I sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping my clothes on.

“I’ve made a mess, haven’t I?” I finally said.

“Doesn’t everybody? Get undressed and come to bed,” Joanne answered.

“Joanne. What about Alex? Is it worth losing her over me?”

“Micky, I know some rule book somewhere says we’re not supposed to do this, but real life isn’t played by the rules. My life certainly hasn’t been.”

“Cordelia told me that Alex was over at her place last night.”

“So? They make a good couple,” Joanne said.

“Not like that. Tea and sympathy. Alex was crying, Cordelia said,” I explained, hoping to elicit some guilt from Joanne.

“Good. She can use something to cry over.”

“Joanne? How can you be so…?”

“Cruel? Callous? Look, honestly, I don’t like making Alex cry, but my sleeping with you is hardly the end of the world. If she and Cordelia want to run around and pretend that it is, that’s their problem, not mine,” Joanne answered.

“How about me? I don’t like making Alex cry.” Or Cordelia despise me.

“You’re not, don’t think that you are. Her most poignant childhood memory is of some cat being run over. That’s it. My father used to throw cats against the side of the garage when he was drunk. And if he was drunk enough, us kids, too,” she added bitterly.

“That’s not Alex’s fault.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s not my fault that she lives in a safe, little blue-blooded world.”

“That makes it okay to cheat on her?” I demanded.

“I’ve made no promises. We’re not Danny and Elly, with joint accounts and house-buying plans. I’ve never said forever, and I’ve never said I wouldn’t sleep with somebody else. Maybe she expected it. I guess that’s the way they do things. If you sleep together for over six months, then it’s permanent and indelible. If she’s crying, it’s only because she has expectations I can’t meet.”

Joanne put her arms around me and pulled me on top of her.

But I had one more question.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes,” she finally said. “But love isn’t always enough.”

She kissed me. We made love without saying anything more.

“Joanne?” I said when we were finished and I lay next to her in her arms. “Why isn’t love enough?”

“Shit, Micky, sometimes you ask the oddest questions.”

“Philosophy major. Bent me all out of shape.”

“Then you should have a better answer than I do. If I had any real answers, I could stay with Alex. Not be mucking around,” Joanne replied.

“Don’t worry about me. Great sex, good company. I’ll be fine.”

“But I do worry about you,” she said, brushing her hand against my cheek.

“You’re not doing anything to me. At least nothing that I don’t want done.”

“Not yet. Give me time. Where do we go now?”

“Whenever we get temperamental, in opposite directions,” I said half seriously.

“We’re both so angry. Too angry, I suspect. But I wanted someone who knows what it was like to be hit as a kid.”

“No one ever hit me,” I said.

“What about your aunt and uncle?” she questioned. “They never hit you?”

“No, not really. I was spanked a lot. My cousins sometimes hit me, but they were kids.”

“Older or younger?”

“Bayard was five years older. Still is, I guess. Mary Theresa three years and I was a little older than Gus,” I answered.

“Which one hit you?”

“Well…Bayard, mostly.”

“Anything else?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Why do you think?”

“Were you abused?” I asked her.

She didn’t reply at first.

“Yes,” she finally said. “But I don’t want to talk about that now.”

“Neither do I.”

We lay still, holding each other tightly. When we woke the next morning we were still next to each other, Joanne’s arm around my waist.

Chapter 12

We made love again, before Joanne left for work. She had brought a change of clothes this time. After she left, I took a quick shower and got dressed, planning to go on to the clinic. I didn’t dawdle, but I didn’t hurry either. I was reluctant to run into Cordelia.

It was going to be a hot day, I noticed as I got into my car. That didn’t put me in a more cheerful frame of mind. Nor did the line of protesters in front of the clinic. The parking lot was jammed. Park and Protest, I gathered. I finally parked by blocking Cordelia’s car.

I got out and glowered at the ragtag line of protesters.

“Are you here to have an abortion?” One of them accosted me, a young man with perfectly combed brown hair.

“No,” I answered. “I’m here to have all the cars that don’t have legitimate business in this building towed. Starting with yours,” I added.

“You can’t…” he started.

“Private property, buddy. I’m going to get a list of license plates that belong here. Any not on that list is gone. Got that?”

I turned away from him and marched into the building. Then ran up the stairs to a room overlooking the parking lot. The right-to-lifers were doing their best exodus imitation. I guess they weren’t willing to get towed for the cause. I had no idea whether I could really get their cars towed, but I saw no point in telling them that. I went downstairs to the clinic.

“Hi, Micky,” Bernie greeted me. She, at least, seemed happy to have me here.

“Hello, Miss Knight,” Nurse Peterson said.

“How’d you find a place to park?” Bernie asked. “I ended up a block away.”

“The power of suggestion,” I replied. “I suggested that if their cars didn’t belong in the lot, they would be towed.”

Bernie burst out laughing. Nurse Peterson looked like the idea of such deviousness was unthinkable. But virginity will do that to you.

“Plenty of parking places now,” I added.

“Maybe if those weirdos are gone by lunchtime, I’ll move my car,” Bernie said.

“Do you trust me?” I asked, sitting on her desk.

“Absolutely,” she replied.

“Give me your car keys.”

“Brave woman,” she said as she fished them out of her purse.

“No, you are. Letting me drive your car.”

“Bernie, what happened to my nine thirty?” Cordelia asked as she came down the hallway to Bernie’s desk. She stopped abruptly when she saw me perched on it, with Bernie handing me her car keys. “Hi, Micky,” she said stiffly.

“Morning, Dr. James,” I replied.

“Can’t we do anything about those damn protesters?” Cordelia said shortly.

“We’ve cleared the parking lot. Or Micky has,” Bernie answered.

“How?” Cordelia asked, then, “Never mind,” when she noticed it was me she was asking.

“I told them I was a card-carrying deviant and that I would spit on their cars, thereby ensuring that all their kids would turn out queer,” I retorted, irked at her shortness.

Cordelia gave me a furious don’t-you-dare-mention-gay look.

“Fine. Whatever works,” she finally said, not in a pleasant tone of voice. “Call Mrs. Jenkins and get her to reschedule. The earlier the better,” she added to Bernie. Then she went back down the hall to her office.