My novel, "Three Generations," tells the parallel stories of three different women -- in 1927, 1979, and 2011. This is the opening scene of the 1979 story, with a section heading noting it as "Monday mid-afternoon, New York City":
“DIE, you baby killers!” the woman screamed from across the street, her silver cross jostling with each thrust of her picket sign. “You monsters will burn in Hell for this!”
Bev hurried into the clinic, past the reception area and through a set of double doors, far away from the angry woman and her crowd of apostles. Second time this week, Bev sighed, and it’s only Monday. Her weekend shift had been just as bad.
Dr. Lillian Beverly Sterling — known commonly as Bev, but sometimes as Doc and most recently by a few epithets most well-raised women wouldn’t repeat in public — was named after her maternal grandmother. Thankfully she had her strength of character as well. Today she was going to need it.
She didn’t usually let the protesters get to her, but she felt the acute sting of hatred from this crowd in particular. Walking down the back hallway toward the physicians’ locker room, she mentally ticked off the patients she knew would be coming. The second shift at the clinic brought the working-class women unavailable earlier in the day, the students coming after class, and the rare wife or girlfriend accompanied by their partner.
Bev continued down the corridor, pausing briefly to acknowledge some patients visibly shaken by the ordeal of getting past the protesters. Abortion had been legalized in New York in 1970, but ever since the Supreme Court’s nation-wide ruling in Roe v. Wade, the opposition had been galvanized. Now, six years since Roe, the protests were daily and getting through the front doors seemed more difficult than ever.
“Dr. Sterling, a moment?”
Bev looked up, surprised to see the handsome Dr. Nicholas Linden walking toward her. “How nice of you to grace us with your presence,” she said flatly. “Rent past due?”
“Nope. Here to evict the old widow next door,” he replied with that stupid smirk of his. Nicholas wasn’t nearly as charming as he thought.
“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Sterling, I don’t sit around all day twirling the ends of my sinister moustache,” Nicholas said, pretending to twist the ends of an imaginary moustache. “I do have a job.”
Bev sighed. Not nearly as charming at all.
Seeming to sense her impatience, Nicholas pointed to a couple of chairs lining the corridor. “Do you mind if we sit?”
Watching him slide his lithe, bronzed body into the metal folding chair, Bev wondered how the thirty-something Manhattan hot shot could be so tan already. Tennis on the weekends? It was only April, a little early to have played much. Skin toner? Doubtful, but not entirely out of the question. Winter home in Miami? That seemed more likely. Especially for a member of the Linden family, who had enough money for warm playgrounds across the country. And enough seats on the hospital Board to be a thorn in her side, constantly trying to re-direct clinic funding toward their own pet projects.
Still standing, Bev glanced down at her pale legs. At thirty-two, she retained the taut skin of youth, albeit one spent predominantly indoors studying. Years struggling to get into, afford, and then succeed in medical school had left little time for fun. She considered the carefree cad sitting before her. Rich little prick.
“If you’re waiting for an engraved invitation, the mail doesn’t arrive for another forty-five minutes,” Nicholas said, pointing to the chair beside him.
Bev opened her mouth to respond, then closed it and sat down. “Not worth it,” she muttered, mostly to herself.
Nicholas smiled. Why was he always smiling? Or grinning? Or smirking?
“Thanks to our fan club in the parking lot, I’m already behind schedule,” she said, “so make it snappy.”
Nicholas grew somber. “Sorry about them. As much money as you all divert from my pre-natal unit, you know my beef with the clinic isn’t on ideological grounds. I don’t play religious politics.” Dr. Linden was an OB/GYN at Northern Manhattan Medical Center, the main hospital two blocks away. And like his father and grandfather, he was one of the financial hawks on its Board.
“Right,” Bev replied. “The anti-abortion nuts want to save souls by damning us. You’re just after our paychecks and budget.”
Nicholas winced, ever so slightly, then brushed his sandy blonde hair out of his eyes. Those damn protesters had gotten her so riled up, maybe she’d crossed a line.
Removing her glasses, Bev massaged the bridge of her nose. “Look,” she said quietly, “I’ve been in the building less than five minutes and I’m already getting a headache. Maybe we can skip the banter and talk about whatever’s on your mind. I’d like to get to my first patient before she lets the crazies outside convince her that control over her own body isn’t worth eternal damnation.”
“The thing about eternal damnation,” interrupted the sturdy woman in the white coat hovering above them, “is that it’s just so hard to get a good filet mignon in Hell.”
Both Bev and Nicholas jumped to their feet at the sight of Dr. Martha Rosen, the clinic’s chief physician and undisputed authority on anything and everything, including Hell and steaks, apparently. Standing tall, her strong frame added to her stature. Her blondish-reddish hair, thick and frizzy around her face, took on a golden tint as it reflected the fluorescent lights. She looked like a lioness about to rip into her prey.
“Good to see you, Dr. Rosen,” Bev said to her mentor, ignoring Nicholas.
“Dr. Sterling,” the older woman replied evenly. “Go see your patient before the protesters scare her off. And take some aspirin.”
Shooting Nicholas a smug look, Bev accepted the free pass and exited the conversation.
“You. Sit,” Dr. Rosen said, pointing to Nicholas. “I have some thoughts to share about a certain call I received this morning.”
As Bev walked down the hall, she turned to see the two doctors engaged in an animated debate. When Rosen noticed Bev watching, she shot her a sharp look, clearly suggesting Bev move along.
Before turning the corner, Bev couldn’t resist one last peek. She saw Dr. Rosen shaking her head furiously, pointing her index finger alternately in the air and then at Nicholas. Say what you will about “Ramrod Rosen,” as she was less-than-affectionately known, she never let anyone get the best of her. Especially a slick pup like Nicholas. Whatever they were discussing, it was clear she was out for blood.
Bev just wished she could stick around to see the carnage.