The Funhouse

back of her neck, and Mama wailed and whined and shouted and beat the floor with her free hand and thrashed about and shuddered with religious passion, begged and wheedled and whimpered for mercy, mercy for herself and for her wayward daughter, howled and wept and pleaded in a fashion which Catholics usually disdained, in a devout frenzy that was more suited to the fundamental Christianity for the Church of the Nazarene, flailed and babbled fervently, until she was finally all prayed out, hoarse, exhausted, limp.
        The ensuing silence was more dramatic than a thunderclap would have been.
        Mama let go of Amy's neck.
        At first Amy remained as her mother had left her, face against the floor, but after a few seconds she lifted her head and rocked back on her knees.
        Mama's hand had cramped from maintaining such an iron grip on Amy's neck. She stared down at the clawlike fingers, massaging them with her good hand. She was breathing hard.
        Amy raised her hands to her face, wiped away the coffee and the tears. She couldn't stop shaking.
        Outside, clouds passed over the sun, and the morning light streaming through the kitchen windows rippled like bright water, then grew dimmer.
        The clock ticked hollowly.
        To Amy, the silence was frightening, like the endless instant between a skipped heartbeat and the next sound of your pulse, when you could not help but wonder if perhaps that vital muscle in your chest would never again expand or contract.
        When Mama spoke at last, Amy jerked involuntarily.
        “Get up,” Mama said coldly. “Go upstairs and wash your face. Comb your hair.”
        “Yes, Mama.”
        They both stood.
        Amy's legs were weak. Her skirt was rumpled, she pressed it down with her quivering hands, smoothed the wrinkled material.
        “Change into fresh clothes,” Mama said, her voice flat and emotionless.
        “Yes, Mama.”
        “I'll call Dr. Spangler and see if he has an opening in his appointment book this morning. We'll go in right away if he can take us.”
        “Dr. Spangler?” Amy asked, confused.
        “You'll have to take a pregnancy test, of course. There are other reasons why you might have missed your period. We can't really be sure until we get test results.”
        “I know I am, Mama,” Amy said shakily, softly. “I know I'm going to have a baby.”
        “If the test is positive,” her mother said, “then we'll make arrangements to take care of things as soon as possible.”
        Amy couldn't believe the implications of that statement. She said, “Take care of things?”
        “You'll get the abortion you want,” Mama said, glaring at her with eyes that contained no forgiveness.
        “You don't really mean it.”
        “Yes. You must have an abortion. It's the only way.”
        Amy almost cried out with relief. But at the same time she was afraid, for she figured that her mother would extract a terrible price for this amazing concession.
        “But… abortion… isn't it a sin?” Amy asked, struggling to comprehend her mother's reasoning.
        “We can't tell your father,” Mama said. “It's got to be kept a secret from him. He wouldn't approve.”
        “But… I didn't think you would approve either,” Amy said, bewildered.
        “I don't approve,” Mama said sharply, a trace of emotion returning to her voice. “Abortion is murder. It's a mortal sin. I don't approve at all. But as long as you've got to live in this house, I won't have such a thing as this hanging over my head. I simply won't have it. I won't live in fear of what might come. I won't go through that terror again.”
        “Mama, I don't understand. You talk as if you know for a fact that the baby will be deformed or something.”
        They stared at each other for a moment, and Amy saw more than anger and reproach in her mother's dark eyes. There was fear in those eyes, too, a stark and powerful fear that transmitted itself to Amy, chilling her.
        “Someday,” Mama said, “when the time was right, I was going to tell you.”
        “Tell me what?”
        “Someday, when you were ready to be married, when you were properly engaged, I was going to tell you why you must never have a child. But you couldn't wait for the proper time, could you? Oh, no. Not you. You had to give yourself away. You had to pull up your skirts the first chance you got. Still little more than