Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,45

foremost reason for Alan's first having risked performing an abortion. Well, what had they in common? Gerda's never-ending quest for Louis XV mirrors bored and impoverished him; her genteel habit of eating prune Danish with knife and fork (which at first had seemed so charming) now irritated him. For her part, Gerda stolidly accepted his refusal to trade in their Rambler station wagon for a Jaguar XKE or to grow what she called an "unobtrusive little Vandyke." Gerda would, of course, accept almost anything because Alan had fathered a son she found entirely beautiful.

On Friday Bill announced a weekend trip to Chicago, a conference with a prospective sponsor, and Gillian was appropriately grateful. She decided against hazarding the drive herself and called Station Taxi. The cab driver dropped her at a drugstore at the end of town and she walked back the few short blocks to the corner of Thompson. A small unobtrusive sign beside a lamp post identified the doctor's office. The low brick building was set back from the road and was modestly landscaped – it seemed to serve as a buffer between the business buildings to the south and the split levels and spaced ranch homes to the north. A Rambler station wagon, its chrome running to rust, was parked beside the building. It had M.D. plates.

The foyer was dimly lit. To her right was the waiting room. She sat opposite the door to the doctor's office. She studied with amused interest a grouping of pictures over the deep green leather couch. Marin's Lower Manhattan fought mood, color and style with Renoir's Le Pont Noeuf. Beside the paintings was a Louis XV mirror that Gillian would have sworn was authentic. A copy of a G. H. Davis World War II sketch of German and American fighter planes in aerial battle hung tastelessly with the others. The room furnishings were less expensive than one might expect in a King's Neck office, and the imbalance of color and style was unsettling.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Hetterton. And you are Mrs. Brown, I believe."

"That's right."

Gillian looked into the full face of a man who was medium tall, maybe five feet ten, and of stocky build. He wore his graying hair in a modified crew cut, and Gillian guessed he was on the far side of forty-five. He returned the glance and gave no indication of his thoughts.

"Mrs. Brown, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes, doctor," she said.

"I have a remarkable number of Mrs. Browns on file," he said.

"That is remarkable," Gillian said. "I have no relatives here."

"Just so," he said.

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

The doctor cleared his throat and stepped inside the small office, then led her into an examination room off to the left. He handed her a surgical gown and gestured toward a curtained-off sector of the chamber. Gillian was thankful that he had dismissed his nurse. She disrobed quickly and poked her head through the curtain.

"Come on out," the doctor said. "I don't bite."

Following his directions, Gillian climbed onto the examining table. The doctor rolled a large machine over to the table. He draped a cloth over Gillian's legs and gently placed her feet in the stirrups at either side of the table. Then, less gently, he plunged the speculum into her. He completed the check in silence, then leaned against the wall and ignited a cigarette.

"Two months," he said. "Two months into a first pregnancy."

"That's right – almost to the day. Didn't I tell you that on the phone?"

"You know" – he seemed not to be listening to her – "the women in France have babies right out in the field and then go on with their day's work."

"Bully for them." If it weren't for that damn gadget tearing at her insides, Gillian would have walked out of the room.

"I just want to be sure," the doctor said. "I don't want you to do anything you're going to regret."

"How long is this going to take?" Gillian said. "Let's just get it over with. Are you going to give me anything?"

Dr. Hetterton pressed down on the foot pedal that opened the sterilizer. Steam billowed up the wall. He reached over to a plastic container in which forceps rested in an alcohol bath. Then he seemed to have second thoughts.

"Stretch your arms straight down and clasp the edge of the table. This will be over in a few seconds."

He switched on the diathermy machine and firmly clasped the cautery gun. The intense heat spread through Gillian and she bit her