In Trouble (13 page)

“I’ve got to find material on Khrushchev’s secret speech,” I said. “I’m covering it for the
Record
.”

“Ah, the denunciation of Stalin. Interesting.” Her lips pursed.

“They say he talked for four hours,” I said, “about how Stalin had made himself into a superman. They called it something I can’t remember.”

“The cult of personality. And,” Mrs. Finley added,

“Chairman Khrushchev detailed the crimes Stalin had committed.” She tapped her pencil on the volume. “The speech was in late February, I believe. You’ll likely find material starting this past March.”

The heavy red volume was an old friend. I had pored through it looking for articles on Senator McCarthy, the Hollywood Ten, and other stories about the government and the movie industry hunting down “Reds” the way they’d hunted down Dad.

I lugged the book over to a table in the back and spread out my papers. Mrs. Finley was busy with a line of people at the front desk. I was glad. I didn’t want her to see what 146

else I was checking. I mean, what if the doctor tells me I really am. . . .

I opened the volume to A. Abortion. “The Abortion Racket: Product of Laggard Law.”
The Nation
magazine. I found the bound volume of
Nation
magazines and brought it to the table. In New York City, according to the dis-trict attorney, when you called one of these doctors who would do it, you first talked about pairs of nylons.
Nylons!

Like some ladies store?
Six pairs meant you were six weeks pg, eight meant eight. It’s an Underground Railroad, with codes, conductors, stationmasters! I shut the book. You have to know somebody who could tell you the code. But first you have to know somebody to tell you about somebody. I began to sweat.

Mrs. Finley came out from behind the front desk. I quickly opened to K and scribbled on my pad. She was coming toward me.

“Found some stuff,” I said. I closed the book and covered my notes, but she hadn’t heard me. She had turned down an aisle well before my table. A young kid followed her.

I needed a break. I got up and looked through the pile of newspapers Mrs. Finley keeps in the reading area.

I do think there is a god and he’s out to punish me.

Yesterday’s
Daily News
, front page, picture of two cops holding a man’s hands behind his back. It’s nighttime.

Headline: ABORTION RING SMASHED. Six doctors in Queens arrested.

147

Who told on them? The
N.Y. Post
front page for the same day was

COPS SHUT

VICE HOUSE

At the end of the story on the inside page was a box: TWO SENTENCED IN FATAL ABORTION. The woman who died was from Brooklyn, but the two people were sentenced in Bronx County Court to prison terms of twelve and a half to twenty-five years. Everybody travels.

Aunt Sheila’s person is in Brooklyn. My head was spinning. Maybe Elaine was doing the right thing.

I opened to the A index again in the
Readers’ Guide
.

Adoption.
LIFE
magazine ran an article in the February 19, 1951, issue called “The Adoption of Linda Joy.” The volumes were on the bottom shelf in the research section. I brought 1951 to my table. Pages 99 to 105. Five small pictures at the beginning. The caption said, “Unwed mother of eighteen.” The pregnant girl arrives at a place like where Elaine’s going. She tells the social worker

“Okay she’s yours to give away.” After birth, there’s a pic of the nurse holding the baby, and then the girl says goodbye and watches the social worker walk off. Not a problem.

The girl says she has “a long life ahead of me,” and that

“it hurts, but . . .” After all, the article says, there’s a real shortage of babies available for adoption. The main part of the article with big pics is about this wonderful couple, of whom there are at least a million who can’t have a kid and want to adopt, so says the writer. The unwed mother 148

is doing a public service. Two words only, “It hurts,” and that’s in a caption you could easily miss.

“A different article?” Mrs. Finley stood next to the table.

“I . . . we . . .”

“We are in the midst of a clean-up-the-city cam-paign,” she said, pointing to VICE HOUSE headline.

“Like Prohibition, when something is criminalized, it goes underground, and that is often more dangerous than what has been deemed unlawful.”

The thing about Mrs. Finley is if you stick it out to the end of her very long sentences, she makes you think.

“The human species has a great deal to answer for,” she said. She whipped out the handkerchief she has in the cuff of her sleeve and gave a Finley sniff. In a flash I realized that’s how she punctuates. An exclamation sniff!

Mrs. Finley tucked the handkerchief back in her sleeve. “What is your storyline?”

When she wants, her sentences can be short and to the point.

I sat, paralyzed.

“Well,” she said, with a very small sniff that apparently didn’t need the handkerchief. She waited. “The connection to your school? Why is your school newspaper concerned about so-called dens of vice?” Elaine had said, “If I’d do it, it meant I loved him.” That’s what Neil had told her. I was forced, love had nothing to do with it, and both of us were trapped.

149

“Mrs. Finley,” I said looking down at the paper, “some girls get in trouble.” I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look at her.

Go away, please.

This time it was a kind god. A young girl tapped Mrs.

Finley on the arm. “I need help,” she said. Mrs. Finley left.

Me too.

150

29.

I don’t have enough hair for a French twist. I tried to make a pageboy, but my hair’s way too curly to look good.

I had binged at Woolworth’s: a new lipstick, rouge, and a powder compact. I still had Lois’s eyeliner, and I didn’t poke myself this time.

Paul said he’d gotten a ring from Woolworth’s. We met in front of the doctor’s building, where he almost walked by me, then did a classic double take. It was for real, because Paul is a lousy actor. I told him he didn’t have to say anything, only pretend he’s my husband.

I took his arm. “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my closeup.”

He jerked away from me. “For Pete’s sake, Jamie, this is not a movie. It’s real.”

“You think I don’t know that? Today is a big scene for me. I’m just trying to get—”

151

“Get what? You want a medical test. That’s it. The less you lie, the less you have to remember, the fewer mistakes.” Why did he always have to be right?

The doctor’s office had a potted fern in the corner.

Ferns stay the same, green and healthy looking. A flower pot would be a big mistake. Forget a couple of times to water, forget once to lop off the head of the dead flower, and it’s people crying in the waiting room. Ferns don’t make you cry.

Paul walked over to the magazine rack, and I went to the reception desk. “Jamie Morse. I have an appointment.”

“Please have a seat, I’ll call you in a moment.” Paul came back from the rack empty-handed. No wonder:
Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens,
Woman’s Day, Cosmopolitan
. There was a
LIFE
magazine on the table next to me, and I handed it to him.

I wanted to look like a reader of one of those other magazines, but I’d never read one. I turned the ring on my finger. Left hand, I’d told Paul, is if you’re married. The ring was a little loose, but not enough to slip off.

“Mrs. Morse?”

Paul looked at me. I whispered, “I used my name.” At the desk the receptionist handed me a clipboard.

“I’m here for the test to see if I’m . . .”

“Of course you are, dear.” Smile. “Fill this out and bring it back to me.” Smile.

The easy stuff, name, date of birth (I made it two years earlier), address, allergies, hospitalizations. Date 152

of last menstruation. I caught my breath. Of course they wanted to know that. Why was I surprised?

Paul read. I counted the squares of linoleum, right to left, left to right, up and down, down and up.

“Peterson.” A man and woman followed the nurse into a back room.

Ten minutes later, “Liebman.” Another couple disappeared beyond the green door.

“Morse.” Finally.

Paul stood up with me. “I’m Paul Morse, remember?”

“You can wait here Mr. Morse. She won’t be long.” The nurse closed the door behind me and gave me a sharp look. I felt like a kid dressed up in my mother’s clothes. She handed me a cup and test tube. “The bathroom is the second door on the left. Fill the tube and bring it here.” She pointed to a desk with trays and files.

I put the tube and cup on the ledge below the bathroom mirror and took the ring off. I was terrified I’d pee on my hand. You’ve got to get the cup in exactly the right place. The last thing I needed was to have to fish out this cheap ring. I felt nauseous. Not from being maybe pregnant, but from the grossness of it all.

The nurse had labels ready when I brought out the tube.

“The results will be back in two weeks.”

“That long?”

She never looked up. Just like Nurse Barclay at school.

“You can try calling in ten days.”

153

The receptionist was a hundred and eighty degrees the opposite. She held up crossed fingers on both hands, beamed, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Let’s hope there’s a little one in the basket!” Paul gripped my arm, smiled back at her, and said,

“Thank you.” I felt weak in the knees.

We went to lunch. He was starved. All I wanted was a chocolate egg cream and french fries.

“Hey, listen, maybe you’re not,” he said between mouthfuls.

Maybe I’m not. Or maybe there’ll be two more weeks of getting bigger.

154

JUNE

30.

I can’t button my skirt.

156

31.

This cannot be happening to me.

I dropped my books on the bed and circled the room.

I’m wearing out the rug. Mom’s at work, Dad’s looking for work, Stevie’s at band practice, and Grandma’s gone shopping. It’s me and Scruffy.

I looked into the mirror on my bureau. It was dark, but I didn’t turn on the desk lamp.

At some point, you’re alone.

Pregnant!

A little push against my leg. Me and Scruffy.

I stared at myself. “Maybe it’ll work.” I frowned. “It has to.” I don’t have a second floor in a house like the girl Carol told us about, just an apartment stairwell. I kept talking.

“Fourteen steps with a landing turn in the middle. A problem,” I said to the mirror. “Difficult, requiring a swivel.” 157

I took time changing clothes. I hung up my skirt and blouse and folded my sweater. Third drawer from the top.

This sweater was the only neat thing in there. I have thick and thin dungarees. The thick ones are a little looser.

That’ll be good. I pulled out a T-shirt and blouse. Scruffy jumped on the pile. “I’ll be back,” I said as I lifted him off.

“Wait for me.” Socks and penny loafers. They slide better than my Keds.

You’ve got to be a careful planner for something like this.

I have just enough hair for a small ponytail, and I didn’t pin the few pieces on the sides that weren’t long enough. Better not to use bobby pins at a time like this.

What else? No cookies. Nothing in the stomach.

Don’t want to be sick. Not that way.

What else? Better take a light jacket so it looks like I meant to go someplace. It’s not cold enough for gloves.

Too bad.

What else? I looked around my room. Everything seemed normal. I rearranged the two small pillows on the bed. Then I put them back again in their original places.

It’s time.

We have the same Van Gogh bridge picture as Aunt Sheila and Uncle George. Ours is in the living room over the table. We don’t have those brown, dead-looking sunflowers.

I took my key, left the apartment, went past the elevator, and opened the door to the stairwell. I didn’t let it slam. I was walking through thick custard.

158

Tight focus on ponytail. Camera pulls back and widens at slight angle. The Girl is in full frame. Left hand on stairwell banister. Both arms reach up to cover head. Every move in slow motion. The Girl stands rigid. Three seconds that seem an eternity. Dissolve to close-up on face. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth slightly open. A jerk upward, and face is out of frame. Crashing/

tumbling sound. Pull back to wide-angle, a move-ment blur. Camera shakes. The Girl’s hand tries to grasp banister, misses. Soft focus of roll on landing. Sharp beats. Focus. Body careens down second set of stairs. The Girl’s head and chest on landing bottom, legs twisted upward on stairs.

I lay trembling. I’d scraped my cheek with a fingernail when I grabbed for the banister. I hadn’t wanted to break the fall, but instinct took over. My back ached. I inched my legs down and lay with my knees pulled up to my chest. Is anything broken? I tested each arm and leg. Everything moved. No sharp pains. Fierce aches. I touched my face lightly and looked at my fingers. A little blood from my cheek. Nothing else. I looked between my legs.
Why isn’t
anything coming out of me?
That was the whole point.

THAT WAS THE WHOLE POINT!

I rolled over onto my knees. I wasn’t sure I could stand. I fell back on my side. I’d failed, and now I couldn’t 159

even get up. Again I rolled onto my knees. I crawled over to the banister and pulled myself up. My arm wailed in the shoulder socket. Every part of me, every cell, screamed. If you multiplied the worst charley horse you’ve ever had by ten thousand, that gets close.

It took minutes to get the key out of my pocket. The back of my hand was scraped. No blood, just raw skin.

Inside the apartment I lowered my dungarees. One knee was bleeding, but not enough to have soaked through the pants.