Her Private Business

Her Private Business



The coffee was gone, but I continued to sit there, awe-struck.  Across the table from me, she was fidgeting with her water glass and avoiding eye contact. 

“I’m eight weeks along or so,” she said quietly, a hint of disbelief noticeable in her voice. 

There it was, my first time impregnating someone—unwillingly, unknowingly.  Swamp ooze is what that news felt like.  Suffocating silence enveloped my body and penetrated my skull, turning my emotions up and softening my mind, making my thoughts disgustingly viscous.  Shocked and confused, I started to drown in a sea of sticky fear, wondering how I would manage the situation.  I was lost for words. 

Luckily, she wasn’t.  She continued to talk.

“Don’t worry.  This is clearly my problem, and I’m comfortable with my options.  Just wanted to,” she paused and cleared her throat, “you know, make sure you knew about this.  Not that this would be of any consequence to you,” she added quickly.

My one-night stand was letting me off the hook, but her words did not make me feel any better.  On the contrary, the realization that I had put both of us in this position was growing increasingly painful.

“I see.  And what options do you have in mind?”  I said under my breath. 

A million years passed before she answered.

“You know,” she continued to stare at her empty water glass with great intent.  “I really only have one conceivable option here.  I’ve already made an appointment.”  She emphasized the final word in her statement, as if to ensure that I fully understood the word’s life-altering meaning.

Time had suddenly accelerated, forming a new universe like a tornado and making me its center.  Busy hostess in red pumps, disorderly family at the table next to ours, the guy with a copy of the Wall Street Journal two tables away—it seemed that all of them had focused on me, anticipating my answer.  I wanted to be a thousand miles away, but I had to collect my thoughts and respond.

She had already made a decision for the both of us.  An appointment was her solution.  This word evoked in my mind an image of a nauseatingly tidy room, its walls adorned with diagrammatic representations of the human body.  I imagined her there, a neat table full of medical instruments by her side, her slender legs spread out in front of a politely unassuming nurse, her face striving to assume an expression of decisiveness and indifference.  I was feeling queasy. 

“I see,” I was repeating myself and scrambling for the right words.  “Are you sure it’s mine?”  I continued, cowardly hoping that the weight of this enormous responsibility could miraculously be lifted off me and shifted onto someone more experienced in such matters. 

“No doubt whatsoever.  It was a stupid experiment.  Don’t get me wrong, it was nice, but...”  Her posture tense and demeanor apprehensive, she was now busily examining her massive wristwatch.  Was she secretly hoping that I would talk her out of this? 

“She broke up with me that morning.  That’s how I ended up at that bar where I met you.  I should have told you, but I didn’t think it mattered.  I still don’t.  I’m here to inform you, that’s all.” 

This woman was decisive.  There was nothing wrong with that, but it occurred to me that, possibly as confused as I was, in our conversation she might have simply been playing a role, perhaps one that she felt was prescribed by her role in life:  strong, confident, always in control.  Unlike her, I was starting to realize that there was nothing about her that did not matter as we were trying to solve the painful dilemma of her pregnancy.  Her private business had been hers alone until the moment she brought up the appointment.  That word, and the predicament it alleged to, had shifted the boundaries of her privacy, and he fact that she did not seem to understand that made me feel powerless, resentful.  This particular flavor of resentment was enraging, making me want to speak up and force her to consider my feelings.  The problem was, I did not know where I stood. 

“Look,” I said slowly, attempting to project confidence and deliberation instead of confusion.  “I’m not comfortable with your decision.  Maybe we should think about—” Protehkshn, you should have used proteeehkshhhhn, my inner heckler taunted, setting my esophagus on fire and making knots of my intestines.  This was scary.

“She wanted to start a family and I was not ready.”  She was staring into space absorbed in her emotions as she interrupted me, dismissing my words.  Perhaps she did not even hear what I said. 

“So she left me.  It’s over.  There is not anyone else that needs to know.  I will take care of this.  As I said, it’s my problem,” she added. 

An empowered contemporary woman, she genuinely believed that it was solely her problem.  I realized that I was not going to have control over the fate of her pregnancy.  I had always taken my life seriously, and here I was, unable to do anything about the biggest responsibility that I had faced to date.  My needs did not matter. 

I started to feel my throat closing up.  Guilt and shame were brewing inside me.

“I’ll see you around.”  She got up and left, taking with her any opportunity for further dialogue. 

As far as she was concerned, I was not supposed to care.  I wished that were the case, but it was impossible not to care about the part of me that she was holding captive. 

#

I left the diner shortly thereafter and, exhausted, slowly walked home.  I was in disbelief at how little my feelings mattered.  Our society, I thought, seemed to view men only as secondary to women’s functions as mothers.  Apparently, we were not needed for more than depositing sperm.  Taking care of the aftermath—deciding whether to nurture or destroy—was not within our purview. 

This realization enraged me.  Regardless of the outcome of her pregnancy, she should have asked me how I felt about our options.  She may have been done with me, but I wasn’t done with her.  She had to know how I felt. 

“Hello?”  Her voice was distant, morose.  She clearly did not appreciate the fact that I had more to say.

“Look, you cannot do this.”  The matter was too critical to warrant pleasantries.  “This should be my decision, too.”

“Well, it is not.  It’s my body.  Anyone could have taken your place that night…” 

Currents of shame, insecurity, and disgust were charging me, looking for an outlet.

“Stop this feminist crap.  This decision is not just about your body.  I am a human being, too, and you cannot discard a piece of me like garbage.”  In a split second, I had made my choice.  Stating my position felt liberating.

“All right, you are human, but so am I!” She was starting to raise her voice, escalating the intensity of our discussion.  “Okay, this is not just about my body.  What about my dreams?  I don’t have time for this…this…” she started to stutter, attempting to define the situation.

“How about taking responsibility for one human life?  That would be way more difficult than talking about dreams and all that other abstract…that greater good bullshit, wouldn’t it?”  Now, I was yelling.  Would she give in?

“Listen, this decision is a done deal.”  She regained composure and sounded aloof and distant again.  “You agreed to the consequences when you took me to your place that night.  The one thing you can do for me is drive me home after the procedure.  Good-bye.  Don’t worry so much, it’s just life.” 

“Just a life,” I bitterly paraphrased her as she hung up.  “Disposable like cheap consumer goods that flood supermarket shelves and, unlike that stupid night, inconsequential.” 

I hated her and felt sorry for myself.  This soft-lipped, cashmere-wearing predator had violated the fundamental essence of what made me human—my needs to protect and procreate—and I failed to stop her. 

#

It was time to make an appointment of my own.  Having lost respect for myself, I drank and dialed, greeted by a chipper female voice.

“Crisis hotline.  Operator.  May I help you?”

An uncomfortable pause followed.

“Hi, I need abortion counseling.”  There it was.  I said it.

“Not a problem, sir.  I will be able to help you with that.” 

Was this overly enthusiastic woman’s previous job in telephone sales?  Perhaps she sold credit card insurance.  I imagined what she might look like:  late twenties, blonde, disgustingly perky.  I wondered if this woman had hurt anyone the way I was hurt and, if so, how many times. 

“I’d like to speak with a male counselor, please.”

Barbie was probably consulting her script.  I heard silence, followed by a less confident response. 

“Sir, I’m very sorry, but ninety-eight percent of abortion counselors nationwide are female.  This will not affect the quality of your experience with us—”

I hung up.  At that moment, the quality of my human experience was right about zero.  I knew that I would never again be able to trust women. 

#

The following morning, I sent a taxi.  I couldn’t bear to step inside the clinic where a three-syllable procedure had robbed me of my manhood and mutilated my soul.