William Kienzle - Requiem for Moses

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.

Simple-but he knew that he would never go that far; he would never trouble himself to that degree.

Why should he? There were plenty of other potential mistresses around. And the next time, he would be more careful. He would make certain that the next woman-women? — would take every precaution … with the certain knowledge that being with child would automatically mean being without Moe.

But first he must get rid of Claire.

Dr. Green was not disposed to the soft touch or the language of diplomacy. He tried intercourse with her one more time. It was a near disaster.

As he abruptly left the bed and reached for his clothes, Claire pulled the sheet up around her. She was, of course, aware there was a problem. She had no idea what the cause was; she only hoped that somehow Moe would solve it. She had abiding faith in him.

“Claire,” Green said as he pulled on his shorts, “I think it’s time we went our separate ways.”

“Wh-what?” Her heart began to pound.

“A relationship like ours doesn’t last a lifetime. It’s time we recognized that and moved on.”

“But … but you’re going to divorce your wife. When … when it’s time. That’s what you said. I know we’re having problems … but we can work them out. I know we can. Maybe it’s something I’m doing wrong. We can talk about it. It’ll get better, you’ll see. I can be a perfect wife. Please, Moe, let’s talk.”

“Talk time is over. You’re a good kid. But you have to take a more realistic approach to life. For one, you’re never gonna be a dancer. I’ve had to pay your teacher over scale just to keep you as a student. Haven’t you noticed that Jake hasn’t moved you up in the chorus line?”

Ignoring the hurt and vulnerability on her face, indeed in every line of her body, he swept on. “As for sex, ours is deteriorating. Even you admit that. Take it from me, you gotta read the signs of the times. And, with us, the signs all point to the end of the game. It’s over. What we gotta do now is bury it. Let’s do this like civilized people, without making an unseemly fuss. Whad’ya say?”

“Moe, I don’t have to be a dancer-not if I’m your wife!”

“My wife! That’ll be the day! Margie’s a shark when she has to be. She wouldn’t give me a divorce unless she walked away with everything. And I’m kinda used to everything.”