by Marge Piercy
“With me, it is. I’ve lost only one patient in forty years of practice. There’s not a doctor in Manhattan who can match that record. With my one failure, it was because she lied to me about how far along she was. Now I make a thorough examination before I begin.”
How cold-blooded she was, boasting about her skill. He had more questions, but the woman who had answered the door came in to say her next appointment was waiting. She turned to him. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Apparently she had another room next to this one. He crossed to the wall and applied his ear. A married woman was purchasing something to prevent conception. When they finished, he rushed to his chair and waited for the abortionist to return. She swished in, her skirts rustling.
“How long would the lady be kept here?”
“We have a place she can sleep, where she will be watched over to make sure there are no complications. If she is fine, she can return home the next day.”
“If anything goes wrong, will you help her?”
“Of course. It’s the first twelve to eighteen hours when trouble occurs.”
The following week, Anthony returned and purchased materials to prevent conception, claiming that the woman had turned out not to be expecting after all. She held him up for ten minutes, explaining in detail exactly how the syringe was to be used after intercourse and exactly how the powder was to be applied. She again made him repeat her instructions, adding that she very much preferred to see the woman in question and to make sure she understood her own anatomy.
The following week, he made his preparations. He brought a policeman, his deputies and reporters from the World and the Tribune. They were to wait outside for a few minutes, then the policeman would force his way in with them.
When they were all inside and had rushed into Madame’s office, where she was interviewing a heavily veiled woman, she stood and glanced at them. Anthony could tell she had a pretty good notion what was happening. “You’re back again. And I see you brought quite a party with you.”
“I am Anthony Comstock, agent of the federal government and secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Vice.” He flashed his badge. “I have a warrant to search these premises and seize materials for the prevention of or interference with conception.”
She extended her hand. “May I see the warrant?”
He was startled, but complied. Then, telling the policeman to watch Restell, he grabbed the arm of the woman in the heavy black veil, who began to weep uncontrollably.
“I’m a respectable woman with four children. I came here on behalf of a friend’s daughter, to inquire what could be done. I didn’t mean to break any laws. If my husband learns of this, he will abandon me! I will kill myself if this comes out!”
“May I see your purse?”
There was nothing in it from Madame, no pills or powders, so she could have been telling the truth. He took her name and address. He might need her as a witness, but as he had not caught her in a felonious act, he decided to be generous. She fled at once.
Then he turned back to the gentlemen of his party. “We’ll conduct a search now.” They found her granddaughter playing piano upstairs, and in the kitchen two maids and a houseboy eating a lunch of sausages and sauerkraut. In their first search, they found nothing incriminating. Anthony knew there had to be a cache of pills and powders nearby, since she had absented herself briefly to fetch them on his previous visits. In a wine closet behind the bottles, they found her inventory.
She shrugged at their loot. “Take them and get them tested. There is nothing among these pills and powders that any druggist does not sell.”
“Be that as it may, we found indecent rubber articles.” Womb veils, condoms, syringes.
The granddaughter left off playing and came downstairs. She was in her twenties and attractive, if one didn’t know her connections. She kissed her grandmother on the cheek, addressing her as Mother and asking if she should call their lawyer. Anthony ignored her and led his party on a thorough search of the house.
“See how she lives in luxury off her bloody trade,” he said. She lived much better than he did, like one of the big men—like his mentor Jesup. The woodwork was intricately carved walnut. The floors were laid with Oriental carpets and one had a mosaic of marble. Some rooms had the new flocked wallpaper. Of the paintings and bronzes, only one obscene—a naked woman coming out of a seashell. Restell’s grandson Charlie began following them about, alarmed. The granddaughter told him to go for Madame’s lawyer. Anthony did not try to prevent him. No lawyer was going to get Restell off.
They found nothing else, although the reporters made many notes on the high style of living. Downstairs, Madame had persuaded the policeman to let her have lunch. She was sitting in her kitchen eating oysters. “So I am to go before a judge now? I would prefer to use my own carriage. I cannot gallop off, obviously, so why do you object? At least I’m entitled to that courtesy.”
Anthony objected, but the policeman gave her permission. Anthony made a note not to use this officer again. He was giving the prisoner too much leeway including using her own carriage—infuriating to Anthony, as it was a better carriage than any of his mentors owned, with a pair of handsome, exquisitely curried horses drawing it, one black and one white. Madame went off to court like royalty, but she would soon have her comeuppance. “Let’s see how she’ll enjoy the Tombs,” he said to his assistant. They traveled in their two conveyances to police court where a crowd of reporters waited. Anthony had notified the papers about the imminent arrest. Madame was speedily charged with two counts of selling articles for abortion and for contraception. She waived the examination, as her lawyer had not arrived yet. The judge set bail at $10,000 and she produced bonds from her purse. The judge, Kilbreth, who was sympathetic to Anthony, refused the bonds and insisted on security in real estate.
The scoundrel McKinley, an ex-judge who had helped get Claflin and Woodhull out of jail, came rushing into court with the grandson, whom he sent to find someone to stand bail. They waited around until six, when Charlie came back. No one would stand bail because of the fear of the publicity, with all the reporters lurking there to write down the names of anybody who did not fear association with Madame. So Madame went off to the Tombs. Anthony went home to a delayed supper and his dear family, satisfied in the knowledge that he had begun her just punishment. He woke in the morning without fever for the first time in weeks. His head felt clear.
The next morning at his office, he perused the newspapers. “A vile business stopped,” the Tribune trumpeted. The Times lauded him. He was a hero again. Over the next days, McKinley found bondsmen but the judge refused them.
In the meantime, the papers were wavering. Reporters interviewed Restell in the Tombs. She had impressed them with her bearing. They went on about how attractive she still was at sixty-seven and her air of indignation. She claimed she had given Anthony nothing he could not have bought at any druggist. “The little doctors who are behind him are envious of my fortune, because I have such a fine house in such a splendid location.”
In the meantime, her fleet of lawyers tried to secure bond. They found plenty willing, but no one who would sign his legal name and be reported in the papers.
“Can’t I just be put down as John Smith? I got the money right here and deeds to property.”
“Your legal name or nothing,” the judge said.
She kept insisting she had plenty of money to pay the bail, but the judge held firm. He was a good man, Anthony had always found. He refused to accept anything but bondsmen whose names would be legally recorded and reported. However, the game did not go on as long as Anthony would have liked. Her infernal grandson kept running around town and finally came up with two tradesmen who pledged her bond. She returned to her elegant house of vice.
When the examination of Madame Restell began, the courtroom was crammed with journalists and onlookers. Anthony had Maggie put extra starch in his shirt so it would stay crisp on the stand. He was hard on his c
lothes for he sweated heavily. He always wore red flannel underwear, summer or winter. It was more decent that way. Madame was dressed up in velvets and silks, wearing diamonds at her ears and leaning on her grandson, Charlie, to whom she whispered frequently. Her lawyers asked to have the proceedings closed and the public and press denied access, but the judge refused. He knew Anthony wanted as much coverage as he could get. The judge found ample evidence, all supplied by Anthony, that she should be tried. Once again, there was a scurrying for anyone who would stand surety for her bond to bail her out. Her shysters attempted to dismiss all charges, claiming lack of evidence, bringing her to one of the New York supreme courts. Restell, dressed to the nines with her grandson propping her up, was carted about from court to court in her own carriage. Her damned lawyer pleaded that he, Anthony, had to prove that the items he had seized could either prevent conception or cause an abortion. The judge refused. Anthony watched the whole proceedings from a few feet away. He kept hoping that the obstacles the judge and clerk were throwing in her path could remand her to the Tombs, but she went home, finally, once again on bail.
He heard she was shopping around for a more powerful lawyer, trying an ex-judge with more connections, a bigger reputation. The new lawyer, Stewart, was said to have agreed to represent her if she would take down her sign and travel in a less elegant and ostentatious coach. She agreed.
Anthony made a strong presentation to the grand jury—eloquent and forceful, emphasizing the danger this murderess posed to society. He was back in full voice now, strong and commanding. He could feel his own power radiating to the gentlemen listening. The grand jury indicted Restell just as he wished. He heard that she was drawing up a new will and giving away property to her grandson and granddaughter. He hoped that all the bonuses paid to bondsmen and all the fees to the myriad lawyers were draining her ill-gotten wealth. Because of the judge’s rulings, she had to bribe bail bondsmen, since her own money and property could not be used as surety. He had her house watched and learned that she was sending for her new lawyer on a daily basis. She was falling apart. He could not have hoped for a better outcome. He would destroy her. She had been cool in court but now she was unraveling. She kept summoning her new lawyer or running to his office. He had put fear into her, at last. When next she came to court, she was wrapped like a mummy in layers of shawls over her gown, wan and haggard. Her age suddenly began to show.
He had to leave town the next week. A petition of free lusters and freethinkers fifty thousand strong was being presented to Congress to urge repeal of the law he had secured, which bore his name popularly, as well it should. Restell’s lawyer Stewart had asked for time to have a chemist analyze the pills and powders to prove that they were not as Anthony claimed, illegal substances. Anthony pushed to have the case brought to the oyer and terminer court, where it would move more quickly and where he suspected he could get a heavier verdict against her. The trial now would begin the following Monday, so Stewart could not get a chemist in time. Anthony was taking no chances on the old witch getting off. Anthony buttered up his supporters in Congress, put on another quick display of shocking items and then rushed back on Saturday to take Sunday with his family and congregation. He was feeling fine enough to attend a birthday celebration for Budington, who was presented with a fine Moroccan leather illustrated Bible by the congregation. Monday morning Anthony would be ready to meet Restell before the bar of justice.
Anthony arrived at court in plenty of time, his wife having prepared his clothes the night before and put his papers in order. He found a scene of confusion. Two women were weeping—her granddaughter and a veiled woman. A man was with the granddaughter, apparently her husband. Were they trying to pull something? Had Restell fled? He began to sweat copiously. He would pursue her at once. Could she have left the country over the weekend? He had his man watching her house, but she might have somehow slipped out. He elbowed his way through the throng of lawyers and witnesses and court officials. “Why is Restell not here?” he thundered. Her family turned and glared at him. The granddaughter ostentatiously pulled her skirts so he would not brush them.
Her lawyer Stewart drew him aside. “The granddaughter found her body in the bathtub this morning. During the night, she slit her own throat.”
“She’s dead?”
Stewart turned to the family. “He wants to know if Madame is really dead.”
“Tell that man that she died rather than endure the scandal of a trial. She did it for us.” The granddaughter was weeping. “And she was terrified of dying in prison. She kept saying she wanted to die at home.”
“You killed her!” the veiled woman screeched.
“A bloody end to a bloody life.” He turned on his heel and left the court. At first, he admitted, he had felt a pang of disappointment at being denied the pleasure of bringing her to justice, but death was surely punishment enough with hell fires awaiting. He had won again. He had plenty to do, three other trials coming up, a lecture tonight to a group of businessmen who might contribute to the Society for the Suppression of Vice, a group of educators to address the next evening about the dangers facing youth. He felt his own power as he took a cab to the offices of the society. He even asked himself if he wasn’t puffing up with unseemly pride at his success. But the Lord had guided his hand. He was cleaning up this city. He was cleaning up this country. Sometimes he could almost see the orderly, well-run moral society of the future, when all this talk and writing and picturing of sex would be vanquished. A great purity would reign. He felt wonderful.
Newsboys were already hawking stories of Restell’s suicide. He had his driver stop so he could pick up some papers. It would be satisfying to read the accounts. No one could accuse him again of hesitating to attack the rich. Her fine mansion on Fifth Avenue, her diamond earrings and fine velvet gowns had not protected her, nor had her real estate holdings nor her carriage and matched horses nor her powerful friends including the chief of police. They had all deserted her. Vice was always alone in the end.
She lay in a coffin on ice in the parlor of her mansion, where a stream of reporters and others came through to view the body. Anthony decided to take a look for himself, to make sure it really was Restell and she was as dead as they claimed. She looked as she had when he had first met her rather than her last haggard appearances before the bar. She looked more youthful than she had any right to, her face calm and dead white, devoid of blood. Her throat was marked with a red line across it. She had severed the carotid artery and both jugular veins. A thorough job. The family—her daughter and family, her granddaughter and husband, her grandson—all glared at him and turned away, but he was not sorry for coming. He had wanted to be sure. Now he was. He had closed her down for good. Her death would serve as a bloody reminder to other abortionists what could become of them. It should be most effective. Soon he would make it impossible for a woman to effect such a crime against society and the family. His duty for the moment was done.
FORTY-FOUR
ELIZABETH THOUGHT THEY DIVIDED the work of the history up in an intelligent manner. Susan organized the materials; she had a memory for organizational details that Elizabeth not only did not recall but doubted she had paid attention to at the time. All of them researched; Matilda and she wrote. They haggled over the interpretation and then Susan would see the material through the press. They worked in Tenafly because Elizabeth was, as she said, the “least portable.” In her sizable house, their work could take over what had been Theo’s bedroom, now that he was marrying.
“The church is one of the primary enemies of women’s liberty,” Matilda said. “Why do we hold off saying so?”
Elizabeth nodded and was about to speak when Susan frowned at them over her spectacles. “We are not trying to offend the largest number of women possible. We’re trying to build a suffrage movement, not whittle it down to three true believers.”
“I get sick of singing the same old suffrage tune,” Elizabeth said. “There’s so much else wrong.”
“First the vote. Then whatever we choose to attack next.” Susan was adamant. But neither could Susan persuade her to confine herself to that one-note serenade. She found working on the history fascinating, but she still spent months lecturing. The next Monday, she set off again, this time to the West, where she most enjoyed traveling. The people were open to new ideas, and the vast scale of the scenery, the huge mountains of the Rockies and Sierra Nevada, the deserts stretching for days, the canyons and wild rivers excited her.
She endured many adventures on her travels, caught in snowstorms and once in Arizona, in a sandstorm. She endured floods. Forest fires trapped her briefly in a town in Northern California. Now it was early fall in Wyoming. She was riding in an omnibus with miners, cowboys, a rancher, a newspaperman, a banker and his wife, the tanned and wrinkled widow of a settler. They were telling anecdotes of children’s misadventures. She was halfway through the story of how Gat and Neil had taken baby Theo up on the roof and tied him to the chimney when the omnibus gave a terrible lurch, bounded forward and toppled over, spilling the passengers onto a dry river bed. She was pinned under a wheel for hours watching helplessly while the driver slowly bled to death, his chest punctured by a rod. She wondered if she was going to die there. Two of the least injured men cut the horses loose and tried to move the coach. Their first attempt crushed the shoulder of one of the pinned cowboys. They were still trying to move the coach when they saw dust.
“I hope it ain’t the Sioux,” the rancher said.
They watched the dust cloud approach until at last they could see it was three men riding out to discover why the coach hadn’t arrived at the next station. The five able men hoisted the carriage upright with the aid of the horses. The driver was dead. They had to amputate the leg of a middle-aged miner in order to free him from the wreckage, sawing away while he drank whiskey from a canteen, screaming, until mercifully he passed out. Finally she was freed and helped to her feet, but she could not put weight on her left leg. It buckled under her, and she had to wait for the men to come back with a wagon.
