An All-American Family

Autumn was election season. George would always listen with delight, as the soles of his shoes would crush the stems of the dried brown leaves that the trees on the boulevard shed. He would do it in tandem with whatever conversation he was having on his Blackberry, a smug smile hugging his face as he rounded a corner on Michigan Avenue, his teeth pearly white and glistening as the September sun reflected off the glass windows of the skyscrapers. He was happy to hurry along to his campaign office; one nestled close to the Hancock. He was proud of his ability to order catered lunches to the young, idealistic workers and had the church on his side. Young Republicans weren’t as popular in the sixties when he was growing up, but the tables had turned and the natives were restless, and so they flocked to him with their demands. He thanked the mega-churches who made worship hip again and whenever Reverend Kelley would compliment George’s campaign for pro-life, George would tilt his head skyward (the sun shining upon him and on his golden crucifix pin resting on the lapel of his Hugo Boss suit) and he would say, “But it’s not me who is doing it, Reverend Kelley, it is the Lord!” And the clergy and the congregation would applaud him.

In his time as a senator, George had created a bill (along with a man from Texas) to eradicate abortion clinics through out the fifty states. He had done it successfully and so the idea of a second term seemed largely in his favor. Of course there were bastards that disagreed, but these were lost souls, Satan’s followers, and so he worried very little when Piers Morgan or James Carville demonized him on CNN. He was eyeing the presidency now and knew that the Tea Party would be completely behind him, 100% of the way. He believed it was his mission as a servant of the Lord to be president. He walked forth to his office, a compliment here and there about his new haircut (it made his receding hairline less prominent) and then about his tie (one designed in the style of the American flag) and he’d nod his head in thanks, here and there to every intern. Of course, the women were attractive—with their long hair and their perky breasts—but George was faithful to his wife, Cindy. Together they had three children: two sons and a daughter. His daughter was in the middle, surrounded by his eldest son Timothy who wanted to be a reverend and his youngest son, Joshua who wanted to be (this week) a firefighter. Timothy was twenty-three, while Josh was a meager six-years-old. Oh, and Rebecca. Rebecca was in high school. She was mighty attractive but always talking nonsense here and there about how Reagan’s attack against Grenada was “a massacre”, but he knew otherwise—and so told her to stop speaking that nonsense. But she’d continue on with it, and talk about how the war against marijuana was nothing but William Randolph Hearst wanting to make the nation switch from hemp to trees (he was also jealous of his mistress Marion Davies screwing around with Charlie Chaplin). George believed otherwise. George knew it was because marijuana was Satan’s plant and caused promiscuous sex and mental instability. Whenever Rebecca brought these things to his attention, he’d look at her sideways or down his nose, and ask frankly: “are you smoking pot?” To which she’d shrug her shoulders and exit the room, her nose wrinkled in a smile. He looked through the papers on his desk his mind wandering to how strange Rebecca had been acting as of late. She had gone out a few nights before with Michael Kelley, the Reverend’s son, from church. Michael was one of the youth ministers and as he’d heard from Cindy—quite a catch. George laughed to himself. He knew for certain Rebecca would return to the flock.

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They had sat in his car for fifteen minutes after the movie in a desolate parking lot shaded by locust trees. He had bought them ice cream sundaes from McDonald’s. Rebecca was shy but covered it up in the façade of sarcasm. She dug her spoon into the curls of vanilla ice cream and pushed her spoon in until it repelled against the soft pillow of fudge that rested at the bottom of the plastic cup. It was getting darker out earlier, with the sky graduating from cerulean to indigo before becoming absolutely black in a matter of hours. “You got a little something…” Mike said, pointing to the fudge stain at the corner of her mouth. “I do?” She said, and he nodded before leaning and wiping it (albeit sloppily) with a napkin. “Thanks.” She said, “Is it gone?” He nodded. She smiled and continued eating her sundae. Mike had turned the radio to the Christian station and presently, Jeremiah Wilkins was singing “Our God Is An Awesome God”, his voice all sweetness and light. Rebecca hated the song. It made her cringe. Her face betrayed her emotions, and with a flicker she scrunched her nose, shuddered and looked back out to the parking lot as a Styrofoam cup with the McDonald’s emblem rolled across the gravel of the parking lot and into a pothole.

“What is it?” Mike asked.

“What?” She said, turning to him.

“Why did you stick out your tongue? Is your sundae ok?”

“Oh what? Yeah, no, my sundae’s fine… it’s great…”

“So… what were you stinking your tongue out at?”

“Um… there’s just a cup… rolling around in the parking lot. Can you believe how many people litter? It’s disgusting.”

Mike shrugged. She could tell he wasn’t convinced. “Your dad said you haven’t been going to church a lot, Becky. Have you turned away from our Lord?” She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his sudden desire to convert her.

“Seriously, Mike? Really? Are we going to do this right now?”

He set his sundae down on the cup holder, twisted the knob on the radio, and put his hands on the lap of his Dockers and exhaled audibly.

“Oh my god…” She said.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, Rebecca.”

She lifted her brow superciliously and eyed him with great suspicion.

“Dude, don’t even get me started on the gossip I’ve heard about you.”

He smoothed his hands over his pants and cocked his head to the side.

“He who casts the first stone…”

“Save me your proverbs, Eli.” She said, sharply. “Listen, I know about you and Maggie Hartman.” He retorted.

“Maggie Hartman was a lying slut. I’m glad she moved to Grand Rapids.”

She glowered at him.

“You know what? That is enough. I am out of here!” She said, turning to get out of the car. She listened with fear and watched as the locks of the doors went down in unison, clicking into place.

“Let me out.” She said.

“I’m not letting you out.” He said.

“You are either going to let me out you little scumbag or I am calling the police. Your choice.” But he was on top of her now, and he held her wrists. She squirmed beneath his grasp, avoiding the flicker of his tongue as it protruded from his lips. He bit the skin of her neck and she screamed, the sudden flinch of pain making her vulnerable and so he bit her lower lip. He unzipped his khakis and snaked out his erection from his boxers and pushing her legs open, he inserted himself into her dry vulva and she screamed in pain. He continued on, and she began to bleed and he didn’t stop.

“The Lord wants me to save you!” He said, each thrust like a painful dagger to her innards, and she cried out in horror, and each time she tried to push him off of her, he’d come back stronger and so she was reduced to nothing but a flesh bag for him to put his cock into. She cried, but he didn’t stop and the locust trees watched, shading their tiny yellow leaves over the window of the car and soon she was quiet. And soon he was done. And he put his penis, rife with her blood, rife with what precious bits of herself he had stolen from her, under a small bunch of tissue and wiped the debris and her blood away—like one wipes a dirty nose—and stuffed it back in his boxers. And so she was silent, he made her promise not to tell anyone unless she wanted to go to Hell, unless she wanted this to happen to her again.

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Monday night was the church picnic. Reverend Kelley and his family were hosting it and he asked George and his family to be honored guests. The Kelleys were excited at the prospect of Mike dating Becky, and so they did all they could to get the kids together. But Becky had a headache and couldn’t go.  George shook his head when Cindy related the news (she descended the large oak staircase in a red dress with a blue pashmina, looking every bit a first lady) and George told her he didn’t know what to do with that girl.

She sat in bed feeling at the sore spot. She felt as though someone had ripped her open and left her for dead. It had happened two weeks after her period—right at the peak of ovulation. She knew this because ever since birth control had gone on the Black Market, on the weeks when she couldn’t afford it, she would track her cycle the old fashioned way. The period tracker app on her iPhone proved very helpful on such occasions, but now, seemed a harbinger of bad luck. She wanted to smash the phone against the beige walls of her bedroom but she decided against it.

Her search for an abortion clinic was initially fruitless. She called everywhere she could, asking friends if they knew anywhere in the South Loop or Addison, or even Logan Square if there was a clinic. At the end of ten weeks, she found one. It had come to her through her guidance counselor. The clinic was located in Dundee, a trek from her family’s condo on the Gold Coast, but she was more than willing to take the trip. The clinic was illegal, but her counselor assured her their practices were still safe.

She sat upon the steel table, spread her legs (wincing in pain) the doctor examined her and gave her the RU-845 (it was imported from Canada). She went to a bathroom with a large red door and sat on the toilet and felt a pain licking her uterus, grasping it and pulling it down. They said there were three rounds. She oscillated between clutching her stomach and grasping her hair. A great fever swept over her in a tidal wave, and she groaned, her ass plummeting into the toilet water, her skin dripping with cool sweat. The timing was off. She slipped against the tile floor, convulsing, she clutched her elbows, and clawed at her skin and unable to stop shaking she clutched the grout of the tile until the skin beneath her nails began to bleed. The timing was off. It was ten weeks by now, but she had lied and said it was nine. She couldn’t let her father know, and the church would shun her and look down on her always. They’d never believe Mike Kelley, the reverend’s son, was capable of rape. They’d say Becky was the bad girl. Becky was the whore. Her pupils dilated and she watched as the blood from her vaginal walls began to flood the tiles, thin and watery and smelling of nickel. The smell of death is like the scent of decaying hydrangeas on a cool April afternoon.

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George received news of his daughter’s death as he sat beside Reverend Kelley at the banquet hall. The men laughed together over chardonnay and George patted the reverend. In the pocket of his suit coat, he felt his phone vibrating wildly. The television by the hotel bar was turned on to a local news story. He saw Becky’s face.

What he remembered was a little girl who loved her dolls. He remembered how she loved to collect butterflies in mason jars on a Lake Michigan beach. How she waded between the tall blades of dune grass, her chestnut curls all frizzy in the August heat. He remembered how he comforted her when a mean boy broke her heart by refusing to dance with her in the seventh grade, and how she’d draw pictures of their beagle, Woodstock, tirelessly before collapsing upon the dog in a heap and kissing his wet snout. He remembered how she’d frowned at him when he forgot her birthday present and how happy she was when he took her out on the sailboat for her fourteenth birthday. He remembered when she first began looking like a young woman—how he’d inherited Cindy’s lovely beauty and still was blessed with his nose. He remembered how smart and opinionated she was, and how she refused to let her childlike curiosity die at the first stain of adolescence. He wanted to see her grow into a woman and travel the world and change things.

The news played the story of how she had died. They ran similar stories of how a 20-year-old woman from New Hampshire had died due to a “back alley” abortion, and then another about a 17-year-old girl from Arizona who, after being brutally raped, had succumbed to the same fate as Becky. His mailbox, his e-mail, his office, his wife’s office soon became overrun with hate mail teeming with sentences that disparaged his law.

“This month alone it was fifteen!” One writer yelled, “What will it be next month? Or in a year? Or in three years?” But George could not listen. He slipped into an irrevocable depression, spending his afternoons with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and waking up in the morning with a pounding headache and a puddle of drool next to his face, his back whining in pain.

Cindy filed for divorce. Timothy began using cocaine. Josh developed a psychosexual disorder where he revealed his penis to girls on the schoolyard—shaking it around with no care of whom he was offending—and the all-American family, this family with stars in their eyes so hopeful to change the world and do “God’s Work”, was reduced to rubble in the imagination of the United States’ consciousness.