A Book of American Martyrs(155)

Your Kitty-Kat

Naomi’s heart beat hard in childish fury, resentment. Your Kitty-Kat. She hoped that Jenna had never known.

(And what did it mean—Hoping J. is all right. Obviously “J” was Jenna. Had Jenna been ill, had Jenna found out that her husband was having an affair with a mutual friend, had Jenna been upset, angry, humiliated? Resigned?)

Abruptly then the messages from Kat ceased. There were other suggestive and enigmatic notes from Val, Roslyn, Stuart (judging by the context this had to be a female: Gus, we have to talk. I wasn’t altogether truthful on the phone, I think each of us owes the other an explanation). These Naomi read in disbelief and disdain, hurriedly, crumpled in her hand, but did not set aside . . .

Had Jenna known? Had Jenna been hurt?

It was not clear that these were full-fledged affairs. (Naomi told herself.) Just as likely flirtations that had come to nothing.

Yet: those years when Jenna was pointedly quiet, or distracted, or (intermittently) depressed; even at mealtimes when Gus was home with his family, exuding the warm genial always-entertaining personality that so captivated his children.

They’d sensed their mother’s unhappiness—she and Darren. But like the shrewdly selfish children they were, they had not wanted to inquire.

And if they’d inquired Jenna would have said she had a “migraine,” or—“Too much damned work to do, for which I’m paid less than the minimum wage.”

Laughing then, to show them that she wasn’t complaining really.

Wasn’t depressed or furious really.

You could not help but love Daddy best—of course.

You could not help but forgive Daddy for being himself—of course.

Naomi was sure (sure!) that she couldn’t recall a single exchange between her parents in which Jenna had even obliquely accused Gus of being unfaithful to her—unless it was Jenna’s silence that was the accusation.

It was rare that their parents quarreled. If a voice was raised it was Gus’s voice, penetrating the bedroom walls. Often Daddy was exasperated, not angry. Daddy was never mean.

Nor had they heard Jenna crying. Naomi was sure.

She would call Darren! He might know who “Kitty-Kat” was, in Grand Rapids.

Possibly, the mother of a friend or classmate. (Who was “Carrie”?)

Naomi was sitting on the floor unpacking the box, that had been haphazardly packed. Telling herself that she was grateful to have received it. Telling herself that she was not beginning to panic.

Gamely she was sorting out material, dividing it into piles. Whit Smith had included much that was impersonal, and of no interest—as if he’d dumped drawers into the box without glancing at them.

She didn’t remember Whit Smith, of course—her father’s colleague in Grand Rapids. She’d been too young.

A succession of Daddy’s colleagues, co-workers, young assistants. At mealtimes, sometimes staying overnight on a pull-out sofa. Gus thought nothing of arriving home at 6:00 P.M. with a guest, or two guests, in tow—Jenna! Hope it isn’t too late for dinner . . . I’ll open some wine.

And Jenna would say Of course! Come right in.

One of these visitors had surely been Whit Smith. Another might have been “Kat.”

Naomi’s head was beginning to ache. She’d become overwhelmed by the material that had initially excited her. Trying to draw conclusions about her father’s (personal, professional) life from random items that overlapped, to a degree, with similarly random material she’d acquired from other sources . . . Looking through the pocket-sized appointments books she felt a sensation of vertigo. These well-worn and frayed little books had lived inside her father’s clothing. Near his heart.

There had to be a number of individuals who knew or could shrewdly guess what these entries meant, as they would know who “Kat” and the other women were. But if initials were identified, to what purpose?

The more she knew of the dailiness, the minutiae, of her father’s life, the more that life was eluding her. From a distance she could see the contours of an intriguing landscape while up close she could see virtually nothing.

By this time numerous others had written about Gus Voorhees in a range of publications—The Nation, Mother Jones, Atlantic. Most had written with impressive knowledge of the Planned Parenthood/pro-choice community in the United States in the latter decades of the twentieth century, in which Gus Voorhees had been a prominent figure: he’d been “fearless”—he’d been “controversial.” These were observers who’d known Gus personally and professionally, who’d been friends of his, or friendly acquaintances; individuals who weren’t afraid to be critical of him even when admiring of him.

Also by this time several other abortion providers had been murdered by right-to-life activists and many others injured or threatened. Abortion clinics had been vandalized, firebombed. All these had been covered in the media. The most concerted anti-abortion efforts were now political, waged in state legislatures and in state elections, and not confrontational.

Risky to open one of her father’s little notebooks and to see his familiar slanted handwriting. Even if she had no idea what the words meant. 9/6/91 Ob mtg C.H.T. office 4:30 PM. 6/23/93 10:30 AM Rackham 313-447-1766. (This was a Detroit-area number, she might call. But so many years had passed!) There were pages of lists, dates, initials and abbreviations in which even K was lost—an indecipherable code she could never crack.