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Sister Mary Sebastian drank her fifth cup of the morning at a coffee bar in the Atlanta airport. Her booth sat by the wall—really just a long glass panel looking out over the planes parked in the rain below. The planes reminded her of cartoon dogs: big dogs and little dogs, ears straight out and tails up in the air. Smooth, wet noses. Go dog, go. She had read those words to many small children over the years, the “special needs” children who came to the school as babies and lived with the nuns until someone adopted them or foster families took them in. One little boy, Danny Clift, she’d raised by herself for three years. He was four when he left her. The night before he went to live with his new family, he pushed open her bedroom door, crying.

“Did you have a bad dream, Danny?”

“Yes. There was dogs.”

“Do you want me to read you a Psalm?”

“No. Read Stop Dog, Stop.”

Later, she’d heard he died in an accident at home. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident at all,” she told Theresa in tears, but there was no way of knowing. She hated the system, like everything else she couldn’t control. She’d have preferred to keep all the children safe with the Sisters of Good Hope forever; she’d have established an old–fashioned orphanage for them, if Florida law had allowed it, or else adopted every child herself (but the order didn’t allow that). Only the most exceptional children stayed for any length of time: the lame, the crippled, the blind.

None had stayed longer than Theresa—soon to be “Sister Theresa,” if she decided to keep her own name. She had one arm, no left foot, and a mangled ear that she kept hidden under her habit. One night 26 years ago, a frightened woman in flat white shoes appeared at the back door, holding out a bundle. “A little present for you,” she’d said, slurring her words as if she’d been drinking for about an hour before she came. She disappeared quickly, her shoes making streaks through the dark. Mary brought the bundle into the light and unwrapped it on the kitchen table, trembling. The last corner of blanket fell away like withered skin: inside was a tiny newborn, horribly injured, quivering and gasping for breath.

Sister Mary wore ordinary clothes today: grey slacks and a 20–year–old green sweater. Some nuns hated the habit, but she felt stangely conspicuous without it. It let people look at you without seeing you: you could hide in a habit, like an almond in a shell. Without it, you were only yourself—the person you’d always been—no longer hidden in the armor of the church.

She smiled at herself—to make such a melodrama out of clothes!—and smoothed her hair behind her ears, noticing the heavy–set blonde woman making circles outside the bar. No need for a second look. The woman had a memorable face: weepy brown eyes, a round jaw and a small mouth. Sister Mary sipped her coffee, nervously. A plane landed. Minutes later, a crowd of travellers swarmed through the concourse. She stood up, stuffed her styrofoam cup through the flap of a trash bin, and stepped gamely out into the walking traffic. Luggage whizzed by: suitcases on wheels, all of them black and exactly the same size. How did these people manage at baggage pick–up? She felt the blond woman hovering about ten feet behind her, but still she didn’t look back.

Better to look like a follower than a leader. She chose a youngish Asian man as a pacesetter and walked after him, wheezing with the effort. He was perfect: long–legged and uncatchable. Far down the concourse he slowed and turned for a moment, maybe sensing something. She let her eyes meet his. That slight bow of the head, the one always expected of nuns—she gave him that, tipping her forehead and closed her eyes. The man frowned and flicked his hand over the front of his jacket. He looked back around and sped up. Another hundred yards and he turned off at an Internet station.

Whatever happened, she couldn’t miss her connecting flight. Twenty minutes till boarding, but she’d gone too far in the wrong direction now and she didn’t want to look hurried on the way back. She checked her watch again, turned into a hallway off the main thoroughfare, and found an empty restroom. It wouldn’t be empty long—the quicker she got this over with, the better. She sat down on a toilet at the far side of the room and waited, looking at her watch. Two and a half minutes passed, and then she heard footsteps on the tile.

The door squeaked open in the stall next to hers. She bent down and saw the woman’s stubby feet and thick ankles. She’d seen those feet before—just a few days ago, actually—but in different shoes, and from farther away, behind a baby stroller. Today the shoes were white, with rubber soles. There was no stroller. Sister Mary put her head against the metal wall, near the bottom.

“It was a good landing in Washington,” she whispered.

“Really?” said the meek voice on the other side.

“Yes. Our prayers were answered.”

“This is so hard.”

“I know, but you’ll be happy in the long run.”

“I wish I had more control. I wish I could see how she turns out. I get attached—”

“Shhh.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman sniffled. “I’m not good at this. I hate this.”

“I know you do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re very brave. You can trust everything to us, OK?”

“I know—”

“Have you prayed?”

“Yes.”

“Then keep praying. God listens.”

“Isn’t there any way I could see—you know, again?”

“No. No. Now, do you have anything you wanted to pass along?”

“Is there a name you could give me? A place to write?”

“Don’t undo the good you’ve done.”

“I know this one will have unusual needs.”

“Please.”

There was a slight hesitation, and then a large, thin envelope passed between the stalls. Sister Mary noticed the other woman’s hand before it drew back: the fingers looked red and sore. Maybe eczema. She took the envelope and folded it into her purse, then stood up quickly and kicked the flush button on the wall. The toilet roared. She pulled up her tights and left the bathroom quickly, without even washing her hands. She’d forgotten not to look hurried.

* * *

Far outside the tech corridor, away from the bristling trails of cement and steel, sat Sibyl Westford’s Maryland farm. The house was 180 years old, set down in a grove of black oaks, with an apple orchard on one side and a grey clapboard chapel on the other. A small crowd of children roamed over the bright green grass like new kittens. Jenny had mentioned kids. Rose wondered about them as she parked her car near the road and crunched down the sandy driveway. Did they all live here?

She’d driven up this morning with the idea that she’d try to come across less strong today, play the sincere truth–seeker. It had been wrong to pretend to Jenny that she’d had an abortion once, but, thinking it over, she’d realized that in a way it was true. As a teenager she’d driven her sister to a clinic and waited all morning in a sterile little room that smelled like plastic furniture. She remembered sitting down in the kitchen that afternoon, trying to explain to her mom why Pat was locked up in her room, crying. Rain poured down outside. The lights flickered on and off.

“We couldn’t tell you, Mom,” she said.

Her mother crumpled up with her head in her hands, sobbing. “You should have told me. I could have helped her. I wouldn’t have stopped her.”

“But you take everything so hard. We wanted to protect you from making the decision.”

“Protect me? You’re a teenager, for God’s sake. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Rose walked past the other cars, hearing voices and laughter as she came close to the house. The front door stood open: there were people moving on the other side of the screen. A woman stepped out as she climbed the steps. “Barbara?” she called toward the children on the lawn. She looked tired and tense. Her long hair tumbled down the front of her jumper.

“Yes?” answered a little girl on the lawn.

“I need your help in the kitchen, honey.”

“But I’m looking for my ring. I losed it.”

“Well I’m sorry, but mommy needs you in the kitchen.”

The girl put her hands on her hips and burst into tears. The woman sighed and shook her head at Rose. “She’s been like this all morning.”

“I know how it is,” Rose said, thinking that she didn’t really have any idea. She wondered how obviously out–of–place she looked here. She kept one hand on the camera at her side and moved past the woman through the doorway into a large open room with a high ceiling. The room was crowded with people who seemed to know each other. They were chattering here and there in small groups: one group standing around a piano, another sitting on a short flight of steps, another seated at a long table next to an ancient wood stove. Three royal blue tapestries hung along the opposite wall, embroidered with Christian symbols: a fish, a cross, a chalice.

Jenny Lemke had been setting up chairs across the room. “Rose!” she said, holding her hand out as she came open. “You made it!”

Rose moved toward her, relieved to see the familiar face. Yet hadn’t Stannie always said she trusted people too easily? It was important to remember what she was here for—not let herself be sucked in. She felt at her side for the camera—for the cool metal, the leather strap—then dropped her eyes and looked back up at Jenny, who was smiling tensely.

“Were my directions hard to follow?”

“Not at all, but this place is way off the beaten path. What is it, anyway? It’s not just a house?”

“Yes and no.” Jenny nodded, taking a slight breath as she smiled. “Sibyl’s brother James is our main attorney. He works out of an office here and takes care of the chapel next door.”

“Takes care of it?”

“He and Sibyl. They run the church together. It’s a—” Jenny laughed. “One of those Protestant things, I don’t quite get it.”

Rose smiled, looking around.

“Make yourself at home. There’s Sibyl with my priest, Father Myers. Hey Sibyl, come over here. Have you met Rose Merriman? She’s the writer I told you about.”

Sibyl Westford left the priest and came to Jenny’s side. She was both younger and taller than Rose remembered. She towered over Jenny, bouncing a tiny tiny baby on her shoulder.

“Is she yours?” Rose reached for her camera again. “She’s beautiful.”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Sibyl quickly. A strange look came over her face. “She’s not mine, no.” She laughed, sounding almost embarrassed, and handed the baby off to the same tired–looking woman who’d been calling the little girl outside. “No, she’s just one of our precious gift babies. A committee member has her in foster care. We were getting acquainted.”

There was an awkward silence, and then Jenny said, lightly, “We do have a lot of children around here, Rose. Always. Some of our own and some foster children, too.”

Rose smiled. “That would have made a nice photograph. The light in here is beautiful. Very sharp and clean.”

Sibyl’s eyes shifted over to Jenny and back to Rose.”Well,” she said, sounding strained, but smiling, “we’re always glad for company, Rose. You’re interested in joining the League, are you? Dare I hope that you’re a lawyer?”

“No, Sibyl,” said Jenny. “I told you. She’s writing a book.”

“Oh.”

“I’m interested in the legal questions, though,” said Rose. “I’d like to hear more about that side of your work.”

“A book. So you’re a literary person?”

“Sort of. a journalist.”

“Are you interested in some literature about the Fetal Rights League?”

Rose hesitated, not sure if this was a joke. “Yes, I guess so.”

“I’ll look around in the basement and see if I can dig some pamphlets up. We’re getting started pretty soon, so there won’t be much time.”

“That’s fine—”

“She doesn’t need any literature,” said Jenny. “She just wants to meet us. She wants our stories.”

Sibyl looked uncertain. “Our stories? I don’t think I have a story. I’m very boring.”

Jenny laughed. “Don’t let Sibyl fool you, Rose. She has plenty to say if you just ask the right questions.”

“I’m looking forward to talking to all of you,” said Rose warmly, but Sibyl didn’t return her smile. She turned to Jenny: “Mind if I talk to you alone?”

Jenny nodded and the two women crossed the room, heading for the coffee pot. Rose stood quietly for a moment, wondering why Sibyl Westford hadn’t taken to her. Left alone, she was suddenly aware of everything: the priest in the corner with his long face and bald head, a very old woman in a rocking chair, a handsome white man in a tan suit talking to several smart–looking black women, a couple of mangy–looking hippies with bare feet. One of the hippies had a tattoo of a man’s face on his forearm. Jesus? Maybe. Or was it Charles Manson? The middle–aged women around the piano looked as though they’d dressed for another century. Two of them wore lace caps—maybe one of these was the very woman Rose had seen in the photo at Tops, the woman who’d given her little boy a poster of a bloody fetus to carry on his shoulder. Rose did better with men and she knew it: she took a deep breath and started toward the handsome man in the tan suit.

* * *

Across the room, Sibyl was talking to Jenny in a small, tight voice. “I know she’s pro–abortion, Jenny. I can smell it a mile away.”

“She is. But she’s interested in us.”

“I feel extremely uncomfortable having her here. I mean, why here at the retreat? Can’t we leave the media in Washington?”

“Sibyl, she’s a nice person. She wants to get to know us.”

Sibyl rolled her eyes. “You trust everybody, but I know the media.”

“She’ll humanize us in the media.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“People have such a bad image of abortion–protestors, Sibyl. They see a doctor shot or a nurse losing an eye in a bombing. People remember that. These days, you have to be a victim to get any attention, and where are the victims? On the other side.”

“You don’t remember what you used to see in those dumpsters, do you?”

“They’re not going to print pictures of the dumpsters.”

“Or in my front yard. You want me to show you the doctor’s bill for the skin grafts on Clara?”

Jenny frowned, glancing toward the door. “Sibyl, I wouldn’t even consider putting that child in front of the world. She’s suffered enough. But there are other ways of getting public sympathy on our side. We can just be ourselves and talk to them—”

“We can’t be ourselves!” Sibyl said in a shrill whisper. “It’s throwing pearls before swine, trying to make friends with them. When will you understand that? We’ve tried and tried and tried. They twist everything! I’m sick to death of the secular media.”

Jenny struggled to keep her voice calm. “OK, but I’m not ready to give up. And you’re not the boss, last time I checked, Sibyl. These days, image is everything. Everything. And image is sold through story and through pictures. A writer can kill any cause, or save any cause, according to how she chooses her words. If we had a writer who believed in our cause, she could cast us in a sympathetic light. We need her.”

Sibyl stared forward for a moment, her large eyes intense. I can’t believe it’s true that people are so easily led,” she said, after a moment.

“But so many people do hate us. You know it. They don’t think of us as the people next door—we’re the enemy. We don’t have Hollywood on our side, the celebrities. We’ve got no Susan Sarandon, no Barbra Streisand. We have no one. No one but ourselves to represent us, and we’ve done such a poor job. We’ve been labeled as uncaring—”

“But it’s all lies,” said Sibyl

“It’s not all lies.” Jenny winced, and looked back at Rose. “I hate saying it, but at least half the time, it’s true. Remember Arvin, Sibyl? And what he did? Remember how many people have been hurt or killed in our cause?”

Sibyl stared, and then she said, “Just abortionists.” She said it quietly, but with venom in her voice. Her skin looked thin and papery around her eyes.

Jenny drew back and shook her head. “Not just abortionists. And even if they had been … it’s not our right. And, frankly, you need to soften up a little, yourself, Sibyl.”

Sibyl turned quickly back around to the table, still tense, now looking hurt.

Jenny touched Sibyl’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to make this a personal thing between you and me. Have I overdone it, pulling rank?”

“No,” Sibyl mumbled.

“Are you sure?”

“This is my house, after all.”

“I know.”

“You Catholics. Your friend can hang around and do research for her book. But make no mistake about it: I have nothing but contempt for the liberal media. They’ve added to the suffering of millions of children with their selfish propaganda and their money, and when we get the laws changed, they’ll pay the price.”

Sibyl lurched forward and went out the front door, down the steps to where the children were crawling through the grass, still looking for a lost ring. Jenny watched her go, stunned and sad. Then she made her way back toward Rose, who stood talking to Sibyl’s brother James under the banner of the cross.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.

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It was Thursday morning, a humid day in Seaborough. The Weather Channel showed clear skies over the Gulf of Mexico, but Jean Colfax watched a long line of grey clouds march slowly up from the horizon, casting shadows on the shallow water. She’d decided to sit out on the balcony of her bedroom this morning to wait for her sister to arrive. If Ida was surprised, she didn’t show it. She began to fish around for a dress to cover up Mrs. Colfax’s blue chiffon nightgown—”Cannot be anything too formal,” she said in her German accent, “but nothing too plain, either.” She pulled a red silk kimono from the back of a closet: it had hung there since some Christmas long ago. “This thing! It looks like a dress for an old prostitute. I’ll send it to Goodwill next week.”

“That’s what I want to wear,” said Jean. “Tie a scarf around my head so my skin won’t sag.”

“Oh no, dear, you don’t want to wear this.”

“I do.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. And don’t forget the scarf. I look like a sick elephant.”

“Nooo—your skin looks better than mine—with all my spots. See these? That’s what I deserve for not taking care of my hands, staying in this sun all year long.”

“I’ve aged too, Ida.”

“You have? I haven’t noticed it, Mrs. Colfax.”

“I have.”

Ida chuckled. “Have it your way,” she said, shaking her head. She dressed Jean and helped her outside to the balcony, wondering how long this situation would last—like getting children ready to play in the snow, knowing they might not stay out more than minutes. A glass of orange juice was brought, the usual pair of sunglasses, a sweater for the shoulders, in case the breeze was too brisk in the shade. Ah, all ready, all comfortable. Ida nodded her head, satisfied, and hurried off to make beds and iron shirts and recheck the Weather Channel.

Jean hadn’t looked at the ocean in a long time: from her seat here on the balcony, it reminded her of a painting in somebody’s living room, maybe over a piano. Far away across the choppy green waves she saw Bill’s sailboat fluttering up and down, a little corner of white paper torn from the sky. What a relief to have him out of reach, out of earshot, and yet be able to keep an eye on him! She’d have had it that way with everybody if she could have arranged it—everybody except Ida, whom she couldn’t allow out of her sight for long, and Ed Flint, who kept her fixed up. And, too, she seemed to need to talk now and then just to exercise her voice, and for that she needed her sister, at least once a week. But no more.

It was peaceful up here—just the steady beat of the wind and the static of the tide. She closed her eyes and dozed. When she woke again, she heard voices below: Linda Kate and Mary Beth chatting. This was nice. The girls always terrified her when they came up to see her (at least it didn’t happen often), but listening to them this way—well, it was like being a fly on the wall, a little beetle crawling across the ceiling, unnoticed. No worry at all.

“Who were those people who came by on Tuesday?” said Mary Beth.

Linda Kate sounded grumpy. “Just work friends of Stannie. From the magazine.”

“Did he invite them?”

“I have no idea.”

“I asked him to go shopping with me yesterday, and then he just left.”

“So?”

“Well, it was rude.”

“And that surprises you? That Stannie could be rude?”

“No. But does he hate me or something?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, Mary Beth. I have no idea who he hates and who he doesn’t.”

There was silence for a second. “I’m sorry,” said Mary Beth. “I’m just sick of this place. Everybody’s boring here. Uncle Jim stayed for ages. And all Jimbo did was drink all weekend—and that guy with him, he was so gay.”

“Don’t be a bigot.”

The younger girl sighed loudly.”Well I’d just like a chance to meet a decent–looking guy for once, you know, who’s not gay? Somebody who doesn’t just fish and hit little balls around all day, either, who can actually carry on an intelligent conversation.”

Linda Kate laughed. “It’s this weather getting to you. We should take a trip.”

“Another trip?”

“Yes.”

“But you just went to Switzerland.”

“So?”

“Well, anyway, where would we go?”

“I don’t know. I was reading about these eco–tours deals in Alaska. We could take a helicopter over the Tongass rainforest.”

“Oh. Count me out.”

“Does everything have to be mindless and expensive to please you, Mary Beth?”

“Yes. If I have to pack, I want to go to Vegas. We haven’t been there all year.”

“What if we just rented a car and drove to Vegas? Wouldn’t that be a blast? Stay in slummy little motels the whole way? We could take a movie camera and make a crazy documentary for Stannie. ‘Journey Across America with Mary Beth and Linda Kate.'”

“Why don’t we just make Stannie go with us?”

“Like he’d ever consider it. He’s going back to D.C. on Monday, anyway. He misses Rose.”

“Did you actually talk to him about her?”

“I can tell he misses her. I don’t think I could stand three whole days with him, anyway.”

“Linda Kate, don’t you wish Stannie would take us with him to Hollywood, to the awards? We could buy Oscar de la Renta gowns.”

“He’ll take Rose for sure.”

“So? We could drive up in the limousine with them, couldn’t we? We wouldn’t have to go in, we’d just hang around outside and then go find a bar or something.”

“You ask him, Mary Beth, that’s all I have to say. Just tell me what he says.”

Jean strained to hear more, but a small plane suddenly hummed over the house, flying low toward the beach. She looked up over the rim of her sunglasses, took a sip of orange juice, and watched as the plane circled over the water, then banked and headed west. By the time it was gone, the balcony below was quiet again, as if the girls had been swept away.

She felt so detached from them now: yet how she’d fretted about them as children! Worrying they’d be kidnapped by somebody who wanted Colfax money or a political deal. She’d watched them stumble across the sand behind a succession of nannies and then swimming coaches, going farther and farther out into the water, out of earshot.

She heard the bay window click open behind her. She turned. The frame was low enough to straddle. Ed Flint stepped over it.

“Well, good morning Ed,” she said softly.

He limped toward her, holding a grocery bag.

“What’s this?”

“What you asked for.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Is my sister here yet?”

“No Ma’am.” He hardly opened his mouth when he spoke. There was a huge white scar where his lower lip should have been—the only scar you could see when he had his hat on.

“I’ve got the worst headache,” she said. “Sit down and don’t hover over me, please.”

He pulled up a chair and lowered himself into it, one metal hand resting across his thighs. With the other hand he arranged the grocery bag between his knees and lifted out the bottle inside.

“You’re a good soul,” she said. “Pour a little in my orange juice.”

He shook his head as he did what she asked, then slipped the bottle back in the bag and set it on the floor of the balcony, against the green wrought–iron railing.

“How long has Bill been out?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t know, Ma’am. I ain’t been up ‘nere.”

“Up there?”

“I been soldering all morning. Got broke pipe down in the cellar. I had to cut the water off early, but I got it back on afore anybody waked up.”

“The cellar?” she laughed. “I didn’t even know we had a cellar.”

“Mr. Colfax calls it the half–basement.” Ed never looked at her when he talked. He kept his face tucked up under the cap—for her benefit, she thought, but she didn’t care how he looked. In a strange way it comforted her to look at ugly people. Maybe it gave her a feeling of nostalgia. Her father had been a plastic surgeon in St. Augustine.

“This house is getting old now, isn’t it?” she said. “My dear husband sure doesn’t bother to keep it up. If I had the energy, hell I swear I’d get out the tools myself.” She cackled.

“I’m real good with the tools,” said Ed. “You don’t need to worry. I done fix the burglar bell in the dockhouse, yesterday. It rung ever time Mr. Colfax opened the door. Ain’t rung for nobody else, just Mr. Colfax.”

“Probably all the steel in his chest set it off.”

“I can’t say why it done that. I played with it, though. Jimmied with it. I’m good with my tools. I’m the kind what uses a kitchen knife for screwdriver, bottle opener, most everything you can imagine, I do it with a kitchen knife.” He grinned under his hat: his toothless gums were shiny with spit.

“I’m glad we have you around, then. Especially because you bring me my booze.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I know how you needs it.”

“Would you like some cash?”

“Oh, no Ma’am.”

“Really, take what you need, Ed. You’re worth more to me than whatever Bill pays you. You know where the money is. I trust you, I promise I do. You ever need anything—”

“Yes, Ma’am, I appreciate it.”

“You want a drink?”

“I don’t tech it. There is one thing I’d like a lot, though.”

“Yes?”

He was quiet for a second, then he burst out in his heavy voice, “I do love children, Mrs. Colfax. I’d sure like to work for your sister over to that school.”

“What?” She couldn’t help laughing. “You already work here.” “It’d just be part–time, if they got something. You could talk to your sister for me.”

“Are you Catholic, Ed?”

“Oh, yes Ma’am.”

“Really? I had no idea. I always thought—well, I don’t know what I thought. Do you go to confession?” She smiled. “I hope you do.”

“No, I don’t do that.”

“Why not? Too much to confess?”

“Maybe not so much as them.”

“Not so much as who?”

“Them fathers.”

“The priests, you mean?”

“They ain’t all no saints, I reckon. A few is, most ain’t. I could be a father, but they don’t take folks look like I do.”

“That might not matter at all, I mean what you look like.”

“And one what—I mean I’ve got my hands bloody now and then. They don’t like that.”

“Hands bloody—you mean in Korea?”

“Yes, Ma’am. They’s a bunch of little girls, is what they is. I mean a soldier is a soldier, and the priest he’s a priest, and you won’t see no priest totin’ no weapons. I weren’t afraid to do what I had to do.”

“Yes, but Korea was a long time ago. You’re not much of a soldier now, Ed. Maybe you should consider a new vocation.”

“Well, I can’t be no priest. Let’s just leave it there.” Ed stood up quickly and pushed his chair back to the table. It scraped the concrete so hard that the metal frames on the awnings rattled.

“What’s the matter?” Jean asked. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Did I offend you?”

“No, Ma’am,” he said, but he sounded hurt.

“Ed … did you have your accident in Korea? You’ve never told me about that.”

He took a deep breath and she could hear his chest rattle. “That ain’t important. What bothers me, Mrs. Colfax, I don’t like how little children can’t stand to look at me no more. I love children so much, it breaks my heart to scare a child.”

She frowned, not sure what to say.

“Could you talk to your sister for me?” he asked again, his mangled arms hanging down by his sides. They looked heavy: the right elbow twitched slightly against his hip.

“Yes, sure,” Jean said after a second. “Why not?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Colfax, I appreciate all you done. I mean to do right by your family.”

“All right, Ed.”

A door opened and closed inside the house.

“Somebody there?” said Jean.

Ed stood up straight and whirled around. One of his hands scraped the metal table and left a ringing sound in the air. He stepped back to the window.

“Hello Mother,” said Stannie, coming in sight on the other side.

“Oh, Mr. Colfax,” said Ed. He sounded nervous. “Good morning.”

“Top of the morning to you, Ed.” Stannie straddled the windowsill and stepped through. “You don’t have to go.”

“Got plenty to do,” mumbled Ed. He brushed past Stannie and disappeared with hardly a sound.

“Hmm,” said Stannie to his mother, “I hope I haven’t caught you two at an awkward moment.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mother.”

“It’s been a while, I’ll say that.” She took a moment to study him. He wore a baseball cap turned backwards, a long white shirt, and baggy shorts. He had a three– or four–day–old beard which made his face look gaunt but still handsome. His dark eyes—Jean had always liked his sharp, dark eyes, the way they fixed on a person, pinned a person—they were shining.

She hadn’t seen him during this visit—now more than a week long. When had she last laid eyes on him? Christmas day maybe, up in Washington, in the other rooms? At Christmas she always loaded up on tranquilizers, just to make it through the dinner and the gifts. She really couldn’t remember much about this Christmas or any other, but she supposed Stannie had been there, because she recollected a column he’d written about it in his magazine—”Holiday in Hell.” Or maybe that was year before last. Who could blame him if he wanted to capitalize a little on the family misery? She’d have done it too, if she could have figured out a way.

“Could I talk to you a minute?” he said.

“Come on out. Pull up a chair.”

Stannie sat down on the window ledge. “I’m very comfortable here, thanks.”

“Ed and I were just chatting about the weather. I think it might rain.”

He nodded at her orange juice, half–smiling. “I know what you see in Ed.”

“Come here boy,” she said, holding out her hand. “You can get close to me, I’m not a corpse.”

“Not yet, anyway. I did ask Ida if it was OK before I came up—wanted to make sure you were still alive up here.”

“I am.”

“Yes. So it seems.” He took a cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it.

“Just like your father. That stupid habit.”

“Thank you. You think I’m like my father. That’s a compliment.”

“Even his mother smoked those things, you know. And his sisters. That’s why they both had breast cancer.”

“The rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. In fact, it probably doesn’t fall at all.”

“No.” She cackled. “It gets eaten by worms or crows, right there on the branch.”

“Exactly.”

“Stanley?”

“Yes.”

“I’m feeling sleepy, and you wanted to ask me something.”

“Yes.”

“Well, what the hell is it?”

“Actually—” He smiled.”I want to know about my birth mother.”

“What?” She took a sip of orange juice. “Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental on me!”

“Never.”

“I’ll be damned. I think you are.” She shook her head, grinning. Her teeth had a pink tint, as if you could see right through them to the pulp.

“I don’t care who my parents are,” he said flatly. “I just want to know who they’re not. There’s a woman around here claiming to be my mother. I’ve put her up at a motel for a few days—till I’m sure she’s lying. I’d hate to turn my own mother out on the street.”

She licked her teeth and laughed. “You’re so kind, Stanley. Well, now. That’s what you get for putting your life in print. I told you you should get those toes fixed, anyway. Now somebody shows up wanting something from you.”

“Maybe. What do you say, though? You know anything about my birth mother?”

“Such as?”

“Color, height, width. Anything. Was she a prostitute? I don’t care, I’d just like to know a little more than I know now.”

“What does it matter? Send the woman away. Your life is none of her business, even if she did haul you around in her uterus for nine months.” Jean took off her sunglasses and dropped them in her lap. “What is that? What’s nine months compared to a lifetime? We’ve had you all your life.”

“Where did I come from, though? What state? At least tell me that.” He flicked his cigar against the window sill and then swept the ashes away with his bare foot.

“I don’t know where you came from. It wasn’t that kind of adoption.”

“What kind was it then?”

“Very private.”

“Black market?” He cocked his head and smiled.

“No.” She leaned back in her chair and held her hand out to him again. “Come on, sit over here. Over here.”

He stood up and sat down again in the chair Ed had occupied. He took her hand—her fingers were like the fingers of a wooden puppet, cool and slender, with knobby joints. She opened his palm and began to massage it.

“Stanley,” she said, “I don’t really know where you came from. Your aunt is the only person who knows that. My sister.”

“Your sister the nun?” He snorted.

“Yes. She knows. But she won’t tell you, it’s a Catholic thing. She took a vow.”

“Any chance she’s my mother? Get knocked up by some priest or monsignor or something?”

“Hah. Your aunt is like an angel. But it was her idea for me to get you—I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own. I just couldn’t carry a baby without miscarrying. I lost five, one right after another. I was getting desperate. Every woman wants a baby, Stanley. Even Madonna wants babies. It’s a biological thing. I thought I might kill myself if I couldn’t get pregnant.”

“And? So what happened then?”

“One night my sister brought you to me and said she had you in foster care for a Catholic agency. She said that you were healthy and she was hoping I might adopt you.”

“She didn’t tell you where I came from?”

“Just that you were conceived out of wedlock. She acted like it was all a big secret. But I didn’t think much of that—she exaggerates everything. She’s as paranoid as hell. She’d have made a good spy. Anyway, I liked you. And I still do, even if you are a bastard.”

Stannie laughed.

“I talked to your father and we filed papers to adopt. I never got anything from my sister about your background. She said you were a special case and that a priest had put some kind of a blessing on you. All that Catholic hooey—that’s all I know about you.”

He sat quietly looking at her, curling his upper lip till it touched the bottom of his nose. Then he laughed again.

“You want to know anything else,” she said, “you’ll have to ask her about it. Stop giggling like an idiot. I’m expecting her this afternoon. Why don’t you come up here and play gin with us?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’ve got other things to do.”

“Such as?”

“None of your business.”

“But I thought you wanted to talk to your aunt.”

“I’ll call her. She has a phone at the convent, doesn’t she?”

“Stanley—” She reached out for his hand again as he stood up, but he moved out of reach.

“Stanley,” she said, putting her sunglasses on again, “do me a favor and don’t mention your adoption again in print.”

“Fine. I’ll only talk about it in cyberspace. My e–column.”

“No. Don’t mention it anywhere.”

“Oh, and may I ask why not? What have you got to lose?”

“I’ve got some dignity left, damn it.” Her voice was thick. “This is my life and I don’t want it paraded in front of the whole damn world. Just don’t do it. I don’t like it.” She frowned at him. Suddenly a gust of wind blew up from below, catching her kimono: the red silk billowed up from her thighs like a giant apple bursting out of her lap.

Stannie stood for a moment and then let out a last, sharp laugh. She heard him still laughing in the hall beyond her bedroom, then faintly on the stairs. Her hands shook as she reached down to smooth the kimono over her knees. She could no longer see Bill’s sail near the horizon. The clouds had marched by. The sky was pale and hollow, as far as she could see.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.

Chapter1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

“Ms. Lambeth, this is Tina Rice from the Academy.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to let you to know that your client—”

“Hold, which client?”

“Brett Bordley-Young. We’re changing plans, slightly. We’d like her to present the award for Best Screen Adaptation of a Foreign-Language Novel along with Stannie Colfax.”

“Who?”

“Stannie Colfax.”

“Like I said, who?”

“I’m kind of surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s a very popular columnist for Tops.”

“Well, that’s very nice. Are you people out of your mind? A columnist? She was supposed to present with Brad Peel.”

“Brad’s had to bow out, unfortunately. Mr. Colfax is quite well-known. He does sports and movie reviews on the Internet. You’ve heard of the thumbs down? He gives ‘the finger.’ He has a cameo in the new Mike Myers film—”

“You know, pardon me, but I’m kind of surprised they didn’t give us Mike Myers.”

“Mr. Colfax scores very high on every name-recognition index. He’s been on Letterman several times. He’s a close friend of—”

“What I’m saying is that I think my client is a big enough name to merit presenting with an actor of some stature. I know it’s too late for Cruise or Russell Crowe, but what about Tim Robbins? Cuba Gooding, Jr.? I’d even take James Garner over some damned writer.”

“If your client is concerned, we’re very agreeable to finding a replacement.”

“For him?”

“No, for her.”

“I really need to talk to somebody over there who knows what’s going on.”

“If you feel that way, I can have someone call you, but it may be after the weekend—”

“No, I want a call today. My other line’s beeping in. Goodbye.”

* * *

Across the country, Jenny Lemke stood in an upstairs bathroom of her house, putting on lipstick. She rolled it deep into the small creases of her lips, thinking that her aging skin looked more and more like art—like a mosaic, maybe: a pattern on an old church wall. How would she look in another ten years? Hag-like. She pushed her bifocals up the bridge of her nose and saw every pore magnified in the mirror to the size of a pin prick. She felt a little dizzy staring at herself. If she kept looking for a long time, she might just drift out of her body, up into the air, and watch herself from above. That would be something. To drift above and watch herself talking to a reporter, giving a speech, arguing with Sibyl about policy, cradling a baby in a car on the way to the airport.

You had to do your best with all this, even if you hated being at everybody’s mercy. This was not about you: this was about it. You were just a tool, and it was worth any amount of unctuousness you had to display. But hey, that was the activist speaking, and she really couldn’t stand the activist anymore. The activist was a tyrant. Jenny thought about the girl coming today and wished she could say to her, “I’m tired of fighting. I believe it all, but nothing ever changes, and I’m tired. They win.”

The doorbell rang. She looked out the window, glimpsed the top of Rose’s head through white dogwood blossoms, and snapped her lipstick case shut. She came down the stairs checking her clothes, looking over her bare shins to make sure the sunless tanning lotion hadn’t streaked. These pants she was wearing—they’d called them “pedal pushers” when she was a kid in the fifties: now they were “Capris” or something. She couldn’t wear this retro stuff without without having flashbacks, visions of her mother poking around this house in a sleeveless blouse and flat shoes, bored and smoking Pall Malls. “You damned ungrateful kids, I feel like a prison warden.” Forty-five years ago.

She opened the door, smiling self-consciously. The girl on the front steps smiled back, but her eyes were tense. She wore blue jean overalls and a baggy t-shirt: her hair was pulled back in one of those huge clips: it sprouted from the top of her head like a weed. Strange choice of clothes, Jenny thought, for an interview. But then, if you were beautiful you could get away with anything. “Good again to see you again, Rose. Rose, right?”

“Yes. You’re Jenny Lemke?” The girl sounded uncertain.

“Oh!” Jenny pulled off her bifocals. “I wasn’t wearing these yesterday, was I? Bet you didn’t recognize me.”

Rose shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I’m not awake yet. And I’ve been driving around, lost—what a lovely old neighborhood.”

“Thank you. Come in, please,” Jenny held out her hand but the girl moved away from her as she stepped into the hallway. How old was she, anyway? Thirty? Odd to be calling her a “girl,” but she had that girlish look.

Rose glanced around. “Have you lived here a long time?”

“A very long time,” said Jenny. “This was my mother’s house.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A lot of ghosts around. Do you take coffee, Rose?”

“Yes, but don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Just give me a minute.”

Rose yawned. She followed the older woman into the kitchen and leaned against a wall, watching. She’d left her camera in the car. A camera could be intimidating to people. She’d get it later, after they’d talked. From the back, Jenny Lemke looked so much thinner, older. Her spine was slightly curved: knobs stuck out on her neck. She was maybe fifty-five, sixty.

The kitchen obviously dated to the fifties. Some people might have said it needed updating, but Rose liked the look of it: white cabinets with gleaming metal handles, dark wood crucifix over the breakfast table, a stained glass window on one wall with light flooding through in bright vermillion and turquoise. Everything looked cleaned and polished. A damp mop still leaned in one corner, upside down. The dishwasher gurgled and changed cycles. Rose could feel the heat coming from it, five feet away.

She smiled to herself. She’d pictured herself now and then in an old house like this—not the kind of house she’d grown up in (split-level, shag carpet), but the kind she’d seen again and again in little country towns: small kitchen, small table with plaid table cloth, big sunny windows. Probably in the back of her mind she’d pictured herself married and settled down, raising children. Lately she was figuring out that she ‘d probably never have a house of her own, probably never be married or have kids. Stannie’s bad behavior wasn’t something you’d want to bring into a marriage, especially if kids were part of the deal (and weren’t they always—didn’t just about everybody have them, eventually?). OK, so maybe she didn’t have to stay with Stannie, but she’d recognized that his bad behavior had its up side, too. It pretty much guaranteed her the right to do what she wanted, forever.

There was that hiking trip to the Canadian Rockies for instance, when he’d decided to stay with the tour group even after she broke her ankle and had to be flown out. Or the time he wouldn’t postpone their vacation, even though her mother was having surgery. Or (and this was the worst) that morning two years ago when a nasal-voiced girl answered the phone at his hotel room in Texas:

“It’s not time for the wake-up call.”

“Where’s Stannie?”

“In the shower. Who’s this?”

“Tell him his editor called. I’ll call back when he has his clothes on.”

If she’d loved Stannie Colfax—really loved him— the love ended with that phone call. The relationship didn’t end, though, because after an honest conversation with herself, she’d figured out that Stannie wasn’t such a bad deal. Not bad at all. He made her laugh, he kept things light, and he had a sweet side, not to mention money. Was he a good person? She thought he was, at heart. A good lover? Adequate. Did she deserve better? She thought she probably did. But it was easy to relax with a man who had already failed her. No need to apologize, no need to feel guilty for anything. Ever. She could always afford to be generous because she always had the upper hand. Not such a bad deal to stay with Stannie.

“To be honest,” said Jenny suddenly, “I’m a little nervous about this interview.

Rose jerked back to the present. “Pardon?”

“Just don’t ask me any questions yet. I can’t think and measure coffee at the same time.”

Rose laughed. “By all means, take your time, then. I’m only half-awake, myself.”

“Ah, but I can ask you questions. You’re working on a book, right? That’s what this is about?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask you something? Are you pro-life?”

“Well, in the general sense. It’s a matter of definition.”

“I know what that means.” Jenny turned her head. “So, are you going to persecute me in print?” She had a bony profile.

“I’ll try to tell the truth,” said Rose.

“Good. That’s all I ask.”

“I don’t know exactly what I’ll write. I’m a photographer, mainly, so I’m used to letting a story grow from the pictures.” From the corner of her eye, Rose noticed the calendar hanging by the refrigerator: “The Right to Be Born, That’s All We Ask,” it said underneath the photograph for April—a picture of a doctor holding up a newborn. She studied it for a moment, then turned and found Jenny Lemke staring at her.

“You like that calendar?” said Jenny.

“Oh, I think it’s probably effective. It’s a good picture.”

“I don’t know.” Jenny sighed. “I’m not sure there’s anything effective, not if people have their minds made up. Get a cup here and let’s sit down.”

“Thank you.” Rose took her coffee and followed Jenny through a little dining room, down a step into what looked like a study or an office. It had an antique desk by a window and a rocking chair tilted slightly forward under a wooden crucifix.

“We used to refer to this as the ‘family room,'” said Jenny. “Back when the TV was in here. The old one took up half the wall space by that window.”

“So, do you have a family?” asked Rose. She moved a quilt carefully from the seat of the rocking chair and then settled down into it. It squeaked loudly as she leaned back.

“Yes and no. Never got married. I spent a little time in a convent—but decided I didn’t have what it takes. I didn’t go through the final vows.”

“A convent.” Rose winced at the thought. “You don’t seem like the nun type.”

“There’s no one type. My parents died early and my brother’s out West. I was probably looking for a family of my own. Anyway, I didn’t find it there. Eventually I adopted two kids.” She pointed at a row of photographs: two children, one blond and the other black-headed, each pictured at various ages. The frames had obviously been matched to the children’s hair color.

“Cute,” said Rose, feeling awkward.

“That’s my daughter there—she died of spinal meningitis at twelve.” Jenny’s voice didn’t waver: she sounded as though she’d explained this many times. “And there’s my son. I got him a year after she died, when he was six. He’s grown up now and living in Boston. They never knew each other, but I like to think we were a family in our own way.”

Rose gazed at the photographs. They all seemed to be turning brown. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

“Yes.” Jenny nodded. “Thanks. She was born with a few birth defects, so she was sick a lot of her life. I really wish I could have given her more happy years. It’s a hard world for some kids.”

Rose cleared her throat. “I certainly agree with that.”

“Do you have children?” said Jenny, after a moment.

“Oh, no. My sister has three, so I get my parenting fix that way. And I’ve done a lot of stories on kids. As a photographer, that is. I worked for UNICEF for three years.”

“How interesting. You must have seen a lot in your time.”

Rose shifted and the chair squeaked and popped. “Yes, I’ve seen a lot. But kids can affect you in dangerous ways. I guess we’re all wired that way. It’s harder to distance ourselves. They draw you in.”

Jenny let her eyes settle on Rose’s face. Did this girl understand? Maybe? Her eyes were kind, but people’s faces could fool you. You couldn’t be too careful.

“I agree with you,” she said carefully. “Children expose our vulnerability. It’s hard to turn away from their suffering. Concentrate on a child’s suffering and you experience all suffering.”

Rose looked up at the crucifix. “You’re still religious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Does religion help you understand the world?”

Jenny hesitated. “Yes, in many ways.”

“Does it inform your views on abortion, for instance?”

“Yes, of course it does. You’re not religious, yourself?”

“No,” said Rose, “not particularly. I mean of course I believe in something, but not anything structured. No organized religion”

Jenny smiled. “That’s common these days.” She started to say something else, maybe speak up for the Church, but stopped herself.

Rose shifted her legs and the chair practically shrieked this time. “So,” she said, “I’m sure abortion is a deeply personal issue for you, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it very personal for everybody?”

“I guess so. Maybe. Do you have any experience with it?”

Jenny smiled strangely. “Are you asking me if I’ve had one?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“I bet it was. A lot of people ask. I don’t mind the question.”

Rose was quiet for a moment. “Well, a lot of people do have them, you know, and the fact that you’re so violently opposed does make one wonder … but that’s not why I asked.”

“Well, anyway, it’s a fair question.” Jenny looked Rose straight in the eye. “I have a lot experience with abortion. I was a nurse for twelve years. I worked in a family planning clinic. I assisted with abortions all the time.”

Rose hesitated, trying not to show her surprise. “Really? So you once believed in the right to choose?”

“Yes.”

“And? What changed?”

“My conversion changed me. I became Catholic. Catholics believe in Christ’s presence in the Mass. We eat and drink the body of the Lord every time we take Communion. Well, it’s, somehow … after that, after taking the Lord’s body, I began to see those small bodies differently. I had seen the blood and the fetal tissue for years. Now I saw human beings. Innocents being sacrificed. And It seemed to me that someone had to become a voice for the voiceless, you know? It was a human rights issue, based on my faith.”

“So it was religious conviction that changed you.”

“That’s a limiting term. But my conviction did begin there. Everything starts somewhere. Religion just gave me a lens to see clearly.”

“Did you feel guilty about what you’d done before your conversion?”

Jenny nodded. “Oh, yes. I know some would say that this is all about my misplaced guilt.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” Jenny looked directly at Rose. “But that’s not at the heart of it. For me, anyway. I believe that human life is sacred. I believe that even out of terrible circumstances, good can come. I reject the idea, however expedient in the short term, that society should allow the taking of one human life in order to make another human life more bearable.”

Rose leaned forward. “That sounds high-minded. But you came to this conclusion over time. How can you, just one woman, force every other woman to live by your principles? You want to make a philosophical or theological choice for everyone.”

“Only by lawful means,” Jenny said. “The Fetal Rights League works through the law. And that’s the way the law works. People apply their convictions to it.”

Rose felt her voice rise. “But still, what I hear you saying is that might can make right. You’ll hire lobbyists and lawyers and use the courts to try to barge in on other women’s private lives.”

Jenny nodded. “We may not like it, but the law barges in on people’s lives all the time. Legislators make laws, judges make decisions every day that mean life or death, jail or freedom to the people who come through their courts. And all because of moral choices made by the few on behalf of the many. I see the argument—” Jenny paused, searching for the right words. She wanted to be honest, but she wanted to convince the girl, too. It was a delicate balance. “I see the argument that says, ‘Don’t make a law about this. Abortion is a moral matter, not a legal one.’ But I strongly believe that abortion is a moral issue worth making a law about. Good God, it’s worth making laws to protect the handicapped and the sick, or to protect endangered species or the environment, whatever the cost to human well-being in the short-term—just because it’s right, and because one day we might need protection, ourselves—we should make laws to protect the unborn, because they have no voice of their own and they need protection. The fact is that they’re here. They deserve to be preserved and protected until birth.”

Rose felt hot all over. “And does that right start at conception?”

“Let me put it this way,” said Jenny. “A person’s legal right to be preserved and protected from extreme physical harm begins as soon as we can get the courts to grant it. That’s what we’re working toward. We’ll start at late pregnancy and move back as far as we can go, saying, ‘Well what about the 21-week-old fetus? What about the 20-week-old fetus?”

“I heard you were against the incremental approach. I heard you want to take down Roe v. Wade once and for all.”

“We do.” Jenny nodded. “But these are difficult times for us.” She shook her head. “We’ll take whatever we can get.”

“These are difficult times in what way?” asked Rose. “People think you’ve made lots of inroads against legalized abortion. People are worried.”

“Who’s worried?” Jenny smiled. “You?”

“Yes.” Rose nodded. “I’m worried that there’s no end to this. I’m worried you people will intrude on my life. That if I do get pregnant one day, you’ll come after me with a court order—no drinking, smoking, or whatever. Or it’s jail. All in the name of the baby’s health.”

Jenny rubbed her palms together. “I’m not talking about a pregnant woman’s right to smoke or have a glass of wine. I’m talking about freedom from extreme and certain bodily harm before birth. Think of your body as a house.” She made a large, indefinable motion with her bony hands. “The police could never get a warrant to enter your home for the purpose of putting out a cigarette. They might, however, break in to stop you from taking a lethal overdose of drugs, or giving illegal drugs to a minor. It’s the same here. They’re intruding on your privacy in order to stop a murder.”

She put her hands down. “Yes,” she said in a tired voice, “I know that people are very worried about restrictions on abortion. If they just perceived abortion as a threat to their own well-being—but they won’t, because let’s face it, these people have already been born. What do they care? They’re here. And that’s really the problem. That’s why the pro-life movement is so unpopular. We’ve got no victims on our side.” Her face clouded for a second. “Not many, anyway. I mean, I could show you—”

“Say you can’t win in the courts,” Rose said. “What do you think about civil disobedience?” She sat back and her chair shrieked again.

“Well,” said Jenny, narrowing her eyes, “first you tell me what you think about it.”

“What I think?”

“Yes. I want to know what you think. If you felt that the Holocaust was happening right here in your own hometown, what would you do about it?”

Rose laughed lightly. “Abortion is nothing like the Holocaust.”

“Just tell me, if you felt that abortion was like the Holocaust, what would you do? Would you be passive collaborator? Or would you be a resister?”

“I hate the analogy. I can’t take it seriously.”

“One person’s criminal is another person’s hero, depending on whether the person accepts the cause. It’s the John Brown syndrome.”

Rose tried not to flinch. “If I really felt that abortion was anything like the Holocaust, maybe I’d fight it. But I don’t see abortion that way. It’s a very sad but necessary option, and above all, it’s a personal decision. Would you really want the government telling you what to do with your body?” She looked hard at Jenny. “You can’t tell me you would. A strong woman like you—a single woman capable of making your own moral choices? Would you want to give up that control to a society that doesn’t know anything about you? Doesn’t know your wants or your needs or your capabilities—?”

“Oh, I know what you’re saying,” said Jenny. “I do know what you’re saying. No, I don’t want to give up control to anyone. But I do believe this is the Holocaust. And I’ve been on the wrong side, before. So I know what I’m capable of, Rose, and I know that the law is there to protect other people from my sin. That’s why I’m willing to give society a measure of control. Don’t you think you’d be a pretty wicked, pretty selfish person if society didn’t keep you in line?”

Rose considered for a moment. “That’s such a pessimistic view of people.”

“Without the law, you’d really stay on your own side of the road all the time?”

“Maybe.”

“And you’d pay taxes out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Probably. But the law has already say that this isn’t up to you,” said Rose quietly. “It’s just not your decision to make for other people.”

Jenny felt her throat tighten. It really was impossible to convince them. All the conversation, all the sincerity, all the good will. It didn’t amount to anything.

There was a long silence, and then Rose sighed. “OK,” she said. “I get the picture. I want to meet again. When can we meet again?”

Jenny put her head in her hands, and then looked up again. “You know, I can’t turn down the press exposure, but I’d like to know ahead of time how bad this will be. Will I hate myself for this later?”

Rose licked her lips. “No.”

“No?”

“You shouldn’t be afraid.” It was dawning on her that she’d failed, here. She was supposed to be getting cozy with Jenny Lemke—getting on the inside, finding out about the Womb Bomber—yet she’d lost control and shown her hand.

“And why not?” asked Jenny. “You’re obviously critical of us.”

“Yes. But I have a lot of sympathy for your movement. I told you.”

Jenny laughed. “I missed that somehow. Maybe you said it while I was making the coffee.”

“No, really, I do have sympathy. That’s why I volunteered for this story.” Rose frowned. “I have plenty of hard questions. But I have sympathy, too.” She raised her eyes to Jenny and started to say something, but stopped. “I know what it’s like.”

“What it’s like?”

“What abortion’s like.”

Jenny sat quietly for a moment, looking at Rose. “How do you know?” she asked quietly.

“I had one,” Rose said slowly.

“I see.”

“And I do feel guilty about it now. Maybe that’s part of this.”

Jenny kept her eyes on the girl, and hurt for her, though she was already thinking about other things. She thought how many times she’d listened to hard stories like this and how difficult it was to care for so many individual human beings, listen to so many women confess, and still listen again and care again and sympathize again. It would be so much easier just to hear a few representatives of each broad category: the guilty likeable feminist type, the angry rape victim type. What if you could choose just a small sample to speak for the masses now and then, like a queen sifting out letters from her mountain of mail? Would you have more energy for good? Would you care more? Do a better job? But how dare she think this. She shuddered at herself.

“I do feel guilty,” Rose repeated, “even though I’m pro-choice. But it may be because people like you won’t let me forget it. And maybe what I do want is a judge. Maybe I want to hear the worst thing you have to say about me. It’s like a kind of punishment. I have to get this over with. Then I can go home and maybe be free of it.”

“No,” said Jenny. “You don’t need punishment.”

“You don’t think I’ve sinned?”

“Yes, you have sinned.” She sighed, lifting one skinny arm to reach for a space just above Rose’s head, as if she’d pull down an invisible hand to bless her. “But it’s not what I think. You can find another judge. I’d rather be your helper.”

“Please help me do this story, then.”

“If that’s what you want.” Jenny sat forward in her chair and folded her hands. “We could meet again tomorrow. I don’t know what you’d think about this—we’re having a committee retreat at Sibyl’s farm in Maryland. You’d come up, meet the folks who work with us.”

Rose nodded. She was thinking she’d been dating Stannie too long. To be able to lie like this—what had happened to her? What was she becoming?

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.