Jerry desperately wanted to help Chloe, so for starters he volunteered to pay the $500 for the procedure. To get the money, he would sell his beloved record collection. He lugged the heavy blue plastic milk crates into his car, about 400 albums, sure their sale value would cover it.
On an unusually warm day, Jerry staggered toward the used record store with two milk crates wedged under each arm. He pushed into the store, sweat dripping from his chin.
Records crammed every corner. Display bins used cardboard dividers to designate genres. Jerry shuffled to the back and drop his collection on the already crowded counter.
A middle aged, egret of a man, a splash of crimson hair on top, poised on a barstool, leaned back against the wall reading The Sacramento Bee. His head rested against a cork bulletin board crammed with concert announcements posted in hodgepodge fashion.
He lurched forward. “Let’s see what you got.” Flipping through a few, he shoved the crate back towards Jerry.
“Don’t want ‘em.”
“What do you mean? These are in great shape. I got some classics.”
“They’re crap. Get outta here.” His beady blue eyes pierced Jerry’s.
Jerry snatched the crates and limped back to his car. He didn’t know any other store in town that bought used albums. He would have to do some searching which meant there goes his Saturday.
He turned the car key in the ignition and heard rapid clicks but no engine starting up.
“Shit.” His car had been doing this lately, and he kept putting off buying a new starter. He would have to jump it. He turned around and caught sight of a couple of guys standing in front of the record store.
“Hey, would you guys mind giving my car a push. I need a jump. It’s right over there.”
The owner exploded through the front door.
“Get the hell outta here! I don’t want you bothering my customers selling your crap.”
“What the hell are you talking about!” Jerry said, enraged out of his mind. “Get back inside your fucking store.”
“You gonna make me?”
His memory knew that line from so many school yard skirmishes. Negotiate? Walk away? Just say no? No fucking way. His rational side was overruled by his primal side: Kill him, kill the goddamn guy.
Jerry heaved a swing. The owner put his hands up and blocked the punch. The fight was on, a blur of punches. The owner pulled Jerry’s shirt over his head. Bent over, a fist smashed into Jerry’s forehead flinging his glasses to the curb.
“C’mon guy, give him a break,” pleaded a bystander.
“No way. He started it,” he growled and landed another solid punch to Jerry’s face.
And then it stopped.
Jerry felt oddly euphoric. He staggered over to the guy and shook his hand. Then he stumbled around for his glasses. Someone handed them to him with one lens missing. Jerry found it on the sidewalk. He asked if he could use the bathroom and the owner said sure.
In the bathroom, he gasped at the mirror. The right side of his face was covered in blood, as was his shirt. He washed off as much as possible, popped the lens back into place and affixed his bent glasses atop his nose.
Back outside, the guys gave him a push, and he wended his way home.
He appraised himself in his own bathroom mirror. A gash was over his right eye. He determined it needed medical attention. He headed over to the emergency ward at the UC Davis Med Center near where he lived.
While he was in the waiting room, Chloe appeared. She got his voice message. In one shared gaze, with time stopped, was so much conveyed. His: I know, I know, I fucked up; hers: oh, Jerry, not this, not now. He shrugged his shoulders and averted his eyes. Limp, his body sacrificed for her, if only. Time lurched forward and she rushed over and sat next to him.
“Jerry, what the…”
“So random. A stranger. He clearly did not like me.” He wasn’t about to tell her about the records.
After six stitches, they headed back to Jerry’s place. Chloe warmed up some soup and ran him a bath. Moving about in perfect choreography, they were a seamless dance of cohabitation.
Night required opioids. Jerry slept like he was dead.
***
“Dad?”
“How much?”
“$500.”
“I’ll put it in the mail today.”
“Thank you so much.”
***
They returned to the women’s clinic where they waited, not talking. The receptionist called Chloe’s name. Jerry clutched her hand.
The walls were unadorned and without windows. The bed with stirrups stood in the center. Tired white sheets covered it; fluorescent lights focused on it. A metal garbage can stood beside it. A nurse removed its trash bag, tied it up, and put in a new one. She motioned Chloe into the bed. She climbed on and slipped her feet into the stirrups.
A male doctor entered in white scrubs. He was young, small framed, and wore collegiate glasses. He introduced himself. Eyes looked away.
A whooshing sound filled the room. Sterilizer stung Jerry’s nostrils.
The doctor inserted his medical vacuum. Chloe jerked her body. Her hand squeezed Jerry’s with a strength he didn’t know she had.
“Chloe, you’ve got to relax or there’s a good possibility I might perforate your uterus,” snapped the doctor.
Her body acquiesced. Her eyes, dark pools of fright, closed. Tears trickled down her face.
After it was over, Chloe dressed in silence. Her fingers reached the top button of her dress and trembled. Her hands dropped to her sides. She dropped into a chair and sobbed. Jerry placed his hand on her back moving it in slow, small circles as she had done for him. The sobs subsided. Jerry buttoned the last button for her. She rose up onto her feet, lay a gentle hand on her belly and sighed. They hugged, kind of, sideways, with no emphasis.
Jerry drove them to Chloe’s house, and this time he prepared soup for her. Surveying The Moosewood Cookbook, he chose vegetable chowder. Chloe wasn’t hungry. She just wanted to sleep. After helping her into bed, Jerry flopped into a chair, not really thinking, just staring into space. He gazed at Chloe in a medicated deep sleep and decided to take a walk.
The sun was setting behind the ancient black oaks. Working class homes, built in the 30s, proudly invited all to admire their porch swings, wood slatted shutters and gable roof lines. Golden leaves wafted to the ground, the last to let go. All so serene, so perfect, yet everything was so wrong.
Jerry kept walking and walking and walking. He bought a pack of cigarettes, something he hadn’t done since Adam’s suicide, and puffed along like a steam engine train, bothered. He counseled himself that the crisis was over, he had done his best, it was tragic, but it was the right decision. It didn’t help. He couldn’t stop walking, as if something sinister was after him.
He had snuffed out a grace note. His voice demanding pleasure had rendered a dark consequence. And in this darkness, all he felt was God’s absence. How can God be absent and present at the same time? Yet despite His absence, Jerry cared about Chloe’s pain and suffering; he cared about the loss of this potential life. And he felt damned. Clearly, he was not minister material. That vocation guy was right. He was acting out in negative ways. He was dangerous.
His legs wore out. He hobbled back to Chloe’s home and slept by her side…on the floor.