He inhaled deeply, steadying his voice, and Mary Ann could feel his horror—at her decision, and at his loss of self-control. “He’s not a convenience, Mary Ann, or a fantasy. He’s not a perfect child on a greeting card, or some monster of imperfection. He’s not just yours, or ours. He’s a creation of God, and no one has the right to take his life.”
Pausing, her father gazed down at her, and shook his head. “It’s unnatural for a mother to murder her child. That’s what you’re asking us to let you do. And if we refuse, then you’ll ask a court to let every girl like you kill any child she considers to be a hardship.” His voice became quiet. “I know you’re afraid. I hate it for you. But the selfishness of what you’re doing—the sheer disproportion of it—sickens me.”
The last soft words struck Mary Ann like a slap in the face. She looked at the first man she had loved, his fine features and pale eyes, through a film of tears. “I can’t stay with you,” she said in a flat voice.
Beside her father, Margaret Tierney shook her head in disbelief. Evenly, her father answered, “You need us more than ever now. You’re as lost as any girl I’ve ever seen. You’ve lost track of what you believe, or any sense of what you’ve set in motion …”
“Don’t you know,” Mary Ann cried out, “how it feels to be me? I sit here listening to you say how selfish I am, how I don’t know what I’m doing. Well, I know, all right? I know I don’t want a baby with no brain. No matter what you taught me, I don’t think that’s a sin.”
In obvious pain, her mother stared at her; for an instant, all Mary Ann wanted was to throw herself into her mother’s arms, rely on her as she always had. “I need to go away,” she said in a pleading voice. “I can stay with Alice.”
Her father sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. Until this year, he had always been able to see inside her, and to calm her. “This is your home,” he said firmly. “And we’re your family. No matter what, you belong with us.”
“Why?” Mary Ann answered. “So you can control me?”
“No”. It was her mother’s voice.
Mary Ann looked up at her. “You’re afraid you won’t be able to stop me from getting an abortion. That’s why you want to keep me here.”
Her mother flinched. “We don’t know what you’d do, Mary Ann. How can we know after this?”
Her father, intervening, stood to place a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We’ll leave you alone tonight,” he said to Mary Ann. “If you want, you can have dinner in your room.”
Grateful, Mary Ann nodded. All she wanted was to be left alone.
As if to heal the breach between them, her father, still touching her mother, took Mary Ann’s hand again. Gently, he said, “Father Satullo will be along to see you, a little later. We thought it might be easier for you to talk with him.”
Mary Ann stiffened. A vivid memory came back to her— Father Satullo, kneeling on the sidewalk in front of the women’s clinic, frightening her away.
Without a word her father released her hand. The only sound was the door of her bedroom closing.
Mary Ann looked at the darkened window. At least they hadn’t nailed it shut.
Sarah Dash stared at her television.
“If confirmed,” the news anchor concluded, “Judge Masters will become the first woman ever to serve as Chief Justice.”
“You made it,” Sarah said aloud.
A surge of elation and amazement brought her to her feet. For a moment, she shed the worry and depression which followed her telephone call to Mary Ann, the weight of her responsibility for a girl who, when told about her parents’ intervention, could barely form words between her sobs. Sarah’s first impulse was to call Caroline at once; then she realized that Caroline was in Washington, and recalled her reason for watching the news—to see whether the media had begun to report the Tierney case.
She did not have long to wait. “In federal district court,” a pert brunette was saying, “a pregnant fifteen-year-old filed suit to invalidate the Protection of Life Act …”
The buzzer to her apartment made her start.
The first reporter, Sarah thought. Even though the court papers were filed under seal, protecting both Sarah and the Tierneys, someone must have leaked her name—the Christian Commitment, she felt sure. Glancing over her shoulder at the television, she went to her apartment intercom, prepared to tell whoever was waiting below to leave.
“Who is it?” she demanded.
“It’s me.” The voice sounded wispy, out of breath. “Mary Ann.”
Slumped at the door, Mary Ann looked frightened and apologetic. “I couldn’t stay,” she said without preface. “Father Satullo was coming.”
This half-coherent statement, Sarah thought, was shorthand for hours of conflict and confusion. The girl looked pale and drawn.
Taking her hand, Sarah closed her door behind them, leading Mary Ann to the white couch in her living room.
“Tell me what happened,” Sarah said.
For a half hour, interrupted by spasms of crying, Mary Ann tried to do this. Sarah’s empathy commingled with the strangeness of it—a girl she barely knew now occupied the center of her life and, quite literally, the only private space she had. All that Sarah could think to do—like her mother in times of crisis—was to bring Mary Ann warm milk.
Sarah gave her time to settle down. Quietly, she said, “We need to call your parents.”
Mary Ann’s eyes fluttered. “I want you to get me an abortion, Sarah. Maybe we can go out of state.”
Her desperation hit Sarah hard. “I know you’re upset,” she answered slowly, “but this is a federal law, remember? It applies to every state. And even if it didn’t, something called the Child Protective Custody Act makes it illegal for anyone to help you get an out-of-state abortion against your parents’ wishes.”
Mary Ann blinked. “What about Canada? I can’t go on like this.”
Sarah chose her words with care. “Mary Ann,” she finally said, “I’m doing all I can to help you by bringing this lawsuit. Your choice is to go to court or to have this baby, however bad that choice may be.”
Swallowing, Mary Ann looked around the living room— hardwood floors, colorful rugs, a large-screen TV, an expensive sound system, and plush furniture bought on the installment plan. She was imagining herself in such a place, Sarah guessed—perhaps as Sarah herself, a lawyer with a life of her own. The only sound was the droning of a newsman. Sarah could not bring herself to reveal that the case was already on the news.
“Can I stay with you?” Mary Ann asked plaintively. “Just until I get the abortion?”
Sarah felt herself inhale. Inevitably, the girl saw her as a refuge, a substitute parent, the guide to a freedom exemplified by a safe and comfortable apartment.
“Mary Ann,” she said, “you can’t. There are just too many problems …”
Bowing her head, the girl shook it in a spasm of protest and distress. Suddenly she got up and hurried through Sarah’s bedroom. Following, Sarah heard the bathroom door close, the sound of retching.
Sarah went to call the Tierneys.
EIGHTEEN
WHEN THE two couples entered Citronelle, Caroline had an immediate taste of how her life had changed.
The restaurant was airy and modern, with an open dining room which offered a clear view of those who entered. A young couple at a table for two was closest to them; the woman, touching her husband’s arm, fixed Kerry Kilcannon with a startled, starstruck gaze, then recognized Lara, from her years in television almost as familiar as the President. Seeing Caroline, the woman smiled at her. As Caroline smiled back, another man rose to shake the President’s hand, and the electricity of their presence enveloped the room—heads turning, exclamations of surprise spreading until, finally, two couples stood and began applauding. In seconds, like an audience rising in stages at the end of an opera, the applause became general.
“It must be me,” Jackson Watts murmured in Caroline’s ear.
For a s
plit second, she noticed, Kerry Kilcannon had looked bemused. Then his bright smile flashed and he stood straighter, his confident stride making him seem taller than he was. Hands reached out to him; from the side, alerted by the press office, a photographer from the Washington Post began recording their progress across the room.
“If it’s you,” Caroline whispered to Jackson, “you must be utterly intoxicated. Lord knows I am.”
After they had offered a few words for the Post’s style section about the celebratory nature of their dinner and the historic import of their day, the President stopped to greet the new administration’s next-most-glamorous pair, seated nearby— Secretary of Commerce Peter Carey and his striking wife, the documentary filmmaker Noelle Ciano. Then the two couples sat at a corner table.
“We leave nothing to chance,” Kerry told Caroline. “If no one applauded, Noelle and Peter were prepared to go it alone.”
This wry remark seemed typical of Kilcannon. But Caroline felt as though she had just stepped through the looking glass; in the world of a president, the most seemingly casual moments were part of a performance from which he was never released and which, in some measure, would continue until he died. For Lara to live with this must be stressful; it helped, Caroline supposed, that she was also well known, and so could more easily tolerate this unceasing spotlight. As for Jackson Watts—tall and rangy, with a kind, thoughtful face and hair dappled with gray—he was acquitting with grace and good humor his bit part in this particular play: to establish Caroline’s credentials as a practicing heterosexual. “If they want,” he had told her earlier, “I’ll put my hand on your thigh.” This aspect of the play, Caroline reflected, was less drama than farce.
As if reading her thoughts, the President said across the table, “There’s nothing like public life, Caroline, to hone one’s sense of the absurd.”
Caroline smiled. It was pleasant how at ease he put her— this first use of her given name, suggesting both regard and friendship, seemed perfectly natural. It struck her again that their fortunes were intertwined; not only had the President appointed her, but he had done so at some risk to himself.
The head of his Secret Service detail, Peter Lake, appeared at their table, bending close to speak to Kilcannon. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but Adam Shaw just called. He says it’s urgent.”
At once, Caroline felt alarmed—the fear of exposure was a new and unwelcome companion. But the President merely raised his eyebrows. “Where’s a secure line?” he asked.
“The manager’s office.”
Turning, Kilcannon excused himself, and left.
Lara’s gaze followed him. “I hope he can stay for dinner,” she said. “The day was seeming too good to last.”
Caroline covered her worry with a smile. “So do I. For me, few days have ever been this good.”
Lara studied her. Of course, Caroline thought, she knows.
“No more than you deserve,” Lara answered. “Kerry’s positive you’ll be a great Chief Justice, which is why he’s feeling so cheerful.
“That’s what some people don’t understand. Kerry decides what he thinks is right and then figures out how to make the politics of it work for him—not the other way around. This myth about ruthlessness makes me livid.”
Lara’s last remark was spoken with quiet intensity. It enriched Caroline’s impression of her: beneath the professional veneer of a public woman was someone who loved Kerry Kilcannon deeply and, as best she could, looked after him.
“It can’t be easy,” Caroline ventured, “seeing someone you love be picked apart.”
After a moment, Lara nodded. “I should be used to it, and mostly I am. But I just got the galleys of a new book about him that Kerry hasn’t even seen.
“Dark Prince, it’s called—psychobabble by some magazine writer who doesn’t know him at all. The central thesis is that Kerry’s President only because his brother died, and that he’s made calculated use of the so-called American romance with death.” Pausing, Lara looked at Caroline. “Kerry knows that he never would have been in politics without Jamie, and that he will always evoke his brother’s memory.”
“That’s inescapable,” Jackson interposed. “But the President’s clearly different from his brother.”
Abruptly, Lara smiled. “If I weren’t so underemployed doing puff pieces and celebrity profiles, I’d think about it less. It’s foolish to expect people in my business to ever acknowledge how hard it is to understand anyone, and how unfair it is to pick apart a life.”
Several years before, Lara Costello had distinguished herself as a journalist in Kosovo; now, barred from covering hard news because of her engagement to Kerry, she herself was news, the object of constant scrutiny. But her defensiveness of Kerry was, Caroline thought, also a way of conveying sympathy for Caroline without acknowledging what she knew. Which, though Lara surely did not intend it, reminded Caroline to worry about what was delaying the President’s return.
* * *
Adam Shaw’s tone was hasty, apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. But something’s come up, and I know reporters are there. I didn’t want you and Judge Masters blindsided.”
It must be the daughter, Kerry thought. Silent, he prepared himself.
“About two hours ago,” Adam explained, “a fifteen-year-old girl challenged the Protection of Life Act in the federal district court in San Francisco. It’s a complete horror show— her parents are pro-life activists, and Dad’s a law professor. They’ve intervened on behalf of the fetus, saying they’ll associate the Christian Commitment. Worse, it looks like the whole trial’s going to be televised.”
Surprised, Kerry answered, “That’s more than inauspicious. It puts abortion back in the headlines, and on the toughest and most ambiguous issues—late-term abortion, and parental consent. I’ve been happy to avoid them both.”
“I know. But Justice has to defend this suit, of course— arm in arm with the Christian Commitment. Someone’s sure to ask you about it, and the Senate and the media will be badgering Judge Masters for comment.”
“That part’s simple,” Kerry replied. “Justice can let the Commitment take the lead in fighting a teenage girl—in that way, they’re a Godsend. I’ve never taken a position on this law, and now that it’s in the courts, I shouldn’t. That goes double for Judge Masters. This could be headed straight for the Supreme Court.” Briefly, Kerry tried to imagine what might happen. “As soon as there’s a district court ruling, Adam, let me know.”
For the first time, Adam laughed. “I won’t have to. Your pro-choice friends will be all over this one, including those who’ve never liked you, like Anthony’s Legions. Whoever wins, you’ll hear the screaming all the way from San Francisco.”
“Not before dessert, I hope,” Kerry answered, and rang off.
“So,” Kilcannon told the others, “the Protection of Life Act is in court.”
Listening, Caroline felt deep concern for Sarah Dash. “Unless I’m mistaken, Mr. President, the lawyer’s a former law clerk of mine. I’ve refrained from giving her advice, except to tell her how awful bringing a lawsuit could be for her. But not this awful this soon. She must feel overwhelmed.”
Lara played with her wineglass. “Do you think she might give up?”
“Not Sarah. She’s stubborn and she’s good—by miles the most able clerk I’ve had, and very quick on her feet.” Turning to Kilcannon, she added, “If she loses, Mr. President, she’ll appeal to my court, then the Supreme Court. It might well get there before I do.”
Kilcannon pondered this. “As I read the Court, there’s a four-four split on this one. Your ex-clerk might not get a ruling, or even a hearing.”
This was likely, Caroline thought, and could only heighten the stakes for her nomination. “Which is yet another reason,” she said at last, “for me to express no views on abortion.”
Kilcannon gave her a brief, curious glance. What are your views, she could see him wondering. It made her distinctly uncomfortable.
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“It must be time to order,” he said. “It certainly is for me.”
NINETEEN
To Sarah, walking through the Tierneys’ door was like entering another world.
Like the home of Sarah’s childhood, it felt modest and familiar—a 1950s two-story near the Catholic law school where Martin Tierney taught. But, for Sarah, Mary Ann came from a tradition which evoked images she found alien and frightening: unyielding rules; a paradoxical mixture of mysticism and literal belief; the repression of women; the suppression of dissent, whether philosophical or scientific. Though she thought better of Martin Tierney, he embodied for her the two-thousand-year divide between the religious and the rational which had created so much misery. She wondered how the Tierneys saw her: a secular Jew who, like her family, espoused reason over belief.
They settled in the living room, the Tierneys on a couch, Sarah in a chair. “I’m sorry,” she said to Margaret Tierney. “This is the last thing I wanted.”
Margaret’s brow knit in distrust. She was in her midforties and, though slender and dark-haired, youth seemed to have fled her. It was as though life had become something to be endured, promising more adversity than joy. Perhaps, Sarah reflected, this was also her expectation for Mary Ann.
“What else could you expect?” Margaret asked. “You were the one who made her do this.”
“That’s not true,” Sarah answered. “She began thinking for herself, and couldn’t tell you. All I did was describe her legal choices.”
A flicker of doubt appeared in Margaret’s eyes. Despite the accusation, Sarah felt sorry for her—she had willed her version of Mary Ann so strongly that she attributed this new reality to Sarah’s influence. “She could tell me anything,” Margaret insisted.
Sarah felt tense. “If she could tell you anything, why were you in court to stop her, instead of protecting her?”
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