Somewhere in New York ...

     No!

     She sat up in bed, swatting blindly at the air.

     Go away!

     But the sounds were still there. The crying. The babies.

     Joanne Davids-Coulter looked at the clock by the side of the bed. 6 a.m. She’d gotten, what, three hours. A typical night. She turned on the radio. Loud. It was the only way to drown out the crying sounds.

     Even in the night. She used to sleep with headphones on and ocean sounds playing. That had helped for a time. But she’d had to keep playing it louder and louder. Bill – was that his name? – the last guy she’d dated, had grown so annoyed one night with the noise and the nightmares that he got out of the bed and left her house. He never came back.

     Typical man, she’d rationalized.

     But soon even the sleep tapes couldn’t help.

     She went into the bathroom and turned on the radio there. The face in the mirror looked haggard. Black circles ringed her bloodshot eyes.    

     Make-up time.

     Ten minutes later, face pretty much restored, she went into the kitchen and turned on the radio. She popped a bagel into the toaster oven, then opened the fridge to get some orange juice.

     “Mommy.”

     She slammed the door shut and turned fiercely.

     “Who is doing this?” she snarled.

     No one answered. But she heard crying.

     She turned up the radio.

     The toaster oven dinged. She took out the bagel, coated it with cream cheese, sat at the table.

     She rubbed the wooden surface. David had bought it as a gift for her. He’d spent days stripping away the old paint, revealing the maple beneath, and then stained it. How proud he’d been giving it to her for their fifth anniversary.

     It was all she had left of him, now. That, and the name hyphenated to her own. Friends had suggested she go back to just her own name. But for some reason even she did not understand, she kept the name.

     She wondered if he’d have any advice if she called. He always seemed to have answers. Even if they were sometimes wrong.

     Especially when he was wrong.

     She remembered their last fight. It was a stupid one, really.

     They’d been at a party. He’d been slightly drunk, an increasingly frequent state late in their marriage, and was pontificating in a history discussion when the burning of the White House by the British during the War of 1812 came up.

     “So when they burned it in 1812 …” he’d begun.

     “1814,” she’d corrected.

     “What?”

     “It was the War of 1812, but they burned it in 1814,” she’d said.

     “Whatever,” he’d replied gruffly.

     “Just wanted to make sure your facts were straight,” she’d said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want you to look foolish.”

     She never understood why she’d said it. But they’d become caught up in some sort of a perverse game those last months. He, the all-knowing prosecutor. She, the all-seeing feminist social worker. He’d hated to be corrected in public, especially when she did it in front of her women friends. With their knowing smirks. Like at that party.

     That night when they’d got home he’d said nothing. He’d gone to bed before she did, and rose before her. When she’d gotten up, he was gone, along with several suitcases filled with his clothes.

     She rubbed the table. It squeaked.

     “Mama.”

     “Dammit,” she spat, throwing the bagel across the room.

     The crying seemed to grow louder.

     She turned up the radio, tossed the uneaten bagel out, and wiped the cream cheese from the wall where the bagel had struck.

     She wanted a smoke. Strange. She’d had little desire since she’d quit 20 years before. But lately the desire had resurfaced.

     Just one, a voice said. That’s all.

     She went into the bathroom again, turned on the radio there, stripped, and got into the shower.

     The water poured down over her body. She rubbed herself with her hands, feeling the smoothness. She looked down, watching the water trickle over her breasts.

     “Feed me, mommy.”

     “Shut up!” she screamed.

     The crying seemed to pour down from the shower head.

     She shut off the water, stepped out and dried herself hurriedly, and rushed into her bedroom. Tossing aside the towel, she threw on some clothes. Then she glanced in the mirror. The makeup she’d put on earlier was streaked down she face.

     “Dammit,” she snarled. She went back into the bathroom, scrubbed her face harshly. It looked back at her red and raw.

     As if she’d been crying.

     “Good enough,’ she barked.

     As she left the house, she heard the radios still blaring inside. They can stay on, she thought. They don’t do any good anyway.

     The car radio blasted to life as soon as she started the motor. She turned it to maximum, and searched for a station playing rock. Then she backed out into the street. Her tires squealed as she pulled away.

     A neighbor walking his dog looked at her.

     That’s right, she thought. I’m disturbing the peace.

     On an impulse, she rolled down her window to let the booming music pour out into the still waking suburban streets.

      “Take that,” she yelled. Then self-consciously she realized that she had indeed said it, not just thought it. She rolled the window back up.

      The announcer came on.

      Shut up, she thought. Stop talking.

      She flipped channels, searching for music. She was so intent on her search that she nearly hit a car stopped at the corner. The man behind the wheel poked his head out the window.

      “Watch where you’re going, bitch.”

      He sped away.

      Typical man, she thought. Always running away.

      She pulled into a convenience store two blocks away. She walked in.

      “Cigarettes,” she demanded.

      “What kind?” the woman at the counter asked.

      Kind? She looked at the display on the wall behind the counter. Names she didn’t recognized. Varied sizes. She searched rapidly, and spotted a familiar brand.

      “Those,” she pointed. “Regular size.”

      A moment later in the safety of the car, the radio blasting, she lit up and took a drag.

      She coughed furiously.

      The memory of her first cigarette flooded her mind.

      She’d been 13, sitting on the porch with her step father. He was smoking, looking at her occasionally.

     “Like to try?” he asked, holding out his cigarette.

     She took it, looking at him to make sure it was all right. He smiled.

     She took a tentative puff.

     “No,” he said. “You have to draw it in.”

     She breathed in, the smoke pouring into her lungs, and erupted into a coughing fit. He laughed and put his hand on her back, rubbing.

     “It gets easier the more you do it.”

     It had become a ritual. On evenings when her mother had to work late, they’d sit on the porch, at first sharing his cigarettes, then each smoking their own.

     “We won’t tell your mother,” he’d promised. “It’s our secret.”

     A few months later he’d come into her room one night when her mother had to work overtime at the factory.

     A new ritual.

     Another secret.

     And when she was 14, it was he who’d taken her to the abortion clinic. They had sat in the car after. Smoking.

     Joanne finished the cigarette. She rolled the window down to throw the butt away and to let the smoke escape.

     God, she thought, I hope I don’t smell.

     Before she’d driven another few blocks, the desire returned.

     Just one more. Just one.

     She lit another, telling herself she’d throw the rest of the pack away.

     At a light, the announcer came on. She flipped channels looking for music. But at every station, an announcer or a commercial.

     Stop talking, she thought.

     A cry. A long, slow wail.

     She looked in the back seat, knowing she’d see nothing.

     She hit button after button on the radio. Finally, music.

     The light changed, and she realized she’d tuned to a Christian station.

     “Listen to the voice of the Lord …”

     She furiously hit another button. A country station. A singer with honky-tonkin’ on his mind.

     As she approached the Women’s Health Center, she saw the too familiar gathering of protesters out front. The Catholics with their rosaries. The Protestants with their signs. The leafleters approaching any woman who neared the center. And the Reverend Wes Newman.

     Hate welled up in her. Reverend Newman had been leading protests at the center since long before she had become the director. Three days a week he was there with some of his followers and allies.

     But what made it even more galling was that a part of her admired him. His church ran a food pantry, a soup kitchen, a homeless shelter, and a shelter for battered women. He had taken pregnant teens into his own home, he and his wife treating them like their own daughters. Some of those girls were now regular picketers.

     Reverend Newman saw her approaching. He smiled broadly, mouthing something she couldn’t hear because of the radio.

     She suddenly realized she still had the cigarette in her mouth. She stubbed it out, steeled herself, and drove past the picketers. Several of them called out as she passed, their words drowned by a woman on the radio singing about a man who’d gone away.

    She parked in the director’s spot and looked at the protesters. None of them looked violent, but she made sure the pistol was in her purse anyway. It was.

     She got out of the car. Now she could hear them.

    “Don’t kill babies today,” one woman pleaded.

    "We can help," another said.

    “The door’s always open,” a familiar voice said.

     She turned sharply. Reverend Newman waved.

     “Come by for coffee,” he called, making sure he stayed beyond the court-mandated buffer zone. “We can talk.”

     Damn your talk, she thought. She hurried to the door. The security guard opened it.

     “Can’t you do something about them?” she demanded.

     “Sorry, ma’am,” he replied. “As long as they don’t trespass, there’s nothing I can do.”

     “Nothing. That’s all anyone ever does to shut them up.”

     She looked at his name tag. Raphael Torres. Why did that sound familiar? Then she remembered.

     “I’m … I’m sorry about your girlfriend, Rafe,” she said, trying to sound sincere. “It was horrible. Murdered like that. Did they catch ... are you sure you’re up to being here?”

     “It’s better than being home.”

     “I understand,” she replied. “I …”

     Suddenly a woman yelled, “What about the babies?”

     “Keep them away,” Joanne snapped. “That’s what I pay you for.”

     She hurried past the waiting room and staff. She ignored their greetings. Her secretary rose to speak, but Joanne waived her away and slammed her office door.

     She looked around. Panicked, she opened her door.

     “Carol,” she barked. “Where’s my radio.”

     “Don’t you remember,” Carol stammered. “It’s out being fixed. The speakers …”

     “Get me another,” she snarled and closed her door.

     Try another cigarette, the voice in her head said. She reached into her purse. Her fingers found the gun.

     Scare them, the voice said. Just scare them away.

     She closed the purse quickly and sat with her hands knotted on the desk.

     The sound of the crying returned, It grew louder.

     She put her head in her hands.

     Dozens of babies.

     She picked up the phone and punched in Carol’s extension.

     “Yes?” Carol answered.

     “Where’s that radio?”

     “We’re looking,” Carol replied.

     Joanne hung up.

     She looked at the purse.

     Go ahead, the voice said. Just one. Just a little smoke.

     A child who sounded in pain cried out.

     “Stop!” she screamed, grabbing the purse.

     Carol burst into the room. “Are you all right?”

     “Stop talking!” Joanne said.

     “I … I’m sorry,” Carol blurted. “I just …”

     “Shut up!” Joanne roared, pulling out the gun and firing.

     Carol staggered back, blood blossoming on her blouse near her left shoulder. She fell to the floor to the left of the door.

     There were screams outside her door.

     “Quiet,” Joanne screeched, rushing past the fallen Carol into the outer office. One worker looked at her.

      “There’s shooting,” the worker sobbed. “The antiabortionists …”

      “Stop crying,” Joanne shrieked and shot.

      The bullet missed high. The woman wailed and ran into the hall.

      Joanne followed. Panicked staff members looked at her, eyes wide with terror. The air was full screams and whimpers.

      “Stop that crying,” Joanne screeched.

      One keening woman fled out the front door. Joanne raced after her.

      The woman ran across the parking lot. The picketers were staring open mouthed. Joanne saw the Reverend Newman.

       “Leave me alone,” she howled.

       She fired. The bullet stuck a woman standing near the minister.

       “Typical man,” Joanne rasped. “Let the woman suffer.”

       She ran toward him and fired again. He staggered back and fell to one knee.

       Rafe, who had been sent to get a radio, had rushed to the door when he’d heard the shooting. He burst out, gun in hand, expecting to find a gun-wielding anti-abortion fanatic. What he saw was Joanne shooting at the kneeling minister. The bullet missed low, ricocheting off the pavement and striking a man in the leg. The man screamed and fell.

     Rafe scanned the fleeing crowd.

     Where’s the shooter. The boss must be acting in self-defense.

     “Where?” he called out to Joanne.

     She wheeled.

     “Quiet,” she roared, and fired at him.

     The bullet struck the glass door. Shards sprayed Rafe.

     Confused, he ducking behind a car.

     She turned and faced the minister. He looked at her and held out his hand.

     “No one is going to hurt you,” he said gently.

     “Mommy,” came the voice.

     “No!” She howled. “Leave me alone.”

     She walked up to the minister and pointed the gun at his head. Rafe jumped from behind the car.

     “Stop,” he barked.

     Joanne smiled wickedly at the minister.

     “Smokin’,” she croaked.

     As her arm tensed, Rafe fired. The bullet struck her square in the back. She spun around, facing Rafe, who fired again. The second bullet hit her in the chest and she staggered back, falling to the ground next to the minister.

     Reverend Newman crawled over to her. He cradled her head in his lap.

     “Help is coming,” he said. “I’ll pray for you.”

     She looked at her chest in confusion. The blood stain spread.

     “Feed me, mommy,” the voice said.

     Then the crying. Babies. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. How many?

     “Please,” she gasped.

     “I’m here,” the minister whispered. “I won’t leave.”

     The last thing she heard was the wail of the approaching sirens.

     Like thousands of babies.

(The above is an excerpt from an unfinished novel.)

Pax et bonum