“Uh-huh.” Rachel gathered strength and then just said it. “I think she was killed.” She stopped to choke back some tears and wiped her eyes with the crinkled napkin. “I’m sorry. I got over this once, I really did.”
John tried to clarify the term, and he tried to do it gently. “Killed? Do you mean, by someone else? Somebody killed her?”
“Yeah. The Women’s Medical Center killed her. You know, that abortion clinic down on Kingsley?”
NewsSix had covered a few protests down at that place before they became “same old, same old” and just weren’t news anymore. “I’m somewhat familiar with it. Go ahead.”
“I just figured it out. I went to that clinic myself the Friday before last . . .” She stopped. “Let me start over. I was going with this guy during the summer, right? And . . . you know how it is, I thought maybe I got pregnant. So . . . I knew about the Center. All the kids knew about that place. We knew girls who’d been there. So I went in to have a test, you know? To see if I was pregnant. And while I was sitting in the waiting room waiting to hear how the test came out, four, maybe five girls came in, and I knew some of them were from Jefferson. I think I even recognized one girl. And I knew why they were there—I mean, that’s obvious, right?
“So we were all sitting there in the waiting room, and nobody was talking, and then the nurse came in and got the first two girls, and they went into the back to do the abortion. Then this lady that did my test called me over to the window and said, ‘Honey, you’re pregnant. If you get in line we can have you done today and get you taken care of.’ But I asked her how much it would cost and she said $350 in cash, up front, and I didn’t have $350, and she said, ‘Well do you have Visa?’ and I didn’t have Visa, and I had another week until payday, and then she asked me how much I had in savings and could I go get it and come back, and then she started asking what my income was in case we could show the state that I qualified for the state to pay for it, and it just got ridiculous.
“And then . . . there was this door open to the back, back behind the lady I was talking to, and somebody was screaming back there, and the doctor was yelling at her to shut up—I think it was the doctor. I hope it was the doctor—I don’t know what other man would be back there yelling at her like that. And the lady I was talking to jumped up and closed that door so I wouldn’t hear it anymore, and then she tried to get me to stay and get an abortion, and it was too much. I had to get out of there.
“So . . . I didn’t get my abortion, and I thought I was pregnant, and I went home and tried to figure out what to do, and . . . I looked in the Yellow Pages and found another place that gave pregnancy tests. They were the first thing in the phone book. So I called them and went in on Saturday and got tested again, and the test was negative. I wasn’t pregnant. So that lady at the clinic lied to me.”
“What was this other place? Another clinic?”
“Human Life Services. It’s down on Morris Avenue. It’s an abortion alternative place. You know, pro-life.”
“Of course. Now . . . I’m just asking this because I’m a reporter and I have to, okay?” Reporter. John liked that title. “Uh . . . how do you know that the second pregnancy test wasn’t faulty? How do you know which person was lying?”
She thought for a moment, cocked her head to one side, and replied, “Well, those people at the second place weren’t gonna get $350 if I was pregnant.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“And besides, my period started last Wednesday. It was late, but it started.”
John smiled apologetically. “I guess that settles that. Pardon me, I didn’t mean to infringe on personal areas . . .”
She shrugged. “Well, just so you know. But here’s what got me thinking. While I was there I read a pamphlet they had sitting out on the table—you know, anti-abortion stuff, and the pamphlet talked about some of the dangers, some of the bad things that can happen, and it talked about an infection you can get if the abortion isn’t done right.
“And then I remembered seeing a van parked outside the clinic, and I figured out, hey, that’s the van that brought all the girls to the clinic, and I recognized it. It’s that same brown van that we used to see around Jefferson High every once in a while, usually on a Friday, and we all knew where it was going, but we didn’t talk about it much because . . . you know, a lot of us had been on it.
“But . . . now it made sense. You see? Annie got sick on Friday, went home, died on Sunday. That fast. And nothing else was ever said about it. She went in that van to have an abortion, and they botched it, and she got some kind of infection and it killed her, and nobody’s said anything, and nobody’s done anything, and . . . well, who knows how safe that clinic really is? Who knows if anyone else has been hurt or killed by those people? How would we know?”
John looked at Carl. Carl was spellbound.
“This ought to be on the news!” said Rachel.
“Well,” John asked, “I take it Annie’s parents don’t know about this?”
She made a puzzled face. “They might. That’s the part I haven’t told you yet. Last summer Mr. Brewer was going around asking questions and scaring everybody, looking for all of Annie’s friends, trying to find out if anybody knew anything about Annie getting an abortion. He came in here once, trying to find me, but I hid in the ladies’ room ’til he left. I’m not gonna talk to him. He’s a bad man.”
“So what does he know—or do I have to ask him?”
She wagged her head and even chuckled a bit. “Oh, you’ll have to ask him. I don’t know anything about that, and I’m not gonna ask. But I don’t think he knows much. Nobody’s gonna say anything, because once you say you know something, the question’s gonna come up, How do you know?, and like I said, a lot of us have been on that van, and our parents don’t know. Nobody talks about it and nobody asks about it because nobody wants people finding out about them. And you don’t go near Mr. Brewer. He’s mean, and he’s dangerous. Everybody’s afraid of him. So I wasn’t gonna stick my neck out. But that was before I went to that clinic myself. Now it’s all hitting me at once. Whatever Mr. Brewer’s after, he’s probably right.”
“But . . . there are no witnesses at all, no one who actually saw Annie on that van or saw her go into the clinic?”
“Somebody had to see it, but they aren’t gonna tell. They were on that van too, remember.”
“Mm-hm.” John looked at his notes, mostly to stall for time. This wasn’t going to be an easy thing to say. “Well, Rachel . . . I have to be honest with you . . . All of this may be true, I’m not doubting your word or anything, but . . . we can’t put anything on the news unless we have some real facts. Now you heard—not directly, but from others—that Annie’s father was asking people about her having an abortion, but . . . apart from that, do you have any way of knowing for sure that she was even pregnant?”
Rachel had to admit, “No.”
“She never told you herself?”
“No, and I don’t blame her. Hey, if you’re pregnant and you’re planning on getting an abortion, you don’t talk about either one. And she was dead afterward, so she never had a chance to tell anybody.”
“And so far no one has come forward who actually saw Annie go into the clinic? You don’t know of anyone willing to confirm, as an eyewitness, that Annie went into that clinic to have an abortion?”
She was getting discouraged. “I don’t know.”
John tried to let her down easy. “Well . . . if you could get us anything else. A witness. Someone who knew for sure that Annie was pregnant, or someone who rode on the van with her that day, anything like that, it would really help your case, because listen . . .” Hoo boy. She wasn’t going to like this. “Rachel, there isn’t a day that goes by that someone doesn’t call the station or write to us—I get a lot of letters—and they have some horrible story about how they’ve been unjustly accused of something, or someone’s cheated them, or the system has failed them somehow, and . . . you know, it’s the kind of
thing you hear every day. I don’t mean to sound insensitive to your problem, but . . . I’ve got producers, I’ve got editors, I’ve got a boss, and I can’t go to them with what you’ve given me so far because . . . so far, number one, we can’t prove any of it, and number two, even if we could prove it, it wouldn’t be news. It isn’t . . . big enough, important enough for us to spend time and money on.”
Her mouth dropped open a little. He knew she wouldn’t like his answer.
Carl was more direct. “Are you kidding me?”
John lifted his palms just a little and said, “Hey, I’m sorry to say, it’s the nature of the business. If Annie was the daughter of the governor, or she’d been raped by a movie star, or she was somebody famous . . . anything different, unique . . .”
“Juicy,” said Carl.
John couldn’t argue with that, though he hated the sound of it. “Well, yeah, something the public would be interested in, something that would catch their attention, then maybe it would be news, it’d be something worth pursuing. But even then we’d have to have something really clear-cut, something we could prove.”
Rachel’s eyes were becoming clear and strong with anger. “So if Annie was a movie star or somebody important, then you’d care that she was killed?”
“Well, it’s not a matter of me caring—”
“But if she’s nothing but a poor black girl living in the city who dies because some abortion doctor was sloppy or in a hurry or drunk—who knows?—you don’t care?”
John tried to say it more clearly, “It’s not that I don’t care—”
“You said it isn’t news!”
John sighed. “I know it’s hard to understand.”
“Yeah, and maybe poor black girls die all the time, but who cares? If they were somebody, and if they didn’t do it so much, maybe then it would be news!”
She got to her feet.
“Wait, don’t go.”
“That’ll be a buck for the coffee. Don’t worry about a tip.” She hurried away.
Carl shoved against John. “Let me out.”
John slid out of the booth so Carl could get out, and then stood there in silent frustration as Carl hurried after the girl.
Good. Now the day’s perfect. Totally consistent from start to finish.
He dropped a dollar bill on the table and got out of there.
He walked slowly out to his car, hoping Carl would catch up. He’d reached his car by the time the door to the restaurant opened and Carl came out, looking for him.
“Hey!” Carl yelled.
John just acknowledged him with a wave and leaned on his car.
“So did you make peace?” he asked as Carl hurried over.
“Well . . . I think she still trusts me.”
“Oh, terrific. That’s encouraging.”
Carl wasn’t so coolheaded himself right now. “Man, I don’t believe this. I’ve been watching this stuff all day and I just don’t believe it.”
Okay, John had had enough. A full day of it. “Hey, I’ve had enough dumped on me for one day, all right?”
But Carl was ready. He’d stored, analyzed, and sorted it out, and now he was ready. “I saw you! I saw you have a big, stinking fight with your producer about picking and choosing the news, and I thought it was because you were concerned about honesty! But then you turn right around and tell this girl—”
“Carl, you don’t know anything about—”
“You tell her that her girlfriend getting killed isn’t news! It isn’t important. People don’t care about it. Well, maybe Annie Brewer’s dispensable news, huh? Maybe she can end up on the floor with the Irish Girls’ Drum and Bugle Corps and the oyster eating contest—”
John went nose to nose with him. “Listen, buddy, you were at the station two and a half hours, just two and a half lousy hours, and now you’re telling me about the news business? You’re telling me how to do my job?”
“When Grandpa got killed I didn’t see that on the news, but when he’s up there making a fool of himself it’s all over the TV! Why? Who’s doing this stuff?”
John was all set to yell right back, but he couldn’t. Carl was on his side. He stopped cold, threw up his hands, and fell back against his car to simmer. Carl joined him, and they both leaned against the fender, silent.
John finally said, “So what happened with Rachel?”
Carl answered in a low monotone, his eyes on the pavement. “She’s gonna try and find a witness. She wants to make it news. Now that’s what she said—I didn’t say it.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“And she gave me the Brewers’ number in case you want to call them.”
Carl took a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to John. John took it and just fiddled with it.
“You gonna call?” Carl asked.
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
John looked at Carl, opened his mouth about to say something, then abandoned the idea and just looked down at the pavement, shaking his head. “It’s a dead end. Trust me.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who started this whole thing. You’re the one who told me to ask Rachel about Annie and all that.”
“I don’t need to be reminded!”
“So if it isn’t news, what was that all about?”
“I don’t know.”
Carl turned toward him. “And how did you know about Annie in the first place? How did you know Rachel was thinking about that?”
John answered impatiently, “I don’t know.”
“But you nailed it right on the head—”
“I said I don’t know, all right?”
Carl absorbed the verbal punch and then answered quietly, “All right.”
John looked at the slip of paper and read the number. “Max Brewer. Okay. I’ll call him tomorrow. And then I’ll call you.”
“I don’t have a phone number.”
“Sure you do. You’re staying at Grandma’s.”
Before Carl could ask, John spoke up. “She told me, all right? I do keep in touch with my mother from time to time.”
Carl’s demeanor softened a bit. “You don’t mind?”
“No. If she doesn’t mind, I don’t mind. You need to get to know her. We all need to get to know each other.”
And we’re off to a great start, John thought bitterly.
CHAPTER 9
TUESDAY, HIS MIND full of images, his heart pounding with feelings, sentiments, angers, and perhaps some pleasures—but not many—Carl set to work in his grandfather’s shop, clearing the area near the south windows, setting up his easel and brushes, and starting to paint again.
He’d brought some of his previous work with him, and he hung the paintings here and there just to get his creative juices flowing. Over by the window he placed a cold, predominantly blue landscape, a picture shattered by broken lines and incongruity, and on the workbench a surrealistic face full of tension and agony, the hands clapped over the ears, surrounded and overwhelmed by loud, clashing colors. On the wall he hung what looked like a temper tantrum, a violent explosion of chaotic colors that drew the eye to the center, where there was nothing.
It was time to begin anew. The light through the windows was perfect, just as he expected. He took brush in hand and stared at the blank canvas. If he could just capture the lostness, the drifting. Yes, the aimless, rootless drifting . . . like a lonely planet without a sun, or a balloon let go, or a sailing ship on an infinite plane of featureless water. Yeah, maybe so.
The brush moved over the canvas. Smallness. The smallness of one tiny dot, one tiny soul in the middle of . . . what? Confusion? Then confusion of an exquisite kind. Not chaos so much as voices, colors on all sides, all in conflict, pulling and flinging, rending, drawing the eyes this way and that, a battle for the mind, for attention, for belief. The viewer should not rest, so his brush did not rest.
Before long he paused. It’s coming out the same way again, he thought. I’m painting the
same old stuff. I’m a little speck being swept along in endless, meaningless circles.
But what about his old man? Where did he fit into all this? Was he attached to anything solid, or was he drifting too? Were they both tumbling in this whirlpool together?
Carl stared at the canvas, waiting for something to awaken in his mind, for some image to leap into his consciousness, through his hand, and onto that blank sheet. Where would John Barrett fit into the scheme of this . . . this reality he was trying to capture? Not in this corner. That would be somewhere. No, not near the center either. Not yet anyway. Right now a void would capture him better, a vacuum somewhere behind the immediate face of the painting. But no. To capture his father, there would have to be some kind of presence, but it would be subtly hidden. So hidden it made him angry. Like life. Like meaning. Like destiny.
All hidden. Teasing him. He was hide-and-seeking with Truth.
He set the brush down. He was getting nowhere. Then his gaze was drawn to the small portable television sitting on the workbench. Grandpa had never had a television out here. Carl had borrowed it from his father’s room. This was his father’s television.
My father. My father’s television. My father is television.
He approached that little machine and stared back at the unblinking screen. It was like a shark’s eye, totally neutral, unfeeling, without a soul.
JOHN WAS SITTING at his desk, tapping away at the computer console, editing the script for the Five Thirty, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. It was Leslie Albright.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
Leslie pulled a chair closer and sat down. She really was a good sort—a little brusque at times, but those deep brown eyes were kind eyes, always caring, never cold. “After yesterday I don’t know where to start, but, John, we’ve got to talk this out.” She saw the script on his computer screen. “I won’t take long.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I had a terrible day. A terrible week.”
“Yeah, you did. You really did, and we should have remembered. We should have cut you some slack instead of ganging up on you. I’m sorry. Sorry for the pain we caused you.”
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