A Book of American Martyrs(53)

I saw that my prissy brother would have his way. He would have his way, so that we had to worry about him.

Hiking along the beach, and along a muddy inlet, where shorebirds swarmed and shrieked, for something had died there. A briny soft-rotting odor, shell-less things, unprotected flesh about which iridescent insects buzzed antic with life.

Frantic with life.

Nobody’s baby chooses to die.

Your nostrils pinched, you felt a gagging sensation and quickly turned away.

We watched Darren paddle along the shore. Rough, choppy waves. He’d become a skilled kayaker, our father had instructed him. He did not glance back at us but surely he felt our eyes on him.

Meanly I thought—I hope he capsizes.

I did not want my brother to drown. (I think.) But I would have smiled if Darren had capsized in the kayak.

Except they’d have run to him. Both our parents would have waded out into the surf, to “save” him.

The hard-packed sand made walking difficult. And the wind taking away our breaths like a wet mouth sucking at our mouths. We hiked behind our parents who were speaking earnestly together—my little sister and me, hand in hand—(I had taken Melissa’s small hand, I loved to feel that small hand in mine and to tug my sister a little faster)—overhearing fragments of our parents’ conversation.

Why did you come today, Jenna?

I—don’t know.

You brought the children. It was premediated.

I don’t know, Gus. I don’t think so.

But you do know.

I think—it was to show them—something . . .

And did that happen? What you’d intended?

No. Or—I don’t know.

And for a while they walked in silence, and I saw that my father was gripping my mother’s hand and that they were walking close together, awkwardly close together so that they were thrown just slightly off balance, and yet they continued to walk in that way, ducking their heads against the wind that tore at my mother’s hair in particular loosening wisps and tendrils about her forehead. And I would think then, as I would think through my life, there are connections between people, there are secret connections between people who are essentially strangers to you, you can’t know, can’t guess. And you can’t judge.

Was it a bomb, Gus?

I’ve told you—no.

I mean, something amateur that didn’t work—obviously. You can tell me.

I did tell you, Jenna: it was not a bomb.

But was it meant to be a bomb? Meant to kill you all?

Meant to frighten us, intimidate us. But it was a false alarm.

Have there been others?

Here? St. Croix? No.

But elsewhere?

Maybe.

Ann Arbor? Grand Rapids?

Maybe . . .

Don’t you think that you’ve proved a point, Gus? That you could stop now?

“Proved a point”—? What point? I’m a doctor. I help people who need me.

There are other doctors. Younger doctors.

You’re asking me to give up? Would you really respect me, then?

It wouldn’t be giving up. It would be letting other people take over. Return to a normal clinical practice.

In Ann Arbor?

Yes! Well—anywhere.

Jenna, I will—I’ve promised. But not just yet.

“Savior of the desperate” . . .“crusader” . . . It’s like emotional blackmail, they won’t let you go.

Look, I can’t brood over my work each time there’s a crisis. That’s not the way I am.

But you’re not just yourself—“Gus Voorhees.” You are our children’s father, and you are my husband.

My work is my mission for now—that’s it.

Today might have been the end . . .

Jenna, there are threats all the time. We are not going to be intimidated.

The children were frightened today—they will have questions for me tomorrow, I’m sure.

Children take their emotional cues from their parents. They will be looking to their mother to know what to feel.

I have to hide from them what I feel! You know that.

Just explain to them—their father is committed to his work, and there are ideological enemies . . .

“Ideological”!—they’re vicious, fanatics. Army of God they call themselves.

But the law is protecting us. The law is on our side.

The law can’t protect you twenty-four hours a day.

That’s just to intimidate.

They’ve shot doctors. They’ve sent mail bombs . . .

Those terrorists have been apprehended. They’re in prison.

You don’t think there are more? Of course there are more—Soldiers of God they call themselves.

Jenna, please. This was meant to be a day off . . .

You’ve seen the publications? The lists?—WANTED: BABY KILLERS AMONG US. And “Dr. Gus Voorhees” is high on that list.

I told you not to look at that garbage! For Christ’s sake.

Not look, and pretend they aren’t there?

I don’t give a damn about the lists or the threats. I don’t pay any attention to them. And I’m not going to quit because I’ve been frightened.

Then you admit—you’ve been frightened?

You aren’t quitting your work, Jenna. I’m not quitting mine.