The Funhouse

behind Liz, four football jocks were arm-wrestling boisterously. At the nearest table two couples, self-styled intellectuals, were intently discussing current movies, they called them “films” and spoke of “auteurs” as if they'd all worked in Hollywood for years and knew what it was about. No one was eavesdropping.
        Amy looked at Liz. “Recently I've been getting sick in the morning.”
        Liz understood immediately. “Oh, no. What about your period?”
        “Missed it.”
        “Holy shit.”
        “So you see why I need the money.”
        “An abortion,” Liz said softly. “Did you tell Jerry?”
        “That's why we broke up. He says it isn't his. He won't help.”
        “He's a rotten little shit.”
        I don't know what I'm going to do.”
        “Damn!” Liz said. “I wish you'd gone to the doctor I recommended. I wish you'd gotten that - prescription for the pill.”
        “I was scared of the pill. You hear all these stories about cancer and blood clots…”
        “As soon as I turn twenty-one,” Liz said, “I'm going to get the Band-Aid operation. But the pill's essential in the meantime. What's worse-the risk: of blood clot or getting knocked up?”
        “You're right,” Amy said miserably. “I don't know why I didn't do what you told me to do.”
         Except maybe I wanted to get pregnant and didn't even know it.
        Liz leaned toward her. “Jesus, kid, I'm sorry. I'm sorry as hell. I feel sick. I really do. I just feel sick that you're in this bind.”
        “Imagine how I feel.”
        “Jesus, what a bad break.”
        “I don't know what I'm going to do,” Amy said again.
        “I'll tell you what you're going to do,” Liz said. “You're going to go home and tell your old man and your old lady.”
        “Oh, no. I couldn't. It'd be awful.”
        “Look, I know it won't be pretty. There'll be all sorts of screaming and hollering and namecalling. They'll dump a hell of a load of guilt on you. It'll be an ordeal, for sure. But they aren't going to beat you up or kill you.”
        “My mother might.”
        “Don't be silly. The old bitch will rant and rave and make you feel miserable for a while. But let's not lose track of what's important here. The important thing is getting your ass into a clinic and getting that baby scraped out of you as soon as possible.”
        Amy winced at the other girl's choice of words.
        “All you have to do,” Liz said, “is grit your teeth and sit through all the shouting, and then they’ll pay for the abortion.”
        “No. You're forgetting that my family is Catholic. They think abortion is a sin.”
        “They might think it's a sin, but they won't force a young girl like you to ruin her whole life. Catholics get abortions all the time, no matter what they say.”
        “I'm sure you're right,” Amy said. “But my mother is too devout. She won't ever agree to it.”
        “You really think she'd be willing to live with the shame of an illegitimate grandchild right there in her own house?”
        “To hurt me… and mainly to teach me a lesson… yes.”
        “You're sure?”
        “Positive.”
        They sat in glum silence for a while.
        On the jukebox, Donna Summer was singing about the price she had to pay for love.
        Suddenly Liz snapped her fingers. “I've got it!”
        “What?”
        “Even Catholics approve of abortion if the mother's life is in danger, don't they?”
        “Not all Catholics. Just the most liberal ones approve of it even under those circumstances.”
        “And your old lady isn't liberal.”
        “Hardly.”
        “But your father's better, isn't he? At least about the religious stuff”
        “He's not so fanatical as Mama. He might agree to let me have an abortion if he truly thought the baby would destroy my health.”
        “All right. So you make him think it's destroying your mental health. Dig it? You get suicidal. You threaten to kill yourself if you can't have an abortion. Act like you're half crazy. Be hysterical. Be irrational. Scream, cry, then laugh without having any reason to laugh, then cry again, break things… If all of that doesn't convince them, then you can make a phony attempt to slash your wrists, just a big enough cut to smear some blood around. They won't be sure whether you botched it on purpose or by accident, and they won't want to take any