Daughters of Eve (24 page)

"So Gordon's going to state?"

"Well, he was" Dan Carncross nodded ruefully at the splintered remains of the solar collector. "There's no chance of that now."

"Well, I guess the first thing to do is call the police," the principal said. "Maybe they can get some fingerprints. This vandalism represents hundreds of dollars' worth of damage to school property. Beyond that, though, there's the psychological aspect of the thing. As you say, it's sick."

"Because of the club meeting, the building must have been open until after five," Dan said. "That means anybody who wanted to could have walked in through the south door and hidden out someplace—maybe in one of the rest rooms—until the place was empty."

"It would have to have been done that way," Mr. Shelby agreed. "Otherwise the students down in that end room would have heard it. You don't smash up a roomful of furniture and equipment without making a lot of noise."

"It was some outsider. I'm sure of that," Dan said. "There are none of our students who would do a thing like this."

"I'm inclined to agree with you," Mr. Shelby told him. "This sort of mindless destruction is the work of a maniac."

"Irene, can I talk with you a minute?"

"Why, certainly, Ann." Irene Stark glanced up at the slender girl in the doorway. "This is my free period. But don't you have a class?"

"I do, but I'm cutting it. I really need to see you. May I close the door?"

"Of course." Irene frowned slightly as she watched Ann shove the door shut and turn to approach her desk. There was something about the look of her that was disturbing. In fact, when she thought about it, Ann had not been looking like herself for a week or more. She appeared thinner than she had been, and there were shadows beneath her eyes as though she was not getting sufficient sleep.

"Sit down," Irene said. "You look tired. Are you worried about Tammy? I know she's always been a close friend of yours. It must be distressing to have her resign as she did."

"It's her own business," Ann said, pulling a chair out from the art room table and turning it so that it faced the teacher. "Tam hasn't been happy in the group for a while now. It's probably just as well for her to drop."

"It was better, if it had to happen, that it was before we went to the science room. Tammy is a fine girl in many ways, but she is having problems working out her loyalties. The warning we felt we had to issue yesterday might not have been something she'd have felt comfortable with."

"Probably not." Ann did not seem to have her mind on the conversation. "It's not Tammy I'm here to talk about. It's me. Irene—I'm—I'm not going to Boston."

"You can't mean that!" Irene said sharply. "Everything is all settled."

"No, it isn't. Something's happened to change things. Dave and I have decided—we're going to get married at Christmas."

"Next Christmas. That's what you've been planning on. I've always been sure, though, that once you got established at the institute you would decide to continue there longer than one semester."

"This Christmas. We thought, maybe, on Christmas Eve."

"But, you won't even graduate until the end of May!"

"Don't you think I know that!" Ann's voice went suddenly shrill. "I'll drop out and finish in night school. Lots of people do that. It works out fine."

"That's ridiculous!"

"No, it's not. And, even if it were, I wouldn't have a choice. I'm going to have a baby."

Irene was silent a moment. Then she reached across the desk and covered Ann's hand with hers.

"Oh, my dear," she said quietly. "What you must have been going through!"

"It has been—just awful," Ann said shakily, unnerved by the unexpected sympathy. "I couldn't believe it. I've kept thinking I was wrong—that if I just waited and pretended it wasn't true—that it would turn out to be a bad dream or something."

"You're certain?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sure of it. I haven't been to a doctor yet, but—yes, I'm certain."

"Do your parents know?"

"Not yet. I only told Dave last night. He was wonderful about it. In fact, I almost think he was happy. He said he's always wanted to have a big family, and he doesn't mind starting one right away."

"Well, he's managed to accomplish that very nicely, hasn't he?" Irene said dryly. "And to finish off your chance for an art career in the process."

"That's not fair," Ann objected. "Dave was very understanding when I told him I'd been offered a scholarship. He encouraged me to take it. He said he'd wait for me until I came back from Boston and was ready to settle down."

"And he then saw to it that you couldn't go."

"No, it wasn't like that," Ann insisted. "Dave's never pressured me into anything. This was just as much my fault as his. It happened the night his mother died. That was such a shock, Irene, you can't imagine! Dave had just come in from doing evening chores, and there she was, lying on the bed. He went over to lay a blanket on her, and he saw she wasn't breathing. He phoned me—and I went over, Kelly drove me—and an ambulance came—and they took her away." Her eyes filled at the memory. "After they left, the house seemed so quiet, so empty. I looked over at Dave, and he was crying. He wasn't making any sound, just sitting there on the sofa, staring at nothing, and the tears were sliding down his face. There's something so dreadful about seeing a man crying, especially a strong man like Dave. I went over and put my arms around him, and we hung onto each other, and he said, 'Annie, stay with me. Don't leave me alone.'"

"So you stayed."

"I had to! He needed me! I love him, Irene. If I had it to do over again, I'd do the same thing."

"Would you really?" Irene asked, withdrawing her hand. "Even knowing what the outcome would be, knowing the sacrifice you would have to make, you can still say that?"

"Yes—I think so. Maybe not. Oh, I don't know. It's too late now to even think about that."

"How late is it, exactly?" Irene asked her. "When did you become pregnant?"

"Six weeks ago, or thereabouts. It was the night Holly had her birthday party."

"And you say you haven't told your parents?"

"No. Dave and I are going to do that together. We thought we'd get our plans all worked out first so we could tell them when the wedding would be and everything," Ann said miserably. "That's going to be the hardest part of all. My father's not well, you know. I don't know how he'll take this. He and Mom just adore Dave, and they've always trusted us so completely."

"Why do they ever have to know?" Irene asked quietly.

"It'll be evident enough, won't it, when the baby comes early? My folks aren't stupid."

"And neither are you, my dear," Irene said. "Though at the moment you're acting that way. It's perfectly safe to terminate a six-week pregnancy. There's no reason in this day and age for any young woman to bear a child unless she wants to."

"If you're talking about abortion," Ann said, "I couldn't. Dave would never agree to it. I couldn't even suggest it to him."

"I hardly think Dave has a right to make this decision for you. You're the person who would have to carry this baby and bear it and raise it. You're the one who would have to give up your dreams and opportunities in order to sit in a farmhouse and wash diapers. Dave would be getting exactly what he wants, a substitute for his mother, a woman tied at home to cook and clean and do laundry, and God knows what else a farm wife is expected to do these days. I suppose he'd have you canning vegetables."

"I don't mind canning. And I love babies."

"You could still have babies. You have thirty good childbearing years ahead of you, Ann. The question is one of timing. When do you want those babies? Right now, when you have so much exciting living to do, so much to learn and achieve—or later—when you're ready?"

"I want them later, of course," Ann said. "But we've already got one started, and it's growing inside me right now. Dave would never let me abort it. He doesn't believe in abortion."

"Why would you have to tell him?"

"I'd have to. He knows I'm pregnant. If I suddenly tell him I'm not pregnant he's going to want an explanation."

"Which could simply be that you were mistaken to start with," Irene said. "You haven't been to a doctor. You've just jumped to a conclusion on your own. It's possible that you really will start your period tomorrow. This could turn out to be the 'bad dream' you'd like it to be. Suppose you could wake up in the morning and find everything back the way it was before. How would Dave react to that?"

"He'd be glad for me."

"And sorry for himself?"

"Maybe. Or, maybe, he'd be relieved for both of us. I don't know. I'm so confused about everything. Abortion is such an ugly thing to think about. It's like murder."

"It is not like murder," Irene said. "It is like stopping something before it has a chance to begin. Consider this, Ann; every single month a woman's body produces an egg which has the potential to become a human being. Every month that this egg is produced and not fertilized, it dies. Yet, I've never heard anyone refer to abstinence as 'murder.' Have you?"

"Of course not."

"Where does the difference lie?"

"I don't know. When you put it that way, there doesn't seem to be much of a difference," Ann said. "I just feel that abortion is wrong. I've been raised to think that way."

"So have most of us. It's preached from the pulpit. Pregnancy and motherhood are the ultimate weapons men can use to keep women helpless and 'in their place.' In this case, you are going to be robbed of a wonderful future. In its way, that itself is a form of murder, isn't it? It's the murder of Ann Whitten, the artist."

"I—I know what you're saying," Ann admitted. "Yesterday, in the science room, when I saw that dumb experiment of Gordon's set up on the table as though it was so important—and I thought about Fran, being shoved out of her chance, just because she's a woman—I got so angry."

"Your anger wasn't just for Fran, was it?" Irene prodded gently.

"It was for me too. I'm getting shoved out of my chance because I'm a woman."

"The baby won't hold Dave down," Irene said. "His life will keep on rolling along the way it always has."

"It's just not fair!"

"Gordon's experiment no longer exists," Irene reminded her.

"I watched Kelly smash it. At first I couldn't believe what she was doing. Then when I heard the crash and saw the glass flying all over the place, it was like something was exploding inside of me."

"You weren't afraid then," Irene said.

"No, I wasn't. I grabbed up a rack with test tubes in it, and I started banging it against one of the tables. And the others—they were doing it too—just banging and yelling! It was all so crazy! It wasn't just for Fran—it was for me, for Laura, for Jane—for all of us!"

"That's what sisterhood means," Irene said. "We are all one. Your sister's pain is yours, and your pain is mine. That is why I cannot bear to see you destroyed in this insidious way. Ann, listen to me—you must not have this child!"

"I wouldn't know how to go about—having it—taken care of."

"You needn't worry about that. I can find out for you."

"It wouldn't have to be done here in Modesta, would it?" Ann asked nervously. "My mother knows so many people who work at the hospital."

"There's a clinic in Adrian. I'll drive you over. You can come back to my place afterward."

"You sound like it's all decided."

"I think it is, isn't it?" Irene said.

"No, not yet. I'll have to think about it. It's too big a thing to decide so quickly."

"Fine, but you realize there isn't much time," Irene told her. "The sooner this can be done, the easier it will be. Every day that goes by increases the chances of problems. In another few weeks most doctors will refuse to help you at all."

"I understand that, but I'll need to talk to Dave."

"That is what you absolutely must not do," Irene said firmly. "You're under enough emotional pressure right now without giving him the chance to influence you further."

"But, it's his baby too!"

"It is not a baby at all." Irene spoke slowly, as though repeating a lesson to a slightly retarded child. "There will only be a baby if you permit there to be. And the decision must be yours, not David's."

"It's the most important decision I'll ever have to make," Ann said in a half whisper. "I don't think I can make it alone."

"You're one of my girls, Ann," Irene said gently. "As long as I'm here, you will never be alone."

As she left the art room, Ann walked straight into Ruth Grange, who was hurrying down the hall. The two girls stumbled and clutched at each other for balance, and Ruth's books tumbled to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Ann said, stooping to help gather them up. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Neither was I," Ruth said. "Have you heard about what Mr. Shelby's done?"

"No."

"Niles told me just a couple of minutes ago. Coach Ferrara called a special meeting of the basketball team this morning. Mr. Shelby's allotted them money for the warm-up suits."