The Fertility Clinic's Secret ©

By Robert Gustaveson

Eugenics is the science which deals with the improvement of inherited qualities of a race. It may be either negative or positive. Negative by killing off those inferior and positive by improving the gene pool by encouraging reproduction of the superior. The Nazi’s used both. Negative by murdering millions thought to be undesirable, an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing Group
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781641116367

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

AS HE WAS EMERGING from his morning shower, Gene Child felt a migraine coming on. He immediately took the Rasatipton tablet his doctor prescribed, which sometimes blunted the migraine if taken at the onset.

He dried himself, wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror, and surveyed his sunburned, six-foot, 220-pound, muscular body.

He had forgotten to use sunscreen lotion while playing tennis in his shorts, and, being extremely fair, he burned easily. Applying ointment to ease the pain, he cursed himself for being so stupid.

He’d been on Southern Methodist University's football team, and in the years since, he regularly played golf and tennis as well as worked out at a local gym.

Hey, Dad, he heard Jerry, his sixteen-year-old son, calling. Breakfast is on the table, and Grandma told me to tell you to hurry up.

Gene put on his boxer shorts, a starched and freshly pressed white shirt, gray slacks, and brown loafers and headed for the kitchen. He could smell bacon frying. He was hungry, and it smelled good.

Mildred, his seventy-two-year-old mother, wore a tan apron over her faded blue denim jeans and a white cotton blouse. She smiled as she put a platter with stacks of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon in the middle of the table, which was covered by a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.

Gene and Mildred were seated, and Jerry waited until Mildred had folded her hands, bowed her head, and said grace before he reached for food.

Mildred poured orange juice from a crystal pitcher into each of their glasses, and Gene picked up the coffee pot, filled his cup, and took a sip.

You’re looking mighty chipper this morning, Gene said as he loaded up his plate. I have to admit you put out a scrumptious breakfast.

Mildred nodded and helped herself to one pancake and a strip of bacon.

So how's football coming? Gene turned to Jerry.

A lot of practice. The coach is paranoid after we lost to the Sidewinders last week.

Gene nodded. I would be, too, with a double-digit shellacking.

Jerry shrugged and replied, Glad I’m not the quarterback. He's the one the coach blames.

So is the coach putting in a different one for the game with the Gophers next Saturday?

No. Mike is still the best he's got. So he's trying to get him up to speed.

Mom, what are your plans for today? Gene turned to Mildred, who had already finished eating and was neatly folding her napkin.

Same as always, she replied. Reading the newspaper, watching soaps, feeding the dog, crocheting a doily, and doing the laundry.

Would you have time to type a letter I wrote out in pencil to the suppliers of our electric guitars?

Of course. I haven't forgotten how to type.

He looked at his mother as he handed her a couple of handwritten pages. She was thin with graying brown hair, brown eyes, and an olive complexion. She used to say she was five-foot-seven, but it looked to him that she’d shrunk a couple of inches. She didn't look much like the photograph on the living room mantle over the fireplace of her holding him on her lap when he was a baby when she had been thirty-one with sparkling brown eyes and an abundance of shoulder-length brown hair.

Jerry's asset to his high school football team was his sturdy, 190-pound, six-foot, muscular body. His passion, however, was chemistry, not athletics. After high school he hoped to attend Southern Methodist University, like his father, and be on its football team, but Jerry would major in chemistry instead of music.

Grandma, is there anything you want me to pick up at the grocery store for you on the way home from school? he asked.

Thanks, but not anything today, she replied.

After breakfast Gene went to his room and put on his navy-blue blazer and yellow silk tie that his girlfriend, Bunny, had given him for his forty-fourth birthday.

It was a sunny, autumn morning in 2000, and it only took him thirty minutes to drive from Richardson to his retail music and instrument store in Dallas. When he arrived at nine thirty, his only employee, Jason Sprat, had already opened the store and was waiting on customers.

Jason, a bleach-haired, thin, five-foot-seven, thirty-nine-year-old African American, knew the business better than Gene. He had worked for the previous owner, but with a raise in pay, he stayed on.

Electric guitars and keyboards were the best sellers, and high schools bought most of the band and orchestra instruments. Jason could play most of them and give demonstrations and great sales pitches.

In the center of the store was a highly polished, shiny, black Yamaha grand piano that wasn't for sale. Ones like it could, however, could be ordered from a catalogue. Gene played it when he wasn't waiting on customers. He had a gift. He was a concert pianist. He played as a guest with some of the leading orchestras in the United States and Europe. While the stipends were significant, he wished he’d get more engagements to supplement his income from the music store.

While most professional pianists practiced constantly and lived a monastic life devoting many hours every day to maintaining and honing their skills, Gene never did that. At an early age, he learned to read piano music. His skill improved rapidly. His instructors marveled at how fast he assimilated what he was taught. He majored in music at SMU, and by the time he was twenty-one, he could pick up any piano music and play it for the first time perfectly. After a few more times, he memorized it and never forgot it. Unlike many other gifted musicians, he did not compose music. He made no excuses and simply said that he was a performer, not a composer.

He loved autumn. Of his forty-four years, he had spent forty-two of them in Richardson. His father, Jonathan, had worked for the US State Department in its Berlin embassy. He and Mildred had been married for ten years and were childless. Mildred had told Gene that this was not by choice, for they yearned for a child. Mildred became pregnant after being treated at a fertility clinic, and Gene was born in Berlin. Two years later Jonathan was reassigned to headquarters in Washington, and through his political connections, he was on a fast track to becoming an ambassador. However, three months later he was killed in an auto accident at the age of forty-five.

Fortunately, he had substantial insurance and government death benefits. Mildred purchased a house in Richardson, Texas, where she had grown up and where she had relatives. Not satisfied with being idle, she honed her stenographer skills and got a job as a legal secretary in a downtown Dallas law firm.

That morning was busy with customers in the music store most of the day. Maybe it was the weather and the beautiful autumn day that inspired people to invest in musical instruments. But whatever it was, Gene was grateful since he needed the money to support his ex-wife and two daughters, Ashton and Jenny, twelve and eight.

He hadn't wanted the divorce. He loved Helen despite her idiosyncrasies. She, however, wanted what she called her freedom and told him she thought he was too controlling. There was no hostility. She was a beautiful, thirty-eight-year-old Irish redhead. They remained friends but not lovers. She was awarded the house in Plano, and he still made the mortgage payments and gave her money for the support of their two daughters. She had no objection to him having custody of their son, Jerry, as long as she had custody of their daughters.

Toward closing time, he called his girlfriend, Bunny, and made a dinner date. She had been a registered nurse but became a sales executive for a pharmaceutical company and had a reasonably good income. She needed it. At thirty-five she had seven kids and two deadbeat ex-husbands. Her given name was Rose, but Gene called her Bunny because he thought she was as prolific as one.

She was Tex-Mex but didn't look it. She was five-foot-seven with a fair complexion; a pretty, oval face; hazel eyes; light brown, almost blond hair; and a trim, athletic figure. Her parents had been wetbacks who settled in the Texas and eventually became citizens under the amnesty law. They saved money, bought land and cattle, and developed a ranch. Growing up on a cattle ranch taught Bunny to work hard and be tough. When she was eighteen, she went to Fort Worth where she got a job working nights at a convenience store. During the day she went to college and became an RN. She worked in a hospital for five years before she got a job with a pharmaceutical company. She had a dazzling smile with perfect white teeth, and she bubbled with enthusiasm.

Gene met her shortly after he had purchased the music store the previous spring. She had come into the store to purchase a classical Spanish guitar. She sat on a stool in a corner and tried out several models while he waited on other customers and listened. She was good. He asked who had taught her. She told him nobody had.

After she selected a guitar and paid for it, she lingered while he played the piano. She was impressed by his talent and his good looks.

When he arrived at the posh restaurant on the top of one of Dallas's tallest buildings, Bunny was already seated at a table. She wore a matching gray jacket and skirt with a pink blouse. Her hair was cut in a pageboy style.

You’re late, she scolded.

No, you’re early, he replied with a chuckle.

She flashed her dazzling smile as he pulled out a chair and sat down on the other side of the table covered in white linen.

You have a pained expression, she observed. What's the matter?

A migraine. They come and go. I’ve had them all my life, but lately they have become more intense and frequent. It started out this morning, but I thought I licked it when I took a bunch of over-the-counter pain pills. It eased up for a while, but after I called you this afternoon, it came back with a vengeance.

Have you ever talked to a doctor about them? she asked.

Yeah, several. But they told me there wasn't much they could do.

Did they prescribe anything? she asked.

No, they just told me to take over-the-counter pain pills, which help some if I take a bunch of them soon enough to take off the edge.

Are you well enough to enjoy dinner?

Sometimes eating helps, he replied.

Recently, new treatments have been developed to help people with migraines. You ought to see a doctor who specializes in them, she counseled.

I would if I thought it would do any good, which I don't.

You want to get rid of the pain, don't you?

Sure, but all I’ve gotten from doctors so far has been sympathy.

I know of a doctor who has been very successful at treating conditions such as yours. His name is Herman Fleischa, she said as she opened her purse. Bunny took out an address book, a small spiral notebook, and a ballpoint pen and wrote his name, address, and phone number on a page before tearing it out and handing it to Gene.

Has he got something new? Gene asked skeptically.

Probably. All I’ve heard is that he's been very successful.

Well, thanks for the tip, he said and added, Did you notice I’m wearing the yellow silk tie you gave me for my birthday?

Yes, and it goes good with your navy-blue blazer, she replied as she admired his handsome, tan face, sky-blue eyes, and blond hair. She reached into her purse again and this time pulled out a card with capsules sealed in plastic bubbles on it. Here, take some of these for your pain. They’re pain pill samples I give to doctors.

Samples? Huh, he said as he took the card. Better than aspirin?

A lot better.

Probably loaded with narcotics.

No, something new. No narcotics. No aspirin. It doesn't work with everyone. For some it's like taking an M&M.

So your pharmaceutical company developed them, and you’re promoting them, he said as he opened two of the plastic bubbles and popped the pills into his mouth.

Right, and hopefully it will make millions.

If it stops my pain, I won't need to see this Dr. Fleischa.

But at best it only temporarily eases the pain of migraines, not the other symptoms, and it's not a cure.

If it relieves the pain, even for a little while, that would be great.

Their table was next to a window overlooking the city. The sun had set, and lights were blinking on. Subdivisions had sprung up in the suburbs, and their lights could be seen as far as the horizon.

After dinner they walked to the elevator and rode down to the underground parking garage.

How's the pain now? Bunny asked.

What pain? Gene replied. Oh, that pain. I’d almost forgotten it. It's gone. Amazing!

When you see Dr. Fleischa, get him to give you a prescription. Do you still have the card with the plastic bubbles that contain additional pills?

Gene nodded.

Keep it and show it to him.

Bunny began singing an Armenian folk song made popular by Rosemary Clooney in the fifties. Come on-a my house, my house a come on.

No way. Gene laughed. Not with your seven kids staring at me coming on.

Don't you want to meet them?

Well, yeah, I do, but I have a hard time believing you’re the mother of that many kids.

They’re all well behaved, she said.

Bunny lived in Frisco, one of the fastest growing communities in the nation. Her five-bedroom, three-bathroom, stucco, and brick house nestled in trees on a quarter acre. She drove her silver BMW sedan, and Gene followed in his four-year-old, black Honda Accord.

She pulled into her driveway. The garage door opened, and she drove in. Gene parked his Accord in the driveway and stepped out. She motioned for him to follow her into the house through the garage.

They walked down a hall to a large family room dominated by a big screen TV. Sitting on the semicircular couch and on pillows on the floor were her children, all engrossed in watching a Disney movie.

Without interrupting them, Bunny pointed to each and told Gene his or her name and age, which ranged from a twelve-year-old daughter to a three-year-old son.

Wow! Gene gasped. Who does the cooking and cleaning?

"They all have chores. The two oldest girls help Karma, my housekeeper, with the cooking. The older boys do the yard. And the