Chester sat in a rocker at his bedroom window sipping from a tumbler of milk. The only sounds were the metronomic tick of the clock and the counterpoint squeak of the chair. Chester was a poor sleeper, and often he’d wake in the night. He hated lying in bed, so in the winter he’d get up, stoke the fire in his bedroom hearth, and sit and watch the flames. In the summer, he’d move his chair to the window and stare into the night. Usually the combination of a half hour’s worth of rocking and a warm glass of milk would make him drowsy enough to get back to sleep, but Chester knew that would not be so this time.
There were lights across the way in the dark pasture. They were shining, disembodied little orbs that floated a foot or less above the ground, soaking up the soft glow cast by the moon and stars and transforming it into something more than it was. They were eyes, of course—the eyes of predators: raccoons, skunks, foxes. These were animals with eyes evolved to a higher level than man’s, capable of cutting through the gloom, making the darkness irrelevant.
In many ways Chester envied those creatures. They knew their motivation. They were well cast and comfortable in their roles. They never questioned their blocking nor brooded over their lines.
He exhaled a noise that was part snicker, part sigh. He had carried that metaphor about as far as he dared. But it was true; sometimes he did envy the lower creatures’ lack of self-awareness. They played no conscious part in their own evolution, and Chester was convinced that humans did. We had choices. Now—or soon—we’d have more choices than ever. And with those choices there was responsibility.
Polly and Cedra were coming into the office this afternoon so he could remove Polly’s stitches. He hadn’t seen them since the night Polly was attacked, but they’d filled his thoughts almost every minute since.
Choices.
The eastern sky was turning a pinkish gray, and the glowing eyes of the small creatures were beginning to dim. Chester drank the last of his milk, pushed up from the rocker, and crossed to his wardrobe. He took off his dressing gown and night shirt and dressed in jeans, shirt, and leather vest. He pulled on an old pair of boots and left the room. He stepped quietly on the landing so as not to wake Mrs. Eggers, whose room was at the far end of the hall. The walls of Chester’s room had been confining, and he ached to be outside. Once he got to the foot of the stairs, he hurried to the foyer, grabbed his riding cap and goggles, and left the house.
A warm breeze wafted in from the west, and Chester filled his lungs with the clean morning air. He loved the fresh smells of Wyoming. That was the thing he’d missed most during his years of living beneath the sooty skies back East.
He went around to the carriage house, opened the door, and walked in. It was dark inside, but Chester didn’t need to light a lamp. He knew what he was looking for and where he had left it. He crossed toward the double doors to where Uncle Oscar’s moto-cycle leaned against the wall. He pushed open the doors and rolled the machine outside. He had repaired the bent wheel a couple of days before but had not had a chance to try it out.
Although it was still dark, the sky was a little brighter, and there was enough light to ride by. He straddled the seat and shoved off. After three quick pumps of the pedals, the motor caught. Chester pushed the speed lever forward, and the cycle accelerated with a head-snapping jerk. It was not the lumbering rise in momentum felt on a train, nor the loping acceleration of a horse. This acceleration was pure and smooth, unlike anything else. He pulled his cap down a notch along his forehead and increased the speed. The feeling of it, the pure joy, pulled his lips into a smile.
He rode down Main toward the river faster than he knew he should, but he couldn’t resist. He didn’t even try. Riding the moto-cycle was like flying a magic carpet two feet above the ground. He loved the feel of the road beneath his wheels, the bounce and spin of the hard rubber tires, the blur of the buildings on either side.
He crossed the bridge west of First Street and, beneath the buzz of the motor, he could hear the North Platte—low now in the late summer—lap against the bridge’s pilings. Past the bridge, the road became rougher, but Chester handled the moto-cycle with skill as the tires clawed at the ruts.
The land rose as it moved away from the river, and Chester climbed toward the foothills that lay at the base of the Laramie Mountains. Two deer munching grass beside the road looked up in apparent bewilderment as he rode past, their graceful necks lifting high above their shoulders, their ears pricking toward a sound that no deer in this part of the world had ever heard.
Chester was amazed at the freedom the moto-cycle provided. And, as he rode farther into the hills, he realized this freedom—this kind of freedom—was more than a word or even a concept. It was also a feeling, an emotion. The rush of air past his face opened his senses. It blew away the dust and cobwebs that had of late collected in his head.
Still Chester increased his speed, leaning into the road’s wide curves, feeling the weight of the machine roll from side to side beneath him. He rode for another five miles and came to a stop at the crest of a tall hill. He shut the motor down, and the silence filled the morning, wrapping around him like a cloak. He propped the cycle against a large boulder and climbed to the top of the boulder and looked out at the world.
To the south were the serrated aretes of the Laramie Mountains, with Laramie Peak itself, at over ten thousand feet, rising high above the rest. To the east he looked down onto Probity, and beyond that, the prairie stretched wide toward the horizon.
Still buzzing from the moto-cycle’s vibrations, he tried to rub the tingling out of his arms. But it wasn’t unpleasant and, after a bit, he shoved his hands into his pockets and allowed the feeling to fade on its own.
He realized as he looked down on Probity that the ride up had been the first time in days when his thoughts hadn’t been full of Cedra and Polly. At first he’d been angry with them for what they wanted. What they asked of him was criminal. But now his anger toward them lessened, and he focused it on the fools who would write a law banning abortion and make no allowance for rape. Even if abortion itself was immoral, and Chester thought it might well be, ending a pregnancy that came about as Polly’s had was not immoral. But, intense as it was, that anger, too, began to dim.
He breathed in the crisp, damp air. The day would be warm later, but right now he could detect a hint of autumn. He looked forward to it. Spring and autumn, the seasons of change, were the times Chester enjoyed the most.
No, he was not angry any longer. Anger was not an emotion Chester could hold on to. Now he realized that as far as his role in all this was concerned, it had nothing to do with Cedra or even Polly. And it certainly had nothing to do with the band of buffoons who met in the capitol down in Cheyenne and drafted their narrow legislation. His decision had only to do with him, Chester Hedstrom, and his view of the world.
He would not be shamed into helping Polly by the guilt Cedra Pratt tried her best to inflict. Nor would he be prohibited from helping her by a law drafted by idiots.
As the sun lifted above the horizon, the shadows lengthened. Traffic began to stir through the streets below. And Chester watched as the town stretched, rubbed its eyes, and woke, preparing itself for another day.
Polly winced as Chester plucked the last stitch from her cheek. “There,” he said, moving his thumb along the thin scar. “It’s red now, but that’ll fade with time. In a few months you won’t even notice it.”
Polly didn’t respond, but Cedra, who stood behind the chair in which Polly sat, said stiffly, “Thank you, doctor.”
There was bruising on the girl’s face, but the swelling was gone, and it was clear to Chester that Polly would be pretty again.
Perhaps.
At least she could be pretty again if it were not for the severity that edged her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
They were in Chester’s private office. It was a small room down the hall from the examination and treatment room where he had last seen the girl and her mother. He often tended to patients with minor complaints in here. It was more comfortable and less intimidating.
Chester washed his hands and blotted them dry on a towel. He found he had been washing his hands a great deal in the last few days. Without turning, he said, “Things are not as simple as they once were, Cedra.”
“No,” she agreed, her words seasoned with weariness, “they’re not.”
He turned to face them. “I’ve been considering what you said the other night.” Cedra stood more erect, and Polly seemed to slump. “Fact is, that’s about all I have been doing.” He tossed the towel to the counter. “This is quite a problem we have here.” He walked to Polly and lifted her chin. It was the same gesture he had used earlier when he was examining her injuries, but this time he was looking at deeper wounds. “They’ve hurt you, girl, and the truth is there’s not a thing in the world anyone can do about that. Only time can fix it.”
She pulled her chin back from his hand and looked down at the floor. There was no rudeness in the gesture, merely a drifting away.
“I know it doesn’t seem so now, but trust me,” he said, “time’s an effective medicine. The body’s been designed to heal wounds wherever they are. Whether here.” He pointed to the scar beneath her eye. “Or here.” He lifted his hand and touched the backs of his fingers to her brow. “At least it’s been designed to heal almost anything as long as complications don’t set in. You’re a strong, healthy young woman, Polly. And I know you could overcome what these boys did to you if it weren’t for what’s come along with it.” He raised his eyes to Cedra. “It’s a sad thing, but the loathsome manner in which this impregnation came about is a complication and not only because of what Sonny Pratt might do, although there certainly is that, but also because the pain of that horrible event will never allow all the wounds to heal.” He was looking at Cedra as he spoke, but he could sense Polly wince when he mentioned Sonny’s name.
Cedra’s eyes began to fill, and a single tear wedged its way out and leaked onto her cheek.
Chester turned and crossed to the door. “Sometimes when complications set in, for the good of a patient, we have to perform aggressive therapies we might not otherwise perform. What’s wrong in one situation isn’t necessarily wrong in another.”
He opened the door and called down the hall. “Mrs. Eggers, would you come in, please?” He stood at the door waiting. When the woman arrived, he said, “Please, Mrs. Eggers, prepare the surgery.”
There was nothing scheduled, and the woman looked puzzled. “Now, doctor?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” he said, “now.”
When she was gone, Chester turned back to Cedra and Polly. “We do have a complicated and difficult situation. One filled with hard choices. But I have to do what I feel is necessary for the welfare of my patient.”
Cedra wiped the tear away, cleared her throat, and said, “Thank you, Chester.”
He responded with only a nod.
“No,” she said, not allowing him to dismiss it. “I mean it. Thank you.”
“We’ve not grown up in a very flexible age, Cedra, none of us. Perhaps that’s the American race’s only real shortcoming, its tendency toward rigidity. But things are more complex now. What’s right is not always so obvious. Sometimes the rules have to be bent so they fit around more complicated situations.” He paused for a second and looked over at Polly. She looked nervous, but the lost expression she’d had earlier was gone or at least beginning to fade. “These,” he added, “are unique times.”
He was glad his choice was made. The law was what it was, and maybe it was an appropriate law in most cases, but not in all.
Both of the women smiled across the room at him. He saw their great relief at his decision, but he sensed their surprise as well. He doubted they had ever expected him to agree. Despite their relief, they looked at him as though he were some uncommon sort of creature.
And along with their relief and surprise, Chester saw something else on their faces: bewilderment. They reminded him of the deer he’d encountered on the road earlier that morning.
With that thought, Chester was smiling too.