Day 24
Still moving forward. I’ve still been reading things about the roles that women are expected to play, and the lengths to which society will go to enforce those roles. Tonight’s story is fictional, of course, but there is too much truth in it for comfort. Too many state legislatures, too many laws, too many ways to control women. So here is the story of a woman who is sideswiped by regressive laws passed by legislatures that have consequences…not unanticipated, either, since those consequences are often fully predictable. Sometimes, in fact, they are the expected outcome, though in this case, I think it’s just considered acceptable collateral damage by those who pass these laws.
First, five more women.
Cleopatra, Pharaoh of ancient Egypt
Marina Ginestá, French veteran of the Spanish Civil War
Stephanie Kwolek, inventor of Kevlar
Wangari Maathai, Kenyan environmentalist and Nobel Peace Prize winner
Serena Williams, tennis player
FATHER’S DAY
The nurse pushed the form toward Susan, and Susan signed. The woman indicated the line below Susan’s name. “Here. Your husband will need to sign here.”
“My husband? Why?”
“It’s the law. The father of the child has to sign.”
“But I’m not the father.” Ben pushed the paper back to the nurse. “And there’s no need for that. My wife is capable of making her own decision.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but state law says the father has to agree before any pregnancy can be terminated. If you aren’t the father, you’ll need to have him come sign.”
“The father…the father…is…” Susan broke down.
Ben took his wife in his arms and glared at the nurse. “The father is the man who raped my wife, and he has no reason to sign this paper. There is a warrant out for his arrest, and he will, hopefully, be in jail before too long. Can we just…get this over with?”
The nurse shook her head. Her eyes were sympathetic, but she had no choice. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t proceed without the father’s signature. Are you…sure…it’s not yours?”
Ben frowned. “What if I said it was?”
“I…I suppose…maybe…” The nurse shuffled papers. “They might…ask you to prove it…since she has been…with another man.”
“With another man? You make it sound like she cheated on me. She was raped, goddamnit, and doesn’t deserve to be treated this way. Why are you doing this to her?”
The nurse was almost in tears. “I don’t want to, honestly. But…the legislature…they’ll close us down if we don’t follow the law. The law says…”
“What if a girl is impregnated by her father? Do they allow any choice then?” The nurse shook her head, mute. “A woman being abused by her husband? No? No exceptions?”
“Well, if…I suppose, if the father were dead…but then, they’d require some sort of guardianship for the child, and that person would have to agree to the procedure.”
“I can’t believe this.” Ben stomped across the room and back. “I can’t believe it! A woman not able to make a decision on her own without a man to sign. What century are we living in?”
“Maybe…here.” The nurse dug in her purse and pulled up some documents. “If you…don’t tell anyone I gave this to you…this is…the states where she can still have it done. But she’d better hurry. Most of them have strict limits on how far in the term she can be, and she’s at the outer edge for some of them.”
Ben snatched the paper and flew out of the room. The nurse looked at Susan, pleading for forgiveness. Susan forgave her and joined Ben in the car. He squealed out of the parking lot, and raced toward home, breaking the speed limit in a rare show of temper. At the house, he pulled clothes out of the closet, packed two suitcases, and headed west, toward a state where the father didn’t have to sign.
By the time they reached their destination, the clinic was closed for the day. Ben got them a room, and they remained until it opened the next morning. They were not able to get an appointment; the waiting list was too long. The story was the same in state after state, town after town. The few remaining places where a woman could get an abortion were overwhelmed, and by the time they would be able to see her, she would be too far along to legally terminate.
Ben was by Susan’s side as the child was born. They decided to treat the baby as his, raise it along with their other children, now in their teens, and love it as if he were the father. The little boy was strong and healthy, in spite of the fact that the doctor was concerned over Susan’s age, and they tried not to think of the ordeal of Susan’s experience every time they looked at him. It was difficult, but in time, they almost managed to forget.
Until the day Susan opened the door and was served a summons. It was a custody suit, demanding rights to her child, her little boy…hers and Ben’s. The father was out of prison, having served only two years for a brutal, nasty rape, and wanted his child. He wanted the full experience of being a father, he said. He felt the child would benefit from being in his custody, someone who wanted and loved him, not someone who was so uncaring and unloving that they would try to dispose of him, to murder him before he had even had a chance to enjoy life.
The courtroom was packed on the day of the hearing. Ben kept his arm around Susan, and made sure to be between her and the plaintiff the entire time. Their attorney was one of the best, but said he didn’t hold out much hope of getting full custody. These cases…he shook his head…these cases had become a lightning rod. If she hadn’t tried to have an abortion, there would be sympathy, they could win, but her attempts to terminate the pregnancy…well, juries were being very harsh on women right now.
Susan gasped to hear her rape described throughout the trial as a “sexual encounter”. The judge refused to allow the word “rape”, even though the rapist had been convicted and served time. He felt that would be prejudicial to the jury. Susan did her best to describe their “sexual encounter” without the word rape. It would be hard for anyone hearing her story to use any other word. The women on the jury were moved to tears.
That changed when they heard the testimony about her attempt to terminate the pregnancy. Not just their visit to the local clinic, but their drive from state to state, the desperation to not have to carry this child of pain and force. The other attorney portrayed them as ruthless, cunning, ready to sacrifice the life of a child for their own comfort and convenience. The jury was moved to tears again, this time for the other party.
Susan held her breath as the jury filed back in. She had opted to have a jury hear the evidence, knowing that the judges in town had recently been prone to granting custody to fathers, feeling they were by nature more stable and secure. She thought she might have a chance with the jury. She was right…but only partially so. They granted her custody, but gave full visitation rights to the father. She would have to turn her precious child over to him two weekends out of every month, and for three weeks during the summer.
Ben insisted he should have to pay child support if he was going to have rights, but that notion was shot down on the basis that Ben and Susan were both making good money, while the father was a waiter and could ill afford to support a child. In fact, the jury implied that was the only reason they had granted custody to the couple at all; if the father had been able to provide a steady income, they would have given rights to him.
For the next sixteen years, Ben answered the door when it rang on visitation weekends. He didn’t want this man near his Susan. He handed their son…his son, he thought with a scowl, his son that he was raising and loved…to the man who had obtained him by force. He waited by the door on Sunday, and didn’t allow the man into his house. The father frequently asked after Susan, but Ben ignored his questions. He spoke no more than a few words to him in the course of the years.
Susan sank into a deep depression, watching as her son grew up to idolize and revere his “real” father. He did not know the story of how his mother got pregnant with him. He was angry at her for her behavior, which he heard only third hand. Susan had been forbidden by court order to say anything against his father, and she followed the decree to the letter. Her son knew only that she was a bad woman, and he began to treat her that way himself. No matter what Ben or Susan tried to do to correct him, he ignored them. “You’re not my real father” is all he would say to Ben. To Susan, he said nothing at all. His looks of contempt seared through her.
Ben stood beside Susan’s grave, wiping the tears off his cheeks. No one came to the funeral; it was a gray, dismal day, and most of their friends had moved away. No one had time to come back; he had asked they not return for the event. She would not have wanted them to see her like she was at the end, her skin battered from self-abuse, and the unmistakable marks of suicide the coroner had not been able to hide.
He got in the car and sat, lost in grief. Their son had not showed; their other children had honored his request and just sent their love. The only other person at the funeral was a bent and aging man, the man he had spoken few words to over the years, the man he had handed over the boy to week after week, month after month, year after year. The man who had been responsible for how Susan’s own child had rejected her, believing his “real father” and following him in most things.
The rage rose in his throat, and he stepped out of the car. He moved closer to the man bent over the grave, his hands out to grab him around the throat. A car backfired, and he jumped. The motion brought him out of the moment, and he sped back home, stopping only long enough to accept the ticket the officer handed through the window, the first traffic ticket he had ever gotten.