She transferred six thousand dollars from her personal account to the Lemon Tree account. She filled out some forms and was given a signature card to take along with her. On her way out the bank manager headed her way, obviously intent on expressing his feelings for her loss. She pretended not to notice him and managed to dodge the encounter.
It had been raining off and on all morning. Now it was clear and the sun was shining as she walked down Main to the Mall. “I may be taking a trip,” she told Linda. “A couple of weeks away from here would probably do me good. I haven’t made any plans yet, but I’ve arranged with the bank so that you can pay any bills that start to pile up. They need to have your signature on file.”
She returned the signed card to her purse, lit a cigarette, walked idly around the little shop. She said, “I don’t suppose I have to tell you you’ve been a godsend to me. I’d have just closed up. I’d close now if I didn’t have you to run it for me.” She picked a poorly carved giraffe from a shelf, clucked at it, put it down again. “But you enjoy it, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you like the town.”
“Yes, I do like it here. I’m just beginning to realize how much I like it here. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about finding an apartment.”
“It’s pointless to stay in that tenement for any length of time.”
“It is, and I’m willing to commit myself to a lease. To the idea of spending the next year here.”
“And not getting married in the meantime?”
“Oh, that’s over. That’s been over for awhile.”
“I think that’s as well.”
“Do you?”
“I think a woman’s better off waiting for the right one. Even if he never comes along.”
“And he wasn’t the right one?”
“No. Or you wouldn’t be looking for an apartment, would you?”
She lunched on a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was raining when she left the lunchroom, a soft and tentative rain. She walked quickly to George Perlmutter’s house on Ferry Street. There were patients in his waiting room but he took her ahead of them.
“I could have waited,” she said. “It’s nothing all that urgent.”
“I never thought it was. Does the others good to wait a little longer. Improves my image. What can I do for you, Olive?”
“I haven’t slept well since Clem went to the hospital. I haven’t slept at all since he died.”
“I see. Well, that’s one thing we’ve got a cure for.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Don’t tell the AMA I brought it up, but have you tried any of the nonprescription items? They work for most people, and I like to stay away from the stronger drugs when I can avoid it.”
She said, “I went through the same sort of thing when my father died. I had to take Seconal every day for a month and it worked like a charm.”
“Yes, if does that. I gather you’d like me to prescribe Seconal.”
“Please.”
“Simple enough. Every case should be so simple.” He wrote rapidly on a pad of prescription blanks, tore off the top sheet and handed it to her. “Anything else troubling you? Headaches? Depression?”
“No headaches. Depression? Well, I haven’t been doing handsprings.”
“But nothing you can’t handle on your own?”
“No. George, I’ve never understood why doctors can’t write like everyone else. It’s incomprehensible to me. I can make out your numbers, though. I’m sure it will be more than a week before I can sleep without help.”
“No point in buying more pills than you need.”
“And when these are used up?”
“Just call me and I’ll renew the prescription.”
“That seems like a nuisance.”
“Does it?”
“I’d say so.”
“You’re still a young woman, Olive. You’re attractive, you’re healthy, you have no financial worries—”
“And I’m in good spirits. Four excellent reasons why you can prescribe a larger quantity of sleeping pills with a clear conscience.”
He got to his feet and paced back and forth between his desk and the window. He said, “We’re talking about something without mentioning it, aren’t we, Olive?”
“Then shall I mention it? We’re talking about suicide.”
“Yes, we are. And that’s not the only reason for giving you Seconal in small amounts. It’s a dangerous drug to possess in lethal quantities. It’s very possible to take pills and forget you’ve taken them; that sort of mental haziness is an effect of the drug. There have been so many cases of genuinely involuntary overdoses—”
“I can promise you I won’t take an involuntary overdose, George.”
“Well, that spells it out, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I sent a check a few months ago to an abortion reform movement. Their main argument is that a woman should have the right to do as she wishes with her own body. I see no reason why that right is the exclusive province of pregnant women.”
“I’m not sure how much of that I agree with. In any event, there’s a difference between acknowledging your right and—”
“And making it less of an ordeal for me? Oh, I’m not going to do away with myself, George. There — I’ve stated that categorically. But if I were, do you seriously think you could stop me? I could go to a half dozen doctors and take their prescriptions to a half dozen pharmacists.”
“I could make that difficult for you.”
“But not impossible. I could take these seven pills you’ve prescribed and wash them down with a quart of iron. That’s supposed to do the job. I could put my head in the gas oven. If I made up my mind to do what I’ve been talking about, I could hardly be prevented, but I would want to do it with the least pain and fuss and aggravation.”
“I’m supposed to prolong life, Olive, and you’re asking me to help shorten it.”
“You’ve done that before.”
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’ll forget you ever said it.”
“I could name names. I could mention a man who took an overdose of chloral hydrate. He got out of bed and walked to the medicine chest for it, I understand, and I also understand that was the first he’d walked in almost three years.”
“Is there anything that happens in this town that you don’t know? That was a terminal case, we couldn’t even reduce the pain anymore.”
“Oh, is that so. And don’t you recognize a terminal case when you see one, George Perlmutter? And do you think you can do anything about my pain? Do you think you can do anything on earth about my pain?”
At four o’clock she signed her will. She did not walk directly home. Instead she wandered slowly around town, taking her time. Autumn was beautiful here, here in this town to which she so completely belonged. Spring has a joy, an affirmation, a rebirth, but autumn had a slendor that no other season could match. Never did like winter.
You didn’t have to wait for winter. You could make it come to you on your own terms. You had that right.
Clem had had the right. He had had a decision to make, and he made it and she never considered interfering with it. She happened to feel it was the correct decision, but even if she had felt otherwise she would have acted no differently. She had never dictated the terms of his life; she could hardly have presumed to dictate the terms of his death.
She walked to her house almost without realizing it. She looked at it from the outside, walked up the driveway to the backyard. The garden was not at its best now. The mums were in bloom and did not look as good this year as they usually did. Someone ought to divide and reset them in the spring.