A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Our mother laughed, uneasily. Our father was kneading her hand, the delicate bones of the back of her hand, harder than he meant to do, so that she pulled away from him, but not emphatically enough to free her hand.

  There was a sexual heat between them, the strain of things not-said, and the strain of playing out a scene in front of (child) witnesses.

  Speaking carefully our mother was explaining why we’d come to St. Croix instead of driving to The Cove: there’d been the “domestic crisis” of the station wagon and the five-months expired sticker. Like a TV Mom she laughed, baring her teeth. “Your sharp-eyed son discovered it—fortunately. He thinks I might have been arrested.”

  Darren protested, “I didn’t say that.”

  “Five months expired! Christ. Good for you, Darren.”

  Darren shifted his shoulders uncomfortably as if he thought our father might be teasing him. Slyly I said, “You did say Mom might be arrested. I heard you.”

  “I did not.”

  In her subdued voice, in her chastised voice, our mother was telling our father that if he thought it was a better idea, he should remain at the Center, and not trouble to take us to lunch. “It’s been upsetting here. Even a false alarm is upsetting. You might want to assure your staff . . .”

  Quickly our father said of course not, he had no intention of altering his plans for the afternoon. He had set aside a block of time for lunch at Lake Huron—two hours. His Wednesday afternoons were usually kept free for nonclinical matters. He had a late-afternoon meeting and would be at the Center until around 7:00 P.M. and the next day was solidly scheduled with medical appointments and the day after that he would be flying to Washington, D.C., for a conference at the NIH—the National Institutes of Health.

  “I see you so rarely, all of you together—this is a special occasion. A family excursion.”

  “But—”

  “No. It’s private life. Only a true emergency could derail it.”

  Then, after a pause: “We don’t let these people intimidate us.”

  Quickly our mother spoke, before one of us could ask who these people might be, “I know that, Gus. Of course.”

  “We never do. We don’t miss a beat. We don’t publicize what we do, if we can avoid it.”

  “You are right. I know. Yes.”

  “Here’s the key to the Volvo, Jen. Just wait in the car and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t interact with the picketers—they might know about the incident, or they might not. We don’t interact with them.”

  “Of course, I know! I know—‘we don’t interact with the enemy.’”

  WE DROVE to Lake Huron that afternoon, after all. The family excursion had not been deflected.

  In our father’s Volvo and with our father at the wheel.

  For here was authority, and here was comfort. Here was the familiar, which is comfort.

  And at the shore of Lake Huron, beyond a beach strewn with pebbles and kelp, near-deserted on this gusty day, the incandescent sky opened dazzlingly before us.

  Like the lifting of headache. A tight band around the head that is the band of pain.

  Whatever might have happened, did not happen.

  This is happiness. This is love.

  The Cove was not so attractive as we’d recalled. Perhaps it had been battered in a recent storm. A loose sign swung and banged in the wind, annoying to our mother. Yet it was wonderful to be seated out on the deck of the restaurant, overlooking the lake—so vast a lake, the farther shore of Ontario, Canada, was not visible.

  A faint horizon, hazy and ill-defined—you had to imagine a farther shore.

  My father declared that this was a “surprise, celebratory” lunch—a “birthday lunch” for our mother. He had not yet purchased her present (he said) but had something very special in mind, which she would discover next week, on her proper birthday.

  “Gus, thank you! I love you.”

  “We all love you.”

  Below The Cove was a dock where rowboats, canoes, kayaks were for rent. But Lake Huron was rough that day, and the air was chilly for mid-June, and there were few customers.

  Still, Darren wanted to take out a kayak, in defiance of our mother who would worry about him.

  “Mom, Jesus! I’ll be fine.”

  “Why don’t you and Dad go in a double kayak?”

  “There aren’t any double kayaks here.”

  “Well—a canoe?”

  But Darren didn’t want to take out a canoe. We saw that Dad was disappointed, by the genial way in which he supported Darren, that was meant to show he was not disappointed.

  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 o
f 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.

  My work is—theoretical! No one even knows my name. But “Dr. Gus Voorhees” is a name everyone knows.

  That’s a mistake. I’m sorry about that. But I’ve been moving around. I don’t stay in one place. And when I leave a clinic, things quiet down—as in Grand Rapids.

  All I can think is if that bomb had gone off today, your children wouldn’t have a father.

  I’ve told you, it wasn’t a bomb—actually.

  What was it then?

  A clumsy threat. A mockery.

  A mockery?

  A Bible verse . . .

  A Bible verse?

  A hand-printed message taped to the alarm clock—“Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image.”

  That’s a threat . . .

  Of course it’s a threat. But I am not “threatened.”

  Gus, you have to report that to the St. Croix police! The Michigan State Police . . .

  We’ve reported other threats. The police know.

  What other threats?

  Anywhere. Everywhere. Abortion clinics. The police know, including the state police.

  But this threat, today . . .

  There are hundreds—thousands—of threats against abortion clinics. We’re not going to back down.

  The staff at the Center—how must they feel!

  I’ve told them I would understand if anyone wants to quit. And I’m sure that there will be some . . .

  Well—other doctors quit, who’ve been doing what you’ve been doing for more than ten years. You’d promised—after Saginaw . . .

  But not immediately.

  A year? Two years?

  Two years is too soon. That isn’t realistic.

  You will say—“Three years is too soon!” Your children should mean more to you than these strangers . . .

  Of course they do. Don’t be ridiculous, Jenna.

  I’m not being ridiculous! There have been abortion doctors murdered—clinics bombed. It will happen again, such terrible things are said on television, that should be outlawed . . .

  There are people who support us, too. We have many supporters. Try to see this as a mission—that will have an end, in another five years perhaps . . .

  Five years! That is wholly unrealistic. The first thing Reagan said when he was inaugurated was, he intended to reverse Roe v. Wade . . .

  But it didn’t happen. It won’t happen.

  It certainly can! If the Republicans get a majority—if there’s a Republican President . . .

  Look, Jenna: our children will see that we have beliefs. That we don’t give up.

  On your grave marker, will that be the epigraph?

  DARREN BROUGHT the kayak safely back to the dock. Nimble as a monkey he climbed out of the shaky boat as we all applauded.

  By 3:30 P.M. we’d returned to St. Croix. By then, the Chevy station wagon was ready for our mother to pick up.

  On the left side of the driver’s windshield was the new inspection sticker for 1997.

  “NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED”: A PERSONAL TESTIMONY

  AUGUST 2006*

  Dr. Voorhees!—please help me.

  They came to him in desperation. They came to him after dark and sometimes they came in disguise.

  It didn’t matter where, really. You’d think so, but no.

  As likely in Ann Arbor or Detroit as in some small town like St. Croix or Muskegee Falls, Ohio.

  If the clinic was open until 6:00 P.M. they might come then. When the protesters had gone home.

  Sometimes one was waiting in the parking lot. Just—standing there, waiting.

  His car which was usually the last vehicle in the lot. She’d be standing close by. In winter, gripping her mittened hands and her faint breath steaming.

  Hello? Yes? Did you want to talk to me?—but she’d back away hurriedly. Before he could see her face she was panicked and running and gone.

  In a light snowfall, her footprints just visible. Such small prints!

  In the wintry dark, snow in patches on the ground. Snow in heaps. Snow glittering coldly in lights from the street.

  DR. VOORHEES? Is that who you are? Please—help me . . .

  She was young—just a girl. Could’ve been sixteen, fourteen.

  Or, she was in her twenties. Already a mother, and fatigue in her face.

  Or, she was older. Heavy face, frightened eyes. Opened mouth panting in terror of her audacity in so addressing the abortion-doctor-murderer.

  In all of these, who approached him in such ways, the desperation of those who believed themselves damned.

  What am I doing, what will come of this, what sin, what punishment, what shame and sorrow scathing as the fires of Hell.

  Gus Voorhees had been surprised, the first several times. Astonished seeing one of those whom he recognized as a protester who’d been kneeling on the sidewalk in front of the clinic for months chanting in singsong with her comrades—

  Free choice is a lie,

  Nobody’s baby chooses to die.

  Free choice is a lie,

  Nobody’s baby chooses to die.

  Earnest and maddening in seemingly tireless repetition to infinity you could not hear (except you could imagine) through the shut windows of the Clinic.

  Free choice is a lie,

  Nobody’s baby chooses to die.

  One of those who’d brandished picket signs out on the street—magnified photos of aborted fetuses, mangled and bleeding; signs decrying the clinic staff as MURDERERS, BABY KILLERS; signs pleading DO NOT KILL YOUR BABY, GOD LOVES YOUR BABY.

  Visitors to the clinic had to run the gauntlet of these ardent Christian protesters who were supposed to keep at least seven feet away from them but who often surged forward when a girl or a woman arrived, screaming at her. Girls and women seeking birth control. Girls and women seeking appointments to have abortions. Girls and women scheduled for abortions and very frightened.

  Don’t kill your baby! God loves your baby! God loves YOU
!

  The clinic provided volunteer escorts to help visitors make their way inside. Sometimes, the volunteer escorts were involved in shouting/shoving matches with the most ardent of the protesters.

  Murderer! Baby killer! You will rot in Hell.

  But by late afternoon the protesters began to melt away. By dusk all were gone. Their greatest vigilance was during the daylight hours.

  And so, at dusk, this girl/woman waiting for Dr. Voorhees at the rear of the clinic was alone. In her apprehension and indecision and in her terror waiting to see the notorious Voorhees who was (as she knew) of the Devil. Because she was desperate now. Because it was happening to her now. Because now it wasn’t someone else’s desperation but her own. Summoning her strength and courage to speak with this man so reviled and hated she would find herself pleading like a child Please—please help me and the doctor’s reply was sympathetic but regretful You will have to come to the clinic during our hours, you will have to speak with our nurse-receptionist, I am so sorry please understand there is nothing that I can do for you tonight.

  And the protesting voice But you could! You could, Dr. Voorhees! I know you could.

  I’m sorry. I can’t.

  You could! You could!—incredulous that the very Devil would not capitulate to her, in the committing of this enormous sin.

  Only just the tired-sounding man who was Gus Voorhees for whom she and her Christian comrades had prayed for months even as (they supposed) he was beyond praying for saying Would you like to give me your name? A number where you could be reached?

  No! No.

  In despair hiding her face. For she could not reveal her name to him, she dared not. And she could not risk giving him a number, for a phone shared by others. Until finally Voorhees relented, in pity of the distraught girl/woman he relented saying Come back tomorrow at this time. Someone will see you, and examine you. And then we’ll proceed—maybe. After-hours. I’ll be here. All right?

  THESE WERE DEVOUT CHRISTIAN women and girls who did not “believe” in abortion. They’d been instructed by their elders to consider abortion a terrible sin—the “slaughter of the innocents.” They would not alter their beliefs (usually) except just this single time for they knew (they prayed) that God would forgive and God would understand. Jesus would forgive and understand. Because there is nowhere else to turn in such desperation except the Devil’s party Voorhees the Baby Killer.