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"Ms. Lambeth, this is Tina Rice from the Academy."

"Yes?"

"I wanted to let you to know that your client—"

"Hold, which client?"

"Brett Bordley-Young. We're changing plans, slightly. We'd like her to present the award for Best Screen Adaptation of a Foreign-Language Novel along with Stannie Colfax."

"Who?"

"Stannie Colfax."

"Like I said, who?"

"I'm kind of surprised you haven't heard of him. He's a very popular columnist for Tops."

"Well, that's very nice. Are you people out of your mind? A columnist? She was supposed to present with Brad Peel."

"Brad's had to bow out, unfortunately. Mr. Colfax is quite well-known. He does sports and movie reviews on the Internet. You've heard of the thumbs down? He gives 'the finger.' He has a cameo in the new Mike Myers film—"

"You know, pardon me, but I'm kind of surprised they didn't give us Mike Myers."

"Mr. Colfax scores very high on every name-recognition index. He's been on Letterman several times. He's a close friend of—"

"What I'm saying is that I think my client is a big enough name to merit presenting with an actor of some stature. I know it's too late for Cruise or Russell Crowe, but what about Tim Robbins? Cuba Gooding, Jr.? I'd even take James Garner over some damned writer."

"If your client is concerned, we're very agreeable to finding a replacement."

"For him?"

"No, for her."

"I really need to talk to somebody over there who knows what's going on."

"If you feel that way, I can have someone call you, but it may be after the weekend—"

"No, I want a call today. My other line's beeping in. Goodbye."

* * *

Across the country, Jenny Lemke stood in an upstairs bathroom of her house, putting on lipstick. She rolled it deep into the small creases of her lips, thinking that her aging skin looked more and more like art—like a mosaic, maybe: a pattern on an old church wall. How would she look in another ten years? Hag-like. She pushed her bifocals up the bridge of her nose and saw every pore magnified in the mirror to the size of a pin prick. She felt a little dizzy staring at herself. If she kept looking for a long time, she might just drift out of her body, up into the air, and watch herself from above. That would be something. To drift above and watch herself talking to a reporter, giving a speech, arguing with Sibyl about policy, cradling a baby in a car on the way to the airport.

You had to do your best with all this, even if you hated being at everybody's mercy. This was not about you: this was about it. You were just a tool, and it was worth any amount of unctuousness you had to display. But hey, that was the activist speaking, and she really couldn't stand the activist anymore. The activist was a tyrant. Jenny thought about the girl coming today and wished she could say to her, "I'm tired of fighting. I believe it all, but nothing ever changes, and I'm tired. They win."

The doorbell rang. She looked out the window, glimpsed the top of Rose's head through white dogwood blossoms, and snapped her lipstick case shut. She came down the stairs checking her clothes, looking over her bare shins to make sure the sunless tanning lotion hadn't streaked. These pants she was wearing—they'd called them "pedal pushers" when she was a kid in the fifties: now they were "Capris" or something. She couldn't wear this retro stuff without without having flashbacks, visions of her mother poking around this house in a sleeveless blouse and flat shoes, bored and smoking Pall Malls. "You damned ungrateful kids, I feel like a prison warden." Forty-five years ago.

She opened the door, smiling self-consciously. The girl on the front steps smiled back, but her eyes were tense. She wore blue jean overalls and a baggy t-shirt: her hair was pulled back in one of those huge clips: it sprouted from the top of her head like a weed. Strange choice of clothes, Jenny thought, for an interview. But then, if you were beautiful you could get away with anything. "Good again to see you again, Rose. Rose, right?"

"Yes. You're Jenny Lemke?" The girl sounded uncertain.

"Oh!" Jenny pulled off her bifocals. "I wasn't wearing these yesterday, was I? Bet you didn't recognize me."

Rose shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I'm not awake yet. And I've been driving around, lost—what a lovely old neighborhood."

"Thank you. Come in, please," Jenny held out her hand but the girl moved away from her as she stepped into the hallway. How old was she, anyway? Thirty? Odd to be calling her a "girl," but she had that girlish look.

Rose glanced around. "Have you lived here a long time?"

"A very long time," said Jenny. "This was my mother's house."

"Really?"

"Yes. A lot of ghosts around. Do you take coffee, Rose?"

"Yes, but don't go to any trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. Just give me a minute."

Rose yawned. She followed the older woman into the kitchen and leaned against a wall, watching. She'd left her camera in the car. A camera could be intimidating to people. She'd get it later, after they'd talked. From the back, Jenny Lemke looked so much thinner, older. Her spine was slightly curved: knobs stuck out on her neck. She was maybe fifty-five, sixty.

The kitchen obviously dated to the fifties. Some people might have said it needed updating, but Rose liked the look of it: white cabinets with gleaming metal handles, dark wood crucifix over the breakfast table, a stained glass window on one wall with light flooding through in bright vermillion and turquoise. Everything looked cleaned and polished. A damp mop still leaned in one corner, upside down. The dishwasher gurgled and changed cycles. Rose could feel the heat coming from it, five feet away.

She smiled to herself. She'd pictured herself now and then in an old house like this—not the kind of house she'd grown up in (split-level, shag carpet), but the kind she'd seen again and again in little country towns: small kitchen, small table with plaid table cloth, big sunny windows. Probably in the back of her mind she'd pictured herself married and settled down, raising children. Lately she was figuring out that she 'd probably never have a house of her own, probably never be married or have kids. Stannie's bad behavior wasn't something you'd want to bring into a marriage, especially if kids were part of the deal (and weren't they always—didn't just about everybody have them, eventually?). OK, so maybe she didn't have to stay with Stannie, but she'd recognized that his bad behavior had its up side, too. It pretty much guaranteed her the right to do what she wanted, forever.

There was that hiking trip to the Canadian Rockies for instance, when he'd decided to stay with the tour group even after she broke her ankle and had to be flown out. Or the time he wouldn't postpone their vacation, even though her mother was having surgery. Or (and this was the worst) that morning two years ago when a nasal-voiced girl answered the phone at his hotel room in Texas:

"It's not time for the wake-up call."

"Where's Stannie?"

"In the shower. Who's this?"

"Tell him his editor called. I'll call back when he has his clothes on."

If she'd loved Stannie Colfax—really loved him— the love ended with that phone call. The relationship didn't end, though, because after an honest conversation with herself, she'd figured out that Stannie wasn't such a bad deal. Not bad at all. He made her laugh, he kept things light, and he had a sweet side, not to mention money. Was he a good person? She thought he was, at heart. A good lover? Adequate. Did she deserve better? She thought she probably did. But it was easy to relax with a man who had already failed her. No need to apologize, no need to feel guilty for anything. Ever. She could always afford to be generous because she always had the upper hand. Not such a bad deal to stay with Stannie.

"To be honest," said Jenny suddenly, "I'm a little nervous about this interview.

Rose jerked back to the present. "Pardon?"

"Just don't ask me any questions yet. I can't think and measure coffee at the same time."

Rose laughed. "By all means, take your time, then. I'm only half-awake, myself."

"Ah, but I can ask you questions. You're working on a book, right? That's what this is about?"

"Yes."

"May I ask you something? Are you pro-life?"

"Well, in the general sense. It's a matter of definition."

"I know what that means." Jenny turned her head. "So, are you going to persecute me in print?" She had a bony profile.

"I'll try to tell the truth," said Rose.

"Good. That's all I ask."

"I don't know exactly what I'll write. I'm a photographer, mainly, so I'm used to letting a story grow from the pictures." From the corner of her eye, Rose noticed the calendar hanging by the refrigerator: "The Right to Be Born, That's All We Ask," it said underneath the photograph for April—a picture of a doctor holding up a newborn. She studied it for a moment, then turned and found Jenny Lemke staring at her.

"You like that calendar?" said Jenny.

"Oh, I think it's probably effective. It's a good picture."

"I don't know." Jenny sighed. "I'm not sure there's anything effective, not if people have their minds made up. Get a cup here and let's sit down."

"Thank you." Rose took her coffee and followed Jenny through a little dining room, down a step into what looked like a study or an office. It had an antique desk by a window and a rocking chair tilted slightly forward under a wooden crucifix.

"We used to refer to this as the 'family room,'" said Jenny. "Back when the TV was in here. The old one took up half the wall space by that window."

"So, do you have a family?" asked Rose. She moved a quilt carefully from the seat of the rocking chair and then settled down into it. It squeaked loudly as she leaned back.

"Yes and no. Never got married. I spent a little time in a convent—but decided I didn't have what it takes. I didn't go through the final vows."

"A convent." Rose winced at the thought. "You don't seem like the nun type."

"There's no one type. My parents died early and my brother's out West. I was probably looking for a family of my own. Anyway, I didn't find it there. Eventually I adopted two kids." She pointed at a row of photographs: two children, one blond and the other black-headed, each pictured at various ages. The frames had obviously been matched to the children's hair color.

"Cute," said Rose, feeling awkward.

"That's my daughter there—she died of spinal meningitis at twelve." Jenny's voice didn't waver: she sounded as though she'd explained this many times. "And there's my son. I got him a year after she died, when he was six. He's grown up now and living in Boston. They never knew each other, but I like to think we were a family in our own way."

Rose gazed at the photographs. They all seemed to be turning brown. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about your daughter."

"Yes." Jenny nodded. "Thanks. She was born with a few birth defects, so she was sick a lot of her life. I really wish I could have given her more happy years. It's a hard world for some kids."

Rose cleared her throat. "I certainly agree with that."

"Do you have children?" said Jenny, after a moment.

"Oh, no. My sister has three, so I get my parenting fix that way. And I've done a lot of stories on kids. As a photographer, that is. I worked for UNICEF for three years."

"How interesting. You must have seen a lot in your time."

Rose shifted and the chair squeaked and popped. "Yes, I've seen a lot. But kids can affect you in dangerous ways. I guess we're all wired that way. It's harder to distance ourselves. They draw you in."

Jenny let her eyes settle on Rose's face. Did this girl understand? Maybe? Her eyes were kind, but people's faces could fool you. You couldn't be too careful.

"I agree with you," she said carefully. "Children expose our vulnerability. It's hard to turn away from their suffering. Concentrate on a child's suffering and you experience all suffering."

Rose looked up at the crucifix. "You're still religious, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Does religion help you understand the world?"

Jenny hesitated. "Yes, in many ways."

"Does it inform your views on abortion, for instance?"

"Yes, of course it does. You're not religious, yourself?"

"No," said Rose, "not particularly. I mean of course I believe in something, but not anything structured. No organized religion"

Jenny smiled. "That's common these days." She started to say something else, maybe speak up for the Church, but stopped herself.

Rose shifted her legs and the chair practically shrieked this time. "So," she said, "I'm sure abortion is a deeply personal issue for you, isn't it?"

"Isn't it very personal for everybody?"

"I guess so. Maybe. Do you have any experience with it?"

Jenny smiled strangely. "Are you asking me if I've had one?"

"No, that's not what I meant."

"I bet it was. A lot of people ask. I don't mind the question."

Rose was quiet for a moment. "Well, a lot of people do have them, you know, and the fact that you're so violently opposed does make one wonder … but that's not why I asked."

"Well, anyway, it's a fair question." Jenny looked Rose straight in the eye. "I have a lot experience with abortion. I was a nurse for twelve years. I worked in a family planning clinic. I assisted with abortions all the time."

Rose hesitated, trying not to show her surprise. "Really? So you once believed in the right to choose?"

"Yes."

"And? What changed?"

"My conversion changed me. I became Catholic. Catholics believe in Christ's presence in the Mass. We eat and drink the body of the Lord every time we take Communion. Well, it's, somehow … after that, after taking the Lord's body, I began to see those small bodies differently. I had seen the blood and the fetal tissue for years. Now I saw human beings. Innocents being sacrificed. And It seemed to me that someone had to become a voice for the voiceless, you know? It was a human rights issue, based on my faith."

"So it was religious conviction that changed you."

"That's a limiting term. But my conviction did begin there. Everything starts somewhere. Religion just gave me a lens to see clearly."

"Did you feel guilty about what you'd done before your conversion?"

Jenny nodded. "Oh, yes. I know some would say that this is all about my misplaced guilt."

"Isn't it?"

"Sometimes." Jenny looked directly at Rose. "But that's not at the heart of it. For me, anyway. I believe that human life is sacred. I believe that even out of terrible circumstances, good can come. I reject the idea, however expedient in the short term, that society should allow the taking of one human life in order to make another human life more bearable."

Rose leaned forward. "That sounds high-minded. But you came to this conclusion over time. How can you, just one woman, force every other woman to live by your principles? You want to make a philosophical or theological choice for everyone."

"Only by lawful means," Jenny said. "The Fetal Rights League works through the law. And that's the way the law works. People apply their convictions to it."

Rose felt her voice rise. "But still, what I hear you saying is that might can make right. You'll hire lobbyists and lawyers and use the courts to try to barge in on other women's private lives."

Jenny nodded. "We may not like it, but the law barges in on people's lives all the time. Legislators make laws, judges make decisions every day that mean life or death, jail or freedom to the people who come through their courts. And all because of moral choices made by the few on behalf of the many. I see the argument—" Jenny paused, searching for the right words. She wanted to be honest, but she wanted to convince the girl, too. It was a delicate balance. "I see the argument that says, 'Don't make a law about this. Abortion is a moral matter, not a legal one.' But I strongly believe that abortion is a moral issue worth making a law about. Good God, it's worth making laws to protect the handicapped and the sick, or to protect endangered species or the environment, whatever the cost to human well-being in the short-term—just because it's right, and because one day we might need protection, ourselves—we should make laws to protect the unborn, because they have no voice of their own and they need protection. The fact is that they're here. They deserve to be preserved and protected until birth."

Rose felt hot all over. "And does that right start at conception?"

"Let me put it this way," said Jenny. "A person's legal right to be preserved and protected from extreme physical harm begins as soon as we can get the courts to grant it. That's what we're working toward. We'll start at late pregnancy and move back as far as we can go, saying, 'Well what about the 21-week-old fetus? What about the 20-week-old fetus?"

"I heard you were against the incremental approach. I heard you want to take down Roe v. Wade once and for all."

"We do." Jenny nodded. "But these are difficult times for us." She shook her head. "We'll take whatever we can get."

"These are difficult times in what way?" asked Rose. "People think you've made lots of inroads against legalized abortion. People are worried."

"Who's worried?" Jenny smiled. "You?"

"Yes." Rose nodded. "I'm worried that there's no end to this. I'm worried you people will intrude on my life. That if I do get pregnant one day, you'll come after me with a court order—no drinking, smoking, or whatever. Or it's jail. All in the name of the baby's health."

Jenny rubbed her palms together. "I'm not talking about a pregnant woman's right to smoke or have a glass of wine. I'm talking about freedom from extreme and certain bodily harm before birth. Think of your body as a house." She made a large, indefinable motion with her bony hands. "The police could never get a warrant to enter your home for the purpose of putting out a cigarette. They might, however, break in to stop you from taking a lethal overdose of drugs, or giving illegal drugs to a minor. It's the same here. They're intruding on your privacy in order to stop a murder."

She put her hands down. "Yes," she said in a tired voice, "I know that people are very worried about restrictions on abortion. If they just perceived abortion as a threat to their own well-being—but they won't, because let's face it, these people have already been born. What do they care? They're here. And that's really the problem. That's why the pro-life movement is so unpopular. We've got no victims on our side." Her face clouded for a second. "Not many, anyway. I mean, I could show you—"

"Say you can't win in the courts," Rose said. "What do you think about civil disobedience?" She sat back and her chair shrieked again.

"Well," said Jenny, narrowing her eyes, "first you tell me what you think about it."

"What I think?"

"Yes. I want to know what you think. If you felt that the Holocaust was happening right here in your own hometown, what would you do about it?"

Rose laughed lightly. "Abortion is nothing like the Holocaust."

"Just tell me, if you felt that abortion was like the Holocaust, what would you do? Would you be passive collaborator? Or would you be a resister?"

"I hate the analogy. I can't take it seriously."

"One person's criminal is another person's hero, depending on whether the person accepts the cause. It's the John Brown syndrome."

Rose tried not to flinch. "If I really felt that abortion was anything like the Holocaust, maybe I'd fight it. But I don't see abortion that way. It's a very sad but necessary option, and above all, it's a personal decision. Would you really want the government telling you what to do with your body?" She looked hard at Jenny. "You can't tell me you would. A strong woman like you—a single woman capable of making your own moral choices? Would you want to give up that control to a society that doesn't know anything about you? Doesn't know your wants or your needs or your capabilities—?"

"Oh, I know what you're saying," said Jenny. "I do know what you're saying. No, I don't want to give up control to anyone. But I do believe this is the Holocaust. And I've been on the wrong side, before. So I know what I'm capable of, Rose, and I know that the law is there to protect other people from my sin. That's why I'm willing to give society a measure of control. Don't you think you'd be a pretty wicked, pretty selfish person if society didn't keep you in line?"

Rose considered for a moment. "That's such a pessimistic view of people."

"Without the law, you'd really stay on your own side of the road all the time?"

"Maybe."

"And you'd pay taxes out of the goodness of your heart."

"Probably. But the law has already say that this isn't up to you," said Rose quietly. "It's just not your decision to make for other people."

Jenny felt her throat tighten. It really was impossible to convince them. All the conversation, all the sincerity, all the good will. It didn't amount to anything.

There was a long silence, and then Rose sighed. "OK," she said. "I get the picture. I want to meet again. When can we meet again?"

Jenny put her head in her hands, and then looked up again. "You know, I can't turn down the press exposure, but I'd like to know ahead of time how bad this will be. Will I hate myself for this later?"

Rose licked her lips. "No."

"No?"

"You shouldn't be afraid." It was dawning on her that she'd failed, here. She was supposed to be getting cozy with Jenny Lemke—getting on the inside, finding out about the Womb Bomber—yet she'd lost control and shown her hand.

"And why not?" asked Jenny. "You're obviously critical of us."

"Yes. But I have a lot of sympathy for your movement. I told you."

Jenny laughed. "I missed that somehow. Maybe you said it while I was making the coffee."

"No, really, I do have sympathy. That's why I volunteered for this story." Rose frowned. "I have plenty of hard questions. But I have sympathy, too." She raised her eyes to Jenny and started to say something, but stopped. "I know what it's like."

"What it's like?"

"What abortion's like."

Jenny sat quietly for a moment, looking at Rose. "How do you know?" she asked quietly.

"I had one," Rose said slowly.

"I see."

"And I do feel guilty about it now. Maybe that's part of this."

Jenny kept her eyes on the girl, and hurt for her, though she was already thinking about other things. She thought how many times she'd listened to hard stories like this and how difficult it was to care for so many individual human beings, listen to so many women confess, and still listen again and care again and sympathize again. It would be so much easier just to hear a few representatives of each broad category: the guilty likeable feminist type, the angry rape victim type. What if you could choose just a small sample to speak for the masses now and then, like a queen sifting out letters from her mountain of mail? Would you have more energy for good? Would you care more? Do a better job? But how dare she think this. She shuddered at herself.

"I do feel guilty," Rose repeated, "even though I'm pro-choice. But it may be because people like you won't let me forget it. And maybe what I do want is a judge. Maybe I want to hear the worst thing you have to say about me. It's like a kind of punishment. I have to get this over with. Then I can go home and maybe be free of it."

"No," said Jenny. "You don't need punishment."

"You don't think I've sinned?"

"Yes, you have sinned." She sighed, lifting one skinny arm to reach for a space just above Rose's head, as if she'd pull down an invisible hand to bless her. "But it's not what I think. You can find another judge. I'd rather be your helper."

"Please help me do this story, then."

"If that's what you want." Jenny sat forward in her chair and folded her hands. "We could meet again tomorrow. I don't know what you'd think about this—we're having a committee retreat at Sibyl's farm in Maryland. You'd come up, meet the folks who work with us."

Rose nodded. She was thinking she'd been dating Stannie too long. To be able to lie like this—what had happened to her? What was she becoming?

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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