 |
|
|
I was listening to a haunting and beautiful collection of traditional Jewish music from Spain, and reading Adler's Drawing Down the Moon - for the second time - when the phone rang. I was really into her gossipy exposé of the Pagan Community circa the late 1970s, and didn't particularly want to talk to anybody at the time. But as the phone continued to ring for a third and a fourth time, curiosity - the bane of cats and philosophers alike - got the better of me. I put the down book, and answered the phone, silently vowing that I would indeed stay on the line this time, if my interrupting caller happened to be one of those cheery folks concerned about whether my soul had been washed in lamb's blood. On the other end, Mary's voice sounded hollow and empty. All of the life and energy was gone, her bubbling tone was flat, and I almost didn't recognize her, because it sounded so different. "Oh God, Steve, I need someone to talk to. My whole fucking life is crumbling around me, and I don't know what to do." I could actually feel the pain in her voice, not just hear it. "Can you tell me about it now, or should I come over to your place, and talk there?" "Could you come over? I don't think I can talk about it over the phone." I, too, hate using the phone. The important stuff should always be said in person. "Hang on, heart, I'll be there soon as I can." I heard her voice, ghostly quiet say, "Okay," and then she hung up, and I sat there for a couple moments, wondering what could have caused her so much pain. I barely stopped long enough to shut off the lights and my CD player, and only gave my cat a passing acknowledgment as I rushed out the door, which was the height of rudeness as far as he was concerned. I didn't even stop to chat with Mrs. Goldman, who was trying to stop her rat terrrier from darting down the steps, merely waving goodbye as I slipped my coat on and hurried down the stairs. As I don't drive - the sanctimoniousness I feel in my eco-friendliness generally outweighs the inconveniance - it usually takes me about an hour and a half to get across town via our city's wonderful mass transit system. But this time, I reached Mary's old brownstone apartment in just a little over an hour. With that same speed I climbed the two short flights of stairs that led to her apartment, but paused when I heard Carole King spill out from under Mary's door. This was bad. Mary only listened to Tapestry when she was really depressed or when she wanted to get that way. I stood there and hoped for a moment that it was the latter, even though I knew it wasn't. I knocked twice and heard her voice over the music. "Steve, is that you?" "Yeah," I answered, opening the door. "You know you don't have to knock. My door's always open." I smiled, "You know me, I'm a creature of habit." Mary's apartment, like most in the city, wasn't large, but it was hers, and she was proud of it. In all, it consisted of a small kitchen/dining room, a restroom, and a bedroom that also served as a living room. (Or was that a living room that served as a bedroom?) A shirtless Jim Morrison smiled down at us, thumbtacked to the wall of the bed room, alone amid a mass of unicorns. The walls were covered in unicorn posters. There was a shelf of unicorn statues, in all sizes, unicorn mugs, and unicorn books. Everywhere one looked there were stuffed unicorns. She always had this thing for unicorns, which I never could understand. But it was part of who she was, and I accepted it as I accepted all of my friends' quirks, and as they accepted my own. A grey shag carpet stretched from the old fold-out couch that became her bed at night to a pair of overstuffed chairs that smelled of old cigarette smoke even though Mary didn't smoke and didn't allow her friends to either. I found Mary sitting on the couch with her legs tucked underneath her and her arms wrapped tightly about her stomach. Her red face said that she'd been crying, but I'd known that since she hung up. "You want something to drink, Steve? I've got tea, Diet Coke, beer, and water of course." The tea she drank was one of those weird Celestial Seasonings flavors. I make it a habit never to drink anything with the word "zinger" in it, so I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a Diet Coke, which I never got around to drinking. I plopped down in one of the overstuffed chairs and we sat there listening to Carole King for awhile, me drinking in the scent of old leather and stale tobacco, she rocking gently as she stared off into the distance. When 'Natural Woman' ended, Mary looked up at me and said, "Thank you for coming, I really need a friend." "Hey, you know I'll always be there for you, no matter what." "No matter what." She echoed, but there was a world of difference somehow as my words passed her lips. When I had spent too long trying to figure out what the difference had been, I asked her if she wanted to let me know what was bothering her. She just sat there for a while after the words of my question had gone wherever it is words go when we're done with them, and I began to wonder if she had even heard me over Carole's bluesy voice. I was about to ask again, when she answered. "I'm pregnant." Two words had never held so much pain, so much confusion, so much fear, so much meaning, or so much of anything. For a while the words hung in the air between us, and only the Tapestry album kept them from filling the room entirely as my thoughts chased themselves through my head like angry dogs and hers, I can only guess at what hers were doing. "Goddess, are you . . . are you sure?" I said, because I had to say something. "How stupid. Of course you're sure. Who's the father?" Her voice was soft, about as strong as plaster, as she said, "I don't know. He was some guy from Kim's party: brown hair, blue eyes, cute butt. I don't even know his name." It took me a while to answer. I didn't know what to say to that, and it wasn't any easier to find the words to my next question, but I knew that I had to ask it anyway. "Are you going to keep it?" "I'd like to, but I can barely afford to take care of myself as it is, and. . . and. . . " The tears that choked her kept her from continuing. I got up from the overstuffed chair and sat down beside her on the couch. At first she flinched away, like a frightened animal, but finally she submitted to the comfort offered by my arms. A part of me wanted to know what in the world she thought she was doing having unprotected sex with a guy whose name she didn't even know. This wasn't the 70's and we both knew too many people who had the virus to think that it was, but even more than that, we'd both gone to too many funerals to have that "it won't happen to me" mentality. I knew, however, that she didn't need a lecture on safer sex just now, that she needed something else entirely. In between my occasional - but all too infrequent - fiction or poetry sales, I make my living by reading Tarot cards at Herne's Cottage, one of the local Metaphysical shops. Half the time my clients just want to offload and don't care too much about seeing through the "mists of time and fate" into the "pathways of their future". I knew that's what Mary needed now, and I had no problem giving it. I'm a big guy, with broad shoulders just right for helping to carry the burden of another - especially if that other happens to be a friend. We sat there like that for awhile. I'm not sure how long, but the record had long since run itself down when Mary lifted her head from my shoulder and apologized for dampening the front of my shirt. "Hey, don't worry. I've gotten worse than tears on it before, and it washed out just fine. Besides, stains only add character to a garment. See," I said, pointing to a small ink stain at the bottom the shirt. "Now there's character." Her lips almost curved into a smile. "I don't know what to do, Steve. I always said that I'd keep the child if I got pregnant, that I'd be responsible. But I'm not ready, and it's not just the money thing. I can't be a mother, not yet. That kind of commitment, bringing another life into the world, being responsible for everything that happens to it. . . I can't, I just can't." I exhaled deeply. I, who pride myself on being something of a poet, I who am never at a loss for words, didn't know what the hell to say in this present situation. I mean, all life is sacred. That's the biggest, most important part of my religion. It's the reason why I'm a vegetarian, why I only wear canvas shoes. And abortion is awful, not just what it does to the baby, but to the mother herself. But, on the other hand, it takes more than a fertile womb to make someone a mother, and if Mary wasn't ready, it would be wrong for her to bring a child into that situation. The world is littered with unwanted, and unwelcome children; children born into crippling poverty; children who suffer at the hands of resentful parents; children faced with a hellish existence. And five years, say, might make the difference in Mary's ability to take care of her child. If she waited, she might be able to bring the child up in the kind of household that it deserved, financially stable, and the father taking an active role in the baby's life. Every life is important, every child should be wanted, but just because I feel this way, should someone else be made to carry a pregnancy full term, even if they aren't able to share my belief? "I've usually got something to say about everything," I finally admitted. "But I just can't find the magic words that'll make everything all right for you in the end. I can, however, be here to support whatever decision you make. I'll walk you to the clinic, and offer my shoulder afterwards - should that be your decision - or, if you choose to keep it, my weekends haven't been all that busy lately, and, if I do say so myself, I make a damn fine baby-sitter. Either way, friendship means more than having someone to hang with, and I'll be there for you." "Thank you, Steve." I never saw her alive again. The following week she scheduled an appointment at a little clinic about four blocks from where she lived. She didn't call me the day of the appointment, and went down there by herself. Since I wasn't there with her, I don't know what it was like, but I can imagine. A small mass of people were probably crowded outside the clinic, raising their hand-painted signs, and shouting obscene and intimidating slogans with an almost manic intensity. No doubt they had their lurid pamplets with scenes of aborted fetuses, and their hateful literature procliaming God's condemnation of the practice, and how He hates the women who do it, printed in big, bold letters with lots of exclamation points. The more creative of them were probably doused in red paint meant to look like blood, and adorned with little plastic babies to represent all of the unborn children whose lives were lost at the clinic. That's what I think it was like - that's what every Pro-Life protest that I've ever seen has been like. But as I said, I don't know for sure what Mary faced that day, though it was enough to make her turn back, and head for home. When she had returned to the safety of her home, she wrote a short passage in her diary: Jesus, oh Jesus, please forgive me. I know this is wrong, but I just HURT so much. I'm so tired of crying, so tired of trying to do what's right. I just want it to end. I just want things to be normal again. To feel like other people do. It's like the walls are closing in, I can't breathe, can't think. I'm choking. I ache so much. Why did you give me this baby? You had to know I wasn't ready, had to know how awful I am. What kind of mother only feels fear, pain, regret at the thought of carrying a life inside her? Why am I like this? Why? Mary then ran herself a bath, and when it was ready, climbed into the warm water, and opened up her wrists. They say she died peacefully. I don't know, maybe she did. I never saw the body, because I didn't go to her funeral. Somehow, I just couldn't bare to see her like that. Mary was always so full of life, so full of vigor. She was like a kitten - boundless, joyful, innocent, and alive. I could not stand to see her any other way, so I did not go to her funeral. I've been to her grave several times since then. I even left a little porcelain unicorn for her one time. I had meant to give it to her for her birthday, and I think she would have wanted it. Samhain is supposed to be a time of remembrance, a time
when we say farewell to those whom we have loved, and lost.
So on this day I shall remember Mary, a good friend, and one
that should have been with us much, much longer. |
