Having fun in Quebec City

In January of 1977, I was working at a new strip club in Quebec City; the first feature booking of my exotic dance career. I had not been feeling well for several weeks before that and my stomach upsets were not letting up. I was convinced that worrying about the affair with my ex, Jake, had caused an ulcer. My life, in the past seven months, had been a series of ups and downs, disappointments and highs. At my last booking, just a week ago, a friend of his came to the club I was dancing at and told me that Jake's wife was pregnant and her family would destroy him financially if he ever left her.

I left that booking, slipping out of town, without leaving Jake word on where I was going next, hoping that would end things and we could both get on with our lives. I couldn't take the uncertainty of our relationship anymore and he was becoming overly suspicious and jealous of me, always insisting I explain every person I spoke with and accounting for every minute of my life even though I was never allowed to question the time he spent with his wife.

I had told all my woes to my new friend, Jean Luc, the Master of Ceremonies at the club I where was now working. He listened to my painful story and patiently handed me tissues as I cried throughout the whole week.

On Saturday night after the club closed, Jean Luc and his lover, Sol, invited me to breakfast. I had to beg off. Just the thought of eating greasy breakfast food made me gag.

During the previous week, after my bout of illness after our Christmas Eve meal, Jean Luc brought me a hot plate, a cup, and a little tea kettle. He gave me a packet of peppermint tea bags and promised they would cure what ailed me.

The tea certainly helped calm my stomach once in a while, however, it was not going to cure what ailed me. On Sunday I was sick all day long and Jean Luc had finally reached his limit with my excuse du jour, which seemed to change every day.

“I think I’m developing an ulcer.

“It might be low blood sugar.

“Maybe I’m just hungry.

“That meal didn’t agree with me.

And finally, “It might be the water.”

“No. No more excuses. You get dressed. We are going to the Hopital. If you have an ulcer you need to be treated.”

We took a cab to the Emergency Room entrance of the Chauveau Hospital. Jean Luc marched me in and took me to the admissions clerk, to whom he presented his Canadian Healthcare card and told the clerk that his wife, me, was experiencing abdominal pain and constant vomiting for going on three weeks.

“I’ll need to see your wife’s Healthcare card,” she asked.

Jean Luc brushed her off and said, “She is a new immigrant, and her card has not yet arrived. I will take responsibility for the bill.”

That seemed to satisfy the clerk and she passed him a clipboard with paperwork. We sat down and filled in all the appropriate lines, then handed it back over to the desk to her.

“Thank you, Honey,” I joked.

“My boyfriend is going to be angry, now when he finds I am married. To a woman, no less.” He replied acerbically.

When they called me back to the examining room, I offered Jean Luc the opportunity to accompany me. He turned pasty white and declined.

“No. I think it is better for me to not be in the way.” He said, fanning himself delicately with his handkerchief.

The examining doctor spoke English as a first language, which made it much easier for me to understand what was going on. The first thing he surmised was that I was pregnant and wanted both a urine and a blood sample.

I would happily pee for him. But get poked with a needle? Oh, God. I hated needles and have run out of doctors’ offices half-dressed to avoid getting simple vaccinations. Take blood? Out of my arm? With a real needle? Oh, my.

I complied with his first request, but when the phlebotomist came in for the blood sample I started crying.

“There, there,” the phlebotomist said, as he patted my hand. “I’m very good. I promise this will only pinch a little.”

I thought he was patting my hand to calm me down- the vampire was just looking for a juicy vein. Damn him.

Having done the dirty deed to me, he took his midnight snack back to his coffin. The doctor in charge pulled the curtains around the examination table and told me to remove my jeans and underwear so he could conduct an internal exam. Oh, shit- this just got better and better.

He pulled out the trusty stirrups and snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. Then he applied lubricant to what looked to me like a giant piece of metal construction equipment.

“Oh, my God- what are you going to do with that?” I squeaked.

“You’ve never had an internal exam before?”

“Yes, but not with veterinary equipment.”

“All right. Let me find a child’s speculum.”

The next piece of equipment he lubed up looked a bit more plausible and I counted the holes in the ceiling tiles as he had his way with me.

He palpated my abdomen and announced, “I can tell without the tests that you are definitely pregnant. But we will wait for the testing to be certain. I would say you are a month and a half along.”

“What? No. I can’t be. I’ve been on the pill, and we always used a condom.” I protested, tears leaking down the sides of my cheeks.

“Well, I would say a very determined little sperm made it through the defensive line for a touchdown. Congratulations, Mrs. Moreau.” He said, thinking this was a happy occasion.

He left me to get dressed in teary silence. Then, came back to hand me a number to call for the test results during the week. I was summarily dismissed to the waiting room where I collapsed on Jean Luc and cried my eyes out.

“Oh, dear,” he whispered, “bad news?”

“The worst. The worst.” I cried, “Oh, God. Jean Luc, I’m pregnant.”

Jean Luc called a cab from the waiting room and helped me out to it. On the long ride back to the hotel he asked, “Are you going to call the father and let him know?”

“What? No. No. Why would I do that?” I erupted.

“Don’t you believe he deserves to know?”

“No. He deserves my boot up his ass. That’s what that lying, cheating, phony piece of shit deserves.” I yelled loudly enough to startle the driver.

“Mon Dieu!” The driver turned around to make sure we weren’t strangling each other.

“You are not being fair,” Jean Luc insisted, “a man should know.”

“A man should not be sleeping with two women at the same time and getting both of them pregnant. If he was a man, he wouldn’t be using us both.” I pointed out caustically. “He gets nothing from me. I’m finished with him.”

“Well, according to the doctor you are not finished with this man.”

I slumped against my side of the cab and stared out the window at the snow falling as we made our way across the city to the hotel.

“Son of a bitch, Jean Luc. I’m just getting my feet under me with my dancing, and this happens. I used to have an agent who asked me once if I ever had anything but bad luck.”

“What will your agent Misty, say about this?” He asked.

“I haven’t even thought that far ahead. I’ll tell you what though, her daughter got pregnant, and she barely speaks to her.”

“Oh, my, it doesn’t sound like she will be happy with you.”

“I’m afraid to even tell her,” I said as the cab pulled up to the hotel.

Jean Luc kindly walked me to my room offering to stay and keep me company. I just needed alone time to sort out my feelings.

“Thanks for everything, Jean Luc, but I need to sit and think about this and try to figure it out. I will see you tomorrow,” I said as I quickly bussed his cheeks and hugged him.

He took the cab to his boyfriend’s apartment, leaving me to consider my options alone. In 1976 there were options for women who didn’t want to remain pregnant and in the United States, those options were legal. I may have been a bad Catholic, but I was still Catholic, and life was sacred. God may forgive me for sleeping with a married man, however, I wasn’t so sure I would deserve forgiveness for seeking an abortion. Taking a life was a mortal sin, a one-way ticket straight to hell.

I got undressed and laid down under the frilly bedspread. I rested my palms on my stomach imagining a living being inside of me- sort of a miracle, really.

“All right, little guy, or girl, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” I whispered more to myself than to the peanut-sized person inside of me and tried to sleep.

After tossing and turning for several hours I finally got up and made a cup of tea, hoping it wouldn’t come right back up again. Then, I rummaged through the suitcase with my street clothes and pulled out the unopened letter from Jake that he had passed along to me at the last club I worked at. Probably a terrible time to read it in my confused state of mind.

I sat at the makeup vanity and carefully opened the letter. Hands shaking and tears stinging my eyes, I read the contents, then folded the paper up carefully. Jake always knew just the right words to use on me. He, however, had a problem with doing the right things. He designed his life around his own needs, freedom, and feminine companionship without commitment. Even with his marriage, he believed that an occasional visit to “stay in touch”, was all he needed.

It would be impossible for any woman to spend time with Jake fawning over them and not believe he didn’t want more than the occasional romp with them. His beautiful touch matched his flowery words, making it impossible for me to think straight for the past seven months. I had been head over heels in love with him from almost the first moment I met him during only my third week in Canada.

He was medium height, compact, and deceptively strong, with dark, almost black eyes and ebony hair, his sexy Italian features drew me to him like a magnet. An asshole magnet, but a magnet none the less. I had to literally fight off another dancer to get to him. Everywhere we went together women noticed him. My hackles were always on guard for competition with other females when we weren’t alone. When he had to go home to spend time with his wife, I thought I was going to die. He was making me miserable and I couldn't take it anymore.

I brewed another cup of peppermint tea and lit a cigarette, which suddenly made me gag. Yuck. Was there something wrong with that pack? It tasted salty and weird, so I stubbed it out and couldn’t get the smell out of my nose. The ashtray was making me sick, so I dumped it into the toilet and flushed down the smelly ashes. I couldn’t stand to wash it out, so I set it outside my door.

Propping a few pillows behind my shoulders I finally fell asleep with one hand cupped protectively over my tummy and the other hand clutching the letter, undecided about either.