A Book of American Martyrs(70)
A woman who has lost her husband is invalid, thus an invalid.
In reverse the little journey was repeated. Leaving the morgue, entering the elevator. Silence of her companions in deference to her condition of invalidism.
(Did they exchange glances? She did not see but perhaps she sensed.)
At the first floor the elevator stopped, the door opened. The friends who’d driven her from Michigan were waiting for her—for a fleeting instant she would wonder why they were here, in this strange place.
In her face that was taut and drained of blood and yet resolute they saw that some decision had been made in the netherworld below. A crossing-over, a point of no return.
Almost brightly she informed them yes, it was Gus. Of course. “And how surprised Gus would be, to see you here—in Ohio.”
She was staggering in a surf that had not seemed so threatening until now. She was keeping her balance by an exertion of arms, legs, uplifted head. She knew she must speak to their friends. She must console them, they’d had such a shock. It was a widow’s duty, at this awkward juncture.
“You know what Gus would say—exactly what Gus would say—seeing that you’re all here, let’s find a good place for dinner before we start back home.”
THE FACE WAS NOT a face but a raw wound. The mouth was gone, there was nothing to kiss. The eyes were gone. I think that I had planned to lie beside him and hold him if he was cold or frightened in this strange place but that was not possible. The terrible thing that had been done to him had torn him almost in two. If I had not known that this was Gus, I could not have identified him. But it was possible to see in the devastated face something of Gus’s face. He had been so handsome! In The Tibetan Book of the Dead it is said that the deceased soul remains in or near the body, in the Bardo state, for twenty days. And so, Gus might have been there, still. Though he would have laughed at me—he didn’t believe in the soul outliving the body. He was a materialist, a scientist. Yet he was an idealist. He did believe that we were spiritual beings—only that our spirits did not outlive our bodies.
Then, it was a sudden concern, that with Gus gone, the children would be taken from me. Under a state law, of which we’d known nothing beforehand. And I think—then—I began to break down, and may have begun crying, trying to explain to whoever it was, who was with me—trying to explain that the children were ours equally—their father’s and mine—and that they should not be taken from me, I would be a good mother to them—“Please believe me . . .”
REJOICE!
BABY KILLER SHOT DOWN IN OHIO
VICTORY FOR JESUS
REJOICE, THE BABY KILLER VOORHEES HAS BEEN STOPPED!
In a trance of horror and loathing he discovered such proclamations. Such revelations in luridly printed newsletters, bulletins and newspapers that made their way into the mailbox or were discovered shoved beneath a weathered welcome mat or the very windshield wiper of his mother’s car.
He could not stop himself from turning the pages. He could not stop himself from reading what was, so unbelievably, there to be read. Each time extracting from himself a promise to stop, to not succumb another time. But he could not.
Once, he would discover a cardboard box of these publications, in the trunk of a minivan belonging to a lawyer friend of his father’s. Accumulating evidence—it was explained.
Army of God, Christians Awake!, National Coalition of Life Activists, L.I.F.E. America, Children of Jesus, National Right to Life, US United for Life, Crusade for Life, Gospel of Light, Heritage Life Ministries, Libertarian Activists for Life, Midwest Coalition for Life, National League for Life.
In what would have seemed to the casual eye ordinary, small-town newspapers: ABORTION-DOCTOR-MURDERER VOORHEES SHOT DOWN IN OHIO
ABORTION-DOCTOR-MURDERER PREVENTED FROM PERFORMING ANY MORE ABORTIONS!
NOTORIOUS BABY KILLER VOORHEES DIES, OHIO ABORTION CLINIC
OPERATION RESCUE CLAIMS VICTORY
REJOICE! ANOTHER ABORTION-MURDERER HAS CEASED HIS EVIL
SOLDIER OF JESUS IN POLICE CUSTODY FOLLOWING OHIO SHOOTING
DEFENSE FUND FOR LUTHER DUNPHY SEND CHECKS, MONEY ORDERS, CASH C/O ARMY OF GOD AMERICA Accompanying these lurid words were photographs of his father. The likenesses of Gus Voorhees were unsmiling and grim and not Gus Voorhees as Darren recalled him for some seemed to have been defaced, disfigured.
Yet there was one photograph, had to have been a family snapshot—(but how had his father’s enemies acquired it?)—Gus Voorhees standing cross-armed in front of a white brick wall, in a khaki jacket, smiling tensely, squinting in the sun. Strangely, his father appeared older in this picture than he’d ever been in life, his hair more silver—Darren was sure.
Baby Killer Voorhees Gone to His Reward in Hell Months ago, a year or more ago, his father had extracted from Darren a promise never to read the anti-abortion propaganda. Not ever.
He’d asked Why and his father squeezed his shoulder with a pained smile saying Because I’m asking you, Darren. Please.
The enemy. Anti-abortion activists. Threats. Ugly images. Just ignore.
Darren hadn’t quite realized, his beloved father Gus Voorhees was a particular target in these publications. In his childish naiveté he’d imagined, or perhaps he had wished to imagine, that the hostility was ideological, political.
Their beliefs are contrary to ours, Gus had explained. The debate will have to be hammered out in the voting booths of America.