Gamma, Alpha, Lambda: Eggs, Eggs, Eggs / Short Stories by Martha Trowbridge

     Norma Wainscott, PsyD., Clinical Psychologist, Cambridge Hospital, Department Of Psychiatry, Outpatient Department, was sick of being Norma. Norma The Dependable One. Norma Neo-Freudian. Norma Who Never Strayed. One month at Macht, the hospital's psych building, was all it took for everyone to share the same representation of Norma. Everyone. Patients. Colleagues. Even the custodial staff. There goes Norma, their faces said, as she quietly moved through the corridors. Good old rational Norma. It was bad enough the whole Psychiatry Department knew she was Norma, one and the same, no matter if it were Tuesday at ten in the morning, or midnight Saturday. But word had drifted like a toxic smoke signal across the hospital parking lot into the cafeteria; and the macho lab techs were teasing her. Hey, Norma, whatcha do this weekend, Bulging Hunks Of ManMeat called to her, as she dotted her garden salad with cubes of tofu. Hey Norma, you got pictures? It was all so embarrassing. Even her sexual fantasy objects knew she never played.

     Whatever could she tell them? That she'd gone to a weekend conference on self-addiction? Spent Valentine's Day with a Goddess group? Sat with her unmarried supervisor night after night at a juice bar, discussing psychopharm?

     Not that her life had evolved in all that awful a way. Playing it safe had definite benefits. That's how she got to Vassar. That's how she got honors. That's how she got, once and for all, out of the Bronx. Trouble was, Norma never learned how not to play it safe. Even in love she opted for the manageable: wiry bespectacled men, endlessly ruminative, their eyeglasses slipping, their shirttails dragging as they lived and relived their lives -- in scene, in scent, in sound -- over and over, inside their heads, inside the circle of intimacy they feebly attempted to draw. Expecting Norma to sit back and watch, transfixed.

     Norma was determined: from now on with men, she was going to have fun.

     One wistful April morning, just past dawn, Norma got out of her therapist chair and leaned on the spotless white sill of her office window. Through filmy chill the young spring sun exuded warmth unevenly. The underground garage construction project was about to get going. People were zigzagging. People were connecting. Though they were working, people were having fun. From three levels up, she watched the lanky parking lot attendant approach a blonde construction worker. She watched as their bodies slowly sensed each other, legs, groins, eyes. As if she stood between them, Energy crackled through her. Norma closed her eyes, imagined this kind of Energy flowing between her and the man she was meeting that night. Sensory, sensual, sexual Energy. Energy Intuitive. Energy Emotional. Energy Eternal.

     Rap, rap. Her first appointment was at the door. She heaved a huge sigh. Time to get back to being Norma. Up from the window sill went her elbows. Down went her sensible, lower-calf taupe woolen skirt. She straightened, cleared her throat. Today, for the sake of her patients, she'd stay Norma. Tonight was a different story. Tonight, she was leaving her left brain at the office. Her right-brain was going, solo, out to dinner.

     Norma lay on her living-room sofa. She was prepping for her dinner-date with Jonathan Mott, a Wall Street colleague of Molly, her Vassar roommate. Over the phone, Molly was assuring her he’d be fun. He’s dashing, driven, discriminating, Molly cooed. He’s just what you need.

     Norma hung up. Into each ear she pushed an earplug. She closed her eyes, and visualized. Fanned out in her head were images. Wonderful fantasy images. Floating, settling, rising. Norma, Queen Of Passion. Irresistible Norma, out on the town with Jonathan, in a wholly sensory way. Romantic Norma at Logan Airport, waving a tearful au revoir. Aligning her self with her breath, she surrendered her self to the moment. One at a time she felt her shoes fall off. She felt her clothing loosen, her body melt into the pastel stripes of the sofa. For the first time ever, Norma was pure experience. Out from her right-brain, image after delicious image pumped, flooding her consciousness. Norma The Seductress. Norma Ab-Norma. Norma Having Fun.

     Jon arrived at The Harvest, precisely at eight, with his power-walk, in his power-suit. From just inside the cramped entrance -- Jon was a tall and powerful man -- he saw Norma. One glimpse, he knew it was she, primly standing by the reservation desk. She was on time. Her posture was commendable. Her clothing, attractive yet understated. Good. His colleague was correct. She clearly demonstrated social presence.

     "Jon Mott," he said, hand extended. Two easy strides, he was beside her.

     She smiled. Pearly, good-sized, straight teeth. Good. Hopefully they weren't straightened through orthodontics. "Hello, Jonathan."

     “Jon." He shook her hand. Turned to the hostess. "Mott, party of two." He turned back to Norma, gestured towards the dining room. "Shall we?" He paused for her to pass ahead of him. At their table, he stopped at her seat. He waited for her to sit, but did not help her with the chair. On the gallant scale, Jon was a 76. If the woman were worth it, he was willing to work for maybe a 77. 77 was more than adequate. After all, it was the nineteen-nineties.

     He sat. Briskly, from the hostess he took the menu. He set it down on the dinner plate. First things first. He must establish his agenda.

     "So. Norma. Tell me about yourself."

     She laughed. "Like?"

     He chuckled -- to humor her. To Jon, there was nothing funny about this question. This kind of open-ended question was a valuable assessment tool. He must test for certain critical qualities. He had learned from his first marriage what resulted from not testing. He needed to ensure his future wife possessed:

-   inviolable trust in him
-   inviolable trustworthiness
-   exceptional resilience
-   remarkable intellect
-   wit
-   pluck (courage, spirit, fortitude)
-   patience and forbearance
-   the ability to entertain him -- Jon must be riveted to every experience. Otherwise, an experience was not worth his time and concentration

     Norma pressed on. "Ask me: what did you feel, in 1970?"

     "Feel?" What was with this woman? Whatever was Molly thinking? Perhaps she was still angry about the deal he commandeered away from her last year. Yes. That must be it.   "Feel about what?"

     "Anything...My parents. My best friend, Alfie. My new cat, Eczema."

     Eczema? Ecze-- ... Eggs! Finally, Jon was getting somewhere. "Eczema. How unusual. Quite the vocabulary, for grade school."

     "My mom named her, actually. Mom was a nurse. The cat was one gigantic body rash. We took her home one day. We rescued her from outside the Bronx Zoo."

     Hmm. The zoo. She must have been quite young. Excellent. Jon's chest swelled, like it always did, whenever he got what he wanted. With the flat of his right palm, he patted it. "I see. A class trip to the zoo?"

     "No." She lifted her water glass, drank.   "I went there with my aunt."

     Dammit, Jon thought. He was anxious to move on with his review. Her response necessitated another question. Time was ticking, time potentially wasted. So much fuss, just to confirm her age. He felt his body lean forward in impatience. He checked himself -- no way was he going to let another woman get the better of him.

     "What was the occasion?" he said, pleasantly.

     "She took me for my sixth birthday."

     Into his chair, Jon settled back.   He grinned again. Good. She was younger than he thought. This would play out well. She was only thirty. Twelve more years of eggs.

     Norma posed, experiencing Jonathan Mott. No way was she going to let his narcissistic character disorder interfere with her plan to have fun. She wasn't out tonight with a stunning, well-dressed, successful, sophisticated man just so she could diagnose him. No. Her left-brain was back at the office. Tonight, she was going to be pure experience. Pure, sensual experience with Jonathan Mott, in flaxen Giorgio Armani. Jonathan Mott, just inches away, just finger-steps across the smooth soft ecru linen of the tablecloth. For a second she closed her eyes and visualized what it would be like to lie with him, unabashedly, non-neurotically, his warm male skin pressed against her warm female skin. Just a leg stretch away, under the table, was Jonathan Dashing. Jonathan Wealthy. Jonathan Tingling, stimulating her with his Wall Street ways. Yes. Tonight she would be what normal women are: sexually free. In her purse were four brands of condoms. In her heart flamed a daring she'd never contacted. Do me, she urged him with her eyes. Do me, oh artist of the deal. I am the artist of love. The artist of upscale sex.

     "Hey there, Jonathan," she said, trying to sound seductive. She hoped she wasn't coming on too strong too soon. But then again....

     "Jon," he said. Definitively.

     Norma was undaunted. This man just needed to loosen up a bit. He needed to discover a whole new wonderful domain in his identity, just like she had.

     "Oh." She smiled sweetly. "Molly told me your name was Jonathan. Jonathan's so poetic. It's so much more than Jon." She paused. "It's like" --she locked his eyes with hers -- "the difference, when you make love, between having a full head of hair to hold on to, and grabbing the head of someone bald."

     His eyes lay flat. "Jon." His voice was tight.

     "Fine," she responded, quietly. "But tell me, why does Jonathan distress you?"

     "Why don't we order?" Jon said. He picked up the wine list. "I prefer red. If that's problematic, we can consider white."

     Norma lifted her menu and contemplated tolerance. Tolerance. Webster ought to split the word by gender, she decided.

     Tolerance (for men): the amount of variation from standard

     Tolerance (for women): endurance

    Tolerance. How could any woman spend the rest of her life with a man like Jon? With her brand new pumps, noiselessly she tapped her left foot on the wooden floor, musing about the trade secrets of women who tolerate. With great delicacy, she finished off her wine, and dabbed her mouth. Behind the linen napkin, she smiled. Perhaps she could start a sorority. A global sorority. A sorority dignified by a classical Greek name. Gunaikes Anechomenai Lian -- Gamma Alpha Lambda. Women Who Tolerate Too Much.

     A thought streaked through, and lit her mind. Women far less intelligent than Norma had learned tolerance. To get him in the sack tonight, she could learn too. All it took was practice. She looked at Jon. Lifted her right eyebrow. With all the power she could muster in her eye, she gazed at him mischievously.

     The waiter arrived. "Red is acceptable?" Jon's eyes squared hers.

     "Of course," she said, graciously. She thought about the kind of books men like Jon read. Like Getting To Yes: Negotiating Agreement Without Giving In. They read them to relax. In bed, they read them, just before dreaming. They read them before making love ....... Making love, making love to Jon, in just two hours. She will get to yes with him, without giving in. In just two hours, Norma could be in his Charles Hotel room. Norma The Mouse. Norma The Lover Of Men With Low Libido.

     Out of seemingly nowhere, reality blew across the dining room and struck her. In three swift seconds, Norma The Seductress shrank into a tiny dense chafing spot between her breasts.

     "Excuse me," she said, and got up.

     Jon sat at the table alone. He was annoyed. No, he was more than annoyed. He was irritated. They weren't yet on the appetizer, and she had gotten up to pee. Her evaluation would certainly reflect this. He conjured up the balance sheet for Norma and entered three items under Liabilities: Inattentiveness. Lack of somatic control. Poor Planning. He simply cannot tolerate a wife who can't sit still through dinner. Disruptions like these were insults. Jon worked long and hard; the least Wife-2 can do was give him undivided attention for an hour. Unlike Wife-1.

     He drummed his thumb on the stem of his wine glass. How well this Norma-woman would rate tonight, he'd have to wait and see. So far, her prospects for a second meeting seemed doubtful. He straightened, leaned back on his chair, then grinned, applauding the female personality scorekeeping system he'd perfected. How handily it functioned in his photographic mind. At any instant, he could call up a woman's status by trait balance sheet, or emotional income statement, or statement of changes in attitudinal position. Jon had pride in his system. It had proven quite reliable. Flawlessly, these two years since his divorce, his system had screened out, on the first meeting, a slew of inappropriate mates.

     Where was she? Jon checked his watch. Thirty-two minutes into their meeting, and he hadn't even gotten to the issue of eggs. At this rate, much of his scheduled traits-testing would go undone.

     Dammit, where was she? Again he checked his watch. Gone four minutes, eleven seconds. Didn't she realize, how precious he was to time?

     Norma charged into The Harvest's Women's Room. Her face was flushed. Her hair stuck out in spikes. Her eyes snapped. Why was she allowing this narcissist to get to her? To hell with Jonathan Mott. All he was meant to be was an experience. A mindless, sensual experience. And that's what he was going to be. She was going to get this man, tonight, just for tonight, in her bed, on her terms.

     She stared at the mirror. Reflected back was a woman of ire. A woman of carnal intensity. A woman freely feeling.

     Reflected back was Norma Queen of Passion.

     Norma loosened the top four pearl buttons on her white angora cardigan. Along her clavicle she slid the thin silk strap of her new black push-up bra. Back at her it peeped in the mirror. Norma, the strap whispered. With all you know, you can get this man to eat caviar from your navel. She freshened her lipstick. Cocked back her head. Opened the door. Deliberately and confidently, with a wonderful new swing to her hips, back she strode into the self-circumferenced world of Jonathan Mott.

     Jon almost did not notice Norma's return from the restroom. He was busy counting eggs. Norma's eggs. Large and luscious. Comely. Golden. Pungent, ripe and fertile. Eggs, bursting from her ovary, pulsing along her tubes, entering, combing her womb for the lifeline of his sperm.

     How many perfect eggs could Norma produce? Jon figured it this way: he would remarry in three years. Through Norma, there would be (twelve egg-bearing years less three years waiting period so) a nine year supply of fresh available eggs. From there it was a simple calculation: nine years less one year off for reproduction of the first child equaled eight years times (twelve eggs per year less three-quarters of the eggs unacceptable in their imperfection left) three eggs per year, which in total yielded twenty-four perfect, fresh, fertilizable eggs; of which he will need only two. Two gracious, wholehearted embracers of his unparalleled sperm. To make two perfect children. The only kind of children he intended to produce.

     Jon sat back, satisfied. Norma, with a bit of management, could prove to be a suitable candidate. Assuming she were healthy. A healthy woman can yield good eggs til she is forty-four. That's what his Yalie colleague in New York who ran the top-notch fertility clinic said over scotch/rocks at their twentieth college reunion. If your woman's supply seems problematic, Todd told Jon, just contact me. Fly her down to New York, each month. I'll extract what you need, and freeze them.

     Jon looked up. Norma was back.

     "Hey, there," grinning, he said slowly. He measured her pelvic girdle as she sat.

    Norma reclaimed her position. Across from Jonathan, she staked out her turf. She would busy herself, til dinner was over, with whimsy. She focused on his magnificent eyes, green and clear and startling against his sun-tanned skin, and imagined him with a personality transplant. That's all he'd needed. Jonathan on the outside would certainly do. Same power aura. Same clothes. Same body -- assuming, of course, his phallus were adequate. Stifling a laugh, she lifted her refilled wine glass. This, she would check out later.

     Or maybe she would check it out right there, from under the tablecloth. With her wine glass, she gestured.

     "To you," she said. "You stunning man."

     He grinned. Winked. Her heart began to swell. Their glasses clinked. She drank.

     "To eggs," he said. He drank.

     Norma felt her wine sputter onto her lipstick and drip down her chin. "Excuse me," she mumbled through her napkin. "I thought you toasted eggs."

     He looked at her intently. "Not just any eggs."

     She paused. "You mean, my eggs?"

     His eyes were fixed on hers. With all her therapist skill, she centered his image inside her eyes, and mirrored his hugely inflated self straight back at him.

     It worked. He was mesmerized.

     "So," he said, after a plump, whole minute.

     "So-o-o," she intoned.

     Another long, sensual pause. Up through her whole self, she felt the Energy tremor she'd sensed so long ago, that morning, in her office.

     "So. How do you feel about babies?" he said.

     "So. How do you feel about babies?" she echoed.

     His face softened. He looked like a baby. A just-burped baby. He was aglow. She was aglow.

     They were aglow.

     "So how do you feel about babies?" he repeated, still spun inside the moment.

     Norma waited before she answered. She was waiting for his belch.

     Jon was standing with Norma outside The Harvest Restaurant. It was nearly twelve -- a record four hours for a first evaluation. From half a foot down, her face, her perfect unadorned face, was smiling up at him. He cleared his throat.

     He cleared it again.

     "Jonnnnn ...," she purred. Into her fingers she took his hand. He stiffened. This would not do. There could be no touching yet. He was absolutely not going to remarry for another three years. A three year courtship may prove long, but that was what was going to have to be. If Norma were going to be a candidate, she would have to manage her quite understandable passion. He took his hand away. Then, on impulse, he rested it on her shoulder.

     "You are so perfect," she said softly, her head still back, her brown hair splayed across her camel hair wool coat.

     Jon felt his hormones surge. He wanted to lift her, to sweep her down the walkway, across Mt. Auburn, and into the Charles Hotel. Great Scott, what was he thinking? Self-control. That was key. There was positively no way he was going to risk getting AIDS -- or herpes, or warts -- just to quell an adolescent urge. Flimsy tubes of rubber were definitely unreliable. Who knew what kinds of disgruntled sadists worked at condom factories?

     He dropped his hand to his side. "Perhaps I'll come up this weekend," he said. "We can do dinner again."

     "That would be nice," said Norma. His Norma. This weekend he will tell her, face to face. They'll do the Ritz, and he'll tell her outright. Any candidate for Wife Of Jon Mott will have to pledge a six month sexual celibacy; after which he will whisk her off -- at his expense, of course -- to New York to his Yalie colleague for a comprehensive physical examination. The screening process was time-consuming, yes; but he had time. Time was what Jon Mott had plenty of.

     Norma sat in her office. Seven a.m. had come much too soon. Holding the limbs of her wooden therapist-chair, she steadied her self and sipped her second mug of coffee. She hoped her first appointment didn't show. Come to think of it, she hoped none of her appointments showed today. Over the coffee's steam she placed her nostrils. Outside in the parking lot, the construction crew was hacking away. Pound, pound, pound. Years of layers and layers were being disrupted. Norma felt jumpy. The noise was adding to her hangover headache. Never mind interfering with her fantasy. Jonathan was coming down the corridor. Today his Armani suit was navy. He was striding past her supervisors. He was striding past her colleagues. Past the custodial staff, he was coming in his power-walk to meet her. He was coming to escort her to the cafeteria for lunch.

     Pound. Pound, pound. She wished they would stop. How would she ever get through this day? How would she ever survive til Jonathan called?

     Knock, knock. Time for her first appointment. Time to pick up, plug in her left-brain. She stood. Down through her bones she felt woozy. What was she doing at work? Why wasn't she home, on her sofa, yearning for Jonathan Mott? "One moment, please," she called. She turned toward her desk. Onto her notepad she scratched

She rested her pen. Lifting her chin, she marched across the carpet. With a tiny smug smile, she opened her office door.