George wakes after a difficult night. He’s alert and hungry. He is not surprised to find Mr. Warner at the foot of his bed. His boss has been home and returned by the time George opens his eyes Sunday morning. He immediately knows he isn’t home.
He buzzes for the nurse and asks for breakfast. In no time at all he is brought eggs, toast, a bowl of peaches, and butter pecan ice cream.
“You are feeling better this morning?” Mr. Warner finally asks.
“Not really. I feel like I’ve been hit in the head,” George said. “You can talk while I eat if you like,” George said. “I don’t know why I’m so hungry. I hardly ever eat breakfast.”
“You slept all afternoon and you were sleeping when I left last night. I think Dr. Knox reduced your pain medication. I’m sure they’ll give you more if you need it.”
“No, I’ll reorient myself once I eat. I’ll feel better then. You were going to tell me about your experience with gender discrepancy in your family, I’d like to hear about that.”
Even the hospital food tasted good to George. He felt better but not good. The medications weren’t as apparent and Mr. Warner was a surprisingly intelligent man. He seemed determine to see George through the crisis but George couldn’t be sure why. If he didn’t ask for an increase in his medication and said he felt better, he might be able to go home today. He had stories to write and if he didn’t write them soon someone else would end up writing them.
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about it. We don’t talk much about it in my family. We all know the story and what can be said about it? I’ll give you the details. Dr. Knox thought it was something you should here,” Mr. Warner said.
George ate and listened as Mr. Warner spoke.
“I’ve never told anyone this story,” he said.
“No one but Dr. Knox,” George corrected him.
“No, I didn’t tell him what I’m about to tell you. I gave him the basic outline behind my Uncle Robert becoming my Aunt Roberta. I don’t know anything about the process she went through because it isn’t talked about. I was not someone who acted intelligently once I found out what Uncle Robert had done,” Mr. Warner said.
“Your uncle?” George asked. “Became your Aunt? Does he date men or women now.”
“I don’t know if she dates at all. He never married. He was my father’s baby brother. He took a leave of absence from his job. He was gone for a year. He came back as Aunt Roberta.”
“To answer your question, I doubt anyone has confused her for a lesbian but I don’t know if she dates or not. As I said, we don’t talk about it. Both my father and my uncle are more intelligent than most people I know. No, I did not inherit their brain power. That’s why I am a newspaperman. I’m smart enough to get by. My brain is not in the same league with their brains,” Mr. Warner said.
“Whatever was responsible for their intellect, both are well known for what they add to any discussion. Uncle Robert was a GS-17 on the scientific side of the federal government. Navy department I think,” Mr. Warner said.
“I was very close to my Uncle Robert growing up. He always brought me the neatest gifts when he came back from the trips he took to compare notes with other very intelligent people. He took me to baseball games. He loved the New York Yankees. If the Yankees were in town, he’d come for me to go to at least one if not two games over a weekend,” Mr. Warner said. “Peanuts, popcorn, and crackerjacks, we never left until the last out. It was a lot of fun.”
“That’s why the change was hard on you,” George said.
“I suppose,” Mr. Warner said. “When I was eleven or twelve, Uncle Robert was going to New York City to meet with men who were in his category as far as brain power was concerned. He met two afternoons with these fellows, and on the first day we were in New York City, before his meeting, he gave me twenty dollars and said, “Have a good time. Be back at the hotel by six. The Yanks are playing tonight. We are going to Yankee Stadium.”
“He let you go off on your own?” George asked.
“He did. Didn’t give it a second thought. If I was intimidated by the city, his confidence in me gave me confidence in myself. I started off trying to figure out the subway system. I went from one subway train to another. I ended up at the end of the line in Coney Island. It’s on the Atlantic Ocean. It was late in the summer. It wasn’t crowded. I went on the Cyclone, a roller coaster, five or six times,” he said.
“I got off the subway in Brooklyn. People always cheer when someone says he’d from Brooklyn. I don’t know why. It’s a place where people live. It had its own bridge. Otherwise, it was just a neighborhood.”
“Anyone try to sell you the bridge?” George asked with a laugh.
“I must have been there before they came up with that con. I ate four hot dogs from a cart a guy was pushing around Times Square. By that time It was getting late, and I went back to the hotel. My uncle came in and we took the subway to the Bronx and we ended up at Yankee Stadium. We stood out front for a few minutes. I’d seen the Yankees play lots of times, but being there, it was inspiring. This was the house that Ruth built,” Mr. Warner said with awe in his voice.
“It was before the war, WWII. The Babe had come and gone. Gehrig was in the midst of his Iron man run of consecutive games, and Joe DiMagoio joined the Yankees the year before. After he did, the Yanks won four consecutive World Series. It was great to be a Yankee’s fan,” he said. “It was the first time I saw the Yankees play at home. It wouldn’t be the last.”
“We went in and ate hot dogs. It was like going to the circus and the Yanks were in the center ring,” Mr. Warner said.
“You weren’t sick of hot dogs by then?” George asked.
“No. It was a ball game. You must eat two or three to be able to call yourself a baseball fan. Besides, ball park franks are the best,” Mr. Warner said. “And I was eleven years old.
“I’m not a big sports fan. It’s the flaw in my makeup. I never cared much for sports,” George said.
“You have questions, ask Arnie Siegal. Man has an encyclopedic knowledge about sports. Doesn’t matter which sport. Arnie dominates the sport pages with his analysis,” Mr. Warner said.
“That’s all there is about baseball. I was close to my uncle Robert. He treated me like a kid likes being treated. He gave me some freedom I wouldn’t have had otherwise. He wasn’t married. Didn’t have kids of his own,” Mr. Warner said. “He liked spoiling me.”
“Fast forward to after I finished college and got married. My wife was pregnant with our second child. I was about thirty, and I was determined to become a newspaper man. My uncle dropped out of sight. We didn’t have any idea where Uncle Robert had gone. My father looked everywhere. The only clue my uncle left behind, he left his GS-17 job with the government. He took a one year leave of absence, knowing his job wouldn’t be there when he returned. He ran a program that was developing a new generation of secret weapons, or so the FBI said. The government was worried he’d defected. The FBI came to my house to question me. When they said he could have defected, I laughed at them. ‘He’s a Yankees fan, He’ll never stop going to Yankee games. He didn’t defect.’ It made perfect sense to me if not to them. They were taking a shot in the dark but I didn’t know anything. If my father knew, and I’m sure he did, he didn’t tell the FBI. There are things one values more than their government.”
George sensed the mystery around the missing uncle.
“By this time our first child was born and the second one was on the way. I went grocery shopping on Saturday, and before I went to the grocery store, I stopped at my parents’ for breakfast,” he said.
“Uncle Robert had been missing for over a year by this time. My father was close to his brother. Few people were in the same league with either of them. They were genuinely fond of each other. If he didn’t call my father, I don’t know who he would have called. Even the FBI stopped watching our houses. After a year, you figure someone is gone for good. Who goes away for a year. He walked away from his life,” Mr. Warner said.
“I could see the pain in my father’s eyes. His brother had never dropped out of sight before. My father always knew where his brother was until now. At work, he said he’d be gone a year. A year had passed the month before, and if we thought he might return then, we’d given up on that idea.”
“I was still going to my parents’ house on Saturday mornings. My wife and I thought it gave them a feeling of continuity. They always knew where I was. It helped for them to see me on Saturday. I was sure I’d never see Uncle Robert again, but I didn’t tell my father that but I sense he knew he wouldn’t see his brother again. There were any number of stories I knew about at the paper. Someone drops out of sight. He’s never seen again. That’s how I saw it,” he said.
“After breakfast one Saturday morning, someone knocked at the door. I’d been answering that door all my life, and I jumped up and yanked the door open, and came face to face with Aunt Roberta.”
“Your mother’s sister? You said your father only had the one brother,” George questioned.
“My mother was an only child. The woman stood there looking at my face. I looked at her face. Her expression told me she knew me but I didn’t know her. She obviously resembled my Uncle Robert, but I didn’t see it. It was a woman. My uncle was a man. At least he’d been a man. Neither of us said anything and my father came to find out who was at the door. My father said, “Robert.” How did he know? That threw me off balance. Like I said, my uncle Robert was male. I was confused and my father was hugging her saying, “Robert. Robert.” There was something wrong with that picture.”
“What happened,” George said, losing interest in his food.
“He was in a pink skirt and jacket with a white ruffled blouse. Her hair was the right color but shoulder length hair replaced Uncle Robert’s crew cut. There was no doubt we were looking at a woman.”
“No one knew what to say. What do you say to your Uncle Robert, when he comes back as Aunt Roberta. How’s tricks didn’t seem appropriate. I tried to hide the embarrassment I felt. I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Why did he come back at all?” Mr. Warner said. “I wasn’t particularly enlightened at the time. I was stunned by the change in Uncle Robert.”
“Uncle Robert had a sex change,” George said. “I don’t know that I could go there. Something about lopping off body parts that isn’t very appealing to me.”
“My uncle was now my aunt. I had no clue that my uncle was anything but my uncle. All those years he kept that secret. Reading about the operation, he saw a way out of a life he had been forced to endure. Right away he began planning his leave of absence,” Mr. Warner said. “What courage he had to risk everything to make his dream come true.”
“He went to Sweden to have the operation. He took hormones for months and months. He learn how to walk, modulate his voice, and watch the way woman moved before they operated on him. It gave him months to consider whether or not to go through with it.
Then there were months of therapy, and more lessons on his new body before we got to see the finished product. My uncle had become my aunt, and if my father didn’t like it, he never said a word.”
“How did you break the ice,” George asked, trying to have some understanding of what Mr. Warner had told him.
“My father hugged Uncle Robert. He called him by name a couple of times before Aunt Roberta corrected him. My father stepped back, took a long look at his brother for the last time. He hugged my Aunt Roberta, saying her name over and over. They both cried. My mother cried. I cried for Uncle Robert. I’d known him all my life. How could he do such a thing to himself?” Mr. Warner said. “As I said, I wasn’t too enlightened at the time.”
“Difficult adjustment,” George said.
“Nearly impossible for me. My father never missed a beat. He took Roberta to the table he asked my mom to fix her breakfast. That gave my mother something to do, while i stared. There they were. Siblings trying to adapt to a new wrinkle. My father took it as well as anyone could,” he said.
“I’d quizzed my father on it every time we saw each other. If my father had any reservations, he showed none to me. One day he heard me ask the same question for the hundredth time, and he glared at me, “What you need to understand is, this is how it is. If this is what makes my brother happy, than I’m happy for her. I loved my brother and I love my sister. This is how it is. We don’t need to understand. We don’t get to second think what is done. As long as your Aunt Roberta knows who she is, Nothing else matters. Don’t you get it? My father never got angry with me but he had run out of patience with my inability to except things as they are.”
“You said he was smart. Smart enough to know he didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to understand,” George said. “What happened?”
“I only saw Aunt Roberta at my parents’ house. Maybe three or four times over the next few months. It had been winter when she came home, and it had become spring. It was the middle of baseball season. My Aunt Roberta called me one evening. “The Yanks are in town this weekend. What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?” It was that simple. Both my Aunt Roberta and Uncle Robert loved the New York Yankees. After that, we were OK. My second child had been born and Aunt Roberta came to the house to see both of them for the first time. I hadn’t invited her over until she came to pick me up to go see the Yankees play.”
“It was so simple,” George said. “She was obviously smart enough to know not to push it. In time she knew you’d be her nephew. There is wisdom in that as well. You can’t move too fast.”
“Believe me, I didn’t. I was young and I had no understanding of how complex the world was, George. I was brought up in a world that went by the numbers. You did this. You did that, and you gave no thought to people who couldn’t do it that way. You either did it that way or you got yourself in trouble, or so I thought, until I met Aunt Roberta. I was forced to examine how things were. I needed to admit that everyone wasn’t just a like. Each person is different in his own way. It is that different that makes this country great. It doesn’t matter how arrogant and tiny some people’s minds are,” Mr. Warner said. “And that’s the reason I’m here, George.”
“The day Mrs. Miles came to the City News. You called me into your office to reassure me that I was OK. I hadn’t seen that side of you before. I knew I had you all wrong. I knew I didn’t know you at all. I knew what you let me know. I’m learning, Mr. Warner.”
“You’re young. The world does work in mysterious ways. You can’t always judge something by the way you first see it. As often as not we find ourselves changing our minds, as we get smarter, George. I should have seen this coming. Mayor Packard isn’t a man you want to cross. I let you cross him. I knew you would do that. Luckily Jack Carter was smarter than I was. If he hadn’t had you tailed, you might still be lying in that field next to Loey’s. It’s another reason I’m here. I knew the mayor’s reputation and I didn’t protect you from him.”
“This is how it is,” George said. “None of us know the future.”
“When you get to be my age, you know how the world works. You’ve got to be ready for the contingencies,” Mr. Warner said.
“Thank you. I like that story even better than I liked the Hick and Eleanor story. Where is Aunt Roberta? I’d like to meet her.”
“I haven’t seen her in a while. She’s working for NASA. She’s helping with the lunar landing that’s less than a year away. She hardly has time to call she’s so busy. They wouldn’t give her the job she had as a man but the Navy Department’s loss was NASA’s gain. Every one she works with knows her as Roberta. When I tell her about you, George, she will want to meet you.”
“It’s a wonderful story. I want to meet her,” George said.
He no longer wanting the breakfast that had grown cold. His hunger had been satisfied. He did feel better.
“What I’ve learned,” Mr. Warner said. “I’ve learned that this is how it is, George. You didn’t choose this. This is how it is, and no one else has to accept you, as long as you know who you are.”
“You said your father was smart. He boiled it down into simple terms,” George said. “I’ll remember that, Mr. Warner.”
“See that you do, George. I’ve done what I came to do, and now I need to go to see my parents. I can honestly say that your breakfast didn’t look that appetizing, but my mother’s breakfast will be fabulous in comparison,” Mr. Warner said, standing up and collecting the folder from the windowsill. “Take all the time you need, George. Don’t come back until you’re good and ready, but is there a chance you’ll make it to work on Monday? Continuity is important,” Mr. Warner said, remembering Dr. Knox’s advice.
George laughed. He realized he’d had Mr. Warner all wrong. He was certain that he and Mr. Warner were going to become friends.
“I don’t feel too shabby. I think I got off lucky. We’ll see,” George said, and Mr. Warner left his hospital room.
George had free time on his hands for the first time since he went to work at the City News. He didn’t feel good, but he didn’t feel bad. He didn’t think he could stay away from the newsroom once Monday rolled around. He was a newspaper reporter, and he needed to do his job.
*****
George overslept Monday, once he was back in his room. Mildred brought him breakfast. She worried about him being gone the entire weekend. George almost always came home in the evening.
George set his alarm Tuesday morning, and he walked into the newsroom a little after seven that morning. As a full-time reporter he got his pick of the empty desks. He took the one with the Smith Corona he liked. A minute later Pops brought a name plate with George Hitchcock etched on it. He placed it in front of George.
“You feeling OK, George?” Pops asked. “Mr. Warner said you were assaulted Friday night. Spent the weekend at Sibley Hospital. You need time, son, you take it. I won’t give your stories to anyone else.”
“I’m fine Pops. I might not stay twelve hours today, but I’ll be OK,” George told him.
It was after ten and George had just come back with a fresh cup of coffee, when Pops called his name.
“Hitch, you’re up. Can I trust you to get me the story?”
“Since when can’t I get the story, Pops. Give it to me,” George said.
“Since you got whacked in the skull. You sure you want this? I can put Sampson on it. Maybe stay in today. Make some phone calls,” Pops thought out loud.
“Give me the damn story. I got hit in the head. My legs are fine.”
“7th Street southeast. See the woman there. It’s Cyril’s Haberdasher. You think you can find it?”
“How do I know which woman?”
“Says her name is Norma Desmond. Sounds fishy to me. She’s the only woman there. Since the rest of the employees are men, you should be able to pick her out. Something about a woman bleeding in her doorway.”
“What about the cops?” George asked, putting on his jacket.
“Cops have been there. They’ve transported the woman. Go to Cyril’s and get the story. Maybe follow up at the hospital, but you need to talk to this Norma Desmond.”
“I’m on it, Pops,” George said, heading for the stairs.
George did catch a cab. He was a full-time City News reporter now. He could even think about buying a car.
The taxi stopped in front of Cyril’s. A woman was scrubbing the sidewalk at the front door.
“You Norma?”
“Who wants to know?” she said, looking up with one knee on the concrete and a scrub brush in her hand.
“George Hitchcock, City News. You called about a woman bleeding in front of this place,” George said. “You are cleaning up the blood,” he asked.
“You sure you ain’t Sherlock Holmes? Damn fine piece of detecting if you ask me. Yes, this is her blood. Betsy Johnson’s blood,” Norma said, scrubbing while she talked.
“Who’s Betsy Johnson?” George asked.
“That’s what she said her name was. The woman bleeding. I sat with her after I called 9-l-1 to get her help. She said she was Betsy Johnson. I asked what happened but she just said she didn’t feel good. A loss of blood can cause that, you know,” Norma said, suddenly feeling like talking.
Norma stopped scrubbing. She stood up to take the soapy water to the curb. She slowly poured the water into the gutter.
“She lost a lot of blood. General finally said.
“Hospital. That’s where they took her. She was white as a sheet. Neat trick for a black woman. She bled a lot. Not much I could do for her. I told her it was going to be OK. Help was on the way. I don’t think she knew I was there. She was talking about her kids and someone named James. She kept saying she was sorry to James. I’d bet on him being her husband but I don’t know that. Just the way she kept saying she was sorry.”
“Did she say what she was sorry for?” George asked.
“You ask me, and you didn’t, I’ll tell you what I think. They do abortions back over there,” Norma said, pointing at an alley across the street.
“Literally a back alley abortion,” George said to himself.
Norma stopped talking and looked at George’s face. She looked at the pad in his hand. She looked at the writing on the pad.
“This going to be in the newspaper?” Norma asked.
“I’ll use your words where I can. Once I get your part of the story, Then I’ll go to the hospital and see if I can talk to Betsy. I’ll try to get her pat of the story. It should be in tomorrow’s City News.”
“I can’t tell you which building but rumor has it they do abortions down that alley a ways. I see cabs turning into that alley from time to time. I’m a seamstress. I like sitting in that window in the afternoons. The cab comes back out of the alley about an hour later. There’s always a woman in the cab when it passes by the shop.”
“Did you tell the cops that, Norma?”
“No. A woman needs an abortion, what’s she supposed to do? That’s not the cops business,” Norma said.
“It’s illegal to do abortions. You do know that?”
“What’s a woman to do? If she can’t afford no more children what’s a woman to do? You know where you can put that law.”
“What did you tell the cops?” George asked.
“I told them she was bleeding. She collapsed in my doorway. Cyril’s doorway not mine. You get the idea. They looked at the blood. Got kinda pale. They were already white so they were even more pale than poor Betsy Johnson.”
“You from around here, Norma?”
“Yes. I’m a seamstress. I only clean up blood part-time. Once is enough. Couldn’t leave that for customers to step over. None of those big strong men in there wanted to see the blood. I got a bucket and took care of it. The men are OK now. I don’t like seeing blood either.”
“Thank you for talking to me, Norma. I’ll go see what Betsy has to say now. You have a nice day,” George said.
George stepped into the street and flagged down a passing cab.
“General Hospital,” George told the driver.
Norma stood in front of Cyril’s still holding the empty bucket.
*****
Going in General Hospital’s main entrance, he immediately saw Judy Carmichael at the receptionists desk. He detoured into her reception area, and she saw him coming. She gave him a big smile.
“My word. If it ain’t lover boy. What can I do for you today?” Judy asked.
“Hi, Love. They brought a woman in a little after ten. I was going to the ER. The cab dropped me in front. Figured it isn’t much after eleven. She wouldn’t be in a room this soon, would she?” George asked.
“I told you about the six hour wait. I’ll bet she don’t make it to a room as fast as that kid did. No one looking out for us black ladies here abouts,” she said.
“Well, my business here is done, Judy. Lovely to see you again,” George said.
“Wait a minute, Honey. I’ll go with you. It might help. Go a name. All black women look a like to me,” she said. “I’m not looking at them. I’m looking at their husband.”
“Betsy Johnson. Norma Desmond said it was a botched abortion, and I’m sure she knew more than she told me. Betsy had lost a lot of blood, according to Norma,” George said. “Left plenty on the sidewalk where she collapsed.”
Judy moved ahead of George and went directly to the first nurse she saw in the ER.
“Come on, Lover boy. She’s back here. They’re trying to get blood into her at the moment. Nothing they can do but stop the bleeding and give her transfusions,” Judy said.
“Hey, Jill. This is a friend of mine. He wants to sit with Betsy. That OK with you. He’s safe, but he owes me five bucks,” Judy said, kissing George on the cheek. “I was kidding. You don’t owe me nothing, Sweetheart,” she said. “I got to get back to work. You’ll be fine. Jill won’t let you get into any trouble, Hon.”
“Thanks, Judy. I’ll come by to take you to lunch one afternoon,” George said.
“That’s a date,” Judy said.
“I’m monitoring her vitals. She’s doing a little better, but she lost an awful lot of blood, the doctor said. She’s quiet as a mouse. We’re giving her blood to replace what she lost. You a friend of hers?” Jill asked.
“George Hitchcock, City News,” George said. “I want to tell her story. Tell how she got herself into this fix.”
“Damn abortionists. She can’t come here to get an abortion. They go where they can get one. It’s a crime a woman ends up like this,” Jill said. “She isn’t the first to come in here like this. She won’t be the last.”
“Why don’t woman get together. Make them change the laws. A woman shouldn’t get in this shape just because she can’t afford more kids. It’s uncivilized to force a woman to have a child if she can’t take care of it properly,” George said.
“Ain’t you heard, Baby, it’s a man’s world. Women don’t have a say in what laws they pass,” Jill said.
“They get together. No more cooking and cleaning until the law changes. The law would change fast. Politicians don’t want women in their face. No, they’d fold like a cheap suit if women called them out on having the last say in what they do with their bodies. It’s a healthcare issue. A woman and her doctor should decide what to do. You want to let politicians tell you what healthcare you can have? Most of them aren’t smart enough to come in out of the rain.”
“A man with common sense. Ain’t you something special. I do what I’m told and I keep my mouth shut, Baby. I need this job. I’ve got a couple of other patients to look in on. You’ll be OK here. Don’t tell anyone else you’re from the News.”
Jill disappeared between the curtains around Betsy Johnson. Betsy was sleeping or weak enough from blood loss that she needed to rest. Her eyes were closed. George moved the chair over to beside the bed.
“James?” Betsy Johnson said. “That you James? I’m sorry I did this. I don’t feel that good, James. Hold my hand. I’m afraid. Am I going to die, James. Don't feel good at all.”
Jill came back as soon as she heard Betsy’s voice.
“Male voice. She thinks you’re her husband. You hold her hand, Try to comfort her. Can’t hurt,” Jill said.
George held Betsy’s hand in his. He immediately felt a connection to the struggling woman. She moved in small motions, like she couldn’t get comfortable. Her legs moved.
George thought that might be a good sign. She was waking up. The transfusions were doing the job. He needed to do his.
“I can’t be here. I can’t afford this,” Betsy Johnson said. “I got three babies at home. I can’t afford no more. I got to do something. James is working two jobs. He can’t work no harder. We can’t afford no more kids. Not fair to bring kids into this sorry world. I couldn’t put no more on James. He don’t know I’m pregnant again.”
“It will be OK Betsy. You’re going to be OK and James will understand. You are a good woman. Don’t be fretting about things you can’t control,” George said.
“Who are you?” Betsy Johnson asked, looking square into George’s eyes.
Her eyes were clear and she was suddenly lucid.
“Just a friend, Betsy. I’m a friend who is going to tell your story to the world. You shouldn’t be in this fix. If things were different you wouldn’t be here. They’ll fix you up and you’ll be home in no time.”
“You going to tell my story? I didn’t think anyone cared about me. My husband works so hard. I got good kids. They deserve better than we give them, but James can’t work no harder. I took to cleaning houses again. I don’t make much, but we can’t afford no more kids. Not fair to them. I got such good kids. I can’t be here.”
Betsy’s hand went limp, a buzzer started going off. The curtain was ripped out of the way and a half dozen doctors and nurses were all around Betsy as George moved back out of the way.
“Clear,” the doctor in charge said, shocking Betsy.
“Clear. Clear. Bag her. Now!”
“Clear,” the doctor ordered, speaking in shorthand and four other people inside the curtain scurried around when he did.
“What’s happening?” George asked the next person who passed. “She was just talking to me. What’s going on? I told her she was going to be OK.”
“Get him out of here. Someone get him out of here,” the doctor in charge roared, holding up paddles to shock Betsy’s bare chest again, again, and again.
The curtain was used to close George out. They couldn’t shut out the sounds. The activity was frenetic. It continued for for about ten minutes. It suddenly went silent. There were no sounds except for heavy breathing and more silence. The loudest machine no longer beeped. There was one never ending buzz.
“Time of death, 11:43,” a soft voice said as rubber gloves came off.
All sounds behind the curtain ceased.
George realized he’d stopped breathing.
He gasped a deep breath. The smell of alcohol, soap, and disinfectant permeated everything in the ER. One person after another fled away from the curtains surrounding Betsy.
Someone had put Betsy’s arms across her chest to cover her nakedness. The final person there stood staring into Betsy’s face. He held the useless paddles before putting them down. He pulled a sheet over the dead woman’s body. He looked drained and defeated. He turned and walked toward George, after remembering he was there.
“We did all we could,” the man said.
“I know,” George said.
He lifted his head to look at George.
“You knew her?” he asked.
“Her name is Betsy Johnson. What happened,” George asked, wanting the doctor to know her name.
“What happened? What happened? She just… Betsy just died,” he said, softening his tone from angry to sad.
“She was just talking to me,” George said.
“What happened. She went somewhere and got herself butchered, and they bring her in here and expecting me to patch her up. You can only pump so much blood into the human body at one time and Betsy lost too much blood. We couldn’t pump blood into her fast enough to keep her alive. She’d lost too much blood by the time they brought her in here but we had to try to save her. I did everything I knew how to do but she died anyway.”
“Just like that,” George said, startled by how fast it happened.
“Just like that,” the doctor said, looking George over. “Who are you?”
“George Hitchcock, City News. You are?”
“Dr. Spencer. You’re writing a story about this?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m going to do,” George said.
“Don’t write what I said about being butchered. Her family shouldn’t read that. I was pissed and sometimes I speak without considering my words,” Dr. Spencer said. I know you need to write something, but don’t write that.”
“Yes, sir. I intend to tell Betsy’s story. That’s what I told her I’d do. I keep my word, Dr. Spencer,” George said.
The doctor patted George’s shoulder.
“Tell her story. Don’t quote the butchered comment. No matter how true it is,” Dr. Spencer said, turning to walk away.
“Can I use your name, Doctor? I won’t if you say no,” George said. “I know you did what you could. I’ll say that too.”
“Go ahead. Use my name, just not the butchered part. Can’t hurt. Maybe bring some sanity to the insane laws that force poor women to do this to themselves. Betsy Johnson should not be dead.”
“Dr. Spencer, if Betsy came to you, instead of going into a dark alley to get an abortion, would you have helped her?” George asked.
Dr. Spencer took a sudden interest in his shoes. He didn’t look up for a long minute or two.
“I wouldn’t knowingly break the law. I can’t practice medicine if I loose my license to practice medicine,” Dr. Spencer said.
“If Betsy Johnson asked you to help her, you wouldn’t have done it, knowing what you know now, knowing she’d die if you didn’t help.”
“No!” he said, looking at his shoes again. “I won’t break the law even if it might save a life.”
“Thank you,” George said. “At least you’re an honest man. That was for my edification. I won’t write that. You did your best doctor.”
“I get angry with women like Betsy. I know it isn’t her fault. They’re desperate. They do this and I am mad. I know who is responsible. I curse them for making woman do this. Knowing this is the result they refuse to change these draconian laws,” Dr. Spencer said before wandering away.
George watched him go and then he realized he was standing in the middle of the ER and he began to move. He began to wander. He thought about Betsy. He thought about the meanness in the world. He thought that a woman had died unnecessarily and there was nothing he could do about it. He thought about the story he’d write.
George found himself outside. He was walking. He felt like walking. The paper didn’t go to press for four hours. He had plenty of time. George cried while he walked. A woman with a husband and children was dead. All their lives were forever changed, and George wanted to know who killed Betsy Johnson? He’d write Betsy’s story. He’d come back to work to be a good reporter, and he’d tell Betsy Johnson’s story. He’d tell the world about what Betsy did, because she couldn’t afford any more kids.
It took thirty-five minutes for him to be in front of the Smith Corona he liked. He typed through his tears. He typed everything Betsy said. He wrote what the doctor told him, not mentioning that she’d been butchered. There was only one title he could think of using. Who killed Betsy Johnson. He typed as the words drained out of him. This was a story that needed to be told.
“George,” Pops said. “What’s wrong with you?”
George ripped the copy out of the typewriter, handing it to Pops, after he’d said all he had to say.
Pops stood beside George’s desk as he read. Before he finished, he put his hand on George’s shoulder.
“You’ve had a tough day George. We all catch stories like this. You been knocked on the head and now you get a kick in the gut. Go home, George. Take the rest of the day. I’ll see to this now. You go home and have a drink, and be back here first thing in the morning, and we’ll hope for a better day.”
George went home. He laid on the couch, putting all the pillows behind him so he could look out at the park. He’d cried himself out before he got home. Suddenly exhausted, he fell asleep.
The phone’s ringing woke him a little before four.
“Hello,” George said.
“Mr. George Hitchcock please,” a sweet voice said.
“This is George. How can I help you?”
“You said I should call you George. This is Mrs. Delesandro. I have someone who wants to talk to you. Wait just a minute.”
“Mr. Hitchcock, this is Jon. You remember telling me to call if I thought I might be getting in over my head?”
“I remember, Jon,” George said.
“I’d like to talk to you about getting my tennis career back on track. They told me I was preparing to turn pro, but when I ask my coach about it, he says I’m not ready to make that move yet. I’m getting rusty. I need to play against better competition.”
“That’s what I’ve been told, Jon. With your skill set, you should be playing professional tennis players. It’s the only way you’ll become as good as your competition. Playing pushovers isn’t going to help you. Can we arrange a meeting? I’ll do some research and I’ll know what to tell you if we schedule a meeting for later this week.”
“I’d like that,” Jon said. “Can I bring my mother?”
“I can come there, Jon. I know where you live,” George said.
“My mother will want to be with me. Talk to her and she’ll tell you when she can be off from work,” Jon said.
“Jon?” George said.
“Yeah!”
“I’m glad you called. I think I can help you,” George said. “I’d like to help you. I am a newspaper man. I want to help but you know I’m going to write a story about what happens.”
“I understand that,” Jon said. “I want to tell you my story.”
After hanging up the phone, George picked it back up and dialed the main switch board at the City News.
“Arnie Siegal,” George said. “Tell him it’s George Hitchcock.”
*****
There was a soft knock on George’s door at about 6:30. George had fallen back to sleep, and he got up to answer the door.
“Mildred, you’ve already cleaned. The place is spotless,” George said.
“I know. I saw this in my paper a few minutes ago. I went out and bought you these. You looked so tired when you came in. I thought these might help,” she said, handing him five copies of that day’s City News.
George opened the paper and saw the headline at the top of the front page. “Who Killed Betsy Johnson by George Hitchcock.”
“You’re a sweetheart, Mildred,” George said, kissing her cheek. “Thank you.”
“It’s above the fold this time. That’s better, isn’t it? You’re coming up in the world, George. I read every word. It’s going to move people,” Mildred said, leaving George to enjoy the small victory in a very long day.
Right under his story was an Op-Ed penned by Mr. Warner, Editor-in-chief of the City News. Mr. Warner echoed George’s horror over a wife and mother dying unnecessarily. The City News was squarely in the corner of women having complete control over their own bodies, regardless of how men felt about it.
If men didn’t like it they could have the babies for a while.