A Book of American Martyrs(143)

She’d become hypersensitive to a certain expression in a stranger’s face, that look of startled recognition, and pity, and a kind of covert excitement, that “Naomi Voorhees” was surely the daughter of “Gus Voorhees” who’d acquired, since his death, a mythic-heroic reputation in leftist political circles in the Midwest, and was revered by activists involved in the reform of legislation involving women’s reproductive rights.

She’d become particularly alert to the (literal) approach of such individuals. Invariably they were middle-aged, or older; female more often than male.

Naomi—is it? I didn’t know your father personally, but—I admired Gus Voorhees very much.

How could you reply to such a statement except with a pained

Thank you.

Dreading the next remark—What a tragedy! That terrible man! What became of him—he’s in prison, I hope?

Wanting only to flee. But too polite to turn her back and walk away.

Resenting having to speak of Luther Dunphy. Even indirectly, obliquely. Having to concede that yes, Dunphy was in prison in Ohio, and alive.

Resentment she felt too, having to be as Gus Voorhees’s daughter so damned good.

No doubt this was why Jenna had retreated from public life, and so abruptly. Canceling engagements, resigning positions, shocking and disappointing comrades who’d seen in Gus Voorhees’s widow a means of extending Gus Voorhees’s work.

Emails sent without apology. No more able to fulfill obligations, you must look elsewhere.

That did not explain why Jenna had also retreated from her own children. From family life.

Naomi had never told Darren what their mother had said to her when she’d left the house in Birmingham that morning. I can’t be your “Mommy” any longer. No more.

And worse. Gus has ceased to exist and Gus is not coming back.

He’d hated Jenna already. (Unfairly?) She did not want him to hate her more.

Soon after she’d left her children with their grandparents in Birmingham Jenna had been hospitalized (in Chicago) with severe anemia, exhaustion, malnutrition. She’d been diagnosed with a rare (autoimmune) disorder in which food was not being properly digested in her stomach. There had been a possibility of permanent liver damage.

In the hospital, Jenna had wanted no visitors. It was believed (by her father-and mother-in-law in Birmingham) that her own parents, who lived in nearby Evanston, had visited her regularly; but no one else had been welcome in her hospital room.

Jenna had recovered, to a degree. She’d told them that her health was “shaky” but “stabilized.” After she’d been discharged from the hospital she hadn’t chosen to return to Birmingham, or to Ann Arbor, but to live elsewhere, initially in New York City, and then in Vermont.

There was a cell phone number for Jenna, and there was an email address. But these did not make her readily accessible to Naomi.

Shortly after the New Year, as the date of Dunphy’s execution approached, Naomi began calling Darren more frequently.

Darren did not always answer the phone. He did not always return her calls. But when he did, it (sometimes) seemed to Naomi that there was someone with him in the place in rural Washington State which she could not envision.

Once or twice she’d heard a voice—voices—in the background. She was certain. But when she’d asked Darren who was with him he’d replied coldly—Sorry. That’s my business.

She felt a stab of acute jealousy. Could Darren be—in love?

That was not possible. She was sure. Darren might (maybe) have a sexual relationship with someone—but even that wasn’t likely. Not a sustained relationship. No.

If Darren was a twin of hers he would shrink instinctively from another’s touch.

She understood that her brother was not so sympathetic with her any longer. Their only link (she feared) was their parents—Gus’s death, Jenna’s departure and estrangement.

He’d fled the Midwest, he told her, to put distance between himself and family history.

How could he do that!—Naomi had been horrified.

Especially, Darren said, he didn’t want to talk about Luther Dunphy if he could avoid it.

But he couldn’t avoid it! Not with the execution scheduled.

He felt the way she did, didn’t she?—Naomi had to ask.

Waiting for Dunphy to die? Yes.

Darren had laughed harshly. It was a shameful admission, somehow—waiting for another person to die.

She’d asked him if anyone from the Chillicothe prison had contacted him. He was over twenty-one, he could be an observer at the execution if he’d wished.

Darren had been shocked at the suggestion. “Jesus! No.”

She’d shocked him further by saying that she could imagine herself attending the execution—maybe.

“Fuck you would, Naomi. That’s bullshit.”

“It’s just that I hate him so much. I hate all of them—‘Dunphys.’”

The very name was repellent to her. A rush of something like nausea overcame her, seeing Dunphy in print.

As the widow of the murdered man Jenna must have been contacted by the prison authority. She had not mentioned this to either Naomi nor Darren—but then, they were not often in touch.

Of course, Jenna would never have considered observing an execution for a moment.

She’d explained on several occasions—“Gus opposed the death penalty. I do, too. Executing that man will not bring back Gus.”