A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  He wished Erica were here.

  He got the candy bars and coins and waited at the door for them. He had decided that before he parted with the goodies he was going to find out who these kids were and what they had in their little buckets. Fair was fair.

  The trio climbed to the top step of the stoop and stood there waiting, silently watching him through the eye holes of their sheets.

  Their silence got under his skin.

  Doesn’t anybody say “Trick or treat?” anymore?

  “Well, what have we here?” he said with all the joviality he could muster. “Three little ghosts! The Ghostly Trio!”

  One of them—he couldn’t tell which—said, “Yes.”

  “Good! I like ghosts on Halloween! You want a treat?”

  They nodded as one.

  “Okay! But first you’re gonna have to earn it! Show me what you’ve got in those buckets and I’ll give you each a dime and a box of Milk Duds! How’s that for a deal?”

  The kids looked at each other. Some wordless communication seemed to pass between them, and then they turned and started back down the steps.

  “Hey, kids! Hey, wait!” he said quickly, forcing a laugh. “I was only kidding! You don’t have to show me anything. Here! Just take the candy.”

  They paused on the second step, obviously confused.

  Ever so gently, he coaxed them back. “C’mon, kids. I’m just curious about those buckets, is all. I’ve been seeing them all day and I’ve been wondering where they came from. But if I frightened you, well, hey, I’ll ask somebody else later on.” He held up the candy and the coins and extended his hand through the door. “Here you go.”

  One little ghost stepped forward but raised an open hand—a little girl’s hand—instead of a bucket.

  He could not bear to be denied any longer. He pushed open the storm door and stepped out, looming over the child, craning his neck to see into that damn little bucket. The child squealed in fright and turned away, crouching over the bucket as if to protect it from him.

  What are they trying to hide? What’s the matter with them? And what’s the matter with me?

  Really. Who cared what was in those buckets?

  He cared. It was becoming an obsession with him. He’d go crazy if he didn’t find out.

  Hoping nobody was watching—nobody who’d think he was a child molester—he grabbed the little ghost by the shoulders and twisted her toward him. She couldn’t hide the bucket from him now. In the clear light of day he got a good look into it.

  Blood.

  Blood with some floating bits of tissue and membrane lay maybe an inch and a half deep in the bottom.

  Startled and sickened, he could only stand there and stare at the red, swirling liquid. As the child tried to pull the bucket away from him, it tipped, spilling its contents over the front of her white sheet. She screamed—more in dismay than terror.

  “Let her go!” said a little boy’s voice from beside him. Cantrell turned to see one of the other ghosts hurling the contents of its bucket at him. As if in slow motion, he saw the sheet of red liquid and debris float toward him through the air, spreading as it neared. The warm spray splattered him up and down and he reeled back in revulsion.

  By the time he had wiped his eyes clear, the kids were halfway down the driveway. He wanted to chase after them, but he had to get out of these bloody clothes first. He’d be taken for a homicidal maniac if someone saw him running after three little kids looking like this.

  Arms akimbo, he hurried to the utility room and threw his shirt into the sink. Why? his mind cried as he tried to remember whether hot or cold water set a stain. He tried cold and began rubbing at the blood in the blue oxford cloth.

  He scrubbed hard and fast to offset the shaking of his hands. What a horrible thing for anyone to do, but especially children! Questions tumbled over each other in confusion: What could be going through their sick little minds? And where had they gotten the blood?

  But most of all, Why me?

  Slowly the red color began to thin and run, but the bits of tissue clung. He looked at them more closely. Damn if that doesn’t look like . . .

  Recognition triggered an epiphany. He suddenly understood everything.

  He now knew who those children were—or at least who had put them up to it—and he understood why. He sighed with relief as anger flooded through him like a cleansing flame. He much preferred being angry to being afraid.

  He dried his arms with a paper towel and went to call the cops.

  “Right-to-lifers, Joe! Has to be them!”

  Sergeant Joe Morelli scratched his head. “You sure, Doc?”

  Cantrell had known the Morelli family since Joe’s days as a security guard at the Mall, waiting for a spot to open up on the Monroe police force. He had delivered all three of Joe’s kids.

  “Who else could it be? Those little stainless-steel buckets they carry—the ones I told you about—they’re the same kind we use in D and C’s, and get this: We used to use them in abortions. The scrapings from the uterus slide down through a weighted speculum into one of those buckets.”

  And it was those bloody scrapings that had been splattered all over him.

  “But why you, Doc? I know you do abortions now and then—all you guys do—but you’re not an abortionist per se, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Cantrell nodded, not mentioning Sandy. He knew the subject of Joe’s youngest daughter’s pregnancy two years ago was still a touchy subject. She had only been fifteen but he had taken care of everything for Joe with the utmost discretion. He now had a devoted friend on the police force.

  A thought suddenly flashed through Cantrell’s mind:

  They must know about the women’s center! But how could they?

  It was due to open tomorrow, the first of the month. He had been so careful to avoid any overt connection with it, situating it downtown and going so far as to set it up through a corporate front. Abortions might be legal, but it still didn’t sit well with a lot of people to know that their neighbor ran an abortion mill.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe a bunch of sicko right-to-lifers had connected him with the new center.

  “What gets me,” Joe was saying, “is that if this is real abortion material like you say, where’d they get it?”

  “I wish I knew.” The question had plagued him since he had called the police.

  “Well, don’t you worry, Doc,” Joe said, slipping his hat over his thinning hair. “Whatever’s going on, it’s gonna stop. I’ll cruise the neighborhood. If I see any kids, or even adults with any of these buckets, I’ll ID them and find out what’s up.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” he said, meaning it. It was comforting to know a cop was looking out for him. “I appreciate that. I’d especially like to get this ugly business cleared up before the wife and I get home from dinner tonight.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he said, shaking his head. “I know I wouldn’t want Marie to see any buckets of blood.”

  The trick-or-treaters swelled in numbers as the afternoon progressed. They flowed to the door in motley hordes of all shapes, sizes, and colors. A steady stream of Spocks, Skywalkers, Vaders, Indiana Joneses, Madonnas, Motley Crues, Twisted Sisters, and even a few ghosts, goblins, and witches.

  And always among them were one or two kids with steel buckets.

  Cantrell bit his lip and repressed his anger when he saw them. He said nothing, did not try to look into their buckets, gave no sign that their presence meant anything to him, pretended they were no different from the other kids as he dropped candies and coins into the steel buckets among the paper sacks and pillowcases and jack-o’-lanterns, all the while praying that Morelli would catch one of the little bastards crossing the street and find out who was behind this bullshit.

  He saw the patrol car pull into the drive around 4:00. Morelli finally must have nailed one of them! About time! He had to leave for the women’s center soon and wanted this thing settled and done with.

  “No
luck, Doc,” Joe said, rolling down his window. “You must have scared them off.”

  “Are you crazy?” His anger exploded as he trotted down the walk to the driveway. “They’ve been through here all afternoon!”

  “Hey, take it easy, Doc. If they’re around, they must be hiding those buckets when they’re on the street, because I’ve been by here about fifty times and I haven’t seen one steel bucket.”

  Cantrell reined in his anger. It would do no good to alienate Joe. He wanted the police force on his side.

  “Sorry. It’s just that this is very upsetting.”

  “I can imagine. Look, Doc. Why don’t I do this: Why don’t I just park the car right out at the curb and watch the kids as they come in. Maybe I’ll catch one in the act. At the very least, it might keep them away.”

  “I appreciate that, Joe, but it won’t be necessary. I’m going out in a few minutes and won’t be back until much later tonight. However, I do wish you’d keep an eye on the place—vandals, you know.”

  “Sure thing, Doc. No problem.”

  Cantrell watched the police car pull out of the driveway, and then he set the house alarm and hurried to the garage to make his getaway before the doorbell rang again.

  The Midtown Women’s Medical Center

  Cantrell savored the effect of the westering sun glinting off the thick brass letters over the entrance as he walked by. Red letters on a white placard proclaimed “Grand Opening Tomorrow” from the front door. He stepped around the side of the building into the alley, unlocked the private entrance, and stepped inside.

  Dark, quiet, deserted. Damn! He had hoped to catch the contractor for one last check of the trim. He wanted everything perfect for the opening.

  He flipped on the lights and checked his watch. Erica would be meeting him here in about an hour, and then they would pick up the Klines and have drinks and dinner at the club. He had just enough time for a quick inspection tour.

  So dean, he thought as he walked through the waiting room—the floors shiny and unscuffed, the carpet pile unmatted, the wall surfaces unmarred by chips or finger smudges. Even the air smelled new.

  This center—his center—had been in the planning stages for three years. Countless hours of meetings with lawyers, bankers, planning boards, architects, and contractors had gone into it. But, at last, it was ready to go. He planned to work here himself in the beginning, just to keep overhead down, but once the operation got rolling, he’d hire other doctors and have them do the work while he ran the show from a distance.

  He stepped into Procedure Room One and looked over the equipment. Dominating the room was the Rappaport 206, a state-of-the-art procedure table with thigh and calf supports on the stirrups, three breakaway sections, and fully motorized tilts in all planes—Trendelenburg, reverse Trendelenburg, left and right lateral.

  Close by, the Zarick suction extractor—the most efficient abortion device on the market—hung gleaming on its chrome stand. He pressed the “on” button to check the power but nothing happened.

  “It won’t work tonight,” said a child’s voice behind him, making him almost scream with fright.

  He spun around. Fifteen or twenty kids stood there staring at him. Most were costumed, and they all carried those goddamn steel buckets.

  “All right!” he said. “This does it! I’ve had just about enough! I’m getting the police!”

  He turned to reach for the phone but stopped after one step. More kids were coming in from the hall.

  They streamed in slowly and silently, their eyes fixed on him, piercing him. They filled the room, occupying every square foot except for the small circle of space they left around him and the equipment. And behind them he could see more, filling the hall and waiting room beyond. A sea of faces, all staring at him.

  He was frightened now. They were just kids, but there were so damn many of them! A few looked fifteen or so, and one looked to be in her early twenties, but by far most of them appeared to be twelve and under. Some were even toddlers! What sort of sick mind would involve such tiny children in this?

  And how did they get in? All the doors were locked.

  “Get out of here,” he said, forcing his voice into calm, measured tones.

  They said nothing, merely continued to stare back at him.

  “All right, then. If you won’t leave, I will! And when I return—” He tried to push by a five-year-old girl in a gypsy costume. Without warning she jabbed her open hand into his abdomen with stunning force, driving him back against the table.

  “Who are you?” This time his voice was less calm, his tones less measured.

  “You mean you don’t recognize us?” a mocking voice said from the crowd.

  “I’ve never seen any of you before today.”

  “Not true,” said another voice. “After our fathers, you’re the second most important man in our lives.”

  This was insane! “I don’t know any of you!”

  “You should.” Another voice—were they trying to confuse him by talking from different spots in the room?

  “Why?”

  “Because you killed us.”

  The absurdity of the statement made him laugh. He straightened from the table and stepped forward. “Okay. That’s it. This isn’t the least bit funny.”

  A little boy shoved him back, roughly, violently. His strength was hideous.

  “M-my wife will be here s-soon.” He was ashamed of the stammer in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. “She’ll call the police.”

  “Sergeant Morelli, perhaps?” This voice was more mature than the others—more womanly. He found her and looked her in the eye. She was the tall one in her early twenties, dressed in a sweater and skirt. He had a sudden crazy thought that maybe she was a young teacher and these were her students on a class trip. But these kids looked like they spanned all grades from pre-school to junior high.

  “Who are you?”

  “I don’t have a name,” she said, facing him squarely. “Very few of us do. But this one does.” She indicated a little girl at her side, a toddler made up like a hobo in raggedy clothes with burnt cork rubbed on her face for a beard. An Emmett Kelly dwarf. “Here, Laura,” she said to the child as she urged her forward. “Show Dr. Cantrell what you looked like last time he saw you.”

  Laura stepped up to him. Behind the makeup he could see that she was a beautiful child with short dark hair, a pudgy face, and big brown eyes. She held her bucket out to him.

  “She was eleven weeks old,” the woman said, “three inches long, and weighed fourteen grams when you ripped her from her mother’s uterus. She was no match for you and your suction tube.”

  Blood and tissue swirled in the bottom of her bucket.

  “You don’t expect me to buy this, do you?”

  “I don’t care what you buy, Doctor. But this is Sandra Morelli’s child—or at least what her child would look like now if she’d been allowed to be born. But she wasn’t born. Her mother had names all picked out—Adam for a boy, Laura for a girl—but her grandfather bullied her mother into an abortion and you were oh-so-willing to see that there were no problems along the way.”

  “This is absurd!” he said.

  “Really?” the woman said. “Then go ahead and call Sergeant Morelli. Maybe he’d like to drive down and meet his granddaughter. The one you killed.”

  “I killed no one!” he shouted. “No one! Abortion has been legal since 1974! Absolutely legal! And besides—she wasn’t really alive!”

  What’s the matter with me? he asked himself. I’m talking to them as if I believe them!

  “Oh, yes,” the woman said. “I forgot. Some political appointees decided that we weren’t people and that was that. Pretty much like what happened to East European Jews back in World War II. We’re not even afforded the grace of being called embryos or fetuses. We’re known as ‘products of conception.’ What a neat, dehumanizing little phrase. So much easier to scrape the ‘products of conception’ into a bucket than a person.”


  “I’ve had just about enough of this!” he said.

  “So?” a young belligerent voice said. “What’re y’gonna do?”

  He knew he was going to do nothing. He didn’t want to have another primary-grade kid shove him back against the table again. No kid that size should be that strong. It wasn’t natural.

  “You can’t hold me responsible!” he said. “They came to me, asking for help. They were pregnant and they didn’t want to be. My God! I didn’t make them pregnant!”

  Another voice: “No, but you sure gave them a convenient solution!”

  “So blame your mothers! They’re the ones who spread their legs and didn’t want to take responsibility for it! How about them!”

  “They are not absolved,” the woman said. “They shirked their responsibilities to us, but the vast majority of them are each responsible for only one of us. You, Dr. Cantrell, are responsible for all of us. Most of them were scared teenagers, like Laura’s mother, who were bullied and badgered into ‘terminating’ us. Others were too afraid of what their parents would say so they snuck off to women’s medical centers like this and lied about their age and put us out of their misery.”

  “Not all of them, sweetheart!” he said. He was beginning to feel he was on firmer ground now. “Many a time I’ve done three or four on the same woman! Don’t tell me they were poor, scared teenagers. Abortion was their idea of birth control!”

  “We know,” a number of voices chorused, and something in their tone made him shiver. “We’ll see them later.”

  “The point is,” the woman said, “that you were always there, always ready with a gentle smile, a helpful hand, an easy solution, a simple way to get them off the hook by getting rid of us. And a bill, of course.”

  “If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else!”

  “You can’t dilute your own blame. Or your own responsibility,” said a voice from behind his chair. “Plenty of doctors refuse to do abortions.”

  “If you were one of those,” said another from his left, “we wouldn’t be here tonight.”