her from the cold sleet that had been gusting over the city for the last few hours. It would be hell to get a taxi, she thought. So she planned to try to catch one at the Pierre, where she knew the doorman.
She hurried through the darkened, deserted streets, anxious to reach room 1247, to get the whole disturbing mess over with. She felt dirty and cheap. She fought against the wind and the sleet for no more than two blocks before the sleet turned to snow, great, luscious flakes that fell in abundance and dissolved on the wet pavement. A taxi set down a fare. She jumped into it before the driver had a chance to protest.
The cabbie looked at her and said, “You sure this trip is necessary, lady? Maybe you should stay in on a night like this.”
“Eighty-ninth Street just off Central Park West,” she answered and remembered the handsome stranger who had picked her up in the rain. Had that been only a couple of weeks ago? It seemed like years. And the warmth and love and protection she felt in his arms for a fleeting moment? All mere illusion now for Cheyney Fox.
Cheyney actually had to press herself against a building and bite into her gloved hand to suppress her impulse to scream. She had to take deep breaths to quell her anxiety, so overwhelmed was she by the sight of the seedy, residential Dudley Court Hotel. From its marquee of broken letters, its filthy windows, torn and sagging draperies, to its lobby of dim yellow light, shabby furniture, threadbare carpets, its pockmarked, stucco walls of slime-green, the place spelled “end of the line.” It was overheated and smelled of stale cabbage. The rattling metal elevator was scored with initials and a few choice graffiti — “Shirley sucks cunt” and “Irving takes it up the poop” — partially obliterated. Stench of cat piss. Cheyneybroke into a sweat that left her drenched and trembling. She escaped the elevator, walked the length of the deadly silent, dim corridor. She knocked on the door of room 1247.
Inside was a sour-faced woman with a pocked face, but a soothing voice. Cheyney was ushered through the dingy sitting room to a windowless kitchenette, glaringly bright with chipped, blood-red enamel paint, under a tube of fluorescent light. A small table of white Formica covered with a transparent sheet of plastic, up against one wall. “The money please. It’s payable in advance.” Cheyney took the blank envelope from her handbag and handed it to the woman. She looked in the envelope but didn’t count it, saying, “You can take off your hat, but nothing else, not even your boots.” And hiking Cheyney’s clothes up around her waist, she helped her onto the table.
“I’m so hot and so frightened,” confessed Cheyney, wiping the beads of perspiration from her face. The woman opened Cheyney’s coat for her and said, with a degree of sympathy, “I know. But it can’t be helped. We must be able to leave here as soon as you are able to walk. Rest assured, you are in good hands. I’m a trained operating-theater nurse. The doctor knows his job. You will be fine in a few days, with not even an internal scar to remind you of tonight.”
“No? But the humiliation, the degradation, and, I expect, the pain to come, the guilt, oh yeah, the guilt — what about all that? I don’t expect I’ll ever lose those scars,” Cheyney heard herself saying. She felt angry at how much worse the law made what was already going to be a desperate experience.
“Tell that to your congressman,” said the doctor, a young, presentable man. She sought compassion in his face. He placed a soothing hand on her forehead and took her pulse.
Chapter 8
N othing would ever be the same for Cheyney after the night she had the abortion. In the misery of that evening, any illusions she might have had about her own superiority were shed forever. Her own sense of vulnerability magnified, she realized that everyone, no matter who they were, or how protected they might think they were,
She hurried through the darkened, deserted streets, anxious to reach room 1247, to get the whole disturbing mess over with. She felt dirty and cheap. She fought against the wind and the sleet for no more than two blocks before the sleet turned to snow, great, luscious flakes that fell in abundance and dissolved on the wet pavement. A taxi set down a fare. She jumped into it before the driver had a chance to protest.
The cabbie looked at her and said, “You sure this trip is necessary, lady? Maybe you should stay in on a night like this.”
“Eighty-ninth Street just off Central Park West,” she answered and remembered the handsome stranger who had picked her up in the rain. Had that been only a couple of weeks ago? It seemed like years. And the warmth and love and protection she felt in his arms for a fleeting moment? All mere illusion now for Cheyney Fox.
Cheyney actually had to press herself against a building and bite into her gloved hand to suppress her impulse to scream. She had to take deep breaths to quell her anxiety, so overwhelmed was she by the sight of the seedy, residential Dudley Court Hotel. From its marquee of broken letters, its filthy windows, torn and sagging draperies, to its lobby of dim yellow light, shabby furniture, threadbare carpets, its pockmarked, stucco walls of slime-green, the place spelled “end of the line.” It was overheated and smelled of stale cabbage. The rattling metal elevator was scored with initials and a few choice graffiti — “Shirley sucks cunt” and “Irving takes it up the poop” — partially obliterated. Stench of cat piss. Cheyneybroke into a sweat that left her drenched and trembling. She escaped the elevator, walked the length of the deadly silent, dim corridor. She knocked on the door of room 1247.
Inside was a sour-faced woman with a pocked face, but a soothing voice. Cheyney was ushered through the dingy sitting room to a windowless kitchenette, glaringly bright with chipped, blood-red enamel paint, under a tube of fluorescent light. A small table of white Formica covered with a transparent sheet of plastic, up against one wall. “The money please. It’s payable in advance.” Cheyney took the blank envelope from her handbag and handed it to the woman. She looked in the envelope but didn’t count it, saying, “You can take off your hat, but nothing else, not even your boots.” And hiking Cheyney’s clothes up around her waist, she helped her onto the table.
“I’m so hot and so frightened,” confessed Cheyney, wiping the beads of perspiration from her face. The woman opened Cheyney’s coat for her and said, with a degree of sympathy, “I know. But it can’t be helped. We must be able to leave here as soon as you are able to walk. Rest assured, you are in good hands. I’m a trained operating-theater nurse. The doctor knows his job. You will be fine in a few days, with not even an internal scar to remind you of tonight.”
“No? But the humiliation, the degradation, and, I expect, the pain to come, the guilt, oh yeah, the guilt — what about all that? I don’t expect I’ll ever lose those scars,” Cheyney heard herself saying. She felt angry at how much worse the law made what was already going to be a desperate experience.
“Tell that to your congressman,” said the doctor, a young, presentable man. She sought compassion in his face. He placed a soothing hand on her forehead and took her pulse.
Chapter 8
N othing would ever be the same for Cheyney after the night she had the abortion. In the misery of that evening, any illusions she might have had about her own superiority were shed forever. Her own sense of vulnerability magnified, she realized that everyone, no matter who they were, or how protected they might think they were,
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