Carry the One by Carol Anshaw

realized in principle that they held historical value. But emotions ran high in performing them. Singing them harked back to a past on which they had shut the door. Too often one or another of them didn’t show up for the session and Jean had to drive to the West Side to persuade him into her car and up to the studio.
    This women’s clinic was in Rogers Park. The crowd they were pushing through was armed with placards—bad drawings of bloody fetuses, coat hangers dripping blood. They looked tired, worn out maybe from the hard work of interfering with other people’s lives. Most of the sign bearers were women, but the bullhorn shouters were guys. Guys with apocalyptic gazes, staring straight past Armageddon, through to the Rapture.
    “I can get really afraid for the women whose lives are run by these lunatics,” Alice said.
    “Did you ever notice how religions all have the same timeline?” Carmen said as they wove through the crowd to find their cohort. “First the people feel the need to worship something. The sun or the giant corn ear. That’s the first thing. Then the guys say okay, now that we’ve got the giant corn thing going, how can we use it to oppress women?”
    Carmen had become scathing in her criticism of religion since the crumbling of her marriage. What she had thought was a common interest she and Matt shared in the social contract had turned out to be two very different impulses.
    “Everything Matt’s doing now is through the Church. The missionary thing. And he coaches in a CYO basketball league on the South Side. He works with some young priest who’s supposedly great with kids. Charismatic priests make me queasy, how they’re always making you aware that they should be wearing a cassock instead of a rugby shirt, that you probably should be calling them Father Whoever, but that you’re an insider who gets to call them Joe or Bob.”
    Alice didn’t think Matt was a jerk, exactly, but he did come out of the same hidebound family as Maude. Daddy owned the business, brought home the bacon. Marie stayed home with the kids, then with more kids, now with a couple of the grandkids. Carmen had shown her the file of recipes Marie had copied, organized in a decorative binder, and given to each of her daughters-in-law (although not, of course, to Alice). Marie liked to put herself out there as with-it, and so the cover design was Wonder Woman graphics, and there were goofy recipes for “Dishwasher Fish” and “Car Engine Meatloaf,” but that was just a gloss. The subtext was deep respect for the domestic.
    Carmen had writhed within these strictures. Sharing a single credit card—in Matt’s name. Carmen had to call him before making any purchases on the card. Even for a sweater, she had to call. He also didn’t like Carmen going out at night on her own. Sometimes he pushed too hard and she balked. Early on, he told her he didn’t like leftovers and expected a fresh, home-cooked dinner every night. In that case, she told him, some of those dinners cooked in their home would have to be cooked by him. But the whole thing was an uphill battle. Now—as Alice saw it—Carmen was back on flat ground. From here, she could be who she actually was, instead of playing a role in an ill-fitting costume. But Alice also knew her sister thought the breakup was at least partly about Matt’s wanting to get away from the accident, to erase that blot on his permanent record. Maybe. But whatever it was that pulled him out of the marriage, Jean and Alice both thought Carmen was lucky he was gone, even if it would take her a little longer to see that.
    The pregnant woman they were helping today was in her twenties. She looked very nervous. The protesters were hassling her, pleading for the life of her unborn child. Sometimes they managed to scare off the patient. They knew the pressure points.
    “Let’s get this going!” Lenore Charles from the local NARAL chapter hustled the volunteers into a circle around the