You call Evelyn back, describe what you’ve just been through, she says she’s real sorry you had to go through that, can only imagine, says she may know one more person who has a contact, she’ll call back later with a number. Tell them you’re calling about their special services, Evelyn says when she calls back. Nothing about this seems special to you.
You do as instructed and receive an address for a clinic in the West Village. The clinic is not marked as such; it’s on the ground floor of a brownstone that looks like any other residential brownstone. Four other women are waiting, looking as nervous as you do. One of them is visibly pregnant. A receptionist hands you a card to fill out with relevant medical information, again asking for only your first name. Previous pregnancies—2, Miscarriages—1, Major illnesses—0. Emergency contact — none. You hand this back to the receptionist; she glances at it, hands it right back. You have to put an emergency contact. You look at her — doesn’t she know why you haven’t filled that out? She does. You have to put someone on there or you can’t get the services. The services. Now they’re not even special anymore. You put down Audrey’s number and pray to god it’s never needed. In your heart you know Audrey would be nothing but discreet and gentle about it, but this is a secret that will go down with you.
The receptionist escorts you to the back; this time, thank heavens, the doctor’s office looks like a doctor’s office. You’re in good hands, she says. The doctor is female, introduces herself as Joan. You’ve never met a female doctor before, though it’s not news to you that they exist. Your eyes start filling up as soon as she extends her hand. Maybe she’s not really a doctor. Why didn’t you ask anyone before you came here? You are the queen of asking questions. Dr. Joan hands you a tissue, puts an arm on your shoulder, gestures to the table with the stirrups, explains the procedure step by step, asks if you have any questions before she begins. You shake your head, I guess not. Dr. Joan senses that you’re still not sure about any of this. If this were legal, Lois, she says, it would be the same procedure. I’m a licensed obstetrician, even though I am listed as not currently practicing. Some women aren’t so lucky.
Lucky.
Out through the Hole
Your career is progressing steadily. You have now played both Musetta and Mimi at New York City Opera, and have been invited to perform with several other orchestras and opera companies, mostly around the Midwest: Cincinnati, Ann Arbor, Milwaukee. You receive standing ovations wherever you go, reviews never less than stellar. (“Her coloratura in ‘Sempre libera’ compares with Sutherland,” “A compelling and magnetic Tosca, with a dark weight to even her highest notes.” One review took note of your flawless phrasing, but you knew it wasn’t flawless at all the night they’d come. You’d done it much better in dress, but even that hadn’t been perfect. They should have just given you a bad review. “Her phrasing was good, but not without flaws, like her very self.”) By anyone else’s standards, this might be considered a successful career, but for you it’s not enough. Your dreams are bigger. The Metropolitan Opera is right across the plaza from City Opera, yet it seems inexplicably far away. You’ve auditioned there to polite nods, unreadable smiles, limp handshakes, and little feedback from your manager. He tries to reassure you by saying that they went with that mediocre So-and-so, again, but this doesn’t help, both because of the mediocrity and because So-and-so is the same bitch who stole the last job from you. At this point, a polite nod for you is the equivalent of a blazingly bad review, whether or not that’s true, so you simply work harder. There’s always room to improve, though it frankly enrages you that you aren’t being recognized. You double down with Carolina, an extra lesson per week that isn’t in your budget — but even Carolina reminds you of the importance of rest. Equal measures, my darling, equal measures! She says Practice as usual but no more, take sleep, take lovers.
You remember what Peggy said, too. You ask if she has any friends to fix you up with. She invites you to an art opening. You’ve been to museums, but never to a gallery opening — so exciting! You envision handsome art collectors in tailor-made suits, men with penthouse apartments on Fifth Avenue. You once saw Jackie O on the street; you could look just as chic as her with an oil magnate on your arm. You pick out a black cocktail dress, simple but sophisticated. Pearls? No pearls. The gold circle pin mother gave you? That’s not it either. A printed scarf, black and white silk, with a tiny bit of red. You knot it around your neck, move the bow to the side. Perfect. You meet Peggy at her place; she’s wearing faded bell-bottom jeans, a loose white top, a long necklace with some kind of a crystal pendant at the end, long, straight blond hair parted in the middle. Maybe you got the date wrong? Not the date, just the outfit, Peggy says with a warm smile. She pulls you inside, opens up her closet, rifles through, grabs a pair of flared white jeans, a bright yellow crocheted top with bell sleeves, leaves the scarf. But it doesn’t match! you say. Peggy laughs, says Matching is overrated, looks at you again. Getting there, but not quite right. Peggy takes a brush to your hair, flips the ends up at the bottom. It’s still a bit too done for where she’s taking you, but it’ll do. You look in the mirror, heartbeat speeding up. You’ve always considered yourself fashion-conscious; why doesn’t this feel quite like you? You feel exposed, though you’re basically as covered as ever, in these loose-fitting clothes that aren’t yours, but Peggy has the solution for that, of course: one hit off a joint and you’ll be good to go.
You giggle together on the subway downtown. There’s a Miss Subways card above your head — real New York glamour. You left the house looking like that, but that seems like ten years ago now. An hour later you hardly know who you are anymore, you’ve said the word “fuck” out loud, twice, and it felt good, you feel like you’re in a book about a carefree single gal in New York on a string of innocuous big-city adventures. The buzz from the marijuana is gone by the time you get there, but you have a sort of natural buzz now. You get off the train in a part of town you’ve never been to before, is it the East Village? You’re not sure, but people are out and about, people of just about every variety but the ones you left uptown, scruffy, dirty, drunk, on drugs, young, old, black, white, Spanish, Chinese and what have you, guys with ponytails! — criminals, you’re sure, they must be, so you’re glad you’re with Peggy, who’s holding your hand. Peggy whisks you into what seems like a randomly chosen storefront, the window of which is filled with what looks like a big heap of trash, stuff you’d see in a junk pile, rusted things, old newspapers, broken toy parts, empty milk containers, and bottles of Wild Irish Rose. You take your eyes off the trash pile before you’re quite done figuring it out, to see a room full of people, practically body to body, drinking things, smoking things, laughing, dancing — they dance at gallery openings? — and across the room, on the far wall, a hole, a large, raw-edged circular hole that leads directly outside; a woman in a mini dress is standing in it, moving to the music, smoking. You have never seen, could never have imagined, a scene like this, do not know what you’re doing here. Peggy kisses several people on the cheek, makes introductions, at one point hugs a slouchy beanpole of woman with the stringiest, greasiest hair you’ve ever seen; did her parents not tell her to stand up straight, take a bath?; stringy-haired woman walks away, Peggy says That’s Patti Smith, she’s amazing, you guys would totally groove on each other; you nod, that’s the first and last time you’ll hear that name, and you and Patti will do no further grooving. You can barely manage the intensity of the grooving happening as it is.