Terrible Virtue (6 page)

THE BOYS HAD
left for school, Bill had gone off to work, and my mother-in-law was in the kitchen begging Peggy to finish
her oatmeal. My daughter was a picky eater. I confess to a secret pride in her fastidiousness and in the fact that she'd never known the hunger I had. The sound of the telephone we'd installed so the Henry Street Settlement, doctors, and social workers could call me for nursing assignments rattled the silence. I crossed the room to the far wall and lifted the earpiece out of the holder. In a jumble of Yiddish and English, a male voice cried and pleaded for help from Mrs. Sanger and God. I didn't recognize the voice, but I knew the panic. Finally I made out the name. It was the husband of the young woman who'd used a knitting needle, the most recent young woman who'd used a knitting needle, the man who would become Jake Sachs.

I raced to the subway, snatched the ticket from the clerk, flung it at the man behind the ticket chopper, and slid into the car just as the doors were closing. When the train reached Canal Street, I leapt off, raced up the steps, and ran all the way to the tenement. I was still too late. This time she had used a buttonhook.

As time went on, I embellished the story, nothing substantial, only a few details. When I told it—and I told it again and again, to small groups and large audiences, in New York, across the country, and around the world—the family lived on the fifth floor, and the time was the dog days of August. That was why the husband, the three small children, and I had to lug blocks of ice, bags of food, and medications up the dark, filthy, sweltering staircase.

I added one more detail. I had Bill to thank for that. If it hadn't been for him, I never would have been in the shop that specialized in art books that afternoon, and I wouldn't have seen the doctor. He was sitting in one of the easy chairs, studying a book of Courbet paintings. It was open to a nude, one of the
nudes that the critics had called pornographic. No, not studying it, lost in it. But gradually he must have sensed he was being watched, because he looked up, and when he saw me, he did what any respectable middle-aged doctor would do. He turned the page and pretended not to know the nurse who had caught him in the act. That was when I came up with what the man who is writing my biography calls the telling detail.

In the story as I told it from then on, Sadie didn't ask me the crucial question, she asked the doctor.

“Please, Doctor, tell me. To keep from having the babies, what can I do?”

The doctor stood looking down at Sadie. He was not a bad man, I was always careful to say. He had an avuncular bedside manner and an admirable patience with overdue bills. But he was a doctor and a man. He had saved Sadie's life, for a while, but he couldn't imagine Sadie's life.

“So, young lady, you want to have your cake and eat it too,” I had the doctor say.

Sadie went on looking up at him with her old eyes. “Not for me the cake, Doctor, for Jake.”

The doctor laughed. “What can you do?” he said. “I'll tell you what you can do. You can tell Jake to sleep on the roof.”

Not a woman who heard the story doubted the words I put in the doctor's mouth.

THE NIGHT I
gave birth to Sadie Sachs, I sat up in the dark front parlor staring out the window at the uncaring city. Sadie had given me a way to state the problem, but she hadn't brought me any closer to a solution.

“Come to bed, Peg,” Bill called from down the hall.

I pretended not to hear him.

“Peg,” he called twice more.

I didn't answer.

I heard the bed creak, the sound of his slippers whispering down the hall, the cry of protest from the spot where the floorboards squeaked.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said without turning to look at him. “I'm just thinking.”

He crossed the room, sat beside me on the sofa, traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, and started to turn my face to his. I pulled away.

“It's lonely in there,” he said.

“I'm trying to work something out.”

“You can work it out in the morning. Come to bed.” He took my hand and placed it on the fly of his pajamas.

I pulled my hand away. “This is important.”

He took my hand and put it on him again. “What could be more important than this?”

I pulled my hand away again.

“Peg, what's happening to you?”

“I told you, I'm trying to think.”

He sat staring at me as if I were a stranger he couldn't place.

“I'll be in soon,” I said in the same voice I used to reassure the children that there were no bogeymen under the bed or ghosts outside the window. He was no more reassured than they were. He stood and made his way down the hall to the bedroom without a word.

Years later I wrote Bill a letter to be mailed after my death. The contents weren't entirely truthful. I told him his love and passion and sex had beautified my life, and that much was accu
rate, but I also said that without him I would not have had the courage to do what I did. We both knew that was a lie. Nothing could have kept me from my work. Nothing did keep me from my work, but I won't talk about that. Nonetheless, I wanted to make amends. I'd hurt him too much.

He never got the letter. He died before I did. Stuart and Grant didn't tell me. I suppose they meant well. Spare Mother the pain. Peggy was the one who broke the news. I didn't tell the boys that. My sons are men of science, doctors of medicine. They believe only what they can see and touch. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After Bill went back to bed that night, I turned to the windows again. Here and there an isolated rectangle of light burned a hole in the darkness. I sat thinking about all the women in all the apartments; some, like Sadie, lying wide-eyed in the darkness, their minds racing for ways to stave off or end another pregnancy that their bodies and budgets and sanity couldn't afford; others spread silent and terrified beneath an angry or drunken or vengeful man; and still others, intoxicated by the wonder of a man's body, and their own, unmindful, for the moment, of the consequences. We were trapped, by men, and by ourselves.

I didn't know how long the whimpers from the children's room had been building before I noticed them, but when I did, I hurried down the hall, scooped up Peggy, and carried her back to the parlor. I didn't want her waking the boys or her grandmother.

“Did you have a bad dream, my darling?” I crooned into her ear.

A hiccup interrupted the whimpers. Her arms were a vise around my throat.

I sat on the sofa with her in my lap. She nestled her head into
the hollow between my shoulder and neck. The whimpers began to subside. Her thumb found its way to her mouth. She sucked contentedly.

I thought of my own childhood terrors that had gone unrecognized and unsoothed. Suddenly I was furious. At my father's cavalier irresponsibility; at my mother's fecklessness and, despite the fact that she had wrecked her health and sacrificed her life to us, selfishness; at a society that would let children enter the world unwanted and unloved.

But this was the twentieth century. If trains could race beneath the city eating up time as they went, if man could soar like a bird in a heavier-than-air machine, if scientists could harness electricity to run irons and gramophones and floor sweepers, surely mankind, or womankind, could find a way to prevent pregnancy and make abortion unnecessary.

As the lights began to go on in the windows across the way and shadows struggled toward another day, I made up my mind. I'd had enough of treating the symptoms of the disease. I was determined to find the cure. I would give up nursing and devote myself to contraception. I would free women from their biological shackles. I would liberate love from its consequences. And I would make sure that every child entered the world desired and cherished.

D
ESPITE MY RESOLUTION
to stop treating the symptoms and look for the cure, I continued to accept the occasional nursing assignment. We needed the money. But most mornings I left Peggy with my mother-in-law, walked the boys to school, and took the subway down to Forty-Second Street to the new public library, where I spent the day reading, taking notes, and following a chain of references from one book to the next. The process was slow and frustrating. What little information existed was veiled in euphemisms and hidden in puritanical ellipses.

I tried interviewing doctors I knew. Most refused to talk about the subject. The ones who would talk often knew less than I did. A few didn't even understand the difference between contraception and abortion. The medical school libraries weren't much more helpful. Nonetheless, I struggled on. Day by day, my index cards mounted and my knowledge grew, but as June melted into July, the city became increasingly unbearable, and finally dangerous.

Polio lurked everywhere, especially in wait for the young. Finally it moved into our building. One twilight evening, a girl of
about seven or eight, who lived on the floor below us, was jumping rope on the sidewalk, despite the heat; the next morning I looked out the window to see her mother following a stretcher to a waiting ambulance. I had to get the children out of the city. Peggy had had the flu, not polio, no matter what Bill and the doctor said, but she might not be so lucky a second time.

I decided to take the children to Provincetown, a small Portuguese fishing village on the tip of Cape Cod. Half the people we knew would be there, including Big Bill Haywood and John Reed and Eugene O'Neill, to name only a few. They were going to write and paint and put on plays, to organize causes and argue and fall in and out of love. Later, Bill would accuse me of having an affair with Gene O'Neill that summer, and I'd become indignant. That summer I was mad about Walter Roberts, a lanky man with a long morose face and an irresistibly lopsided smile, while Gene was head over heels in love with Louise Bryant, who was living with John Reed. That was not to say the fresh air, sunshine, and sea would not be good for the children. Bill had to stay in town to work, but he'd manage to come up on weekends. The trip from New York on the side-wheelers of the Fall River Line was long, and the train ride worse, boiling when the windows were closed, dangerous when they were open and cinders flew in to bite and blind, but he insisted it was worth the trouble and discomfort to see the children and me. I could even continue my research. Each week I'd take the steamer to Boston and use the library there for a day or two while Ethel, who missed her own children, would stay with mine.

WE CAME DOWN
the gangplank and stood on the pier blinking against the glare of the sun that beat down on our straw hats,
hit the water, and bounced back at us. I raised my hand to shade my eyes and looked toward the town. Between the two main streets that followed the curve of the bay, a tangle of small gardens rioted in color. Stuart, Grant, and Peggy were hopping from one foot to the other, pulling on Ethel and me, and giving off sparks of excitement. I calmed them down for long enough to load our things on a wagon, and we started for the rented cottage. Big Bill, who'd found it for us, said it was so close to the water that high tide practically lapped at the door. He hadn't exaggerated.

As the days and weeks passed, the children thrived. Stuart roamed the rocks and fished and seemed to be growing up overnight. Grant came home with pockets full of colored shells, sea-smoothed stones, and tiny crabs. Peggy ran on the beach, her blond hair gleaming in the sunlight, her chubby brown legs steady beneath her.

“I told you she didn't need a brace,” I said to Bill when he arrived for the weekend.

“She still has the limp, Peg.”

The man was impossible.

She even learned to swim.

The light hit the bay and splintered like the facets of a diamond as her small water-lightened body floated in my outstretched arms. At first she flailed, but little by little, as I counted, she began to kick her legs and move her arms in rhythm.

I took one hand away. She kept paddling. I removed the other.

“I'm swimming!” she shouted when she realized I'd let go of her. “I'm swimming!”

She swam a short distance away from me, the water streaking off her sleek brown skin, her red bathing suit flashing like
a buoy, then circled and returned, once, twice, a third time. I stood waist-deep in the water, laughing at her excitement, marveling at her fearlessness, rejoicing that each time she went a little farther away, and each time she came back to me.

That evening, exhausted from the sun and sea and effort, she fell asleep against my shoulder as we sat in the porch swing. I carried her into the house and tucked her into her bed. As I stood looking down at her, her mouth curled into a smile, and I knew that in her dreams, she was still afloat. And I was there with her.

I had never known such blissful times with my children. That was why I couldn't understand the fuss Stuart made about an unimportant incident.

ETHEL BYRNE

IT WASN'T UNIMPORTANT TO HIM, MARG. I WAS HIS AUNT, NOT HIS MOTHER, BUT I COULD SEE THAT. OF COURSE, I SPENT MORE TIME WITH THE CHILDREN THAT SUMMER. I'M NOT CASTING STONES. A WOMAN WHO HAS LOST HER CHILDREN TO HER IN-LAWS IN A CUSTODY BATTLE ISN'T EXACTLY IN A POSITION TO. (HAVE YOU NOTICED THAT WE NEVER TALK ABOUT THE CHOICES WE MADE? I GOT MY NURSING DEGREE BUT LOST MY CHILDREN. YOU NEVER FINISHED TRAINING BUT STILL HAVE YOURS, AS WELL AS MY DAUGHTER, COME TO THINK OF IT. OLIVE ADORES YOU. BUT I DON'T SUPPOSE WE EVER WILL TALK ABOUT IT. SOMETIMES IT'S EASIER TO SAVE THE WORLD THAN OURSELVES.)

NONETHELESS, ONCE YOU TOLD STUART HE COULD MEET THE
DOROTHY BRADFORD
AT THE DOCK, YOU SHOULD HAVE MADE IT YOUR BUSINESS TO BE ON THE STEAMER. THE LEAST YOU COULD HAVE DONE AFTER YOU MISSED IT WAS TAKE THE TRAIN LATER IN THE DAY
.

I TOLD HIM YOU MUST HAVE GOT CAUGHT UP IN YOUR RESEARCH. MY EXCUSE TURNED OUT TO BE TRUE, THOUGH TRY EXPLAINING TO A TEN-YEAR-OLD BOY THAT HIS MOTHER CAME ACROSS A REFERENCE TO AN EGYPTIAN CONDOM, NOT AN HERB OR PLANT OR LEMON, WHICH WERE COMMON CONTRACEPTIVES IN ANCIENT TIMES, BUT A CONDOM, THE EARLIEST SHE'D EVER HEARD OF. THE OTHER EXCUSE WASN'T ANY BETTER. MOTHER OVERSLEPT, BECAUSE AFTER A DINNER TO CELEBRATE HER DISCOVERY, SHE WAS UP ALL NIGHT MAKING LOVE WITH WALTER ROBERTS, WHOM YOUR FATHER CALLS THE EAGLE, BECAUSE HE'S A REPORTER FOR THE
BROOKLYN EAGLE
AND BECAUSE THE EAGLE IS A BIRD OF PREY. THAT'S A LOT FOR A TEN-YEAR-OLD BOY TO DIGEST
.

I STOOD ON THE PORCH WATCHING HIM STRIDE DOWN THE DUNES TOWARD TOWN THAT DAY, AN INTREPID EXPLORER IN HIS MIND'S EYE, THEN WENT BACK INTO THE HOUSE TO MAKE LUNCH FOR GRANT AND PEGGY. I REMEMBER, BECAUSE I FORGOT TO CUT THE CRUSTS OFF PEGGY'S SANDWICH, AND YOU KNOW HOW SHE WAS ABOUT THAT. SHE RAISED HELL. THAT WAS YOUR FAULT. YOU SPOILED HER ROTTEN. YOU COULD GO OFF AND LEAVE HER FOR A YEAR—I KNOW, I KNOW, THAT CAME LATER, AND YOU HAD NO CHOICE—BUT WHEN YOU WERE WITH HER, YOU COULDN'T SAY NO TO HER SMALLEST WHIM
.

WHEN TWO O'CLOCK TURNED TO THREE AND THREE TO FOUR, AND STUART WASN'T BACK, WITH OR WITHOUT YOU, I BEGAN TO WORRY. FINALLY I PUT GRANT AND PEGGY IN THE WAGON AND STARTED FOR TOWN
.

HALF A BLOCK AWAY FROM THE CAPE COD STEAMSHIP PIER, I COULD SEE IT WAS DESERTED EXCEPT FOR THE WAITING WOMAN. YOU REMEMBER HER. DAY AFTER DAY, NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, SHE STOOD, STARING OUT TO SEA. PEOPLE SAID SHE HAD SPENT SO MUCH OF HER LIFE SCANNING THE HORIZON FOR FATHERS AND BROTHERS AND HUSBANDS AND SONS WHO'D NEVER RETURNED THAT SHE
COULDN'T TURN HER BACK ON THE WATER. I'D NEVER SPOKEN TO HER, FEW PEOPLE IN TOWN VENTURED TO, BUT THAT DAY I DID. I ASKED HER IF SHE'D SEEN A BOY. “TEN YEARS OLD. BLOND HAIR. HE WAS WEARING KHAKI SHORTS AND A WHITE SHIRT.” I WAS DESCRIBING HALF THE BOYS IN TOWN, OUTSIDE THE PORTUGUESE COMMUNITY
.

“THE ONE WHO WAS WAITING FOR HIS MA?” I WAS SURPRISED. HER VOICE SOUNDED ORDINARY, NOT EVEN RUSTY FROM LACK OF USE
.

“THAT'S THE ONE.”

“HE'S A GOOD WAITER. SET HALF THE AFTERNOON.”

I ASKED IF SHE KNEW WHERE HE'D GONE
.

“RAILROAD DEPOT. I TOLD HIM MIGHT AS WELL STAY HERE. HARBOR'S WHERE THE BOATS COME IN.” SHE PRONOUNCED IT HAABOR. “HARBOR'S WHERE THEY COME HOME.”

BY THIS TIME GRANT AND PEGGY HAD CLIMBED OUT OF THE WAGON AND REFUSED TO GET BACK IN. ON THE WAY DOWN THE PIER, PEGGY TRIPPED ON THE UNEVEN PLANKING—SHE REALLY WAS UNSTEADY ON HER FEET—FELL, AND STARTED TO CRY. I PICKED HER UP. SHE SQUIRMED AGAINST ME. “MAMA,” SHE WHINED. “I WANT MY MAMA.” GRANT HUNG ON TO MY SKIRT, HEAVY AS AN ANCHOR. WE DRAGGED OUR WAY TOWARD PILGRIM MONUMENT
.

I SAW HIM FROM HALFWAY DOWN BRADFORD STREET, HIS SHIRT WHITE AGAINST THE DARK GREEN PAINT OF THE BENCH, HIS BROWN LEGS SWINGING ABOVE THE PLATFORM, HIS FACE STARING DOWN THE TRACK, JUST AS THE WAITING WOMAN WATCHED OUT TO SEA
.

“SHE WASN'T ON THE BOAT,” HE SAID, WHEN WE REACHED THE BENCH. THE WORDS CAME OUT FLAT AND EVEN, AS IF ANY EMOTION WOULD LEAD TO TEARS. “SO I CAME HERE TO MEET THE TRAIN.”

I TOLD HIM THAT WAS VERY SMART OF HIM
.

“BUT SHE WASN'T ON THE TRAIN NEITHER.”

I DIDN'T CORRECT HIM, THOUGH I BET YOU WOULD HAVE
.

PEGGY CRIED ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE HOUSE. GRANT SULKED
.
BUT STUART WAS STOIC. HE DIDN'T SAY A WORD. HE JUST KEPT HIS EYES ON THE SEA. IF YOU HAD SEEN HIM, MARG, YOU WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD WHY HE MAKES SO MUCH OF IT. IF YOU HAD SEEN HIM, HE WOULD HAVE BROKEN YOUR HEART, BECAUSE THERE'S ONE THING I KNOW ABOUT YOU. YOU LOVE YOUR CHILDREN. THAT'S WHY YOU OUGHT TO BE MORE CAREFUL. YOU DON'T WANT TO END UP LIKE ME. OR DO YOU?