A Book of American Martyrs(161)
He had forgotten, evidently. No one wished to remind him.
“I know a little of your father’s ‘premature’ death, Naomi. Madelena has told me.”
Naomi was feeling self-conscious beneath the scrutiny of the left, singular eye. She wished that Kinch would turn his attention back to Madelena; she wished the awkward visit would end, and she could breathe fresher air. She had tried to drink the sparkling water brought to her by Sonia but the water was tepid, and flat; and the glass was scummy.
Still Kinch was in his kindly mode. You were meant to know that this was a generous, even altruistic mode.
“‘Pro-choice’—yes! We must honor free will, even if we don’t altogether believe in it. A woman—a girl—must be free to terminate a pregnancy if she wishes. It is abominable and outrageous that the state might curtail this right, like the right to suicide—that is equally precious! In fact, abortion does not seem to me anything but a good, heroic deed. Life is the horror, abortion or miscarriage is the redemption. As Sophocles said so beautifully, ‘Never to have been born is best, but once you’ve entered this world, return as quickly as possible to the place you came from.’”
Naomi winced, hearing these words so bluntly uttered. This was hardly Gus Voorhees’s belief at all . . .
“Abortion, miscarriage—these should be more common. Pregnancy is the aberration. Our lives—lives endured in consciousness—are the evolutionary blunder. Considering our absurd ‘central nervous systems’ the wonder is that anyone is ever born.”
Kinch was speaking vehemently. So worked up, so suddenly, he fumbled for a pack of cigarettes squeezed beside his thin haunch and the side of the motorized chair; he extracted a long parchment-colored cigarette and made a snapping gesture with his fingers, that Madelena should hand him some matches from a nearby table.
Madelena pleaded: “Please don’t smoke, Kinch. You know how bad it is for your lungs. And I detest the filthy habit.”
“Many filthy habits are detested, that are nonetheless indulged. Will you hand me the matches, please?”
“No!”
“Chère Naomi, will you? This is not your grand-mère’s territory, you know. It is mine.”
Naomi hesitated. She did not want to offend Madelena.
“Will you make me call in poor oppressed Sonia, who escaped from a lesser Chekhov play to work at a minimum wage in this country, to perform an act you might perform very easily, by passing me those fucking matches?”
Naomi wondered why on earth Kinch could not get his matches for himself, since it was no great effort in his motorized chair.
A signal of disgusted resignation from Madelena freed Naomi to obey Kinch, though she had no wish to obey him.
With a sigh of sensuous relief Kinch lit his cigarette, exhaling smoke from both nostrils. His milky eye gleamed at Naomi.
“Your father—‘Augustus Voorhees’ is the rather distinguished-sounding name—was not personally known to me. We might have met—that was entirely possible. Your grandmother might have introduced us. But it did not happen. My loss, I am sure. Among many losses in ‘this disease, my life’—to paraphrase Alexander Pope.” Kinch smiled, and smoked his cigarette. He glanced at Madelena with an expression of solicitude.
“Of course—Voorhees’s death was indeed ‘premature’—a tragedy. In America, such tragedies are not uncommon. The death of an idealist, a selfless individual. That is the price the individual must pay, pitting himself against the black tide of ignorance and superstition. There is a war in the United States—there has always been this war. Those of us who are rationalists can never win for there is a stronger, more primordial and more spiteful will to American irrationality. What is it—‘my country right or wrong’—that sick, servile patriotism. And that patriotism is a God-ism, for they are all Christians. All we can hope for is to prevent a total defeat. Pockets of relative enlightenment across the country—the larger cities, where people of education and intelligence have clustered. The rest is a vast wasteland—‘religious’ and ‘patriotic.’ You venture into it at your own peril—so many of them are armed! And they carry their weapons concealed! Even if I were physically strong I would never be an activist like Gus Voorhees. The activist must be willing to die for his cause, and no ‘cause’ is worth dying for—this is what rationalism tells us. My refuge is another, more oblique sort of activism—a quest for truth . . . Madelena, why are you glaring at me like that? I am not going to blurt out any uncomfortable truth at this moment, I assure you.”
Madelena said coldly, “You’re frightening my granddaughter, speaking so harshly. And it isn’t good for your blood pressure to become over-excited, you must know.”
Kinch laughed. But it was clear that Kinch was angry.
“Your blood pressure is low, is it, Professor! Very low, I’m sure—appropriate for one who is barely alive.”
“Kinch, enough. That is not even true, as well as being insulting.”
“So? Some untruths are more interesting than truths. And many untruths become truths, in time.”
“You will drive your visitors away, Kinch. If you are not more hospitable.”
“I am hospitable! For God’s sake, it is virtually a hospital here—a hospice. You should see my bedroom—my IV line—poor Sonia is entrusted to keep clean. Among other indignities—mine as well as hers.” Kinch fluttered his hands, meaning to be funny. Ashes flew from the parchment-colored cigarette and settled on his clothing and wheelchair.