(so said Father) regarded the rumours from France as ‘just what you could expect
from a bunch of Frogs.’
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After Father returned from Evanston, nothing ever again could be clean enough to
suit him. He started using rubber gloves, and iodine, and boiling and sometimes
burning used instruments, especially anything used with lockjaw.
Those impersonal clammy rubber gloves cooled me down… but I was embarrassed to
realise that I was quite wet.
I ignored it, Father ignored it. Shortly he helped me down and turned away to strip
off his gloves while I got back into my bloomers. Once I was ‘decent’ he unlocked
and opened the door.
‘Healthy, normal woman,’ he said gruffly. ‘You should have no trouble bearing
offspring. I recommend that you refrain from intercourse for a few days. I conclude
that you used a French purse. Correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. If you will continue to use them… every time!… and are discreet about
your public conduct, you should have no serious problems. Hmm… do you feel up to
another buggy ride?’
‘Why, certainly, sir. Is there any reason why I should not?’
‘No. Word came in that Jonnie Mae Igo’s latest baby is ailing; I promised to try to
get out there today. Will you ask Frank to hitch up Daisy?’
Ir was a long drive. Father took me along to tell me about Ira Howard and the
Foundation. I listened, unable to believe my ears… save that Father, the only
utterably dependable source of information, was telling me.
After a long stretch I at last spoke up. ‘Father, I think I see. How does this
differ from prostitution? Or does it?’
Chapter 4 – The Worm in the Apple
Father let Daisy amble on quite a piece before he answered.’ I suppose it is
prostitution, if you want to stretch the definition to cover it. It does involve
payment, not for intercourse per se, but for the result of that intercourse, a baby.
The Howard Foundation will not pay you to marry a man on their list, nor is he paid
for marrying you. In fact you are never paid; he is paid… for every baby you bear,
sired by him!
I listened and found myself humiliated by these arrangements. I was never one of
those women demanding the vote… but fair is fair! Somebody was going to inseminate
me… then, when I groaned and moaned the way Mother does and gave birth to a baby,
he gets paid. I fumed to myself.
‘It still sounds like whoring, Father, from where I sit. What’s the going rate? How
much does my hypocritical, hypothetical husband get paid for each set of my labour
pains and one smelly baby?’
‘No set price.’
‘What? Mon papa, that is a hell of a way to run a business. I lie down and spread my
legs, by contract. Nine months later my husband is paid… five dollars? Fifty
cents? This is not a good bet. I think I would be better off to move to Kansas City
and walk the streets.’
‘Maureen. Behave yourself.’
I took a deep breath, and held it. Then I lowered my voice an octave, the way I had
been practising lately. (I had promised myself never to let my voice get shrill.)
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I’m sorry, sir. I guess I’m just another vapourish ex-virgin – I had thought I was
more grown up.’ I sighed. ‘But it does seem crass.’
‘Yes, perhaps “crass” is le mot juste. But let me tell you how it works. No one will
ask you to marry anyone. If you consent, your mother and I will submit your name to
the Foundation, along with a questionnaire that I will help you fill out. In return
they will send you a list of young men. Each man on that list will be what is called
an “eligible bachelor” – eligible quite aside from the Foundation and its money.
‘He will be young, not more than ten years older than you are, but more likely about
your age -‘
‘Fifteen?’ I was amazed. Shocked.