it's not to be taken lightly.'
'Doctor, this is absurd.'
He leaned across the desk. 'I know this is difficult for you to hear. But you must do everything you can to minimize all stress in your life. Stress is a key factor in whether the virus expresses itself. Here.' He placed a business card down on the desk. 'I'm sure you're familiar with Dr. Tachyon's work at the Blythe Van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic in Jokertown. There's no one in the world with greater expertise in the wild card virus. I advise you to make an appointment to see him as soon as you can. Today, if possible.'
I was familiar with Tachyon, all right. That odious alien had seduced Brand's mother, Blythe, away from her husband and children, had destroyed first her reputation and then her life — had brought Brandon such pain he still couldn't bear to speak it, after all these years. I didn't pick up the card.
'Surely you jest.'
'I'm quite serious. He's the best.'
I said nothing for a moment, looking down at my handbag and the kerchief wadded up in my trembling fist. Then I looked up at the doctor again.
'I can assure you there's been some mistake.'
But he was giving me that look again, that unbearable pitying look. I stood.
'I'll want a second opinion, then, by a doctor I can trust.'
Douglas, Mannerly knew how to throw a party.
Of course, the senior partners were up to something more than just presenting Brand to New York society as their boy wonder after the big court case he'd just won. '68 was a national election year. The papers and TV newscasts were cluttered with stories about the presidential and other candidates making their junkets around the country, and the city's power brokers were plotting for all they were worth.
I didn't know what their other motives were, and didn't care. The party was a major event and Brandon was at the center of it, which meant I was only a little right of center, myself. The glow it gave me blotted out any lingering unhappiness from the doctor's appointment.
Remember that dress you saw in the photo, with the big blue sequins? Those sequins shivered and glittered like shiny coins when I walked. The dress had spaghetti straps and was sinfully short, with cobalt blue silk stockings, square-toed, sequined platform heels, and a garter that one caught glimpses of when I danced, or lifted my arms or bent over just the slightest bit. And I loved the cobalt blue feather boa. My mother would have had to get out her smelling salts if she had seen me.
I'd done up my eyes in beatnik fashion. I had that sort of sultry, honey-blonde, green-eyed beauty that captivates certain men. So I got a few admiring looks, I don't mind telling you.
Douglas, Mannerly had rented the two uppermost floors of St.-Moritz-on-the-Park, which has a spectacular view of Central Park, and had hired a top-notch caterer and a jazz band. Enormous arrangements of rare tropical flowers rimmed the tables and walls. Lace-covered tables displayed caviars and pates, finger sandwiches, crisp vegetables on ice with dip, shrimp and smoked salmon. The bar served hard liquor and mixed drinks, as well as wine and champagne. The musicians were colored, but I didn't care as long as they didn't mingle.
Brandon was supposed to have come straight from work, but I didn't locate him right away. Plenty of introductions kept me busy, though.
Mayor and Mrs. Lindsay came. Several rumor-mongers had been whispering it around that Mrs. Lindsay had a joker deformity, which she may have been hiding under that full gown of hers, but I scrutinized her closely and saw nothing except a tendency to obesity. Needless to say, I avoided her anyhow.
Gregg Hartmann gave me a dance. He was a city councilman then, not yet mayor, or senator. I can tell you, the man knew how to foxtrot. I also chatted with Asaf Messerer, the balletmaster and main choreographer for the Bolshoi Dancers, who were performing at the Met.
I tipped the photographer covering the party to get several shots of me and Brand during the evening — which is where the photos you're looking at came from. He promised to mail them to me within the week.
***
