“Hey, Joey!”
Joe Denspot looked up to see Gene Chemosh looming in his office doorway. “Gene! What are you doing here?”
“I was driving down Hayward and thought I’d stop by to see you. Are you busy?”
“My next client’s at 1:00, man. Come in and tell me what makes you so happy.”
“Well, I think I’ve come to a crossroad in my life, and I’m about to make a decision that I’d like to bounce off you, my friend.”
“Sit down and tell me about it.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s go over to Covella’s. I’ll buy.”
“Gene, I don’t have a lot of time today. How about if I ask Donna to order a delivery.”
“Splendid,” Chemosh said. “Make mine a Reuben. Reuben and a coke—large.”
Joe gave the order to his secretary and walked back to his desk, then came around and sat in a client chair like the one his guest now occupied. “So what’s up? Things must be going well for you to look so good.”
“Things are going very well, but I’m not sure how long that will last.”
“Oh?”
“I’m thinking of changing careers, Joe.” Chemosh leaned over in his chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging clasped between them.
Joe’s eyebrows reached as high as they could go in an expression of questioning surprise, but he said nothing. He curiously watched a troubled mien take over Gene’s face.
“I’m uh… uh… I can’t stand my job any more,” Gene said, his eyes on the floor. Then he looked up at Joe. “I’m in a nasty business, my friend. I don’t ever have a ‘normal’ client. When you’ve made an appointment for an abortion, you just don’t feel your average best.” He shrugged, a twisted smile on his face. “I’ve come to think you shouldn’t feel normal,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“Really?”
“Rule 6,” Chemosh said, his eyes on his hands. He took a deep breath and looked up at Denspot. “Let me just unload on you a minute. I know this sounds strange. After all, I’ve done abortions for years. But now, I feel uneasy about it—unsettled, which is why I’m thinking of switching careers.
“You know, Joe,” he continued, sitting up straight now. “I’ve figured out that I have three types of clients: stoic, brazen, and sad.” He exhaled a sigh before continuing. “The stoic ones might have it the hardest, because if they’re covering feelings now, they’re in for a lifetime of the same cover-up.”
“Let me play the devil’s advocate,” Joe interrupted. “Is cover-up so bad?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. But ever since I quit lying—Rule 9,” he said, glancing with a wry smile at Denspot, “I’ve experienced how great it is not having anything to hide, and the stoics are going to be hiding this infamous personal event from a lot of people all their lives.”
Denspot started to respond but deferred to Chemosh when he held up his hand and kept talking. “The brazen are the easiest to deal with. They’re so hardened.” He started to say something else, but then stopped, finally looking at the doctor.
“So you have stoic and brazen clients.”
“Yes, and sad ones.”
“Mmm.”
“They’re the ones I like to have these days.” He let out a half chuckle. “Sometimes they leave.”
Denspot smiled understandingly and nodded.
“But even when they stay, which is most of the time, you feel compassion. You can see they’re sad, and it’s natural to feel sorry for anybody who’s crying or who’s on the verge of tears. Chances are they’ll probably find a shoulder to cry on, and that’s healthy for them.” He looked for a response from his psychiatrist friend, but Denspot showed no emotion. “Hey, man, that’s healthy, right?”
“Tears are usually healthy,” Denspot commented.
“Well, that’s what I’m saying.” Chemosh looked at Denspot and waited for further reply.
Denspot cleared his throat, “Tell me, Gene. Which type of client were you and Sally when you visited the abortion clinic?”
Chemosh visibly bristled, surprised by the question. “Whadda ya mean?” he blurted.
Denspot leaned forward. “I’m asking—if, as you say, there are indeed three categories that abortion clients fall into, which would yours have been?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I never thought about it, I guess.”
“Does that mean you were stoics?”
Chemosh had turned his head slightly away from Joe Denspot, but now, with his head still turned, he caught the doctor’s gaze with his own thoughtful though defensive one. He pursed his lips and slowly took a deep breath. Then he pursed his lips even harder. “Yes,” he replied. He looked down at the floor and said again, so quietly that it was almost a whisper. “Yes.”
The two sat motionless for a long moment before Chemosh looked up and said, “I wish we’d never done it.”
Denspot just looked at him for a moment, then said simply, “I know.” His eyes were glistening with compassion. “I understand, Gene. I’ve been just where you are.” He watched as his friend dropped his head in his hands, covering his face and heaving deep but quiet breaths in quick succession. The doctor knew better than to interrupt.
Finally, Chemosh looked up, an empty, desperate expression on his face, his reddened eyes exuding the helplessness he felt. “What did you do?”
Denspot replied very gently, with a sincerity and compassion in his voice that reverberated in the depths of the other man’s being. “I talked to the Rule Maker.”
Chemosh almost looked desperate in his disappointment. “How can I do that? I don’t know the ‘Rule Maker,’” he said, disdainfully.
“I think you’re about to meet him,” Denspot replied. “Remember the first time you came in? I gave you a specific instruction if the nightmare awakened you in the middle of the night. Do you recall that instruction?”
“Yes,” Chemosh replied, “I remember.”
“Well, friend, you asked me just now ‘What did you do?’ And that’s what I did. It’s a little humbling for a man—any man—to sit in a chair and ask an unseen Presence what to do, but if you can bring yourself to do that, you’ll never be the same. You’ll embark on an adventure that will quite effectively change your life.”
“What if I don’t want it changed?”
“Maybe you don’t.”
Chemosh sighed. “Maybe I do. Some things I want changed, that’s for sure. I want to find the source of the nightmare so I can be rid of it, once and for all.”
“Well, that’s what the Rule Maker’s business is—uncovering those parts of our lives that we’ve shut the curtains on—and setting us free from the guilt that binds us.”
“But I’ve never felt guilty until today.”
“Just because you’ve never been conscious of it doesn’t mean it wasn’t there, or that it didn’t affect you, Gene.”
“Hmm.”
Denspot smiled. “So go home and do what I’ve prescribed. I think you’re close to a breakthrough, but ‘no pain, no gain,’ so you’ve got to be willing to stick your neck out.”
The doctor’s phone rang. “Yes, Donna.” Denspot listened, then said, “That’ll be fine. Bring it in, please.” He looked up at Chemosh as he replaced the receiver. “The food’s here.”
“Great!” Chemosh said, faking a smile that relaxed into a real one. “I’m starved, and I’m going to enjoy it. This might be one of my last meals as a normal human being.”
Denspot grinned and opened the door for Donna.
……….
Saturday morning arrived, and Carla waited at the window of her apartment, watching for Michael and Nancy. The day was muggy and overcast, and she thought how much she’d like just to crawl back into bed and sleep away a good share of this morning. She sighed, wishing, despite her determination not to do so, that her fateful meeting with Marc had never happened. How different her outlook would be at this very moment, if she could be anticipating spending the evening with him.
As it was, she thought wryly, nothing tempered the distaste she had for going out in this weather. She sighed again, rolling her eyes at the thought of climbing into Michael’s car and the reminder that Nancy and he were soon to be married, while she had just closed off a relationship with a wonderful man. Carla knew she shouldn’t be wallowing in self-pity, but her circumstances and the weather certainly seemed to justify it.
Where were Michael and Nancy, anyway? It was already ten after seven. “Oh, God,” Carla prayed, “I feel like crying. You’ve got to help me. Please.” She waited for a moment, having learned the value of doing so from her experience at Moose Lodge.
Sure enough, an idea came to her. She hurried back to the bathroom and turned two pages of her daily calendar to bring it up to date. She read the little thought for the day and then the verse. “Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord,” Psalm 31:24.
“Well, I do hope in You, Lord. And I’ll try to be of good courage if You’ll strengthen my heart.” She had no sooner said the words than she saw Michael’s car pull up to the curb. She grabbed her umbrella and hurried down the stairs.
“Guess what!” Nancy said excitedly, as soon as Carla had closed the car door and Mike was pulling away.
“What?” Carla tried to sound happy.
“I called Patrice last night, and she said she’d love to be in charge of the guest book.”
“Good.” Carla said, stifling her disappointment. Inside she was contemplating whether Marc and Patrice might get together after all. Patrice had probably thought a few things through and would be looking forward to seeing Marc at the wedding. According to Nancy, her retreat into alcoholism had ended. Carla knew she should be glad, but instead, she felt tears of frustration. She fought them back, desperately, trying to remember the verse she’d just read at home. Something about courage for all those who hope in the Lord.
“Isn’t it great, Carla?” Nancy persisted. “She’ll see what a wedding is all about, and I’m sure it will be a good thing for her.”
“That’s great, Nancy.”
“I knew you’d be glad.”
Michael turned his head slightly to address Carla more than Nancy. “Maybe it will help her to be more open to God, because she’s not very open now.”
Carla thought dolefully that it might do the same for Marc, and now they could get back together and get married like Marc wanted in the first place—and live happily ever after. She sighed quietly, miserably.
“How is Marc doing, Carla?” Nancy asked.
“Oh, just fine.”
“Are you seeing him tonight?”
“No.” Carla resented Nancy’s question, even though she knew it was purely innocent. She didn’t feel like elaborating, and she knew Nancy would want more detail but wouldn’t ask for it.
They turned the corner and Michael found a parking place. “Well, it looks like there won’t be too many of us die-hards out today,” he said. Carla was thankful he had changed the subject—purposely, she knew. Mike was such a good brother—so thoughtful and perceptive.
As they stepped out into the elements, Nancy caught Carla’s arm and gave it a tight squeeze. “Just remember you’re my best friend and I love you. I want us to be best friends always—after I’m married, after you’re married. For life.”
“Sure,” Carla answered, mechanically.
Nancy had obviously picked up on Carla’s insincerity, because she linked her own arm with Carla’s and pulled her away for a moment, speaking in a whisper. “I’m praying for Marc, Carla. I know he’s a wonderful man. But he doesn’t know God. I just don’t want you to settle for second best in God’s eyes.” She stopped and held onto Carla’s arm so the latter was forced to stop as well.
Carla could feel the tears smart. “I’m OK, Nancy. Just don’t make me start crying. I’ve already talked to Marc. He’s out of the picture. It’s just…” She pursed her lips to keep them from quivering and took a deep breath in a further effort to control her emotions. “…hard.”
“Well, we’re praying for you.”
“I know. Thanks.” Carla blew her nose and motioned her friend to leave to attend to the more pressing matters at hand to which both girls had been alerted by the sudden crescendo of voices accompanying the arrival of an abortion client.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Nancy promised, hurrying toward the gate.
Carla stood still a moment, thankful to be quickly regaining her composure. She walked slowly down the sidewalk. “God,” she prayed under her breath, “thank you for Nancy. I’m sorry for my attitude. I know You have someone special for me to give my heart to. You never told me it was Marc. I just wanted it to be. I still do. So if he’s not the one, give me peace about it, and soothe this ache.” She turned and went back up the sidewalk so as to be by herself a few moments longer. “And thanks for giving me such a good friend. Bless her, Lord. Help me to do all I can to support her and make her wedding the happiest occasion it could possibly be.”
Looking up, she saw another car heading toward the gate of the abortion clinic. She walked quickly toward the driveway, planting herself right on the curb where the driveway began.
“Please don’t kill your baby!” she called out to the couple in the car, her face reflecting that the focus of her attention had turned fully away from her own world to the plight of the passengers in the car. “Your baby wants to live as much as you do. He deserves to live. Don’t do this to him. Don’t do it to yourselves! You’ll always regret it.” The pitch and volume of her voice rose as the car went past her and into the cement-walled parking lot. “Please, please, don’t do this. You don’t want to live with regret the rest of your life!” She watched as the volunteer escorts waved the car up to the door of the clinic and then hustled the young woman into the building.
“Carla!”
She looked up to see Dan Carouthers walking towards her.
“Hi,” she answered, exerting an effort to be friendly and courteous. “How’s the new job?”
“It’s great. I mean, a job’s a job, and I’d rather be a ski bum, but hey—I’d rather not be right here, either.”
Carla smiled. “And just where would you rather be this morning?”
“Sleeping,” Dan said.
“I know. Me too. It’s a perfect day to sleep in.”
“How’s your job going?” Dan asked.
Carla hurriedly tried to remember what, if anything, she’d told him about her job or about Marc the night Dan had taken her to dinner. “Oh, it’s going OK,” she said evasively.
“What happened with the lady who didn’t like you and Nancy wearing the life wristbands?”
“Oh… Well,” she said, hesitatingly, “I ended up not wearing it; but I prayed about it, and I’m keeping the bracelet in my desk drawer to remind myself to pray for the babies at the clinic every day.” She smiled, countering his frown, and explained, “It’s actually worked out very well. And Rita—the lady who didn’t like the bracelets—is really opening up a lot more to both Nancy and me. I think she might even come to Nancy’s wedding, and there’s no way she would have come before all this happened. You’ll probably see her there, in fact, if you’re coming.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll be there. I’m ushering.”
“Good.”
“Are you going to be a bridesmaid or something?”
“Yes,” Carla smiled. “Maid of honor.”
“Well, congratulations. I’d ask if I could escort you, but you probably have to be there early and stay late.”
“Well I do, but you could still escort me.” Carla couldn’t believe her own words. “I mean… well, maybe that wouldn’t work. I’ll be helping Nancy with presents and flowers and everything.”
“I’ll be on hand to help too. I already told Michael.”
“Oh, well, it sounds like we’ll bump into each other anyway.”
“Sure.” Dan smiled an easy smile, and Carla found herself wishing she’d never met Marc Garman. Without Marc in the picture, she’d no doubt be far more attracted to Dan. “So the big day is about six weeks away, isn’t it?” Dan asked.
“That’s right.”
“It should be fun with all our peculiar little crowd there.”
Carla laughed, agreeing.
……….
Later, while Carla was in the back seat of Michael’s car again, as they were leaving, Nancy said, hesitatingly, “Carla?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Carla responded light-heartedly.
“You know who I think drove past the clinic today?”
“Who?”
“Marc Garman.”
Carla swung her head around from looking out the window and looked frowningly at Nancy. “What?” she exclaimed.
“I said I think I saw Marc Garman drive past the abortuary while we were there today.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Are you sure?”
“It looked like his car, and it looked like him.”
“But why would…”
“I have no clue,” Nancy interrupted. “Maybe he’s spying for Rita.”
“What!”
“I’m just joking. But I’m sure it was Marc. He was getting an eyeful, but I don’t think he saw me. I was behind the big oak by the street, and I just happened to glance up.”
“Hmm. I wonder where I was. I sure didn’t see him.”
“Maybe you were talking with Dan,” Nancy suggested.
“Oh, that could have been.”
“Dan’s a nice guy,” Michael spoke up. “I respect his opinion on a lot of subjects. We think a lot alike.”
“Like what?” Carla queried, her mind still on Marc.
“I don’t know—guy things, I guess. Get to know him a little better and you’ll probably come up with the same opinion, Carla.”
Carla rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Dan is and always will be only a friend.”
“Famous last words, honey,” Nancy said in a sing-song voice. “That’s what my mom said about my dad—three months before they got married.”
“Well, there must have been…” Carla stopped mid-sentence, staring at the car coming down the street. “There he is! That is Marc.” She turned, hiding her face behind her raised hand. “What’s he doing here?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Michael said. “Shall we turn around and flag him down?”
“No! Please, Michael, don’t!”
“OK, OK, but I don’t know why not.”
“Strange!” Carla commented, frowning. “Monday morning I’m going to ask him what he was doing here.”