Claudia watched as Mary led them down the hall. In an hour the procedure would be over, and Hannah’s visit to the clinic would become part of her past. When she thought about it at all, she’d remember a youthful mistake, quickly corrected. In the spring she would graduate from Pilgrims Country Day. Whatever happened next—Yale or Dartmouth, the future unfolding—would stem directly from the choice made on Mercy Street. For Hannah R., every door remained open. Her life was entirely her own.
AT NOON CLAUDIA STEPPED OUT FOR A SANDWICH. OUTSIDE, the sky had darkened, storm clouds gathering. At twelve thirty in the afternoon, the streetlamps were bright.
When she returned to Mercy Street, the wind had kicked up. A woman stood in the shelter of the building, trying to light a cigarette. She looked very cold, underdressed in her chic leather jacket. It took Claudia a moment to recognize Julia Ramsey, Hannah’s mother. The cigarette confused her. It seemed at odds with the vitamins-and-yogurt thing.
“Here.” Claudia approached and stood with her back to the wind. “Let me block you.”
Julia tried again: scratch, pause, inhale. “Got it. Thank you. God, that’s good.” She studied the cigarette in her hand, as if unsure how it had gotten there. “I never smoke. Honestly, I haven’t had one in twenty years.”
“No worries,” said Claudia—an expression she loathed. What exactly did it mean? Nothing, which was why people said it, an innocuous filler for an awkward pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better. This day has been—unbelievable.” Julia closed her eyes as if the subject pained her. “I just want it to be over.”
“Hannah said the same thing.” Claudia studied her. “She’s a lovely girl. I enjoyed meeting her, despite the circumstances.”
“She’s a good kid.” Julia smiled wanly. “Kind, thoughtful, straight As at school. She’s never been in trouble. Honestly, I never saw this coming.”
A garbage truck roared past, dieseling loudly.
Julia took a long final drag. “Three puffs. That’s all I need.” She dropped the cigarette and squashed it beneath her heel. “I had one.”
It took Claudia one second to grasp her meaning. In her line of work, such confessions were common. One in four American women would, at some point, terminate a pregnancy. Most, it seemed, carried the secret for the rest of their lives.
“A hundred years ago, when I was in college.” Julia blinked rapidly, her eyes tearing. “I didn’t tell my mother. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Have you told Hannah?”
“No.” She seemed startled by the question. “I mean, would you?”
Claudia considered this.
“Yes,” she said finally. “Yes, I think I would.”
11
His earliest memory was of his mother. Victor must have been very small. They were in the kitchen of the old house and she was giving him a bath in the sink. A flicker of memory, fleeting, strobelike: the warm water running over him like a blessing, the porcelain cold against his back.
His mother was a whore named Audrey, a name his father would not speak.
After she left, father and son lived in three rooms above a pool hall. When his father worked Hoot Owl, the boy was alone all night in the apartment. He lay awake thinking of the loaded shotgun in the kitchen closet, and waited for an intruder to come.
His mother was a whore because what other kind of woman would leave her child?
Her blonde hair dark at the ends where it dipped into the sink.
His father switched to day shift and in the evenings went out prowling. Victor witnessed adult behavior, drunkenness and fornication. Later he understood that this had warped him, shaped his character in ruinous ways.