A Book of American Martyrs(162)

“To return to the subject of ‘Voorhees’—as I think we must do.

“The only demurral I would make regarding the heroic abortion doctor is the absurd sanctification that has followed his death. The man is not a saint, a martyr—he was a fool. Utterly foolish to act as he did, blindly, heedlessly, provoking the enemies of rationality to ‘assassinate’ him—which such assassins are delighted to do. They are desperate people—fundamentalist Christians. You can’t come between a desperate people and their God—they will tear you limb from limb. By definition, a martyr is a fool—the perpetrator of une folie.”

Madelena was white-faced, furious. Hurriedly she’d set aside her cup of tea and was on her feet.

“I told you, I won’t have you upsetting my granddaughter, Kinch. You are behaving unconscionably, and I won’t forgive you.”

“‘Granddaughter’—since when? One might be suspicious, you are playing the loving grand-mère now—so belatedly.”

“Kinch, enough. You are not amusing.”

“Oh hell—what’s wrong with what I’ve said? You’ve said as much yourself, to me. Is there a single syllable I’ve uttered, that isn’t glaringly true?”

“Naomi, come. We’re leaving.”

But Naomi was already on her feet and eager to leave.

She’d scarcely been able to breathe since Kinch had begun smoking. She felt sick to her stomach, wanting only to run out of the suffocating apartment.

This sick, selfish man had said terrible things about her father. In her confusion and distress she would not remember much of what he’d said.

“Wait, wait! Professor Kein . . .”

In his motorized chair Kinch followed Madelena and Naomi to the foyer, protesting and muttering to himself. The damned chair drew aggressively close to Naomi’s heels. By this time Sonia reappeared, to remove their coats from the closet without a word.

Kinch did not follow his departing visitors over the threshold of the doorway but called after them as they hurried to the elevator.

“Au revoir! A brief and not very satisfying visit, but I hope you will return, ma chère Naomi. Now that you know the way, you might come next time non accompagnée.”


“FORGIVE ME, NAOMI! I had no idea.”

In the cramped rear of a taxi returning to 110 Bleecker Street Madelena gripped Naomi’s hand tight. It was surprising to Naomi that the sky was still light—the sun had not yet set—for it had seemed to her that they’d been in Kinch’s airless apartment for a very long time, and it must be nighttime by now. But it was not even dusk.

“He had promised—he would not behave so badly . . .”

Madelena was very upset, wiping at her face with a tissue.

“He is unwell, you see. He has had small strokes. He has threatened suicide, if his health continues to deteriorate. I worry so for him, but I am disgusted with him. He had promised.” Madelena paused, breathing rapidly.

Saying then, with a heedless air, since Naomi remained so silent, “Well, you see—no one knows—not even my oldest friends—Karl Kinch is my son.”

Naomi wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Son?

“My second son. Younger than your father by eleven years.”

Naomi was speechless. She stared at Madelena openmouthed. Was this known within her family? Why was this not known?

“No, I haven’t told anyone in the family. You are the first to know.

“My former husband doesn’t know. Gus may have suspected—from remarks I’d made to him, from time to time . . . I mean, he may have suspected that he had a half-brother. I’d considered introducing them, more than once. Gus would have been thrilled to learn that he had a half-brother and Karl—well, he knew about Gus; fortunately there was such a gap in their ages, Karl couldn’t possibly have felt jealous. Or, if he’d felt jealous, he couldn’t have acted upon it—much.”

Naomi wasn’t making sense of most of this. She was trying to comprehend: Karl Kinch was Madelena’s son? Which meant: Karl Kinch was her uncle, or half-uncle?

“Well, I never told anyone. Some friends may suspect—something. But no one knows with certainty. ‘Kinch’ is a name randomly chosen by the father and by me—‘Kinch’ is no one’s surname. The baby—the child—lived with the father’s older sister who was eager to take care of him, in her vast, near-empty apartment on Central Park West. I visited often, but I did not live there. It was rare that I would stay overnight. I have always cherished privacy, solitude—it is the great luxury for a woman! Karl learned young to be utterly independent, indeed rebellious, and to resist authority. Until his health began to deteriorate he was remarkably independent. Of course Karl was brilliant from the start, before he could even read. It has been a kind of fate, his brilliance. Because he is also scattered in his interests, and he is easily bored. You saw how fidgety he is—he has always been that way. He was that way in the womb! He can keep a secret at least, or has kept our secret all these years—I don’t know what will become of him when his health worsens, how he will behave. Those psychotropic medications he takes are very powerful, and can corrode the personality. You might not believe it from today, but Karl is a good, kind, moral person—he is not vindictive or malicious. But when he loses control . . .”