Sanderson handed me a pen. I took it, signed two copies of the document, thrust one copy back at him, and stuffed the other in my coat pocket.
With a curt “Thank you” he put the sheet of paper back in his desk. Then he turned to Katharine:
“My dear Mrs. Vance, there is a similar form that I should like to have you sign.” He edged the clipboard in her direction; there was another sheet of paper on it. “I fear that your consenting to this act is no legal defense for what our society considers to be the crime we are committing, but it may be of some minimal help in the event of...untoward developments.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, eagerly taking the pen and signing the document with hardly more than a glance at it. There was, clearly, no need for her to sign in duplicate.
“Very well.” Sanderson got up. “I shall see you again tomorrow, at this same time.” He turned to leave.
Katharine looked as if someone had slapped her face. “But...Dr. Sanderson! I thought...we would....”
Sanderson turned around slowly. “You thought it would be today? Why, no. I think you need a day to contemplate matters—perhaps to take care of any final details. One more day of life will not hurt you.”
If his smile had been a fraction of an inch longer than it was, I would have thought he was indulging in some kind of fiendish mockery. As it was, it was difficult to think of him as meaning anything but what he said.
He left the room by a door opposite from the one we had entered. I felt a sense of utter emptiness, of unreality. I haven’t any idea what Katharine was feeling: disappointment, frustration, regret, panic, confusion? All these things seemed registered on her face, none overmastering the others. All we could do was get up and look about in a daze.
Bullet Head was still in the room—he had been behind us, standing at attention, the entire time. Now he held out the two black silk blindfolds in each hand. He didn’t need to speak; we put them on.
* * * *
I can’t even begin to describe to you what that last night was like. After her initial disappointment, Katharine regained her horrible cheerfulness, knowing that tomorrow would be the end she had longed for. Perhaps the reality of the thing was sinking into me, for I made little effort to dissuade her or even to talk about the matter. It seemed pointless. I still held out a hope that she would pull back at the last moment, but I think I knew in my heart that she wouldn’t.
My only recollections of that evening are disconnected fragments: a Broadway show...Katharine pulling my arm to lead me into some shop full of stuffed animals...a ride on a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park, just as if we were ordinary tourists...steaming hot chocolate in a café somewhere, as the night was getting chilly...Katharine giddy with some appalling excitement...laughing gaily over nothing, whirling herself on the sidewalk like a top, tossing herself joyfully on the bed in our hotel room, finally overcome with exhaustion....
It was almost too much for me. All evening a kind of lead weight had been growing in my stomach, so that I could hardly eat, talk, or even look at her toward the end. It seemed so utterly futile to discuss the matter with her: her mind seemed so completely made up—I knew she wouldn’t be so deucedly happy if it weren’t. Anyway, it seemed a shame to spoil her evening by bringing up anything unpleasant.
Would she pull back at the last moment—the very moment when she knew her action was irrevocable, inevitable, and utterly final? It was all I could hope for.
In a whirl the morning passed—a lavish room-service breakfast, scarcely touched by me but attacked with relish by Katharine...a stroll in Madison Square Park, Katharine taking particular interest in a squirrel that approached her hesitantly and, with a sudden dart, snatched the acorn she held out smilingly...back to the hotel and a light luncheon, Katharine showing no sign that it was to be her last....
Bullet Head was on time, as I could have predicted. A repeat of the blindfolds, the circuitous drive, the tramp up concrete steps, and the stark white room again.
This time Dr. Sanderson led us without delay through a door at the back of the room and into a much larger space—an elegantly furnished room with dark wooden paneling on the walls, a thick shag carpet on the floor, and several doors, unmarked and leading who knows where. He steered us to one of the several couches in the room, and we sat—I dropping heavily on to it, Katharine barely able to restrain herself and sitting at the very edge. Sanderson sat on a couch facing us.
He did not waste time.
“Mrs. Sanderson, do you understand what we are about to do?”
I think the “we” confused her for a moment—perhaps she envisaged some kind of collective suicide. But she shook off her doubt.
“Yes, of course.”
“You have no second thoughts?”
“None, doctor. Absolutely none.”
“You are completely resolved in this action? You are at peace with your decision?”
“Yes!” There was more than a little impatience in her voice. Then a slight furrow on her brow.
“Well, there’s only one thing.... You haven’t told me—us”—a quick, harried glance in my direction—“what exactly is involved in the...procedure. Exactly what will you do...?”
Sanderson held up a hand in his habitual gesture to enjoin silence, although in fact Katharine did not seem inclined to say anything more.
“It is better that you not know.” He glanced at me also, suggesting that his comment applied to me as well. “Rest assured that there will be no pain. That is exactly why I am here. Believe me—no pain.”
Katharine actually beamed. “Oh, I believe you, doctor! I do!”
It sounded like some unholy marriage vow.
Sanderson got up. “Very well,” he said heavily. “I think it is time.”
All of a sudden I felt horribly dizzy, as if I were teetering on the edge of a cliff. My last hope—that the finality of the thing would cause Katharine to recoil—was dashed. I was in a panic—I felt like shrieking, I wanted to grab Katharine, even against her will, and flee this loathsome place, to stamp on Sanderson’s seamed, placid face until it was a mass of broken bones and flesh....
But all I did was to croak feebly, “Katharine....”
She held up a hand just as Sanderson had done.
“No, Arthur. It’s too late. I have decided. This is what I want.” Her expression was neither cheerful nor sad, neither excited nor calm. Instead, it was utterly blank. She could have been a corpse already.
She gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. That was all.
Sanderson led her away through one of the doors—I hardly knew which one. Instinctively I reached for her, but Bullet Head—unobtrusively standing behind us, as always—suddenly came forward and grabbed my arm; not violently, but firmly.
I gave up. I knew it was hopeless now. I merely sat down on the couch, my face in my hands.
I have no idea how many minutes passed before I heard a door opening. It was Sanderson. His expression was as placid as ever; it was as if nothing had happened.
I looked up at him, a mute inquiry on my face.
He merely said: “It is over.”
I didn’t know what to do or say. Should I rave like a maniac or walk calmly out of the place? Should I throttle him, or shake his hand? I’m not sure that what I had actually done—what I had been a party to—had fully sunk into my consciousness. The room began to spin again, and the doctor in his white suit looked like some spectre bent on haunting me the rest of my days.
“What...what did you do?” I said weakly.
He merely looked at me with a mildly irritated expression, but said