January 5, 1986
When a Tomgirl starts to bleed I tell her she/we are sacred. They know their obligations are to the Tommies. I know there’s no time to lose.
January 20, 1986
“I already have a child,” Allyson says. “I don’t want any more. Odette is my child. She’s my baby. I want to take her with me. I want to go away.” I say nobody is going anywhere.
February 7, 1986
“Allyson won’t leave without Odette,” Nancy says. “She won’t take the money.” Double it, I say. Triple it if you have to. “I already did,” Nancy says. “I already offered her ten times what we talked about. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want money. She just wants to be with her daughter.” I tell her I have other plans for Odette.
March 2, 1986
“We just can’t keep up,” Nancy says. “It’s supply and demand. It’s that simple.” We have to go Tommies-only, I tell Nancy. That’s our new policy. From now on, if you won’t become a Tommie, you won’t get a baby. It’s the only way. “That changes things,” Nancy says. “We’re no longer a business. Now we’re a movement.” So what else is new? I tell her.
March 14, 1986
“May I have a moment?” Abigail Rickover says. “I’m seeing some anomalies in our carriers.” In English please, I say. “There are some irregularities,” she says. “In their ovaries. It’s cause for concern. We need to take a closer look.” I say a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.
April 11, 1986
Another geneticist, one of our best, defects to Tom, damn him. “I don’t think that’s the end of it,” Abigail Rickover says. “Your brother keeps upping the ante.” Tom knows a good thing when he sees it. He keeps buying into biotechnology companies, just like he did with nuclear power after the war. Everything he does feels like rape to me. He can up this, I say.
May 9, 1986
“Egg production is down again,” Nancy says. “The fertility drugs aren’t working.” Raise the prices again, I say. “It doesn’t matter how much we charge if we don’t have the eggs to sell.” Then raise the doses, I say. “It’s going to backfire,” Nancy says.
May 19, 1986
Of course, my Tomgirls are curious about boys, about men. They have to wonder why there are no men in their lives, though they never say a word to me about it. From birth they have learned all about the evil that men do, that boys will be boys if you let them. And they have heard why Tommies and now Tomgirls are so obviously superior. They have learned their lessons well. They only see what we want them to see. They know all about my old-time religion. Their time is coming.
June 8, 1986
You pathetic bastard, I say to Tom. We are at The Plaza, so he has to be quiet, if not quite polite. “I’m afraid you will have to be more specific,” he says. Specific? I say. How about this, you specific son of a bitch? You sell all of our nuclear holdings without consulting the board. Then you wait to see where I’m putting my money, so you can do me one better. Close enough? “Oh, Eleanor, Eleanor,” he says, “you do flatter yourself so. You act as if you invented biotechnology. You’re nothing more than a flea on the ass of the genetic future, as are we all. O’Kell Consolidated is now immersed in foodstuffs, in soy products, in all manner of genetic investments far beyond your ignoble experiment in that ugly little town. As a member of the family, you will still profit mightily from our prescience. You are protected from your ignorance by my hereditary persistence. But you flatter yourself far too much. Your ego is bloated, egregious. You forget that competition is good for the soul.” How would you know? I say. You don’t have a soul. “And you do?” he says.
June 16, 1986
“It’s Allyson,” Abigail Rickover says. “She’s not well. She’s got cramps, nausea. She’s putting on weight. So are the other Tommies. It might have something to do with the drugs for the eggs.” Says who? I say.
August 2, 1986
“It’s not just Allyson any more,” Nancy says. “It’s everyone, all the Tommies. They’re all getting sick, cramping up, putting on weight. They’re all depressed. It’s got to be the fertility drugs. They’re not working any more anyway. We need a moratorium. We need to stop.” Over my dead body, I say.
August 12, 1986
“I’m encouraged by our research with the border collies,” Abigail Rickover says. “I think there’s a gene that makes them so vigilant.” So? “So that means some day I can replace that gene with other genes.” Today’s the day, I say.
September 9, 1986
“We have to do something,” Nancy says. “The Cushing eggs are all used up.” Go to the frozen food aisle, I say.
October 7, 1986
“There’s a problem with the ovaries,” Abigail Rickover says. “I’m seeing it in the carriers. It’s the fertility drugs. Pump them into a woman forever and something is bound to go wrong.” I don’t see why anything has to go wrong.
October 13, 1986
“Trouble,” Nancy says. “There’s a woman suing. One of our mothers. Over the Cushing egg implantation. She says she thought we were using her egg because that’s what we told her. We’re in the soup.” How did she find out? “Her lawyer is Vincent D’Angelo,” Nancy says.
October 22, 1986
Nancy and I never make love any more. I wonder why I don’t care.
November 10, 1986
You can’t prove it, I say. There’s absolutely no way. “I don’t have to prove it,” Vincent D’Angelo says. “I just have to convince a jury. That’s a horse of a different color.” The vest on his three-piece suit can’t keep his stomach from spilling out over his own belt. He has gotten fat on cases like ours. Go ahead, I tell him. Try all of your tricks and you still won’t be able to prove it. “Wait and see,” Vincent D’Angelo says.
November 20, 1986
Our new lawyer in Boston is Betsy Bokamper, a small bird of a woman, with a small thin nose and an even smaller voice. I like her strength right away.
November 30, 1986
“We are killing the goose that lays the golden egg,” Nancy says.
December 19, 1986
“I just thought you might want to know who’s hearing the case, Miss O’Kell,” Vincent D’Angelo tells me over the phone. “It’s your old friend Judge Benning,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
January 2, 1987
I ask Abigail Rickover what would happen if we gave the Tomgirls the mildest fertility drug on the market to nurture nature along. “Load these little girls up with drugs?” Abigail Rickover says. “It’s too dangerous. They’re too young. And you can’t do it without parental consent.” That won’t be a problem, I say.
January 19, 1987
“Miss O’Kell? You’re an O’Kell, okay?” Vincent D’Angelo says over the phone. “Why would I want to settle with an O’Kell? You’ve got more money than God.”
February 3, 1987
I tell Nancy to destroy all records that describe the source of the eggs. “I’m way ahead of you,” she says. In the end, we are all Cushings in this town.
February 19, 1987
All of a sudden it feels like I am going to be spending the rest of my life inside a courtroom, defending The Good Egg in front of Judge Benning. Justice really is blind.
March 2, 1987
“And how are you, Miss Bokamper?” Judge Benning wants to know. “I can see your private practice grows more lucrative by the client.” Betsy Bokamper says: “From your lips to God’s ears, Judge.” Judge Benning leans forward with both palms down on his desk. “Were it that simple, Miss Bokamper, I would never stop whispering to Him on your behalf. But for now I must reject your motion for dismissal. When it comes to our friends the O’Kells, I am obliged from past experience to give Mr. D’Angelo every benefit of the doubt.”
March 22, 1987
If you’re replacing genes in dogs, I ask Abigail Rickover, then why can’t you do it in people? “We need permission,” she says. “There’s a government review board. There’s a whole process we need t
o follow before you can put genes into people.” I tell her it’s time for us to lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.
April 1, 1987
The Tomgirls gather around me on the benches down by the canal on a spring day full of light and warmth. “Big Mother,” Odette says. “Tell us about Kate Briody. Again.” I tell her there’s nothing I would rather do.
April 22, 1987
“Allyson is cramping all the time,” Abigail Rickover says. “I’ve stopped her injections. We’ve taken this about as far as it can go.” How can you be sure? I say. “Women weren’t meant for this,” she says. I say our women are different.
May 19, 1987
“I just called to tell you how rich you are as of today,” Charles Evans says. “You may hate his guts, but that brother of yours is a financial genius.” Go ahead, I say. Make my day.
June 11, 1987
You can depose me till I’m blue in the face, I say to Vincent D’Angelo outside the courtroom, and I’m still not going to change my story. “No records?” he says. Why would I need records? I say. They were the mother’s eggs. Period. End of story. The only record we have is the mother’s name. “You’re not half as smart as you think you are, Miss O’Kell,” he says. “And one day you’re going to make a mistake. It won’t even have to be a big one.” Don’t hold your breath, I tell him.
June 21, 1987
Sex with Nancy is obligatory, boring, a chore. Where did our love go?
July 9, 1987
Betsy Bokamper approaches the bench. “My client assures me there are no such records at The Good Egg, Your Honor,” she says. “I don’t know that there’s much more to say. I move once again to dismiss, and I ask the Court to consider sanctions against Mr. D’Angelo to dissuade him from any such frivolous suits in the future against my client.” Judge Benning says: “We have a problem, Mr. D’Angelo.”
July 16, 1987
“All clear, Miss O’K,” Sliv says. “There’s nobody in this town that I don’t know personal. I got you covered.” I tell Sliv he is the one person in this life that I can trust.
August 14, 1987
In the courtroom in Boston, Betsy Bokamper whispers to me that it’s all over. “It pains me no end to do this, Counselor,” Judge Benning says. “But the case is dismissed. Mr. D’Angelo? I should warn you never to pursue such an action against The Good Egg again without cause or this Court shall have no choice but to hold you in contempt.”
August 15, 1987
“Congratulations,” Vincent D’Angelo says to me over the phone. “But you and I both know this is a reprieve, nothing more. It won’t be long before we can do DNA tests to show who belongs to who. It may take ten years. Or twenty. But it’s coming. If you don’t believe me, just ask your own expert, Abigail Popover or whatever the hell her name is. It’s only a matter of time before we nail you all to the wall. Have a nice day, Miss O’Kell.”
September 11, 1987
“The frozen eggs are going to run out,” Nancy says. “We don’t have any other eggs of any kind. What will we do?” Hold the fort, I say.
October 22, 1987
For some reason Diana asks me down for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s been so long since I left the last town along the canal that I hardly know how to get to the city.
November 27, 1987
The Christmas trees along Park Avenue are lit up as far as the eye can see, and Diana’s doorman remembers me. “Hello Sister,” he says, and I don’t want to disabuse him of my holiness. I wonder about his Christmas tips. I wonder what Diana and Luigi will give him, or whether Luigi even lives here any more. The elevator door to the penthouse opens into the apartment where Diana is waiting. “Luigi is dying,” she says.
December 1, 1987
“We are going to do everything we can,” Diana says. Of course, I say. I ask if there’s anything I can do. “He has AIDS, Eleanor,” Diana says. “He is going to die a horrible, horrible death. There’s nothing we can do about it. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. And there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.”
December 22, 1987
“We’re running out of eggs,” Nancy says. “And I’m worried about the carriers, their ovaries, their health. I’m worried about everything, Eleanor.” I say time is on our side. “How can you say that?” Nancy says.
January 13, 1988
The Tomgirls are old enough right now to produce Cushing eggs. Their bodies are ready for children today, tomorrow, forever. There’s no time like the present. There’s no time to lose.
February 1, 1988
Diana is growing old agelessly, the way women in fashion always try to do. Since the news of Luigi’s demise she’s become alive again, a woman with a reason for being. She says AIDS is an epidemic among the male homosexual population, and that it’s all that she ever thinks about, even when she’s at Imagine. She is on AIDS committees all over the city, chairing at least one and doing most of the work for the others. I’ve never seen her so happy.
March 9, 1988
“We have to stop,” Nancy says. “We are running out of eggs. The fertility drugs are nothing but trouble. We have no choice.” Oh yes we do, I say.
March 12, 1988
I bring Tomgirls together without The Tommies at the Briody & Daughter Bake Shop. I tell them all about motherhood, about the way to be midwives to each other, to our movement. We are all selfish, I say. We are born that way. But now we have to be selfish for each other. We have to want something bigger than any one of us can have alone. That’s why I came to this town, I tell them. That’s why we’re all here. To make something greater than ourselves. That’s why I need all of you. I tell them there’s nothing stopping us now.
April 10, 1988
“This Tom,” Luigi says. “He is bad man. I know he is brother to you but he is bad bad man.” Tell us something we don’t know, I tell him.
April 20, 1988
“We have to pull the plug,” Nancy says. “We have no choice. The new studies connect cancer of the ovaries to the fertility drugs we’ve been using.” These things happen, I say. “Don’t you see what it looks like?” Nancy says. “It’s like you’re blowing up their ovaries on purpose. Can’t you see that?” I tell Nancy appearances can be deceiving.
May 3, 1988
When I look at the Tomgirls walking along the canal today I don’t see young girls any more. I see beautiful, bounteous creatures bursting out of their own skin. They are all long-legged and fertile, with a red glow to their cheeks and hair like the colleens of old. They like to play and tease and scamper. When I look at the Tomgirls, I see history in the making.
May 14, 1988
“He has become a saint,” Diana says. “My unfaithful homosexual playboy husband has become a saint. Saint Luigi of AIDS.” It’s never too late, I say.
June 22, 1988
“We’re done, Eleanor,” Nancy says. “We can’t use the fertility drugs any more. We are completely out of eggs. We’ve got women out the door at the Lying-In and we can’t help any of them. I’ve sent them all home. What are we going to do?” I don’t tell Nancy we are going to start from scratch.
July 9, 1988
If I get the Tomgirls pregnant before they are legally independent they can’t run off on their own because I am still their guardian. Until they turn 18, they can’t do anything in this life without Big Mother’s permission.
July 20, 1988
“Don’t even think about it,” Allyson says. Sorry? I say. “You will be,” she says. I say I don’t follow. “I know what you’re planning with the Tomgirls, with my Odette. I’m not blind. And it’s not right. You won’t get away with it. I won’t let you.”
August 10, 1988
I tell Nancy the Tomgirls are fully capable of carrying a child to term. “What’s the point of that?” she says. Nancy has no idea what it means to be a Cushing, to be an O’Kell.
September 4, 1988
“I don’t know,” Abigail Rickover says. “I just don’t know.” By not sayin
g no to the Tomgirls, I know her answer is yes. Abigail Rickover really has no mind of her own, like she has been genetically engineered to have no second thoughts.
September 19, 1988
I am showing Odette how to pleasure herself. Alone. She has trouble finding the right spots, the right touch. She asks me to show her, and I keep showing her until she starts to hum louder and louder, until she is gasping and gnashing her teeth. “Show me again,” Odette says.
Mother Nature: The Journals of Eleanor O'Kell Page 18
