Knuckles rapped as best they could against the grey, brushed fabric that lined the outside of her cramped enclosure. Sewell stood in the opening, clutching a stack of floppy disks in one hand, a thick programming book in the other.
"Your sentence has been served, Val. You're a free woman."
"Thanks, Warden. I just want to finish up the Pro-Dos team roster that Paul gave me." Sewell hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes gazing around Valerie's office as if looking for clues. His voice softened.
"If it's anything serious," he said, "maybe we should talk."
"What?" Her voice almost cracked.
"You're so full of high tension I'm afraid to bring these disks near you. One touch and you'd degauss them. Is this surgery something serious?"
Under her desk, Valerie's right leg began to shake with slight uncontrollable movements. Her stomach fluttered. Taking a sharp breath that was almost a snort, she tried to sound dis-missive.
"It's nothing. Abdominal surgery. A small growth. I hear they do it with lasers now. In and out. You know."
Her boss mulled it for a moment. "If this new position is giving you an ulcer already, take my advice. Self-fulfillment isn't worth it if you kill yourself."
"I'm not killing"-she caught her breath-"myself. I'm fine. I'll be back in on Monday. Friday, even, if all goes well." She pointed to her bulging briefcase. "And I'm taking that home to work on over the weekend."
Sewell frowned. "Don't even think of it. I don't want you carrying that in Monday and blowing your stitches or seals or whatever they'll close you up with. Just rest."
"Thank you," she said softly. Realizing that she didn't sound too managerial, she cleared her throat and reached for the briefcase. "I'll need something fun to read in the waiting room. If I need any assistance carrying it, I'll use the hired help."
He snorted a mild laugh and smiled. "Good night, Val."
"Good night, Ernie."
When he had gone, she let out a sigh of tired relief. It'll be over tomorrow, she thought, trying to comfort herself as she gathered together her belongings. The briefcase in one hand counterbalanced a stack of progress reports in the other. A series of "Good night" murmurs followed her out of the office area. She made a point of returning each one, even though her thoughts darted feverishly around to her plans for Thurs-day.
Maybe I should take the day off. "Good night, Marcie." I can't eat beforehand. "Good night, Jer." I'll leave a Top Shelf or two for Ron to heat up. "G'night, LeRoy." I wonder if I will be able to do any work this weekend. "`Night, Faouzi."
She took her favorite scenic route home, up to Malaga Cove, where towering eucalyptus trees swayed in the sea breeze to conceal million-dollar homes. A quick spin past the sea-cliff estates on Paseo del Mar. She had not yet found out which one belonged to Frank Sinatra, but she would keep at it until she did. Every new rumor she overheard mentioned a different mansion, and she thought it too snoopy to ask. Palos Verdes people never pried, and after just three years of owning a small, older house in the Lunada Bay area, she and Ron considered themselves consummate residents. They were not aware whether anyone else considered them so. After all, they were now Palos Verdes people. And Palos Verdes people never pry.
IV
Valerie spent Thursday watching old movies on the VCR. Following the instructions in the pamphlet Dr. Fletcher had given her, she ate a light breakfast-unusual for her, since she generally skipped morning meals. She knew, though, that she'd be ravenous by lunchtime without it.
Wrapped in a mountain-sky-blue satin peignoir she'd just the month before bought at Victoria's Secret, she sat in bed with a serving tray over her lap, the VCR remote reposing in the magazine caddy. She had decided that morning, after Ron had left early for Century City, to pamper herself without guilt. With Daddy gone five years now and her mother still in Colo-rado Springs, she needed to feel as if she were home from school.
The bloated briefcase sat atop the progress reports in the third bedroom, which they had converted into an office. Out of sight, out of mind.
Fred Astaire swirled fluidly across the dance floor, with Gin-ger held gracefully in his slender arms. She watched them move in tones of gray on the screen atop Ron's bedroom dresser. The dancer's death had saddened her more than the usual regret she felt at hearing of the passing of other aging movie stars. She felt that he could have, should have, kept danc-ing forever, that the world had benefited gloriously by his be-ing here and had suffered greatly at his loss.
Her finger punched the remote, stopping the tape and switch-ing to cable. It had been set for "CNN
Headline News." An-other anencephalic baby had been delivered to a nearby hos-pital in a recently revived organ harvesting project. It was to be put on life support. Parents of other children nervously awaited its brain death so that its vital parts might be used to save their own children's lives. Valerie shuddered at the thought of a baby born without a brain. She'd inadvertently seen a photograph of one on the news but hadn't turned away fast enough: sunken skull, like a doll that had been stepped on, seemingly golfball-sized eyes protruding.
A chill trembled across the backs of her arms and shoul-ders. What pain the mother must have felt to have gone for so long, gone all the way, and then...
She climbed out of bed to change tapes. Forbidden Planet. Leslie Neilsen, Anne Francis, and Walter Pidgeon. That will be fun. She hit the Play button and climbed back into bed. It's better this way, she thought. You never know what might happen. She was not certain that she would be a good enough mother to tolerate even a moderately sickly child. She feared that she would not be strong enough to endure a child de-formed or dying.
Abortion was best.
She found that she could think of the word without hesita-tion, without substituting a euphemism such as "pregnancy termination."
She imagined her life spreading before her like a river. She could take any one of an infinite number of streams that branched away. Some paralleled the main flow; others turned sharply away into unknown darkness, still others meandered aimlessly into dry lake beds. A child at this point in her life would break her away from the flow, push her into a backwa-ter, stop the momentum her life had gained. The M-G-M lion roared. Eerie electronic tonalities filled the room. She ceased thinking about her life, content to finish her egg and back bacon on toasted muffin, drink her orange juice, and watch the Technicolor world of robots, lust, and Monsters from the Id.
There were no children on Altair IV.
"
The opening and shutting of the front door awakened Valerie from a slumber. At first, she thought it was morning. The out-side world was dark, she was in bed. The TV, though, was on. Then she remembered closing her eyes while watching Rossano Brazzi profess his love for Alida Valli in Noi Vivi. The tape must have run out, for the TV had switched back to cable.
Ron stepped into the bedroom. "It's five-thirty, Val." He saw her staring at the TV. "Are you okay?" Valerie nodded sleepily. It always took her longer to awaken from a nap than it did from a full night's sleep. She took a deep draught of water from the Waterford set on her nightstand, sat up, and smiled at him.
"I'm fine, honey. I just drifted off. I'll be ready in time." He moved to her side of the bed, threw his arms around her, and squeezed with loving tenderness.
"You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to."
She returned the hug. "If I don't, you won't be able to say the same thing in the delivery room." A silence passed between them for a moment.