Tess consulted the building directory, then leaned her face close to the glass of a door so she could smooth down flyaway hair in her reflection. It wasn’t really about her, of course, she thought as she headed for the Senator’s office. It wasn’t even that she was working for American Moment. It was because she was writing a profile on the Montross case, that was what people cared about. Anyone involved in GDS legislation wanted a chance to shape the conversation around the disease, and the infuriatingly absent face of that conversation was Candace Montross. Candace was the celebrity. Tess was, at best, her influential surrogate.
If Tess were actually a celebrity, Bailey might have deigned to touch her. Instead she waved off her assistant and cooed honey-voiced delight at Tess’s presence while standing an arm’s length away, then said, “Forgive me for not shaking your hand. It’s not personal, you understand.” She beckoned Tess to a seat in front of her desk. “My husband says I might as well quit, announce I won’t run again, if I’m not going to kiss babies anymore. I told him, my career’s okay, I can still kiss the ones in blue!” Bailey’s wide hoop earrings jounced when she laughed, a contrast to her pile of silvering hair, which barely moved at all. The wall behind her was covered in framed photos. A campaign victory party in Dallas with Bailey surrounded by her four sons. Bailey in a cranberry pantsuit, shaking hands with the former secretary of state. Bailey sitting on a bipartisan panel at a breast cancer fundraiser.
“One of your staffers shook my hand when I came in,” said Tess, sitting and getting out her things. “Might want to have a chat with him about it.”
Bailey sat too, and laced her fingers together in what looked to Tess like a practiced pose. “We’re all struggling to get used to these changes. That’s why leadership on this issue is going to be so important.”
Tess flipped past her notes on Bailey to a blank page of her book. The notes weren’t extensive; Bailey’s motivations for sitting down with her were transparent. The Senator was a member of the appropriations committee for Health and Human Services, where she was working to keep tax dollars from going to GDS patients. Unfortunately for her, GDS patients had an inconvenient tendency to be pregnant women. Tess believed that Bailey had only agreed to the interview because she was worried about tarnishing the family-first reputation she had spent her career cultivating, and which was so critical to the electoral success of female politicians in Texas. Tess had voted against her two years prior.
“Let’s go on the record now,” she said, and clicked on the recorder. “How long have you been aware of the spread of GDS?”
“It was first brought to my attention three months ago.”
“How did you learn about it?”
“An aide briefed me. I have my staff keep me informed about what our former colleagues in Austin are doing. Can’t lose touch with state-level needs while I’m stuck out here in D.C. It was Texas research that discovered GDS, you know. We’ve been a leader on this issue from the start.”
“I know,” said Tess, scribbling leader!! in her book and adding a wavy underline for absurd emphasis. ”You’ve put language into the latest HHS funding bill that would prohibit federal funds from going to any organization that provides prenatal care for women known to have GDS. Can you explain the reasoning behind that for me?”
“Absolutely. This is a measure consistent with the track record I’ve shown my entire career. I have always promoted solid public health policy, with a special focus on women’s health issues. That’s what this new regulation is.”
“How is it in the interest of public health to deny care to pregnant women?”
“You’re looking at it completely backwards,” said Bailey. “The question is, how is it in the public interest for the government to subsidize the spread of a plague? Because that’s what we’ll be doing if we let taxpayer money go to increasing the number of cases of this disease.”
“But you’ve campaigned on child welfare. Surely this is a child welfare issue.”
Bailey nodded. “I agree. It is.”
“Then how can you reconcile that with an amendment that will necessarily mean higher infant mortality.”
“There’s nothing to reconcile, Ms. Mendoza. My voting record is perfectly consistent. I’m protecting the normal, healthy children in those hospitals. We can’t risk the health of the majority of mothers and children by exposing them to a disease we’re just beginning to understand. One which, from all appearances, will warp their entire lives.” Bailey placed manicured fingers gently atop the monitor on her desk. “I could show you dozens of letters from women in Texas distraught that they or their daughters may never have the opportunity to be normal mothers now. I could show you even more from men who fear that they’ll never get to father children at all. Until we know exactly what this disease is, the situation calls for the utmost caution. If we don’t handle this correctly, it could literally be the end of mankind.”
It was nothing Tess hadn’t heard before. The tune was so familiar she could sing along if she wanted. The only difference with Bailey was a little more polish, a better memory for the talking points. It actually made her a less interesting interview than the representatives, who occasionally slipped up in interesting ways. Gale Schoening of North Carolina had distinguished women with GDS from those without by referring to the latter as “real mothers.” Matthew Hock had said outright that his constituency were “the natural-born citizens of Houston.” When Tess observed that in just twelve years the first girls born with GDS would reach voting age, he had said, “We’ll see. A lot can change in twelve years.” But aside from personal quirks, responses were so alike Tess could practically write her notes in advance. GDS is a disease. We have to protect healthy people. Men could become extinct. Think of the at-risk men.
Given Bailey’s facility for staying on message, there was only one interesting question left to ask. “Have you read Governor Buford’s article?”
Bailey’s eyes dipped and she pushed a sigh through her nose. “I have.”
“And do you agree with his interpretation of pro-life politics?”
Cal Buford, former governor of Virginia and now senior partner of a conservative think tank, had just published an op-ed titled “Life Without Conception?” in which he mused that his long opposition to abortion stemmed from his belief that human life began at the moment of fertilization. He concluded that the lack of any such clear moment, combined with the risk that GDS posed to the male population, was enough to constitute an exception to the standard pro-life reasoning. He came out in favor of abortion for GDS daughters, and urged conservative lawmakers to do the same.
Some were already describing Buford’s piece as representative of a split in conservative ideology, but to Tess the response looked more like a scramble. Everyone she’d spoken with had dodged the question. Even Representative Hock had limited himself to saying, “Cal is a smart man, and his opinion deserves weighty consideration of a kind I’ve not yet had time to devote to the issue,” and refused to comment further.
Bailey, though, actually answered. “I’ve always prided myself on voting my conscience. I’ve broken with my party in the past, on occasion. On certain matters of principle. I respect the Governor a great deal, and can only imagine that’s what he thinks he is doing now. But there is no practice more contrary to the wellbeing of children than abortion. I’ve opposed it my entire career, and I continue to oppose it. I find it unfortunate that Governor Buford, intentionally or not, is supporting those who would exploit this disease to roll back the measures to protect children we’ve managed to pass in the last few years.”
Her willingness to take a firm position was a surprise. But then, Tess supposed Bailey had been playing the game longer than anyone else she’d interviewed. In addition to her time in the Texas legislature, Bailey had spent eight years in the House before moving up. She didn’t need to wait for the safety of consensus. She was entrenched, with solid connections, deep-pocketed backers, and a well-trained staff. After the intervie
w concluded, Tess was able to walk out of Bailey’s office without having to pretend to ignore the whispers and sideways glances that had followed her around Capitol Hill.
She was certain she was still being talked about, though. They were just courteous enough to wait until she was out of earshot to start speculating. The reporter from American Moment isn’t just pregnant. She has it. She’s a carrier. That’s why the magazine sent her. Tess felt like people were wiping down the seats the minute she was out the door. Matthew Hock’s office had been the worst, men shuddering inside their suits and gawking as she passed. On the Metro people saw her belly and deferred to her on the platforms, gave up their seats in the cars. It was whiplash, going from being coddled on the trains to being Typhoid Mary on the Hill.
Tess decided she’d had enough of being around people, friendly or fearful, and hailed a taxi to take her back to her hotel. She could expense it. She was meeting with a spokesperson from the American Family Association later, but needed time to recuperate from her morning. In the back of the cab she unwrapped the half-sandwich she’d saved in her purse. She was starving, and carried a taut discomfort under that hollow hunger, like she was an instrument Decaf was learning to play. Tess tucked the seatbelt under her arm and read through email on her phone as she ate.
Lynette had sent back the first round of edits, and a general note that Tess needed to tone down her rhetoric. You’ve been on the story longer than anyoneshe wrote. It’s only natural for you to be opinionated. And I love your passion, but you have to hide it under a bushel for us. As expected, Tess was losing the “spayed like bitches” line. She also couldn’t talk about “HARS whores,” or use the word “rapist” to describe someone who’d never even been charged with a crime unless she preceded it with “alleged.” And she couldn’t call Kenny Kendall a monster. Lynette had changed that line to a list of charges he’d be found guilty of “if convicted.”
He was going to be convicted. Kendall had pleaded not guilty, but seemingly just as a formality; the man wanted a trial. Outside the courtroom he’d all but admitted to it. To sterilizing pre-school-aged girls. Tess sent Judy a furious text. She wondered if she could have gotten away with calling him an alleged monster.
When she’d gone to see him, he had been thrilled to talk to her about GDS. To her, specifically. He’d recognized the name Intessar Mendoza from her articles. Apparently, before his arrest, he used to trawl left-leaning news sites for topics to inveigh against in sermons. “You’re smaller than I imagined you,” he said. “You write big, but you’re just a slip of a thing.”
Eventually, everyone would know. GDS was going to change the world. Children would grow up knowing about it. Would grow up having it. It wouldn’t be a secret for much longer. But Kenny Kendall had learned about it from her. Everything after — the brutalization of Candace and her daughters, the contract from Lynette, the conversations with congressmen — was a result of her articles.
It was almost appropriate, then, that the one person Tess couldn’t get in touch with was Candace herself. In addition to Lynette’s email there were messages from two more lobbyists, a reminder from her OB-GYN’s office about her sonogram appointment, and some mailing list background noise. But still nothing from Candace’s attorney.
There were supposed to be other ways in. If you can’t interview the subject, interview neighbors. Coworkers, teachers, relatives. A real professional is able to find the story. But everyone who had known Candace since she was a little girl was locked away, either behind the high steel fence of a religious compound or in prison. The court records were sealed. Tess had been so confident with Lynette, had told her how the HCP community was tightening, how everyone knew each other. But her normal contacts had been useless. No one had heard from Candace. She, apparently, wasn’t interested in trying to meet other people like herself.
So Tess was left emailing Candace’s attorney over and over again. It was like trying to open a jar with wet hands, but it was all she had. Maybe if, in the next letter, she revealed some information about Matthew Hock’s opinions of her family, Candace would be moved to provide a counterpoint.
Judy texted as Tess was pushing through the revolving door to her hotel lobby.Don’t worry about the edits. Some things speak for themselves. Did you call your mother?
Phone tag, Tess sent back.
Try again. Tell her baby shower gift arrived. Car seat. V. nice.
After her two children were out of the house, Tess’s mother had abandoned the southern California home where she’d raised them and moved to D.C., where she worked in human resources for a polling company. Tess had arranged to extend her travel an extra day to spend time with her. Tess didn’t consider herself close to her mother, but it was still a different class of relationship than she had with her father, who hadn’t been a meaningful part of her life since her parents divorced when she was four. And Judy’s parents–though she had worked hard as an adult to establish functional, if not always amicable, relationships with them–weren’t people Judy or Tess wanted having any influence on their child. So when the two of them decided that it might be important for there to be a grandparent involved in Decaf’s life, Tess’s mother was the default choice.
Ensconced in her room with the blackout curtains drawn, though, that decision seemed very distant. Tess remembered the conversation, that they had agreed readily enough. But now her conviction seemed slippery, diffuse.
Rest first, she decided. She shed her clothes and started a bath running. Rest, and then the lobbyist. She set an alarm on her phone for half an hour before she was supposed to meet with the AFA guy. Sparring with an intractable special-interest ideologue would be a fine warm up for dealing with her mother again.
IN THE PAST two months the legislatures of Arizona, Tennessee, Texas, Kansas, and California have all seen bills that would make it a criminal offense to intentionally contract or transmit GDS. Most of these aim to classify it as a form of aggravated assault, but the Arizona bill calls for transmission of GDS to constitute manslaughter, and explicitly references speciation. Thomas Conklin, the bill’s author, argues that GDS makes one nonhuman, therefore it reduces the number of humans, therefore spreading it is something akin to murder. He justifies a provision against intentionally contracting the disease as an extension of the laws against suicide.
In thirteen states there have been efforts to criminalize the sale of GDS-infected biological products. The sponsors of these bills say that it is an obvious, pragmatic public health measure. But these measures, so far, have less political support than the bills based on speciation, as they would effectively shut down the $16 billion private blood industry until a test is developed.
Nine states are in the process of revising their laws on maternity leave. Fifteen have held hearings on what do to about letting GDS children into public schools. None have an answer yet, but they all agree it’s an issue. On the judicial side, the American Civil Liberties Union is pursuing several test cases designed to establish a precedent of equality under the law for GDS infected women and their children.
Even within political parties, opinion is sharply divided. There has been a split within Texas’s Republican-dominated legislature, with the Senate passing GDS exceptions to the state’s tight restrictions on abortion that the House refuses to support. If we are, as a society, moving towards consensus on this issue, it remains a distant target. But while no broad agreements are yet forthcoming, the terms of the debate itself, in Washington at least, are starting to become clear. The battle lines are shaking out as a woman’s right to choose versus a man’s right to exist.
Those whose focus is on protecting the rights of women argue that GDS is not inherently different than the birth control pill, or in-vitro fertilization. It’s just one example of the many ways that human reproduction has changed, fundamentally unrelated to personhood. If those with GDS are to have fewer personal freedoms, the argument goes, then why not also test tube babies, or those conceived with the help of fertili
ty drugs? No one has ever seriously suggested that these individuals are not people, and so neither should personhood be an issue in the case of GDS.
The men’s rights camp argues that the crucial difference is that GDS, left unchecked, will necessarily make the male population dwindle to zero. This side sees GDS as an existential threat which permits no peaceful coexistence. Their fear is markedly similar to Reverend Kendall’s dark vision of a feminine pestilence. Or, as Nancy Forsythe, a lobbyist for the National Organization for Women, explains it, “Feminism isn’t merely a threat to male privilege anymore. Now a woman’s right to biological self-determination is viewed as targeting not just the patriarchy, but the very existence of men.”
Some of the methods these supposedly endangered men (and, as Bailey Rogers would remind us, no small number of women) favor for self-preservation harken back to controversial periods of our history. Colin Langley of the American Family Association has begun making speeches re-imagining the eugenics movement, in which he attempts to knock the stigma off of forced sterilization. He is fond of saying things like, “A sane society will not allow itself to be swallowed whole,” and, “‘All men are created equal’ is an idea worth protecting.” Other proposals take as their spiritual antecedent the Japanese internment camps of World War II, arguing that people with GDS should be rounded up and quarantined. Not forever, of course, but until a cure is found. A more modern twist on what is essentially the same idea would have people diagnosed with GDS fitted with tracking devices, like those locked around the ankles of criminals on probation.
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