The Governor's Wife (8 page)

F
or the next week the case sat. Like a fisherman who’d cast his lines, I had to be patient, content to drift with the current and see if anyone bit. Every morning, I’d get up at 6:00 a.m. and go for a run. I’d usually start at the totem pole on the lake and work my way south, slipping past Belmont Avenue and Fullerton, along Oak Street Beach to Navy Pier. I’d watch the waves as I ran, gray walls of water rolling in from the east and spending themselves at the stone feet of the city. I’d think about the case, about the people and what went on behind their eyes. Back at my flat, I’d grab a quick shower, make some coffee, and be in my office by nine, poking through Ray Perry’s past, following up on all the alleged “sightings,” looking for a rabbit hole the former governor might have disappeared down. Twice during the week, I’d taken a detour from my routine. An unexpected detour but, somehow, maybe not. It was only a five-minute drive downtown and a short elevator ride up—to the Safe Haven Program at Prentice, and the kid I’d named Vince.

I didn’t do anything spectacular on my visits. I’d show Vince the stuffed animal I’d brought—the first time a Chicago Bear, the second a Cub—and stick it up on a shelf next to his crib. Amanda Mason was always around. She claimed Vince knew who I was. I told her the kid smiled when anyone came up to the crib. She said yes, but he kicked his legs in the air when I showed up. And that was special. I thought Amanda was full of it, but I liked the idea anyway. So we sat by the crib and stared at the kid, smiling vacantly the way real parents do. Amanda would leave after a while, and I’d sit there alone and watch him. He’d watch me back. And kick his legs. And I felt special. Even if it was all make-believe.

It was during my third visit that I saw Marie Perry. I’d been there for an hour or so and was getting ready to leave when I caught a glimpse of her. She was in the reception area, talking animatedly to Amanda. The conversation seemed one-sided, Marie gripping the nurse’s shoulder and bending forward until there seemed to be no space between the two. Suddenly, she lifted her head as if she’d caught a scent and turned, pinning me with a look through the thick glass. She walked into the nursery, Amanda trailing in her wake.

“Michael Kelly.”

“I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” Amanda said, the confusion of my earlier lie tangled up in her voice. “Mr. Kelly has been coming in to sit with one of our abandoned infants.”

“Have you, Mr. Kelly?”

“A friend of mine found a boy stashed in the trunk of a car. I come in to check on him.”

“He’s been in three times in the last week,” Amanda said protectively.

“Where’s the boy?” Marie said.

I walked her over to Vince’s pod. Marie picked him up and cradled him. The kid’s eyes danced, and he reached out
to touch her cheek. For just a moment, I thought I saw the former governor’s wife soften.

“He’s beautiful.” She turned to me as if he were mine.

“Yeah, he’s pretty great.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Kelly?”

“Just a dog.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

I shook my head. “I just sit and watch. Talk to him sometimes.”

Marie kissed Vince on the nose and laid him back in the crib. “He’s beautiful.”

She’d already said that, but I noticed that people tended to repeat themselves when they were around babies. I was no exception.

“Are you here to volunteer, Ms. Perry?”

“Not today. I just came in to talk to Amanda for a moment.” She held out her hand. “It was nice to see you again.”

“You, too.”

“I must say, you surprise me a little bit.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t expect to see you hanging around a nursery.”

“We all have our secrets, Ms. Perry.”

Her hand slipped out of mine, and the cool, thin mask dropped back over her face. “Good-bye, Mr. Kelly.”

“Actually, I’m heading out myself.”

We walked back to the reception area together. Marie had a few more things to discuss with Amanda, so I rode the elevator down alone. Five minutes later, I was sitting in my car with a perfect view of Prentice’s main entrance. Marie Perry came out and waited while one of the valets fetched her car. Then she got in and drove. I gave her a little room and followed. I wasn’t sure why, but figured I had nothing to lose.

T
he Women’s Health Clinic on Chicago’s North Side is as nondescript as a building can be. Jammed in between a currency exchange and a taco stand, the clinic has an exterior made of flat yellow brick, with no windows and only a blue sign by the door indicating the services provided inside. Marie Perry pulled up in front of the clinic at just after 11:00 a.m. She ignored a small knot of protesters across the street and walked straight into the facility. I parked at a McDonald’s, got a coffee, and took a seat by a window that offered a good view of the action.

The folks out front weren’t interested in Marie. She was a little too old to be a target. The next woman who arrived, however, was a different matter. She got off the number 50 bus at Armitage and Damen and walked across the intersection toward the clinic. The woman was in her early twenties, wearing jeans and a light blue hoodie pulled up over her head. Three people detached themselves from the group and met her almost directly in front of the Mickey D’s. The one doing the talking was a middle-aged man, slight with ginger
hair and a gentle, unlined face. He was wearing a tan jacket with a priest’s collar poking out underneath. On either side of him stood two women. One appeared to be in her forties and wore a long-sleeved white shirt with
CHOOSE LIFE
spelled out in black letters across the front. The other looked like someone’s grandmother. She carried a stack of documents in her arms and had a set of rosary beads wrapped between knotted fingers. The group moved slowly down the block, the young woman in the center, the activists orbiting, the procession looking like some strange sort of interconnected solar system. At one point, the woman made a move to cross over to the clinic, but the pull of the group was too strong. Gradually they shuffled her toward the entrance of the McDonald’s. Then they were inside, taking a booth maybe fifteen feet from where I sat. The priest held the dominant position, directly across from the woman. The others spread out on either side. The priest kept his voice low, eyes fixed on his target.

“Here are copies of just a fraction of the medical malpractice suits filed against the clinic.” The priest was feeding documents across the table. The young woman poked her head out from under the hoodie and gave the paperwork a sniff.

“We’re concerned about your safety, Elena, as much as your child’s,” the priest continued. “There’s another clinic less than two miles from here. It’s a pregnancy and wellness center. Clean. Professional. Caring. They’ll give you all the information you need. More important, you, and your baby, will be safe.” The priest ducked his head, desperate to make eye contact. To no avail. He touched the arm of one of his helpers. “Marian can give you a ride over. She’ll wait while you see a doctor, then give you a lift back.”

Elena looked up. “Don’t I need an appointment?”

The three smiled as one. “We can get you in this morning,” the priest said. “No waiting.” He began to nudge his way out of the booth. I got up and walked over.

“What’s the rush, Father?”

The priest’s mouth puffed open a touch; his eyes blinked rapidly. “Can I help you?”

“I’m not sure.” I grabbed a chair, turned it around backward, and sat in it. “Our friend here has got a decision to make. And she should have the chance to make it herself, don’t you think?”

I could feel Elena’s gaze flicking back and forth, watching me, watching the priest.

“Absolutely,” the priest said. “And the best decision, the right decision, is one that’s well informed.”

“Agreed.” I picked up a copy of one of the lawsuits. “I see you gave her some information on the clinic across the street.”

“It’s a dangerous, dirty place,” the grandmother said, then put a hand over her mouth and flushed.

I nodded. “Best though if Elena makes the call. What do you think, Elena?”

All eyes turned to the young woman. And the child she carried in her womb. Elena slipped off the hoodie and straightened up in the booth. She was Hispanic and younger than I’d thought. No more than fifteen or sixteen. For what it was worth, she was also breathtakingly beautiful.

“Maybe you could just leave me the address of the wellness center?” Elena flashed a row of perfect white teeth at the protesters. “I could give them a call and stop by.”

“This is about the health of you and your child,” the priest said gently. “Do you really want to wait?”

“I want to think about things. If that’s all right?”

The priest covered the young woman’s hands with his. He knew when a fish had spit the hook and didn’t waste his time trying to recast. “Of course, of course. Thanks for your time, Elena…”

“Ramirez.”

“Ramirez. Please call us if you have questions.” With a silent glance at me, the priest slipped a card into Elena’s hand
and left. His two helpers followed him out the door and across the street.

“How you doing?” I said.

Now that we were alone, Elena had retreated back into her shell. “I’m fine.”

“My name’s Kelly.”

“Funny name for a guy.”

“First name’s Michael. Did you like what those folks had to say?”

She shrugged and studied the priest’s card.

“It’s called the Chicago Method,” I said.

“What?”

“The approach they were using to keep you from having an abortion. It’s called the Chicago Method.”

“They have methods?”

“Everyone’s got methods, Elena.” I noticed a spark had returned to her eyes and kept talking. “The Chicago Method was developed by the Pro-Life Action League back in the eighties. It’s a low-key, low-pressure approach. Notice they didn’t show you any pictures of babies or even mention the word ‘abortion.’ The idea is to give you some information on the malpractice lawsuits and the health dangers of the clinic itself. Then offer an alternative.”

“The wellness center?”

“Yes. And the wellness center might be a great place. But it also doesn’t perform abortions. They leave that part out.”

“So they were lying to me?”

I shook my head. “Not really. They were just giving you some facts. And skipping over some others. My guess is they’re not bad people. They also can’t make the choice for you. But I think you probably already knew that.”

“How do
you
know so much?”

“You mean whose side am I on? I guess I like the underdog. That’d be you.”

“I’m eight weeks along.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t want to show. That’s why I wear all of this.” She held up her hands, stuffed once again inside the front pockets of the hoodie.

“You concerned someone’s gonna find out?”

“I’ve just got to decide.”

“Have you been to the clinic before?”

“I stopped by last week. Today was going to be my second visit. I guess I’m getting closer.”

“What are you afraid of, Elena?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Now who’s lying?”

Her eyes were brown, flawed with flecks of green. Her thick hair shone, even under the flat, fast-food light.

“Are you afraid of the father?” I said.

She shook her head.

“Your family?”

She pulled out a wadded-up piece of paper and pushed it across the table. I unfolded the paper carefully. It was a police report dated four years ago. I started to read. Elena cut to the chase.

“My oldest sister, Lourdes, got pregnant when she was my age. My father took out a gun in our kitchen and stuck it under her chin. My mother watched from the doorway. I watched behind my mother. Just before he pulled the trigger, he moved the gun an inch so it blew a hole in the ceiling. My sister collapsed…”

Elena’s voice skipped a beat. I waited.

“My father stood over Lourdes with the gun. He put it to her head and told her she was a
puta
. Told her she should pray it’s not her brains on the ceiling. Lourdes began to say her Hail Marys, but she was crying and shaking and couldn’t get them right. I remember she looked at me, and I felt ashamed so I left. The police came later.” Elena nodded at the paper in
my hands. “When I woke up the next morning, my sister was gone. I haven’t seen her since. And I swore I’d never get myself that way. Not like Lourdes.” She wrapped her arms around her midsection. “Yet here I am.”

“What’s your father’s name?” I said.

“Rafael. Rafael Ramirez.”

“Where did he get the gun?”

“He’s a cop.”

I skimmed the report. The investigating officer had concluded there was insufficient evidence to arrest anyone and characterized the shooting as an “accidental discharge of a weapon.”

“Can I keep this?” I said, holding up the report.

“If I can get it back.”

I took out my card and gave it to her. “How long until you have to make a decision?”

“Another month. After that, it gets dangerous.”

“Think about what you want to do. What
you
want to do. Not a priest with lawsuits or old ladies with signs. Not some guy like me. Not your old man with a gun.
You
think about it and
you
decide. ’Cuz no one has to live with it but you. Okay?”

She nodded.

“Good. Call me when you know what you want, and I’ll try to make sure it happens. Meanwhile, if it’s all right with you, I might have a talk with your father.”

“I told you he’s a cop.”

“I know how to talk to cops. I used to be one. How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Three sisters, including Lourdes.”

“My e-mail’s on the card. Send me her social security number, and I’ll see if I can track her down. Cool?”

The card disappeared into one of her pockets, and Elena smiled. Impossibly beautiful. Impossibly young. Impossibly old.

T
he rest of the morning was slow. The protesters spoke to at least three more women on the street, one of whom chose not to enter the clinic and was driven away by a member of the group, presumably to a date with the wellness center. Just before noon, the activists piled into a couple of cars and left. After that it got really boring. I ate lunch at the McDonald’s, then kept myself busy by drinking coffee and trying to remember the entire roster for all six Bulls championship teams. I was halfway through ring number four when Marie Perry finally walked out of the clinic. By the time she hit the light at Armitage and Damen, I was three car lengths behind her.

Marie took a left on Damen and drove north until Diversey where she took a right. Four blocks later she took another left on Southport and pulled her black Lexus to the curb in front of Saint Alphonsus Church. The stone face of the church soared over the West Lakeview neighborhood, its copper-tipped steeple rippling and shimmering in the afternoon sun. I watched
Marie walk up the curved white steps and disappear inside. Then I followed.

The interior of the church was dark, and the air felt cool on my skin. Marie had taken a seat about halfway down one of the side naves. I waited a few minutes, then walked down the aisle and slid in next to her. She didn’t seem surprised in the least to see me.

“You come here a lot, Ms. Perry?”

“Once a week for confession. Other times just to be alone.”

“Sorry if I ruined that.”

“Me, too.”

I stared at the naked altar and thought about my own dusty history with Catholicism. I tried to remember the last time I’d been to confession, but couldn’t.

“What time does it start?” I said.

“What’s that, Mr. Kelly?”

“Confession?”

“In about an hour or so.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask whatever you want.”

“Why does a woman visit an abortion clinic and then come to church directly after to pray and take confession?”

“Why does a man sit with an infant he doesn’t know and will never get to see grow up? A man with no children himself and precious little chance of ever having any?”

“Touché, Ms. Perry, but I’d still like an answer.”

“How does any of it tie into the job you’re being paid to do?”

“Don’t know yet. Probably doesn’t at all.”

“So you’re just curious.”

“I guess so.”

She got up and left. I followed her down the aisle. We hit the back door and stepped into the sunshine. An old woman was coming up the steps. I opened the door and watched her
go inside. Then we were alone again. Marie slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses.

“Could you answer my question?” I said.

Her head turned so I could read my face in her lenses. “Why do I attend church and work as a counselor at an abortion clinic?”

“That’s what you do?”

“Yes, I counsel young women. I hold their hand and talk to them about their options, the procedure. And I’m there for them when it’s over. Is that so hard to understand?”

“It just surprises me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I guess I think there’s more to the story.”

“A simple act of compassion isn’t enough?”

“Things are rarely simple, Ms. Perry. You know that as well as anyone. So tell me the rest or not, but don’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”

A pigeon burst out of one of the stone carvings cut into the face of the church and flew low over our heads before sailing across Southport Avenue. Marie took off her sunglasses so I could see her eyes while she spoke.

“When I was seventeen, I got pregnant. I was terrified of my father and decided to have an abortion on my own. The clinic wasn’t properly licensed, and the procedure left me bleeding, half dead, and sterile. You were wondering what went on between myself and Ray? That’s what went on. I didn’t tell him until after we were married, and he never trusted me again.” She kicked at the stone steps of the church. “There’s your pound of flesh, Mr. Kelly. Bought and paid for.”

She put her glasses back on and walked down the steps to her car. I watched her go, then went inside and sat in the dark and holy space. I thought about compassion. And human suffering. And marveled at how Marie Perry had become such an expert in each.