Chapter Thirty-Three
The doctor’s office on West Thirty-seventh Street is small and quiet, and mercifully we are the only people inside.
As soon as I’m ushered into a private room, with just Stanny taking his seat in a wooden chair beside a sterile examination table, I turn to him and whisper: “What are we doing here?” My words are hushed, but the rage is evident.
“And why didn’t you allow Mamma to come in with me? ”
“You’re welcome, Evelyn.” Stan folds his hands across his lap, an infuriatingly placid expression settling on his face. “It’s been a while. It’s nice to see you, as well. I’d ask you how your summer has been, but I suspect that you’ve found ways to keep yourself…entertained.”
“Oh, enough. This isn’t some Broadway stage, and you can drop the act. You knew things were never going to be the same between us since—”
“To answer your question, Evelyn, your poor mother has been through enough. I’ve had my driver bring her back to the hotel so that she may rest. She need not endure this ordeal, on top of everything else you’ve put her through.”
My cheeks flush with fury. “Why did you even drag me here in the first place? What are you getting at?”
Stan maintains his unnaturally bland mien as he says, “You’re lucky I have a friend who could see you immediately, Kitten. Dr. Porter will be discreet.”
“Discreet about what?”
Stan laughs, a joyless sound, and looks down at his hands with a woeful shake of his head. Then, peering back up at me, he asks: “In your utterly reckless behavior, did it never occur to you to protect yourself?”
Why would I have to protect myself from a man like Art? It’s Stan from whom I should have protected myself.
“Evelyn, for heaven’s sake, you really are just a kid.” Stan exhales. “How do you think babies are made?”
My stomach feels as though it could drop out of my body, and I tip back, sitting down on the sterile medical table.
The pieces click into place: Stan’s words about the doctor, Mamma’s concern, even Art’s mute acquiescence.
Stanny always used a device—he told me it was made of lambskin—when we were together.
He told me it was to protect me, and I never inquired further, given how much more experienced he was.
But now that I think of it, Art took no such precautions.
My entire body has gone cold. Have Art and I conceived a child? Now I see why Stan told Art he might have ruined my career—I would certainly have to leave the stage if I were with child. And my modeling work would be over. Am I ready for that? Am I ready, at eighteen, to be a mother?
But before I can make sense of any of this, a man in pince-nez spectacles and a long white coat enters the room without a knock.
Dr. Porter. He does not ask for my name, but already seems to know it as he reviews the papers in his hands.
“Miss Talbot, would you please remove your clothing and recline on the examination table?”
Horror washes through me. Total and complete mortification.
Stan excuses himself, quitting the room as the doctor averts his eyes.
When Dr. Porter uses a key to lock us in and then says, “Let’s begin, Miss Talbot,” I feel as lifeless as stone.
Staring at the locked door, I refuse to move for a long moment.
An impatient clearing of his throat tells me that the doctor is waiting.
His face betrays no emotion—perhaps it’s even boredom that crosses his features.
I feel that familiar void of nothingness opening deep in my core.
Longing only for this to be over so that I may escape, I rasp out a breath.
And then, moving like I am in the grip of a trance, I slip my skirt off, slide my stockings and bloomers down, and recline on the table to undergo the most degrading of physical examinations.
He pokes and prods, but I resist the urge to show my pain or my shame.
Instead, I slide inward to that quiet place in the back of my mind.
That place behind all thoughts and feelings, that vacuum of deep numbness.
I don’t know how long it lasts. Once dressed, I am forced to slip out of my trance to endure the doctor’s mortifying litany of questions.
I land back into myself, seated upright on the table, as Dr. Porter asks me whether I had “physical relations” with Mr. Arthur Darrow.
I remain silent. “Did Mr. Darrow force himself on you?”
Given that the doctor has already had access to far more of me than I would have ever liked, I refuse to answer any of his vile questions. Eventually, perhaps seeing that he’d have more luck with a pile of bricks, the man leaves the room with a scowl.
He returns a moment later with Stan on his heels. “The girl is not answering,” the doctor says, looking only at Stan.
Stan nods, a look of paternal concern plastered on his features as he steps slowly toward me, moving like he’s approaching a trembling animal.
An animal caught in a trap, which is precisely how I feel as Stan places his hand softly on my leg and entreats: “Evelyn, you must answer Dr. Porter. He will help you. Did this rake, this Darrow fellow, seduce you?”
I cross my arms and look out the window. Tense silence pulses in the room, and it’s the doctor who breaks it. “Well, she does not appear to be with child.”
With a conspiratorial tilt of his head, the man adds: “But whether or not she’s intact, that’s for you and the young lady to discuss.” A quick glance passes between them, then a small shake of the doctor’s bespectacled head.
I look to Stanny, astounded. He knows I’m not intact! It was he who broke me. But without any further discussion, he thanks the doctor and ushers me out. It’s not until we are back in his motorcar that I hiss: “It was not Art who unvirgined me, and you know it better than anyone.”
Now I see why he excused Mamma from this unholy errand! Mamma who still, to this day, has never inquired about the true extent of my relations with Stan. Even as she appeared so eager to bring me to the doctor when Art was involved.
“I suppose now you’re relieved, Stan,” I say, my voice chilled with sudden clarity. “Now you can blame my besmirchment on another man and wash your hands of your original sin. That’s why you brought me to that hoax of an appointment, isn’t it?”
Stan ignores my question, but I see that his face has gone unnaturally pale. “So, did you…did you let him in?”
I’m so disgusted by him, by the charade he wishes to maintain of being my protector, when all along the opposite has been true.
And now he can’t allow me to be happy with the man I love.
My rage and my hatred fuel my response. “Stan, I didn’t let him in; I invited him in.
” Looking him squarely in the face, I add: “Which is more than you can say.”
Stan lets out a slow whistle. I’m repulsed by the sight of his orange-silver mustache when his lips curl into a wry sneer and he says: “I gotta hand it to him, the kid is good. Got you to open up much quicker than I did. And for a pittance of the price.”
I can’t look at him a moment more. I turn, stare out the window as I mutter, “You couldn’t possibly understand what Art and I share.”
“You know the pup is penniless?”
This catches me off guard. “That’s ridiculous. He’s a very talented sketch artist.”
“More like a con artist.”
I turn my eyes, which are blazing, back onto Stan, hoping to burn him with my heat as I rasp: “You’ll do anything you can to break us apart. To keep me in your control. But I won’t listen to this.”
“Oh, grow up, kid. You’re acting your age.
In addition to being impetuous, foolish, and reckless, you’ve also been incredibly lucky that your frolic with that stripling didn’t leave you in the family way.
But you still can’t seem to see reason. Even after your mother and I pulled you back from the cliff just in time. ”
The motorcar has arrived outside the Audubon. I look through the window, then to Stan, sitting back against the seat. “What? No, I’m not staying here. Take me back to the Algonquin.”
Stan has recovered his equanimity, and his tone is steady, even a bit frosty as he says, “Kitten, you’re a mess.
Go inside and take a bath. Talk to your mother.
If the pup really wants to marry you, he’ll keep till tomorrow.
But just do me one final favor, and then you never need to speak to me again. Just sleep on it, would you?”
“You’re a fool, Stanley Pierce,” I hiss with quiet venom. “You think one night apart would change our minds? We are going to marry.”
“Maybe you will,” Stan says with a shrug. The chauffeur has arrived at my door, which he opens, letting in the noises of Midtown all around us as Stan stares at me but doesn’t rise. “Then at least go have a conversation with your mother. It’s the least you can do.”
I step out of the auto and stride toward the hotel without a look back.
My mind is battered, and I can feel the beginning of a headache as I trace the familiar route to our suite.
I’m back in a place that I was once so elated to call home.
But now, as I enter the apartment, I notice how the place that once felt like my luxurious haven has come to feel like a prison.