I stood in the Morgans' living room with my coat still on, for it was not suggested that I stayfor dinner or anything else. Both Joe and Rennie were in the kitchen, leisurely preparing supper for the boys. They seemed in good humor, and had apparently been joking about something.

"Where have you been this time?" Rennie asked.

"Everything's all settled," I said.

"All you have to do is catch the next plane to Vatican City," Joe told her, mocking the weariness and relief of my voice, "and tell the man you're the Pope's concubine."

"I said once and for all I won't lie," Rennie laughed.

"I'll pick you up at nine o'clock," I said. "The appointment's for nine-thirty. It won't be Ergotrate."

Rennie's smile faded; she paled a little.

"Have you really found somebody?"

"Yes. He's a retired specialist who runs a convalescent home out near Vineland."

"What's his name?" Joe asked unsmilingly.

"He wants to stay anonymous. That's understandable enough. But he's a good doctor. I've known him for several years, before I came here. In fact, I took this teaching job at his suggestion."

They showed some surprise.

"I've never heard of a convalescent home out that way," Rennie said doubtfully.

"That's because he keeps the place private, for his patients' benefit, and because he's a Negro doctor with an all-white clientele. Not many people know about him."

"Is he safe?" Joe asked, a little suspiciously. They were both standing in the doorway by this time.

"That doesn't matter," Rennie said quickly, and went back to the stove.

"Will you be ready at nine?" I asked her.

"I'll be ready," she said.

"You'll want to come too, won't you?" I asked Joe.

"I don't know," he said dully. "I'll decide later."

It was as though I'd spoiled something.

Back in my room, the pressure off, I experienced a reaction not only against the excitement of the days just past but against my whole commitment. It was not difficult to feel relieved at having finally prevented Rennie's suicide, but it was extremely difficult to feel chastened, as I wanted to feel chastened. I wanted the adventure to teach me this about myself: that regardless of what shifting opinions I held about ethical matters in the abstract, I was not so consistently the same person (not so sufficiently "real," to use Rennie's term) that I could involve myself seriously in the lives of others without doing real damage all around, not least of all to my own tranquillity; that my irrational flashes of conscience and cruelty, of compassion and cynicism -- in short, my inability to play the same role long enough -- could give me as well as others pain, and that the same inconsistency rendered it improbable that I could remain peacefully in painful positions for very long, as Joe, for example, could remain. I didn't consistently need or want friends, but it was clear (this too I wanted to learn) that, given my own special kind of integrity, if I was to have them at all I must remain uninvolved -- I must leave them alone.

A simple lesson, but I couldn't properly be chastened. My feelings were mixed: relief, ridiculousness, embarrassment, anger, injured pride, maudlin affection for the Morgans, disgust with them and myself, and a host of other things, including indifference to the whole business.

Also, I was not a little tired of myself, and of my knowledge of my selves, and of my personal little mystery. Although I had, in fact, no intention of keeping my pledge to go to Pennsylvania with the Doctor, I composed a brief note to Dr. Schott, informing him of my resignation: my grand play for responsibility had indeed exhausted me, and I was ready to leave Wicomico and the Morgans. In a new town, with new friends, even under a new name -- perhaps one couldpretend enough unity to be a person and live in the world; perhaps, if one were a sufficiently practiced actor. . . Maybe I would marry Peggy Rankin; take her surname; father a child on her. I smiled.

At a few minutes before nine o'clock I went to get Rennie, and found her and Joe just finishing a late dinner by candlelight.

"Big occasion," Joe said dryly. He flicked on the light at once and blew out the candles, and I saw that they'd been eating hot dogs and sauerkraut. Allowing Rennie to put her coat on by herself, he started carrying dishes to the sink.

"How long does this take?" he asked me.

"I don't know, Joe," I said, acutely uncomfortable. "I shouldn't think it would take very long."

"I'm ready," Rennie said. She looked bad: white and shaky. Joe kissed her lightly and turned the sink faucet on to wash the dishes.

"You're not coming?" I asked him.

"No"

"Well --" I said. Rennie was already headed for the door. "See you after a while."

We went outside. Rennie bounded gracelessly ahead of me down the sidewalk, and opened the car door before I could do it for her. She sniffed a little, but held back the tears. I drove out the highway toward Vineland.

"This really turned into a mess, didn't it?" I said sympathetically. She stared out the window without answering. "I'm terribly sorry that any of it happened."

She gave no clue to her feelings. The thing that I was sharply conscious of was her loneliness in what had happened and what was about to happen -- the fundamental, last-analysis loneliness of all human beings in critical situations. It is never entirely true, but it's more apparent at some times than at others, and just then I was very much aware of her as apart from Joe, myself, values, motives, the world, or history -- a solitary animal in a tight spot. And Joe, home, washing the dishes. Lonely animals! Into no cause, resolve, or philosophy can we cram so much of ourselves that there is no part of us left over to wonder and be lonely.

"This fellow's really a fine doctor," I said a minute later.

Rennie looked at me uncomprehendingly, as if I'd spoken in a foreign language.

"Rennie, do you want me to take you home?"

"If you do I'll shoot myself," she said hoarsely.

When we came to the end of the driveway leading to the farmhouse, I cut out the headlights and drove quietly up into the yard. I explained to Rennie that the Doctor didn't want me to disturb his patients, but I'm afraid the theatricality of it did her nerves no good. As I ushered her into the farmhouse I felt her trembling. Mrs. Dockey and the Doctor were waiting for us in the reception room. They both scrutinized Rennie frankly, and some contempt was evident in Mrs. Dockey's expression.

"How do you do, Mrs. Morgan," the Doctor said. "We can begin right away. Mrs. Dockey will take you to the Treatment Room.

Wordlessly Mrs. Dockey walked toward the Treatment Room, and Rennie, after a second's uncertainty, jumped to follow that formidable woman. My eyes watered. I didn't know how to go about distinguishing compassion from love: perhaps it was only compassion I felt for her.

"Did you bring the check and the bankbook?" demanded the Doctor.

"Yes." I handed them to him. On the next-to-last check stub the balance read two hundred eighty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents, and the next check was made out to that amount and signed. "I didn't know who to pay it to."

"I'll write that in. Very well, come along. I very much want you to watch this, for your own good."

"No, I'll wait out here."

"If you want the abortion done," the Doctor said, "then come along and watch it."

I went, most unwillingly. The Doctor donned his white jacket, and we went into the Treatment Room. Rennie was already on the examination table with a sheet up to her neck. I was afraid she'd object to my presence, but she gave no sign of approval or disapproval. Mrs. Dockey stood by impassively. The Doctor washed his hands and drew up the sheet from Rennie's abdomen.

"Well, let's see if you're pregnant, first."

When his fingers touched her to begin the examination, she jumped involuntarily. A minute or so later, when the Doctor slipped his hands into rubber gloves, greased the fingers, and began the internal examination, she started sobbing.

"Now stop that," the Doctor said irritably. "You've had children before." After a while he asked, "How old do you think the fetus is?" Rennie made no answer, and he didn't ask her anything else.

"All right, we may as well get to work. Hand me a dilator and a curette, please," he said to Mrs. Dockey, and she went to the sterilizer nearby to get them. The surgical instruments clinked in the sterilizer, and Rennie's sobbing became looser and louder. She twisted a little on the examination table and even began to raise herself.

"Lie down and be quiet!" the Doctor ordered sharply. "You'll wake everybody up."

Rennie lay back again and closed her eyes. I began to be sick as soon as the Doctor accepted the bright curette from Mrs. Dockey; I resolved to keep my eyes on Rennie's face instead of the operation.

"Fasten the straps," the Doctor said to Mrs. Dockey. "You should have done that before." A wide leather strap was secured across Rennie's diaphragm. "Now, then, hold her right leg, and Horner, you hold the other one. Since we don't go in much for obstetrics here I didn't bother to buy a table with stirrups on it."

Rennie's legs were drawn up and spread wide in the lithotomy position. Mrs. Dockey gripped one, pressing the calf against the thigh, and I, very reluctantly, held the other.

"I'm sorry, Rennie," I said.

Rennie whipped her head and moaned. A few moments later -- I would guess that the Doctor had applied his curette to begin scraping the uterus, but I wasn't looking to find out -- she began screaming, and tried to kick free.

"Hold those legs!" the Doctor snapped. "She's cutting herself to pieces! Shut her up, Horner!"

"Rennie --" I pleaded, but I couldn't say anything else. She was terrified; I think she no longer recognized me. Her face swam through my tears. For an instant she relaxed, fighting for control, but almost at once -- another scrape of the curette? -- she screamed again, and struggled to raise herself.

"Okay," the Doctor said disgustedly to Mrs. Dockey. "The curette's out. Let go of her leg and shut her up."

Mrs. Dockey pushed Rennie's head down and clamped a hand over her mouth. Rennie kicked wildly with her free leg; the Doctor jumped clear, upsetting his stool, and cursed. I inadvertently glanced away and saw blood on the sheet under Rennie's abdomen, blood on her upper thighs, blood on the Doctor's gloves. The vomitus rushed to my mouth, and I was barely able to swallow it down.

"We can't stop now," the Doctor said to Mrs. Dockey. "She's already hemorrhaging. Keep her quiet for a minute, and I'll get an anesthetic."

I began to catch Rennie's fear. She lay quiet again for a moment, and her eyes pleaded with me.

"Take your hand off," I told Mrs. Dockey. "She won't holler." Mrs. Dockey removed her hand warily, ready to clap it back at once.

"Jake, I'm scared," Rennie cried softly, trembling all over. "He's hurting me. I don't like being scared, but I can't help it."

"Are you sure it's too late to quit, Doctor?" I called across the room, where he was fitting a rubber hose to two tanks of gas on a dolly.

"No use to now," he said. "I'd be finished by this time if she'd cut out her foolishness."

"Do you want to go home, Rennie?"

"Yes," she wept. "But let him finish. I want to hold still, but I can't."

"We'll take care of that," the Doctor said, no longer annoyed. He wheeled the gas tanks over to the head of the table. "The way you were jumping around I could very well have punctured your uterus. Relax, now."

Rennie closed her eyes. The Doctor handed the mask to Mrs. Dockey, who with some relish held it down over Rennie's nose and mouth. The Doctor immediately opened valves, and the gases made a soft rush into the mask.

"Breathe deeply," the Doctor said, watching the pressure gauges.

Rennie inhaled deeply two, three, five times, as though anxious to lose consciousness. Her trembling subsided, and her legs began to go limp.

"Check the pulse," the Doctor told Mrs. Dockey.

But as she reached for Rennie's wrist with her free hand, Rennie's stomach jerked inwards, and she vomited explosively into the mask. A second later a horrible sucking sound came from her throat, and another. Her eyes half opened briefly.

"Bronchoscope!" the Doctor said sharply, jerking the mask away. Rennie's face was blue: the sucking noise stopped. "Take the strap off, Horner! Quick!"

I tore at the strap with my fingers; couldn't see it clearly for the water in my eyes. Another gurgling explosion came from Rennie's chest.

"Bronchoscope!"the Doctor shouted.

Mrs. Dockey ran back to the table with a long tube-like instrument, which the Doctor snatched from her hands and began to insert into Rennie's mouth. The vomitus was all over her face, and a small puddle of it lay under her head, in her hair. Her face darkened further; her eyes opened, and the pupils rolled senselessly. My head reeled.

"Get oxygen ready!" ordered the Doctor. "Horner, take the pulse!"

I grabbed Rennie's wrist. Maybe I felt one beat -- anyway, no more after that.

"I don't feel any!" I cried.

"No," he said, less excitedly. He withdrew the bronchoscope from her windpipe and laid it aside. "Never mind the oxygen, Mrs. Dockey." Mrs. Dockey came over unhurriedly to look.

And so this is the picture I have to carry with me: the Treatment Room dark except for the one ceiling floodlight that illuminated the table; Rennie dead there now, face mottled blue-black, eyes wide, mouth agape; the vomitus running from a pool in her mouth to a pool under her head; the great black belt lying finally unbuckled across the sheet over her chest and stomach; the lower part of her bo............