Requiem for Moses (7 page)

Cameron nodded slowly.

“Put her in that. Stick her back in the back row, put her in the wings—hell, put her backstage if you want.”

“This doesn’t make any sense at all, Moe. The broad is here as a favor, nothing more. We didn’t know anything about her; she might’ve turned out to be good. As it is, she stinks. We’ll let her finish her routine—if you could call it that. Then she’s outta here.”

“Tell you what,” Green persisted, “take her on and I’ll personally see that she gets professional instruction. If, after she gets the training, she can’t make this line legitimately, she’s history. But, in the meantime, she dances at Virago. I don’t care where. The ladies’ room.”

“Why bother? We got enough pros in this batch to fill our needs.”

“Jake, remember that revolving stage you were planning?”

Cameron winced.

“I was going to provide the financing.”

“
Was
going?”

“I think I’m running kind of short.”

“So are professional basketball players.”

“I’m just thinking of your timetable, Jake. The stage was your next priority.”

“We can afford it if you’re strapped.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“But not now.”

Cameron slumped in his chair. He hated to lose. He hated it that he never beat Green. Not once. “Okay, okay. But just as a matter of curiosity, why? Why go to all this trouble? She’s just a broad. You’ve had hundreds. I don’t see anything special about her. Good tits and ass. But that’s not hard to find. Why Claire McNern?”

Green sat back, relishing his victory. “Because, Jake, she knows how bad she is.”

“Huh?”

“She knows. I’ve been watching her. At first I didn’t see anything unique or even special about her. But I watched her expression as the other girls performed. She was stunned—amazed, thunderstruck, embarrassed. And then, when she got up to perform, it all became clear. She
knows.
”

“So?”

“Don’t you get it? I’m going to be her Abraham Lincoln … no, make that Swifty Lazar—hell, a combination of the two.”

“What?”

“The key to this whole thing is that the girl has learned a lesson today. She’s not Ginger Rogers. She hasn’t a chance in hell of dancing at Virago. Then, along comes me. I have taken pity on her. I’m gonna be her sugar daddy. I give her the Impossible Dream. I get her a job in Virago. It’s not much; in fact, the customers can barely see her. But she’s in. She made it.

“On top of all that, I provide lessons from the best. So she can gradually move up. And, most of all, she doesn’t have to hide in a corner when somebody like Jake Cameron offers her an audition.”

“Some plan.”

“Is she going to be grateful? I ask you. She will wonder what she possibly can do to repay my concern, my caring, my financial investment.”

“And you will have some ideas on the matter.”

“I’ll think of something.”

Jake gave Claire the good news. Miraculous news, in Claire’s opinion. And, indeed it was. Cameron also revealed to Claire the identity of her fairy godfather. It was part of the deal struck between Moe and Jake, whereby Cameron got his revolving stage and Green got his mistress.

Green carefully assessed his prey before getting to what he considered “the good part.” He investigated her background before making his move. Irish Catholic parents; six siblings, all living. From first grade through high school, Catholic training. Two years of Catholic college.

Green could relate. At least on paper, this was the way Green had raised his two children. Well, actually, Margie had raised them. But Moe had been an attentive onlooker.

Fortunately for Green’s purposes, Claire McNern’s parents had all but disowned her when she began her career in show business. If forced to choose—and they had been—her brother and sisters sided with their parents.

Thus, she would not have to be weaned from hearth and home.

Green set her up in a quasi-luxurious apartment and sent her to a highly recommended professional dance instructor. He planned everything carefully and, as it turned out, correctly. Although it rubbed wrong his entire being, all he did was give, give, give. He asked for nothing. He dismissed her avowals that, once established, she would repay him for all the considerable investment he had made in her.

Eventually, and in Green’s mind, inevitably, one pleasant evening when he was paying her one of his frequent visits, she would be wearing a seductive, revelatory, and—to her—sinful negligee.

Still he held off.

Instead of forcing himself upon her, he pushed the final button. He detailed a fabricated description of his loveless marriage. It had, he reluctantly admitted, been years since he had enjoyed the physical love of a caring woman.

She had almost exploded.

Among the many pleasures of that night, he had discovered that she was a virgin. But not anymore.

From the very beginning, his plans for Claire had been open-ended. In one scenario, he would have sex with her as early in their relationship as possible. Or he might prolong the suspense, then take her quickly, then drop her. The way things actually transpired, it was almost too good to be true. And to think he had made it up as he went along!

Now there was no way he would put her out of his life. With his convincing fiction, he had created the perfect woman-on-the-side.

As for Claire, life evolved into dancing lessons, practice, more practice, exercises, preparing meals for Moe, having sex with Moe, being at Moe’s beck and call.

She did not mind in the slightest that they never went out together. It would be a while yet before Moe was able to divorce his unloving wife and marry Claire.

She did not mind seeing newspaper photos of Dr. and Mrs. Moses Green. He was a high-profile celebrity in the fast lane of society. She understood.

Margie was aware of the affair. It was one of many. She never expected fidelity from her husband.

Moe was more than satisfied.

Then, one night, after intercourse, Claire turned on her side so her head was cradled on his shoulder. “I hate to say this, love, but I think something’s wrong.”

“Oh?”

“I missed my period.”

“Just one? That’s not unusual.”

“It is for me. I’m regular as rain, ‘member? I told you that when we discussed rhythm. It would be so easy for me because I’m so regular. That’s why I’m concerned about missing even one period.”

“You’re not going to bug me about that rhythm thing again! I told you I have no intention of making love by calendar.”

Claire propped herself up on one arm. “No, honey, not rhythm. I know how you feel about that. I’m just worried there might be something wrong with me.”

Green considered the situation. “Well, okay. You got dance class tomorrow morning, right?”

Claire, brow furrowed, nodded. She really was concerned.

“Okay,” Green continued. “After you get done, come to my office. We’ll run a couple of tests.”

“Thanks, honey. That makes me feel a lot better.” And to prove how much better she felt, she began again a leisurely foreplay.

The next day she appeared at his office immediately after class. He administered several tests in only one of which he was really interested. That test revealed that Claire was pregnant.

She had missed but one period. The fetus was in its earliest stages. It would have to go. With her strong Catholic upbringing she would, he knew, be utterly opposed.

In everything else she had been docile. Making love … the varieties of lovemaking … being a mistress … she had done it all, and more. All of which were sins in her Catholic training.

But abortion! Green knew she would not under any condition cross that line.

That night, when he arrived at their apartment, he greeted her. “Now I don’t want you to worry, but there’s a little something we have to check.”

She began to tremble.

“Don’t do that!” He could not tolerate cowardice in any form. “I’m going to do some further tests. The problem may require some surgery. But I’ll handle the whole thing. You got confidence in me?”

She quieted the tremors. “You’ve given me everything. Why shouldn’t I trust you?”

A very anxious Claire McNern checked into the hospital. She was lonely and apprehensive. Once the wristband was snapped shut, she felt that she was nothing more than an animated number, rather than a person. Indeed, the admissions clerk related to her as if she were an appliance that needed repair.

And so it went throughout the preparation for what she assumed would be further tests and possibly surgery.

The staff all seemed too busy to give her any expression of reassurance. Only one person, the nurse who would assist Dr. Green, treated Claire with kindness and empathy. Claire drew strength from this sympathetic nurse, Lana Kushner, R.N.

When Claire was fully prepped, Dr. Green made his entrance. Even in his scrub uniform, he was only slightly less imposing than paintings she had seen of God. In his hand, he held a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it and a pen. “How are you doing, Claire?”

“Better now that you’re here,” she said, feeling some small bravery for the first time. “Lana has been a big help.”

“That’s nice.” He did not even glance at the nurse. “Claire, there’s a formality before we take care of you. Just a lot of legal gobbledygook, but we have to have your signature on this line.” Still holding the clipboard, he lowered it so she could sign.

She took the pen, but began to read the paper.

“We haven’t got time to waste on reading this stuff. It just says you give me your consent to take care of you. Haven’t lost confidence in me, have you?” As he ended the question, his voice grew stern.

“Of course not.” She signed.

She did not see the single word typed in describing the treatment for which she had given her consent.

Hysterectomy.

She was wheeled into the operating room and transferred to the operating table. An anesthetist injected her. She drifted quickly into dreamless sleep.

The procedure moved along without complication. Dr. Green removed the uterus containing a fetus so undeveloped he was able to mask its presence by folding the womb over in the receptacle that held it.

No word was spoken during the operation. That was as expected. Surgeons differed in many ways one from the other. Some talked quite freely; some demanded strict silence unless there was an emergency requiring speech communication.

As Green was closing, stitching Claire together, Nurse Kushner reached for the dish holding the amputated uterus.

“Leave it alone!” Green commanded sharply. “I want to take it to pathology myself. I want to follow this thing through right away.”

Kushner was only slightly surprised. Usually, the trip to pathology was taken by a nurse. But … doctors could do whatever they pleased. What did puzzle her was the appearance of the uterus. But she said nothing. No use being raked over the coals on a matter of mere curiosity.

On his way to pathology he stopped at his locker. He made certain no one else was around. He deposited the healthy uterus in a plastic bag, sealed it, wrapped it in abundant paper toweling, and dropped it in the wastebasket. From his locker he took a package containing solidified carbon dioxide—dry ice—and some diseased connective tissue from a previous hysterectomy. This—the cancerous tissue—he delivered to pathology.

The deed was done.

He would have told Claire nothing. He would have left her sterile, without her realizing it.

But that was impossible. She would never again experience menstruation. There was no uterine wall to slough off since there was no longer a uterus. So he had to tell her what had happened to her. What he had done to her. But not everything—and, of course, not the reason.

He told her she’d had a cancerous growth on her uterus and the entire organ had to be sacrificed. It was, indeed, fortunate that she had called his attention to that abnormal condition of the missed period. And lucky that he’d been on the case. He understood that this naturally would come as a shock to her. But it was important that they return to normal sexual activity as soon as possible. It was good for her speedy recovery. And, of course, it would be a solace to him as well.

She reacted with expected dismay. A good part of what made her a woman was suddenly gone. In the face of this, she found only mild relief that a life-threatening situation had been excised.

So she set her mind on being a good mistress.

But something was wrong. She couldn’t identify it, but there was something. …

The “something” was Green’s reaction to Claire’s present physical condition. It surprised even him. He reassured her as well as himself that while the nursery was gone, the playpen was still there.

He had not anticipated this. Given his sexual proclivity, he was edging toward impotence. Intercourse was still possible with Claire. But he no longer was ready instantly. Nor did he last as long.

There was no doubt whatsoever that he did not want a child with Claire. So he had expected their sexual relations would soar to new heights once she had been rendered sterile.

The removal of her reproductive organ had been no part of his long-term plan. But when Claire’s concern over her missed period arose, he had seized the opportunity to remove any possibility of pregnancy. However, the practical consequences of the operation did not provide the aphrodisiac that he had expected.

What was the problem?

It came to him one day with unexpected clarity: He was making love to a cripple—a freak. Oh, not on the surface; externally, of course, Claire was as beautiful and desirable as ever.

But potency and impotency exist largely in the mind. And Moe Green’s mind was focusing on the uterus he had removed. That perfectly normal healthy organ was gone. Claire was not whole. That’s what had been distracting him; that’s what was impeding his performance to the point where the situation was adversely affecting his entire life.

What was to be done?

He could try to rationalize himself out of this tight corner into which he’d painted himself. He could see one of his psychotherapist colleagues; a few sessions on the couch might restore things to their normal level.