Hannah's Choice

A Novel

By

Scott Burkhead 

Chapter One - The News 

            Hannah Woodson sits on the examining table thinking she must have gotten it wrong.  She is tall, nearly six feet.  The gown, made for someone smaller, does not cover her backside and the steel table is cold.  Yes, she must have heard it wrong.  “There has to be a mistake,” she says.

            “We ran the test twice,” the doctor says, frowning.

            “But I’m on zero-birth regimen.”

            “You were injected?” 

            “No.  Patch-device.”

            The doctor looks at her watch. “I’ll refer you to a clinic.”

            “A clinic?”

            “You aren’t authorized.”  It is a declaration, but Hannah takes it as a question and shakes her head.  The doctor scribbles something Hannah cannot read on a white pad.  “This will get you in,” she says.

Hannah stares at the script as if the markings on the paper hurt her eyes.  Although she is tired from staring at her screen since early morning, editing new manuscripts and old books for a government agency, that is not why she stares.  It is because there are words which confuse and disturb.

“It’s the abortion order,” the doctor says impatiently.

            The examination had taken longer than expected.  Hannah misses her train and, instead of waiting, decides to walk home.  She is a slender woman, with good posture; when deep in thought, as now, she wears a stubborn expression and walks pitched forward as if fighting a headwind.

The empty street, sun-starved and silent, stretches before her, the late afternoon air cold and damp.  What Hannah has just learned clutters her mind, becomes clear, then vague again.  In the past when she thought about getting pregnant, those thoughts were joyful, not like this.

Her waist-length coat is lined, warming her upper body, but polyester slacks leave her hips and legs chilled.  Sturdy boots keep her toes and ankles warm though after several blocks they begin to rub.  Her feet hurt.  She regrets not waiting for the next train.  Her eyes are suddenly wet.  She wipes them quickly, looking around to be sure no one sees.  She’s pregnant.  This thought, in spite of the problems it portends, makes her smile.

After awhile, she doesn’t know how long, she realizes she has taken a wrong turn onto a street of starter box apartments, one room units, fifty floors high.  The walls of the towers close in.  For a moment she thinks a building is moving, falling towards her.  Each narrow alleyway holds potential danger.  The twilight gloom is eased by the dim glow of streetlights mounted high on poles at the end of each block.  Looking up, she sees the red sensor on the security eye a few feet above her head.  Usually she is annoyed by the intrusion, the thought of someone far away watching.  Today it implies safety.

Shaking her head to halt the internal chattering, she focuses on getting home.  It is hard, thinking about what the doctor said.  And hard contemplating an abortion and what it will mean to her husband and their relationship. 

A couple in their forties, both wearing expensive imitation fur, walk briskly toward her.  Curfew is in less than an hour but they walk with confidence, not at all like people who worry about curfews.  There is a moment of shared air as they pass, then they’re gone, their eyes fixed on the broken sidewalk.   Hannah shivers and buttons the top of her coat.  A familiar street appears.  Another ten minutes and she arrives at the shopping district near the apartment she shares with her husband.  Although eager to get home, she stops at the Swiss Miss store.  Chocolates are expensive, but she buys a box of four anyway.  The kind Noah, her husband, likes – ones with the soft center so the flavor explodes twice.

            “You’re late,” Noah says, the moment she enters the apartment.  “I was worried,” he adds, his tone softer.

Swiping her finger over the biometric sensor, she hears the soft click of the door locking.  “I missed my train – protestors blocking the streets.”  Hannah hates lying but Noah seems edgy. If she tells her news and how she has wandered around confused and scared, there will be a discussion – no, argument – and she is not ready for that.

“Who this time?” Noah asks.

“Christians, I guess.”

Noah is tall and serious; he believes in eating sensibly and keeping himself fit.  Nevertheless, his eyes light up when he sees her gift.  Candy is only part of the treat, Hannah knows.  Like a child, he is delighted to have a surprise.

After dinner Noah happily devours three of his chocolates.  Later, they pass the time with an internet backgammon match.  Not wanting to damage a peaceful evening, she still does not tell him.  Perhaps she’ll talk with her counselor first, or just go ahead to the clinic and not tell Noah at all.

 

 

 

 

 

(A short Story) Summer Solstice

On the longest day of the year I got up, made coffee, and shot the dog.

            The night before, I went to bed planning to make coffee as I do every morning.  I did not expect to shoot a dog.  What I did expect, since it is my routine, was to fill bins with food for the chickens and break a bail of hay and some grain for Horace, the chestnut horse.  Duties finished, I usually hurried back to the kitchen to feed Sarah, the Labrador Retriever, and myself.  Sarah is a great help, always close by while I do my chores.

            It is fortunate that I went off my plan, pausing to water the heat-stressed tomato plants located near the back porch, before going to the barn.  Otherwise the next few minutes would have been far worse.  But I jump ahead.  The first thing I did on that long hot day was make coffee.  Sarah watched patiently while I had my cup of extra strong, gained by removing the pot and inserting my cup under the drip.  Outside, while I watered the tomatoes, tall and heavy with green fruit, Sarah spread her water by an azalea bush and then over the extended roots of a sheltering dogwood tree.

          “You look like a statue,” said my wife, Jane, from behind me on the porch.

          “A statue?”

          “In profile.  Like that little boy peeing on the lily pad.   Only you’re using a bigger hose.”

          Just then we heard the commotion.  The chickens were making a racket, with Horace chiming in.  Chickens are easily disturbed, but the horse was hard to rile.  His loud, urgent neighing scared me.

“It’s that fox,” I said, mostly to reassure Jane.  I did not think a fox would upset Horace.  Maybe a snake, I thought, or even a prowler.

“Don’t kill it, Charlie,” she begged.

“Birdshot,” I said, “hand me the shotgun.”

          She disappeared and quickly returned with my little .410 and a couple of shells.  I took the gun and jogged toward the barn.  Sarah ran ahead.  Halfway there I saw him – a full grown German Shepherd rolling in the grass – not after the chickens, but after some kind of comfort.  Then he was up, and running towards us.  He ran straight for a few moments, suddenly sideways for a few steps, and then fell down.  He quickly struggled back to his feet.  A trail of spit flew from his big foaming mouth.

          “No!” I screamed, as Sarah, head level, tail down, probably thinking to protect me, ran hard for the rabid beast.  It was too late to shoot without hitting Sarah, and anyway I was too far from the intruder for the birdshot to have much effect.  Running hard towards the shepherd I closed the distance and almost had an angle from which to shoot when he lunged for Sarah.  She veered, bounced off the other dog, rolling over from the blow.  Still very much in harm’s way, she scrambled to her feet, moving towards the rabid dog, still determined to protect me.   Please don’t let him bite her, kept running through my head.  I was now only twenty feet from the animal, looking for my best shot.  Recovering his balance the shepherd turned from Sarah and spotted me.  He lurched my way, his eyes smoldering charcoal.  An arm’s length away, my shot caught him full in the face.  Tumbling over and over, kicking and crying, he spread foam and blood over the thick grass.  It was only after cocking the other barrel, gasping for breath, and finishing the job at close range that I felt sick and weak.  I remember thinking how god-awful hot the sun was just before I threw up.

Jane had stopped screaming.  She was kneeling, holding Sarah, her tears washing both their faces.  I knelt and cried with her.  We kept Sarah from sniffing the dead dog, all splattered with blood and foam.  The sooner we could get him buried the better.  He didn’t ask to be that way, to be sick, to be rabid.  No more suffering old dog; be with God. 

I wished it was night and we could huddle in bed.  Just me with Jane and Sarah in the dark until this day was over and a new season began.  But the shortest night of the year did not come for a very long time.

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