What She Had Instead of Virtue
by Herbert L. Zarov
Rebecca’s first impulse had been to tell no one. But the doctor—or whatever he was—said someone had to be with her for the procedure. In case anything went wrong, he said. Ruth had been her childhood friend, had stood beneath the Chuppah as her maid of honor when she’d married Berman, and had been her confidant, always listening, never judging, as her casual flirtation with Patrick had turned into a consuming passion.
“Have you told Patrick?” Ruth asked when Rebecca had finished her story.
“Tell him what?” Rebecca said. “That I’m pregnant and the kid might be his? Might not be. I’ll let him know when I know. If I ever do know?”
“If you were Queen,” Ruth asked—it was a game they’d played since grade school-- “What would you do?”
“I’d decree that the baby is Patrick’s,” Rebecca said. “I’d order a Church wedding. To make Patrick happy. But there’d be a Chuppah and a klezmer band, and when my father finished sitting shiva, he’d forgive me.”
Through the windows of Ruth’s apartment, Rebecca could see, in the gas lit twilight, construction cranes looming above the rising spires of the new Tribune Tower. She remembered the first time she’d told Ruth about Patrick, a lifetime ago at this same table, about the casual flirtation on the trolley and the walk that followed, the gorgeous stranger telling her that she was different, that she was witty, that he needed to see her again.
“This doctor,” Ruth said now. “Do you trust him?”
“Of course not,” Rebecca said. “I’m scared. You hear stories. Girls who can never have kids after. Who bleed out on the table. Or get infections. And die.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Ruth said.
“Just tell me you’ll be there.”
**** **** ****
The office was on the third floor above the L tracks. The doctor was tall and cadaverously thin with stooped shoulders and a sallow complexion. He introduced himself as Dr. Grayson. She told him she was Mrs. Miller.
“Don’t often come across married gals in this business,” Grayson said.
“My husband and I aren’t ready to start a family.”
“You got identification?”
“I don’t.”
“I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
“My name’s Rebecca Miller. I’m not a cop.”
“Your husband with you, Becky?”
She bristled at the “Becky,” the presumption of it.
“He couldn’t get off work. My girlfriend’s waiting downstairs.”
“The room’s the first door on your right,” Grayson said. “You can undress and get comfortable. I’ll knock before I come in.”
She lay trembling in the dank, fetid air. The single sheet beneath the coarse wool blanket was gray and speckled with dark stains. There was a terrible smell. Something had died, she thought. Maybe a rat decaying in the wall.
She pictured Grayson standing over her, holding a tool shaped like a coat hanger, stabbing pains, blood spurting.
“How’re we doing, Becky?” Grayson asked, as he padded into the room.
He removed the blanket, asked her to take off her panties. She imagined Patrick seeing her like this, her knees up, her feet stirruped. It was hard to believe he’d ever desire her again.
“What exactly are you going to do?” Rebecca asked.
“What you came here for me to do. It hurts some. Nothing you can’t stand. You’ll bleed for a few days. Just don’t lift anything heavy until it stops. And try not to have sex for a while. Do you think you can do that Becky?”
Rebecca’s fear morphed suddenly into fury. She was the wife of a respectable businessman, she thought, who could buy and sell this smarmy creep. The baby might well be her husband’s. And even if it wasn’t, Patrick was not some casual stranger she’d picked up in a bar.
After, she rode in the taxi, Ruth beside her, staring numbly at the bleak tenements.
“You did the right thing,” Ruth said. “You followed your heart.”
“My heart had nothing to do with it,” Rebecca said.
**** **** ****
In the olive-green hospital room, she lay alone with her baby nestled in her arms, the nurse off to retrieve Berman from the waiting room. She’d told herself that all babies looked alike, pink and swollen and prune faced. She’d not been prepared for the shock that first moment, when she’d fingered the wisps of raven hair and gazed into her daughter’s eyes, eerily and unmistakably, Patrick’s eyes.
The last awful night in Patrick’s apartment, she’d told him she was pregnant. She’d done the math she’d lied. The baby was Berman’s. She couldn’t be both a mother and his mistress. Is that all you think you are? he’d asked, his voice breaking. My mistress? He’d withdrawn into silence, turning away as she reached to touch him for the last time.
Now, she heard the slap-slap of footsteps approaching down the corridor, and then Berman was beside the bed, and she felt the bristles of his mustache brushing her cheek and heard the familiar timbre of his voice.
“I’m so happy,” he said, touching her hair as he gazed at her daughter.
“I know,” Rebecca said, lifting Sarah, his mother’s name, and offering her to him.
Later, they sat together quietly, listening to Sarah’s even breathing. Rebecca looked out the window, the gas lamps winking in the darkness, Patrick out there somewhere. She imagined for a moment returning to him with their daughter, telling him that the baby was his, that they belonged together. She knew it was nonsense. Lovely nonsense. But nonsense, nonetheless.
Berman sat beside the bed, Sarah nestled against his shoulder. Rebecca saw his happiness, a flickering flame she could snuff in a whispered word. But he had nothing to fear, she thought. She’d become a wily liar, practiced in the arts of deceit. She would say what needed to be said, do what needed to be done to protect her daughter. It would be, she told herself, what she’d have instead of virtue.
Herb Zarov taught American Literature at various colleges in the 1970s and went on after a mid-career adjustment to practice law for more than four decades at a large international firm. Since his retirement in 2018, he has devoted himself to writing fiction. His stories have appeared in the international online journal JewishFiction.net, The Great Lakes Review and Scribble, and his work has been short listed in three national contests. He enjoys talking with readers and writers and can be reached at Herbertzarov@gmail.com.