Nancy mops her damp face with a piece of paper towel and glances toward the metal box in the apartment window. Its motor is grinding and humming as the paper ribbons tied to the grill flutter feebly. It’s working, but barely.
She, Dr. Taylor, and Alice are clustered around a small wooden table in the kitchen of the apartment the Janes are currently using as their clinic, waiting for their next appointment. The unit is on the fourth floor of a cheap low-rise in Chinatown. They can hear the screech and dinging bells of the streetcars off in the distance, latchkey children shouting and playing skipping games in the street.
The Janes move around frequently to avoid detection and reduce the likelihood of police raids. Henry Morgentaler’s clinic was nearly bombed the previous summer, and he was almost stabbed by a protester. The anti-choice movement is gaining momentum, and the Janes are determined to stay at least one step ahead.
In the past ten months, they have used space in the homes of three of their volunteer members—including an attic and a large backyard shed—as well as a dentist’s office, thanks to Penny, one of the older Janes. This apartment in Chinatown belongs to the mother of one of the volunteers. She rents it out to university students from September through April, but it’s been vacant since May. It has a kitchen, a living room that serves as their waiting area, and two bedrooms: one they use as their surgical room, the other as the recovery room. The apartment is discreet, centrally located, and the price is right, but the sweltering July heat and humidity have become almost unbearable. The rickety old air conditioning unit in the film-coated window isn’t enough to stop Nancy from sweating through her shirt.
“It’s not quite at full blast,” Alice says with a frown, her own upper lip beading with sweat. “But Leslie says if we run it any harder, it’s likely to kick the bucket. This is all we’ve got. We can try to bring some fans in from our houses, if anyone has extras they can spare. And I’ve still got Popsicles in the freezer, if you want one.”
“Oh, yeah, excellent,” Nancy says. Pushing her chair back with a screech, she strides to the refrigerator. The box of Popsicles is the only thing in the freezer besides some half-filled ice cube trays. Skipping over the grape Popsicles, she fishes three orange ones out of the bottom of the box and rips off the paper wrapping, stuffing them into the bin lined with a medical-grade garbage bag. She hands one to each of the other women.
“Has Kathleen been discharged yet?” she asks Alice.
“Just about to be. She’s in the second bedroom on the recovery couch. Doris is in there with her.” Alice drops her voice, and Dr. Taylor and Nancy lean in. “Poor thing had a really rough go. Three kids already and her husband is an unemployed drunk. I saw bruises on her arms, and she said he forces himself on her. Won’t even let her use birth control. So we may see her again.”
“Well, fuck that guy,” Dr. Taylor says, biting the end off her Popsicle.
Nancy looks up at her. She’s never heard her curse like that before.
“Yeah,” Alice continues. “Doris said she’s going to see if she’s willing to go to a shelter. But they rarely are. I wish we could let them bring a close friend, or sister, but…”
“We can’t. Not after Montreal—”
“I know,” Alice says. “I just wish it were different.”
The women exchange a dark look across the table. Dr. Taylor nods. “No kidding.”
They used to allow their clients to bring their mother or sister, a friend, or even their boyfriend, if he was supportive of the decision. Until three months ago, when an underground clinic in Montreal got raided after a client’s fickle friend reported the location to the local police. Charges are pending against the volunteers and doctor, a professional acquaintance of Dr. Taylor’s from her medical school days. The network was destroyed. The Janes simply can’t risk it. And if that weren’t bad enough, their previous informant at the police headquarters, Mary, had to leave her job to stay home with her first baby. The Janes don’t have anyone on the inside anymore to give them a heads-up about potential raids. Their advance warning system is gone.
They have two more procedures scheduled this afternoon. Normally they book their patients for Saturdays, when the volunteers are more available and the women can come see the Janes under the guise of running errands, but Alice is getting married tomorrow, and it’s generally frowned upon for the bride to arrive at her wedding sweating buckets and covered in blood and amniotic fluid.
“Is everything all ready to go for tomorrow?” Nancy asks her now. Her own brand-new engagement ring glitters on her finger. She shared the news with Evelyn and Alice the moment she walked through the door this morning.
A smile creeps across Alice’s usually stoic features. “Yes. It’s a bit more splashy than I wanted, but you know Bob’s mother. Everything is pink and peach.” She rolls her eyes. “I never thought I would have a wedding at all, let alone some big ostentatious affair like this.”
“You and Bob love each other,” Dr. Taylor says. “That’s all that matters. Just make sure you don’t choke on peonies and lemon custard cake. I need you. Same goes for you, Nancy, when the time comes.”
Alice and Nancy laugh as Dr. Taylor pops the rest of the Popsicle into her mouth. A buzzer sounds, and all three stiffen, alert.
“Just the two o’clock coming in,” Nancy says, picking up her clipboard. She goes to answer the door. “Hello?”
“Hello,” the crackly voice echoes back.
“What can I do for you?” Nancy asks.
“I’m, uh, I’m looking for Jane?” The voice sounds unsure.
“Is she expecting you?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Patricia.”
“What number did Jane give you when you first called her?” Nancy asks.
“Hang on, it’s in my purse. One sec.”
The buzzer clicks off, and Nancy drums her fingers against the wall beside the door, waiting. The crackly voice returns.
“One-three-five-nine-two-two.”
Nancy consults her clipboard to confirm the code is correct for their two o’clock appointment.
“Come on up,” she says, and buzzes Patricia in.
Nancy will do a brief pre-screening counselling session in the operating room and explain the procedure to the patient before handing her off to Dr. Taylor. The Janes developed this two-step system to help spread out the responsibility so the doctors could focus solely on the medical side of things. Realizing she forgot to bring a pen for Patricia’s intake, Nancy walks back to the kitchen, where Dr. Taylor and Alice are still in conversation.
“Will this always be necessary?” Alice asks.
“The code?” Dr. Taylor asks. “I think so. It’s too—”
“No, not the security. I just mean abortions. Sometimes I think we’ve come so far, and with the pill and the movement and everything, the Birth Control Handbook. But we’re still doing, what, four procedures a week? And that’s just our clinic. I can’t believe there’s still that much of a need.”
Nancy grabs a pen from the jar on the counter as Dr. Taylor looks down into Alice’s kind face. The face she’ll present to her husband tomorrow at her wedding, made-up and polished, full of love and commitment and hope for their future. The face that will calm the nerves of nearly ten thousand aborting women over the course of her forty-two-year career in obstetrics. Because it will never stop.