The Cabinet of Curiosities

The fingers moved on, a solitary ring of cat’s-eye opal winking conspiratorially in the subdued light: metacarpal saw, Catlin knife, bone forceps, tissue forceps. At last, the fingers stopped on the capital saw. They caressed its length for a moment, then teased it from its molded slot. It was a beauty: long, built for business, its heavy blade breathtakingly sharp. As with the rest of the tools, its handle was made of ivory and gutta-percha; it was not until the 1880s, when Lister’s work on germs was published, that surgical instruments began to be sterilized. All handles from that point on were made of metal: porous materials became mere collector’s items. A pity, really; the old tools were so much more attractive.

It was a comfort to know that there would be no need for sterilization here.

The box contained two trays. With worshipful care, the fingers removed the upper tray—the amputation set—to expose the still greater beauty of the neurosurgical set below. Rows of skull trephines lay beside the more delicate saw blades. And encircling the rest was the greatest treasure of all: a medical chain saw, a long, thin band of metal covered in sharp serrated teeth, ivory hand grips at each end. It actually belonged among the amputation tools, but its great length consigned it to the lower tray. This was the thing to use when time, not delicacy, was of the essence. It was a horrifying-looking tool. It was consummately beautiful.

The fingers brushed each item in turn. Then, carefully, the upper tray was lowered back into position.

A heavy leather strop was brought from a nearby table and laid before the open box. The fingers rubbed a small amount of neat’s-foot oil into the strop, slowly, without hurry. It was important that there no longer be any hurry. Hurry had always meant mistakes, wasted effort.

At last, the fingers returned to the box, selected a knife, brought it to the light. Then—with lingering, loving care—laid it against the leather strop and began stroking back and forth, back and forth. The leather seemed almost to purr as the blade was stropped.

To sharpen all the blades in the surgical set to a razor edge would take many hours. But then, there would be time.

There would, in fact, be nothing but time.

The Appointed Time

ONE

PAUL KARP COULD hardly believe he was actually going to get some. Finally. Seventeen years old and now finally he was going to get some.

He pulled the girl deeper into the Ramble. It was the wildest, least visited part of Central Park. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

“Why don’t we just go back to your place?” the girl asked.

“My folks are home.” Paul put his arms around her and kissed her. “Don’t worry, this is great right here.” Her face was flushed, and he could hear her breathing. He looked ahead for the darkest, the most private place he could find. Quickly, unwilling to lose the moment, he turned off the paved walk and plunged into a thicket of rhododendron bushes. She was following, gladly. The thought sent a little shiver of anticipation coursing through him. It only seemed deserted, he told himself. People came in here all the time.

He pushed his way into the densest part of the thicket. Even though the autumn sun still hovered low in the sky, the canopy of sycamores, laurels, and azaleas created a verdant half-light. He tried to tell himself it was cozy, almost romantic.

Finally they came to a hidden spot, a thick bed of myrtle surrounded by dark bushes. No one would see them here. They were utterly alone.

“Paul? What if a mugger—?”

“No mugger’s going to see us in here,” he quickly said, taking the girl in his arms and kissing her. She responded, first hesitantly, then more eagerly.

“Are you sure this place is okay?” she whispered.

“Sure. We’re totally alone.”

After a last look around, Paul lay down on the myrtle, pulling her beside him. They kissed again. Paul slid his hands up her blouse and she didn’t stop him. He could feel her chest heaving, breasts rising and falling. The birds made a racket over their heads, and the myrtle rose around them like a thick, green carpet. It was very nice. Paul thought this was a great way for it to happen. He could tell the story later. But the important thing was it was going to happen. No longer would it be a joke among his friends: the last virgin of Horace Mann’s senior class.

With renewed urgency, he pressed closer to her, undid some buttons.

“Don’t push so hard,” she whispered, squirming. “The ground is bumpy.”

“Sorry.” They wriggled on the thick myrtle, searching for a more comfortable spot.

“Now there’s a branch digging into my back.”

Suddenly she stopped.

“What?”

“I heard a rustle.”