Cheated By Death Read Free Page B

feel—safe to me. And if you want to give the poor
guy a break—”
    “You’re a man. You can’t possibly understand.
Women deserve control over their own bodies, their destinies,
without being dictated to by a bunch of—”
    “Hey, you don’t have to convince me ,”
I said, jerking a thumb at myself.
    She looked back at the crowd. “We don’t even
do that many abortions. We’re a women’s health center—for
all aspects of women’s health.”
    “That still doesn’t tell me why you feel you
have to be here.”
    She stared at the dashboard. “Women used to
die from back alley abortions.”
    “Tell me something I don’t already know,” I
said, losing patience.
    The glare she turned on me could’ve blistered
paint. “My Aunt Vonnie died from massive infection after her
football playing, big-man-on-campus boyfriend took her to some jerk
with a rusty coat hanger.”
    The venom in her voice made me wince. “When
was this?”
    “A year before Roe vs. Wade. She was almost
sixteen.” Brenda looked away, but I saw her lower lip tremble. “I
wasn’t even born. I only know about her because her sisters loved
her and kept her alive with their words—their memories. But she’s
dead—and it’s only her family who cared.”
    “I’m sorry, Brenda.”
    “Yeah, me, too. For all the Vonnies—past, and
future, if these damned protesters get their way.” She reached for
the door handle. “I have to go.”
    I touched her shoulder. “I’ll pick you up at
four.” She nodded gratefully. “Want me to walk you to the door?” I
added.
    She shook her head. “I won’t let them
intimidate me. See you tonight.” She got out the car and hurried
past the crowd of protesters, never making eye contact, ignoring
the jeers and taunts. I waited until she made it safely inside the
building.
    She wouldn’t admit it, but she was already
intimidated.
    I studied the odd assortment of people
marching up and down the sidewalk, wanting to memorize each face,
and realizing the futility. But I could photograph them. I’d use
black and white, grainy film. Catch them in the act of grimacing,
sneezing, anything embarrassing. How childish of me.
    One three-point-turn later, I was on my way
back home to get my Nikon. Maybe none of these protesters were
violent, but plenty of their counterparts in other cities were. The
idea both sickened and fascinated me.
    Arriving home, I took the steps to my loft
apartment two at a time. I changed into a dark, hooded sweatshirt
to insure anonymity, grabbed my camera, film, the zoom lens, and
started back for the health center.
    I parked a couple of blocks away and hoofed
it, staying across the street and keeping well away from the
protesters. No way did I want their wrath turned on me. Then I
snapped away for nearly half an hour.
    Later, I fed a sheet of photographic paper
into the enlarger grid, exposed it, then plopped it into the
developer. Agitating the tray, I watched under the orange glow of
the safelight as the image appeared: a skinny woman with stringy
hair—her mouth wide open, exposing crooked teeth, her lips curled
in an epithet. Not exactly a poster child for the right-to-life
movement.
    Print after print was the same. There was a story
there and I hadn’t captured it. But I did have half a brick of
film. I’d have to go back and try again. This time I’d take photos
of the women entering the clinic, too. And maybe I could make a few
bucks from this little exercise. I knew just where to go to do it,
too.

    The next day, I called the newsroom at The Buffalo News . Sam Nielsen, my former schoolmate, told me
to meet him at the paper’s lobby at precisely noon. Naturally, he
was twenty minutes late.
    Sam and I go way back—if you count being
taunted by Mr. Campus for being a basketball-playing geek back in
high school as going way back. Anyway, we buried the hatchet
earlier in the year when I gave him an exclusive interview after
I’d beaten up a killer in church. And he’d helped