Here Comes Trouble

by Michael Moore

  Tucker would wait on Zoe hand and foot, and she was generous with her body in return. This won Tucker the designation by most guys as the Luckiest Dude at Davison High—and he was still a freshman! But not just any freshman: he came in at six-foot-three and weighed 180 pounds. Zoe was a senior, like me, and I was crazy in love with her.

  I made sure that she never detected even the mildest inkling of my feelings. And if Tucker ever suspected how I felt I would surely see the sharp end of his jackknife being flung my way. But he had no clue. Either I was that good an actor, or it was just pathetically unbelievable that someone like me would ever even think of having any designs on Zoe. And it was even more implausible that she would ever see me as anything resembling boyfriend material. After all, I came from the pack of guys who were usually seen in flight from any oncoming females. I was no James Dean; I was more Jimmy Dean, the sausage king. One day, to impress her, I told her I could play cello when she was putting together a “protest recital” outside the Army recruitment center in Flint (how hard could it be—it had only four strings!). I borrowed a cello and used the bow to run it back and forth at random, and she looked at me and laughed and accused me later of eating all the special brownies.

  Tucker had nothing to worry about with me, and Zoe appreciated having one guy in the school who wasn’t hitting on her. I didn’t want to let her down, and there was something noble about being different (better?) than the other boys in her eyes. Of course, there was nothing noble about denying your feelings, sexual or otherwise, but who was I going to share that with? Ann Landers? The cafeteria lady?

  Having now admitted to possessing such desire, I will also admit that having a friend like Zoe was a blessing, a greater blessing than one could hope for in trying to survive the misery of adolescence. I could call her anytime, day or night, and if she wasn’t banging Tucker I was free to talk to her as long as I wanted. I lived in town, so I could easily walk over to her house anytime—and I was there far more than Tucker ever was, since he lived out in the country and did not have a driver’s license.

  Zoe and I grew very close and shared everything the way you do with that special friend in high school as you lie around the rec room—or the bedroom—for all hours of the day or night, pouring through every subject imaginable: who was “bonin’” who, which classes sucked, ways to avoid the parents, how to help the kid down the street who was being punched by his dad every night, how to remove Nixon from office, playing the new Moody Blues album, sneaking into an X-rated movie (Midnight Cowboy), taking turns writing verses of poems that would become lyrics to songs that she would write the music for and sing to me. Here’s how close we were: one day, she informed me that the lips of her vulva were unlike most women’s because her labia minora was larger than her labia majora, thus causing her inner lips to fold out on top of her outer lips. She told me this as if she were reading me something from the TV Guide, and the look on my face conveyed nothing more than my desire to watch another rerun of Mayberry, RFD.

  There were those times that she and Tucker “broke up” for days at a time—and I would momentarily contemplate the opening presented to me. And on one such tear-filled evening, for a second (or maybe the whole night), she “contemplated” it, too.

  It was never spoken about again.

  Tucker would return and their strange saga would continue, the couple that had nothing in common other than the perfection of their own bodies.

  It was a Sunday night when Zoe called and said she needed to meet me somewhere private. I drove over and picked her up and we went for a drive out to the Hogbacks.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, as soon as the door slammed shut. I carefully backed out of the driveway, my heart racing, and she started to sob. “I can’t believe I was this stupid. I can’t have a baby.” She then fell onto my shoulder.

  “I am so sorry,” I said, the way a best friend would say such a thing. And then I paused to catch my breath and do the math. It seemed OK.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “This happens. Even to smart people.”

  Her sobbing continued. I tried to keep my eyes on the road. “Shhhh. Don’t cry. I’m here.”

  She continued to cry and so I pulled over and held her tight, the way a best friend would hold her tight.

  “I have to end it,” she said, sputtering out the words.

  End what? I thought. Tucker? Her… life? Please, God.

  “You mean the pregnancy,” I said in a tone that did not make it a question.

  “Yes,” she said. “But how’m I gonna end it?” She looked up at me with those eyes. “How?”

  She told me that when she got the pregnancy test at Planned Parenthood, they explained to her that abortion, at least in our state, was illegal.

  “Maybe your parents know a doctor who could…”

  “I can’t tell them! I can’t let them down like this.”

  “Your parents, more than any others, would understand.”

  “No. This would crush them. I have to take care of this myself.”

  “You can’t try to abort the fetus yourself,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” she assured me.

  “You know,” I said, “abortion is legal in New York.”

  I had no moral conflict in making this suggestion. I knew a fertilized egg wasn’t a human being.6

  “I will help you, if that’s what you want to do,” I said.

  “Thank you, Mike,” she said as she dried her eyes.

  “We could drive to Buffalo,” I said. “It’s probably not that far.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Or we can go to New York City. I know the city pretty well.”

  Of course, I was making offers I had no clue if I could deliver on. For instance, how would I get to New York City and not have my parents notice? That was never going to happen.

  But Buffalo was possible. I started to plot it out in my head. I could leave for school at 7:00 a.m. and we could be in Buffalo by noon. How long would the procedure take? I didn’t even know exactly what the “procedure” would be, but let’s say three hours, then another five hours back—I could be home by 8:00 p.m.—late for dinner, to be sure, but suffering no more than a stern word or two.

  “I have to tell Tucker,” she said, as the Bad Idea buzzer rang in my head.

  “Yes. Sure. He has to know.”

  I drove her over to Tucker’s trailer and waited outside while she went in to deliver the news. Fifteen minutes later they emerged from his trailer, arm in arm, and I sighed. They got in the front seat with me, with Zoe in the middle.

  “Thanks, man, for offering to help,” Tucker said as he reached out to put his arm on my shoulder.

  “Hey, no problem. I’m sure you guys would do the same for me if I got pregnant.”

  Zoe laughed. Tucker continued: “I was thinking we should keep the baby,” the high school freshman without the driver’s license said, loving the swagger and the idea that he had actually produced something in his life.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not happening,” Zoe said, shutting him up and relieving me.

  We went over to the A&W for root beers and fries and further planning on how to end the unplanned pregnancy.

  In the coming days I did the research and found the most reputable abortion clinics in New York City. I planned out our entire trip—one that we would take with my parents’ permission, though they would know nothing about the abortion. We would stay at my aunt’s on Staten Island. I told my mother that I wanted to go to New York for the weekend because I was considering going to college there.

  “We can’t afford that,” she replied without shame.

  “I’ve checked into scholarships and I think I might have a good chance. I’ve looked into Fordham. Jesuits! Good!”

  Here I was, playing the Catholic card again, and dang if it didn’t always work. Her sister had married a man who went to Fordham, and I told her that would open a door for me. I promised I’d be gone just for the weekend and wou
ld miss no school.

  “And you’ll stay with Aunt Lois?”

  “Absolutely.”

  My parents liked Zoe and, as their radar could detect no carnal scent in either direction, they did not consider her a threat.

  I got Zoe and Tucker all excited about the fun time we could have in New York. You would have thought we were going there to have a tooth pulled—and then it was off to Times Square to see Hair and the Village to see Joni Mitchell. Maybe I could even score some tickets to Dick Cavett.

  But my parents had too long to think about this odd trip, and within days the kibosh was put to it. I put up quite a fight, but there was no way to win this one. And who was this Tucker fellow?

  “Hey,” Zoe said, “don’t feel bad. You gave it a good shot. Maybe we should go back to the Buffalo plan.”

  “Sure,” I said, somewhat defeated. “Sounds good.”

  At this point Zoe and Tucker began to realize that in going to get an abortion, three’s a crowd, and so they told me they would take over from this point going forward.

  I would have said something to them about an umbilical cord being cut here, but this wasn’t the time for bad puns, although it certainly was the way I felt. There was nothing I could do other than accept the situation for what it was. Tucker was being very good to her, and she had calmed down and was now pretty matter-of-fact about their trip. I lent them all the cash I had—fifty bucks—to add to the stash of what they were scrounging together to pay for it.

  On the day that I knew they were leaving, I went to school as if it were any normal day. But my mind was elsewhere. One’s thoughts don’t normally drift toward Buffalo, but I couldn’t do much else that day but worry about my best friend’s safety and well-being.

  It was after dinner when the phone rang. My sister answered.

  “Mike—it’s Tucker.”

  I went to the phone, knowing that they had returned by now.

  “Hey.”

  “The abortion,” he said, whispering, out of breath, and, if it weren’t Tucker, I’d say he was crying.

  “They botched it. We never made it to New York. We didn’t go to Buffalo. We’re in Detroit.”

  “Shit!” I said, a bit too loud. “What are you doing in Detroit? How is she?”

  “Not… not good,” he said, now clearly in tears. “Mike—help me! She’s bleeding pretty bad. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Where are you?” I asked, trying not to scream or cry myself.

  “I got her to a hospital… somewhere here in Detroit. It was just awful. Awful. Oh God… I don’t want to lose her!”

  I was unable to swallow. The lump in the throat grew into a full choke. I cupped my hand over the phone and swung the cord around the wall from the dining room and into the kitchen so no one could hear or see me. I tried to keep it together and figure out what I needed to do.

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “They say she’s lost a lot of blood. She goes in and out. They won’t let me in there. I’m fifteen, and I’m sure they’ve called the cops by now. I don’t know what to do!” He broke down uncontrollably.

  “OK, listen! Pull it together! I’m getting in the car right now. I’ll be there in less than an hour. If the cops show up, say nothing. Say you want a lawyer and keep repeating that. And if they’ll let you in there, hold her hand and let her know she’s not alone—and tell her I’m coming.”

  “OK. OK. I’m so sorry. This was my idea. We didn’t have the money for Buffalo. Someone told us about a safe place in Detroit. Cheap. It was wrong from the minute we got there and I just should’ve turned her around and left. I’m so sorry. Please… forgive me.”

  Right now none of that mattered. I shouted upstairs that I was going to go hang out with Tucker and Zoe and I’d be back in a couple hours.

  “Back by ten,” my mom shouted.

  “Yes. Ten. Bye!”

  I tore down M-15 to Clarkston and got on I-75 and hit the gas. At times the speedometer read ninety. The V-8 on the Impala had me in Detroit in fifty-two minutes. I followed the signs to the hospital, parked the car in the emergency room lot, and ran in. Tucker was there, his eyes all red.

  “It’s OK, it’s OK,” I told him, as I hugged him. I asked the nurse if I could go see Zoe, and she said no. I asked about her condition.

  “Are you a relative?” she asked.

  “I’m her brother,” I said, without thinking.

  “And where are your parents?”

  “Where are yours?” I snapped back at her, realizing instantly that this was not going to serve me well. I changed my tune immediately.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’m upset. I’m nineteen, she’s eighteen, and we don’t want to involve or upset our parents with this, if that’s OK. I hope you understand.” The BS flowed smoothly enough, but the tears that had formed in my eyes were real.

  “OK, fine,” she said, filing away my insult for later retribution. “Just sit over there, and I’ll see if a doctor can come out to speak to the two of you.”

  We waited nearly an hour before the resident came out looking for us.

  “Which one of you is family?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “OK. Let me just say this was the stupidest thing you could have done. These back-alley abortionists are not doctors. They have no medical training whatsoever, and they do this only to make money and take advantage of people like you.”

  “It’s all we could afford,” Tucker inserted unnecessarily. The doctor paused as he assessed who exactly this hoodlum was.

  “It is illegal,” he said, hitting every word like he was hitting Tucker’s face. “You may have killed her. But you didn’t. She’s going to recover. You took an enormous risk.”

  “What exactly is her condition right now?” I asked, hoping to end the lecture.

  “She’s cut up inside, her uterus and her cervix. It also looks like they used some form of ammonia, so there seem to be burns in there, too. We’ve stopped the bleeding and are caring for the inner wall linings, and she’s in a bit of shock. We have her resting now and sedated, and she’s getting the proper attention she needs. Are your parents on their way?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “They should be here soon.”

  The doctor shot another look at Tucker. “You care at all to know if she’s still carrying the baby?” he said, without adding the implied “punk” at the end of the sentence.

  “Yeah, sure,” Tucker said without looking at the doctor.

  “The baby’s gone,” he said, using the word baby for the second time for effect, to hurt Tucker. It hurt me.

  “It’s not a baby,” I said quietly. “She was ten weeks pregnant. It was a fetus. If Michigan wasn’t so backward, she wouldn’t be lying in there like that. That’s all I’m mad about. Thank you for helping her.”

  He did not appreciate my diatribe and simply turned away and went back into the ER.

  “Are her parents really coming?” Tucker asked, panicked.

  “No. But we have to call them. She’s going to be here for at least tonight, and they are going to be frightened when she doesn’t come home. I’ll call them. And I’ll try to help when they get here.”

  I went to the pay phone and called her parents collect. I told them not to worry, Zoe was OK, but she was in the hospital in Detroit as she had come down here to terminate a pregnancy. There was crying and cursing, and I told them I was sorry, I didn’t know, I thought Tucker had called them, I drove to the hospital as soon as Tucker called me. I said I would stay with Zoe until they got there.

  When they arrived I stood between them and Tucker to ward off any violence, and I asked everyone to try and focus on Zoe and we can yell at each other later. Her mother spoke to the nurse, then the doctor, and they allowed her and her husband back in the room. In a few minutes, they sent for her “brother.” I looked at Tucker, who just seemed lost and more in need of a babysitter or a mother of his own at the moment. I followed the nurse into the room, and she pulled back the curtain t
o reveal Zoe, half awake in bed, her hand being held by her mother, her dad still glancing my way, wanting to punch someone.

  “Hi Zoe,” I said, and went over to her other side and took her other hand.

  “I’m… so… sorry,” she mumbled. “We… made… a… m–mistake.”

  “Don’t think about that now. The doctor said you’re doing fine, you just need to rest. And your mom and dad are here and everything’s gonna be all right.”

  “Thank… you,” she whispered, her throat all raspy. “You’re… my…” She broke down crying. There was no real word with which to finish that sentence, none that adequately described our relationship—or if there was, it could not be spoken in this room. I helped her finish the sentence.

  “Friend,” I said, smiling.

  “Yes. Always.”

  Zoe soon broke up with Tucker. After we graduated, I became consumed with my first year of college and all things political, but Zoe and I still hung out a lot, still listened to music and shared our most intimate feelings with each other. She signed up to go to community college, but halfway through the second semester she dropped out, and she and her family moved out West. We stayed in touch by writing letters, but she was into adventure and wandering with hippie friends she met along the way. Soon, there was no contact, and life went on.

  I last saw Zoe over a decade ago. She was playing in a recital in Chicago, and she told me how she got part-time work playing in various orchestras and symphonies (they made her wear shoes). She had lived in LA for a while and played in the back-up string sections on pop and rock records. It was good to catch up and go over old times. The man she was with seemed nice but of few words. I did notice that he had the same chain that Tucker used to have, hanging from his belt loop. I left our reunion feeling good about Zoe and the life she had carved out for herself, and I was somewhat relieved when I saw that her boyfriend’s chain was clearly connected to something substantial in his pocket.