compassionate one. We try to decide the true sex of the child.”
“The true one and not the false one.”
“We use this phalometer.” He picked up a tiny silver bar from the trolley. It had black numbers on it.
“It’s a tiny ruler.”
“It is. See?” He pointed to a mark three-quarters of the way down the phalometer. “If the penis reaches or exceeds this length, we consider it a real penis. If it doesn’t meet this measurement, it is considered a clitoris.”
Jacinta strained to read the tiny marks. “One point five centimetres?”
“That’s right.”
“What happens if it’s less than that?”
“When a phallus is less than one point five centimetres, give or take seven hundredths of a centimetre —”
“Seven hundredths?”
“Yes. When it’s less than that, we remove the presentation of male aspects and later, during adolescence, we sculpt the female aspects.”
“What if it’s right in the middle? Right straight, smack dab down the precise centre? One point five centimetres with no seven hundredths.”
“Then we make an educated guess. We do endocrinological tests but really, in a newborn, as far as endocrinology goes, we’re making a best estimate. Penis size at birth is the primary criterion for assigning a gender.”
“Measure her, then.”
Dr. Ho took Wayne from her arms so gently she thought he must love babies, even if he did merciless things to them. He must have bad dreams. He must wake up in the middle of the night just before the part of the dream where he cuts the baby. His wife, if he has one, must have to get up and give him brandy. But maybe not. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he only looked like he cared.
Tana, the first nurse, came into the operating room. Tana cared. Anyone could see that about her.
“The phallus . . .” Dr. Ho said. He pulled Wayne’s penis.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“And it is a phallus, it is —”
“He has to stretch it gently,” Tana said, “to measure the length. He can’t measure it if it’s contracted.”
“He’s hurting her!”
“No. See? She’s not crying.”
“It is the necessary length . . .” Dr. Ho showed her the gauge. “It barely grazes one and a half centimetres.”
“I can’t even see the numbers. They’re so tiny.”
“This baby can be raised as male.”
Jacinta was silent. Then, quietly: “That’s what his father wants.
5
Christening
T READWAY WAS SHORT and not handsome, whereas Jacinta had a long neck and tendrils of hair that curled when damp, and a graceful waist, and long, capable, dancerly limbs. She had accepted him because she felt no attraction to men who knew they looked good, men who were tall and knowing, who looked at a woman with a mirthful challenge in their eye that said, I can get any woman I want, but I’m giving you a chance at the moment. Men like this had fallen for Jacinta and had asked her to marry them, but she had waited for Treadway, who was not five feet nine, who was shy, who had to be prompted to go to a dance or enter the log-cutting contest during the winter festival. Once he was dancing, he danced well, riding the music like a kayak, and if he entered a log-cutting contest he cut fewer logs than the winner but he cut them neater and better. She liked the way he appeared hesitant about good fortune, as if he had not been expecting it. She liked the way he chose a good coat and wore it for five years and then chose another one similar to it. She liked the blackness of his hair, and the clean smell of his skin, and the fact that he would never treat her with deceit. She liked loving a man with whom other women were unlikely to fall in love, because she did not want to waste her heart worrying about unfaithfulness in a husband. She had witnessed enough of that between her father and mother.
Still, Jacinta missed the city she grew up in. What she missed most was the Majestic Cinema on Henry Street. It was true that she held clear in her mind the other
Learning to Kill: Stories