Not Exactly Allies

by Kathryn Judson

CHAPTER 36 – THE RALLY

  Bertin Nason was not one to be a lay-about. He got up and moving as soon as he was able, determined to keep his muscles from going to mush and his stamina from fading away. At first, he was confined to the house. The doctor hadn't been altogether joking about the quarantine business. But Matthieu, Paul, and Regis all needed a bit of wrestling, so he obliged them when the ladies could be got rid of for a while. All in all, the invalids regained strength fairly quickly. Regis, it may be said, was a bit dismayed by the rapid recovery. For a few glorious days he had been stronger than his older brothers.

  Marie-Bertrade knew of the antics happening behind her back. Her brothers saw to that. But she chose to ignore it, except to say that if Bertin's Aunt Eustacie ever found out about any wrestling, they had better be prepared for the end of the world. Having had enough days to take Aunt Eustacie's measure, the boys took Marie-Bertrade's warning to heart and carefully watched what they said and did when the aunt was around.

  Marie-Bertrade was a remarkably restrained nurse. For one thing, she sensed that Bertin was one of those men who truly cannot stand to be fussed when they are sick. And for another, she had Aunt Eustacie's fine example of what an overly fussy woman was likely to receive from other people, and whatever else it was, it was neither gratitude nor respect.

  But the restraint only went so far. As soon as the doctor lifted the quarantine and Aunt Eustacie was bundled back off to the mountains, Marie-Bertrade insisted on going for walks with Bertin. He would need his fresh air. But there should be someone with him in case his strength was not what it seemed, of course. Or those were the arguments. As if she needed to come up with arguments.

  Even after it became clear that he was hearty again, they found excuses to go for walks together. Even after he had reluctantly gone back to his own place to live, they found excuses to go for walks.

  -

  "Berti! Berti!"

  Bertin had his eyes up even faster than Marie-Bertrade. It was ridiculous and unsettling, he thought, how protective he felt when anyone keyed in on his companion, but there it was.

  He was relieved to see two young women who looked to be pleasant young women on the whole. Certainly their broad grins seemed both natural and habitual. Bertin relaxed. Women who smiled such sorts of smiles were rarely any great bother. He drew himself up, ran a hand through his hair (as if that would help much with his wild mop), and prepared to be charming to some new friends.

  "Ooh, he's nice," one of the girls cooed, as she came up on them.

  Bertin tried to not let the compliment go to his head, but the corner of his mouth flicked upward before he could catch it.

  "Ooh, and shy, too. How wonderful," the other young woman said.

  "Bertin, I would like for you to meet Eve and Evie. One of them should change her name, of course, to make it easier for the rest of us, but well, they are stubborn or something," Marie-Bertrade kidded. "And this…" she slid her arm through his and nodded at him, "is-"

  "Bertin!" Eve and Evie exclaimed.

  "We just heard you, you know," Eve fussed.

  "Yes, well you might have let me go through the formalities," Marie-Bertrade said.

  "There isn't time," Evie said. "We've lost Anne-Louise, and she has our signs. Have you seen her?"

  "Where have you been!?!" a young woman cried out, as she ran up to them, struggling with three placards. "I have nearly got killed twice by people who have caught glimpses of these signs. I'm not sure I have the nerve to go through with this, and certainly I don't ever want to be left alone on this. Don't you ever leave me alone again."

  "And this would be Anne-Louise?" Bertin guessed out loud.

  Anne-Louise looked up at him and started to say something, but stopped. Her eyes went soft. She gaped.

  "Don't mind her. She gets love-stricken twice a day at least," Evie said. "Come on! We will miss the rally if we do not hurry." She grabbed a sign and displayed it for Marie-Bertrade. "What do you think, Berti?"

  Marie-Bertrade pronounced it wonderful.

  Bertin nearly fainted. "Babykillers unite?" he mumbled, in disbelief.

  "That would be "Babykillers Unite! With emphasis, if you please," Evie said.

  "Here's mine," Eve said. "See. 'Give me dead meat over a live baby any day!' Hah! That ought to get them, don't you think? I like Anne-Louise's nearly as well. 'Rend Your Offspring! That's the Spirit!' Pretty catchy, I think."

  Bertin backed up. For a moment he thought he was losing his mind. He looked at Marie-Bertrade, who was beaming at her friends and gushing about how brave and intelligent they were. He decided that he had lost his mind.

  "Oh!" Marie-Bertrade said, suddenly getting the picture. She grabbed his sleeve. "No! It's not what you think. Really! They are going to crash an abortion-supporters rally. We do this sometimes, since no one else seems to be pointing out the truth to them."

  "We?" Bertin said, weakly.

  "Papa sometimes lets me go, but not very often," Marie-Bertrade pouted.

  "I like your father more and more," Bertin said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Evie said, belligerently.

  "You stay out of this," Marie-Bertrade said, in a surprisingly determined voice.

  Evie backed up. "Oh, all right. You hadn't made it clear you cared about him. We'll be on our way. No harm done, right?"

  "We'll see if you're on your way or not, bitch," a fierce woman growled as she moved up on the little group. "We didn't like your interfering last time, and it's not going to happen again. The television cameras belong to us. Do you hear me? The cameras and the reporters belong to us."

  The woman was radiating all the signals of someone who was hoping for an excuse to batter someone, and she was carrying a small crowbar. Bertin flipped her onto the ground and took her crowbar away. "Don't think I can't use this as least as well as you," he said as he backed away from her.

  "Sexist pig," she snarled.

  "Ah, that's not fair," he mock-whimpered. "I was promoting equality there, I thought. Or as least as much equality as is possible with a savage."

  She lunged at him. He broke her jaw with his fist. He hadn't meant to break it, but there was no taking it back. She fell, fumbling, to the ground. He leaned over her. "If you ever wave a weapon at any of my friends again, I'll do worse than that to you. They have a right to stand up for the rights of helpless babies. I mean to say, look at it this way. Now that you are semi-helpless with no friends around, should we rip you limb from limb, or suck your brains out, or dose you with poison and vacuum you up? Just because you are in our way? Or, more precisely, because we think you are in our way?"

  The woman looked at him in horror.

  "Alas for us that we are not murderers and bullies, like yourself and your brethren," Bertin sighed. "It leaves us with so many unwanted people making our lives difficult. Come ladies. I will call for an ambulance for the murderess, but perhaps you should be on your way first."

  "Not a chance," all four girls said.

  "I will call for the ambulance," a bystander said. "Go on. I can describe you well enough for the police," he said, with a wink. "Short, fat, ugly, obviously foreign."

  Bertin laughed. "Oh, my friend, I wish I could take you up on it, but-" He stopped. Florentin Castelneau was walking toward him, and clearly wanted the attention shifted to himself.

  Castelneau placed himself conspicuously, and looked at the injured woman, who was sitting up halfway and looking for somewhere to crawl to. He looked at the bystanders, none of whom looked as if they would offer her succor. He looked at Bertin. "Trouble?"

  "She waved a crowbar at innocent young women. I had to do something. So I sat her on her rump and took away the crowbar. When she lunged at me after that, I slugged her."

  "With the crowbar?"

  "Of course not."

  "All right then. Clear out. Take your ladyfriends with you. Don't tell anyone what happened, any of you. We don't want anyone to feel that someone should lay charges, even charges that will
be dropped on the grounds of self-defense," Castelneau said. He leaned over the woman. "And charges will be dropped, if you bring any, I assure you. Do not try to force my hand. You do not want to mess with me."

  He looked at Bertin. "What? Not gone yet? Are you getting feeble and slow in your old age?"

  Bertin tossed the crowbar to the man who'd offered to describe him as short, fat and foreign. The man grinned his thanks and saluted. He held the crowbar like a sword and struck a dramatic pose. En garde! he shouted to the fallen woman. The crowd laughed. Bertin hesitated, since matters seemed to be getting out of hand. But Castelneau waved him on.

  Bertin herded Marie-Bertrade and her three friends down the sidewalk, hoping he was doing the right thing. As much as he despised the woman of the crowbar, he wasn't comfortable leaving her to the tender mercies of the crowd or his boss.

  Behind him, he heard the crowd sullenly dispersing. He shot a look backward, to see that Castelneau was directing people to leave. Matters seemed to be under control, so he got his flock of females in better order and kept them moving away from the trouble, uneasy in his conscience, but unsure what else he could do under the circumstances.

  "Where are we going?" Anne-Louise asked.

  "You tell me," Bertin said.

  "Well, I guess the rally is out of the question now," Eve said.

  "Is it?" Bertin asked. "I can't get on cameras. It would be bad for my career. But I would be willing to fade into the background and shoot appropriate looks at anyone who doesn't like your signs. Or I could grab troublemakers, if need be."

  "Really?" Evie asked.

  "Just let me call a few friends to join us," he replied.

  "But why?" Anne-Louise asked. "Why help us?"

  "Because I am a man and because I am a Christian," he said. "Marie-Bertrade, if you would like for me to take you home first, I will do that."

  She grinned. "I will try to be good and not start any fistfights, honest. Let me come with you, please."

  He looked at her in exasperation.

  "I have brothers. I know about being baited. Really I do," she said.

  He searched her eyes, and found what he considered a proper wariness in the back of them. "All right," he said. "As long as everyone understands that if there is trouble I have to go to Marie-Bertrade first. I can't help it."

  "Ooooh," her girlfriends cooed.

  "Bring on those friends of yours," Evie said.

  "Try to make them truly unattached," Eve said. "I want one just like you for myself."

  Bertin grinned. "Careful there. You will make me conceited."

  "Oh, good. Berti can't stand conceit. That would free you up for me," Eve said.

  "Well, if you don't mind a moderate amount of conceit, I think I will call Jon for you," Bertin teased, with a wink. He gently pushed Marie-Bertrade's hair back and kissed her forehead before stepping aside to call young men from his church. In the end, he had two escorts for each of Marie-Bertrade's three friends, which made for a nice gaggle, he thought, as long as no one tried to pair off too early.

  He kept Marie-Bertrade for himself, and spent his time at the rally steering her away from violence. They talked themselves hoarse, not that many of the abortion-pushers cared what anybody else thought. Killing babies, after all, builds a very thick skin, at least around the heart. The first-timers or abstractionists might still care what people thought, but the professionals by and large did not harbor the capacity, and this rally was thick with professionals. Bertin was dismayed by the fervor of most of the participants, but consoled himself by celebrating the few who would stop to think or who looked like the criticism jabbed itself home. All you could hope for, he thought, was to reach those who hadn't sealed themselves off from true love: one heart, one mind, and one mother at a time.

  His favorite protestor (other than Marie-Bertrade) was a gentle, smiling, gray-haired lady bent nearly double with osteoporosis. Her sign read: "Life begins at conception. Love starts when you let it." He bowed and gave the old lady a kiss on her hand, as if she were royalty, which caused cries of disgust amongst the abortion supporters in the vicinity. Eve, Evie, and Anne-Louise, on the other hand, all offered to marry him on the spot, before being dragged away by their now-doubly-chivalrous escorts.

  Bertin's friend Jon had some luck getting through to some of the 'pro-choice' marchers. Jon's tactic was to walk up to one young woman after another, always one on one, looking her in the eye and swearing from the depths of his heart that she deserved better than to be subjected to abortion, much less to its haunting aftermath. His idea, he said, was that abortionists assumed women had less imagination than cattle or elephants or horses, which have been known to mourn the death of their babies, even the miscarried ones. Jon had a theory that if you pointed out that abortionists do not take women's brains, imagination, memory or emotions into account, sometimes the smarter girls could put two and two together, and realize that they were also – quite without meaning to, of course – assuming that women had less imagination than cattle. A silly assumption that, he told Bertin, especially since, in his humble opinion, women had way too much imagination overall, if you compared them to men.

  Another of his friends decided to emulate Jon, but had less success. Of course, Damien's idea of emulating Jon was to walk up to a couple or three women standing together and say "That's funny, you don't look stupid or like doormats" as his opening salvo. Surprisingly, it worked a couple of times, but that might have been because Damien had looks that were to die for. He wandered off early, one flattered woman on each arm.

  Bertin was trying to wave him down for a lecture on the poor manners of leaving with someone other than who you came with, but Evie grabbed his arm and whispered that they were better off without Damien, perhaps.

  "And, besides," Marie Bertrade added, "two happy converts is a good day's work, especially for a rookie. Let him take them aside and explain the horrors of post-abortion life off where it's quiet and there are fewer distractions."

  "I doubt that's what he's going to do," Bertin said.

  Evie laughed. "There are all sorts of ways of rescuing women from the shallow, heart-rending life mapped out for them by radical feminists, you know. But most of them involve a bit a flattery from a good man." She winked and left, three of the young men from Bertin's church in her wake, each of them determined to dispense the salvation of flattery left and right, all in the name of a good cause (and with some hope of snagging a date).

  Two of Bertin's friends got bloodied protecting Marie-Bertrade's friends, and were rewarded with expressions of deep concern and gratitude by the ladies. At that point, Bertin called a halt to operations. The group scattered in various directions, most of them with new friends in tow. Bertin predicted that the next time he went to church he'd get an earful, both pro and con. All in all, though, he was pleased with how their little protest had gone, especially considering it wasn't his style of protest. Quiet public prayer vigils worked better, he thought. Certainly they had, at least so far, handed him fewer temptations to act in an unchristian manner.

  Marie-Bertrade, true to her word, hadn't let herself get pulled into anything she couldn't handle. Bertin was able to deliver her home looking not the least like she'd been doing battle with fanatics, something for which he was profoundly grateful on any number of levels.

  That night, as much as he wanted to think only of Marie-Bertrade, Bertin lay awake and wondered what sort of man he worked for. That Castelneau had interfered – and how he had interfered – spoke too much of a man who liked to be thought of as more powerful than anyone else. Although Castelneau had always displayed a huge ego, this was a new angle on the man. Bertin found himself feeling afraid of him. He wondered if that had been the point, or if Castelneau had merely been showing off. For the life of him, he couldn't decide.

  Bertin had long been wary of the man and worried for his career. This was different. This was almost like facing down a man with a gun, without being sure where the man was concealing the
gun you thought he had pointed at you.

  Castelneau's manner haunted him. It spoke of a man who was ruthless. Bertin had had to steel his nerves and kill someone. He worked with others whose job it was to fight to the death if necessary to protect innocent lives. He had friends in the military, who also sometimes had to fight to the death. All these men and women were capable of inflicting harm or death, but they did it toward a higher purpose, toward the defense of citizens and the rule of law, and they did not do it lightly. Castelneau had shown no connection to anyone in the little crowd. He had shown no concern for the woman with the broken jaw. Bertin had brazened it out once he'd accidentally broken her jaw, but he'd been prepared to take on anyone who had tried to kick her while she was down. Castelneau, he couldn't help thinking, simply hadn't cared.

  Bertin was beginning to think that Castelneau saw people merely in terms of how bothersome or useful they were being. He wondered if the man considered humans roughly equivalent to ants: of no concern most of the time, but to be got rid of if they raided one's kitchen. Some people did think that way, even though they shouldn't.