The speed of her mother’s mind always surprised Little Mim. Her own mind, which was good, very good, couldn’t work as quickly as her mother’s.
“Yes.”
“Before Will Wylde’s murder.” Big Mim again studied the letter. Yes.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped you.”
“Mother, it’s not about the money.”
“Blackmail is always about money—and shame.” Her light-brown eyes flickered, a flash of sympathy, for she knew she wasn’t a warm person.
She wasn’t the easiest person to confide in. She would have kept Little Mim’s secret, but her daughter did not feel especially close to her mother emotionally and hadn’t opened her heart to her.
Miranda would throw her arms around Little Mim, would comfort her and pray with her, if necessary. Big Mim thought first.
“Well…” Little Mim took a deep breath, her bosom heaving upward under her pale-yellow camp shirt. “I had an abortion my sophomore year in college. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t.”
Big Mim’s voice was soft. “Honey, I was one of those women who fought for reproductive control.”
“Mother, somehow I don’t think it’s the same when it’s your own daughter.”
“I’m sorry.” Big Mim meant it. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t come to me. How you’ve carried this all these years.”
Tears rolled down Little Mim’s cheeks as her mother reached for her hand. “I was stupid.” She wiped away the tears with her free left hand. “I got drunk at a fraternity party, and I don’t even remember going to bed with my date. Obviously, I did.”
“Can you still have children? Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off.
Little Mim nodded. “Yes.” Then she said, “I never wanted to, because I thought I was a terrible person. First I did what I did, and then I had an abortion. I believe ‘slut’ is the word. And to Jonathan, I am a murderer.”
“You’re not.”
“Mother, I don’t know. Even now when I think about that time, I feel like I’ve fallen into a cesspool of guilt.”
“Darling, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” She looked down, turned over the envelope. “Marilyn, this wasn’t sent from prison.”
Little Mim, wiping away more tears, took the envelope from her mother’s hand. “22905. That’s the Barracks Road Shopping Center post office.”
“I assume Will Wylde performed the termination.” Big Mim was trying to put the pieces together.
Little Mim sucked in her breath. “Bechtal must have the records.” Her right hand flew up to her temple, envelope and paper still in it. “Mother, what can I do?”
“We must see Rick at once.”
“This could destroy my political career.”
Big Mim removed the letter from her daughter’s hand and folded the paper, slipping it back into the envelope. “You have to take that chance. By some great stroke of fortune, this may not be made public.”
“I doubt that. I’ve been in office only two years and already the Democrats poke for any chink in my armor.” She smiled ruefully. “I’ve been good at my work, so they haven’t found any, but this, this…” She then said, “I kept my mouth shut about the fanatical right wing of the party. That will be my undoing.”
“You didn’t kiss their ass in Macy’s window, excuse the vulgar expression.” Big Mim rarely descended to same.
“No, but I sure kept my mouth shut about abortion.”
“I don’t know what to tell you about that, because I don’t feel the way you do.”
“You never had one.”
“No, I did not, but I think I know myself well enough to know I wouldn’t feel guilty. I believe life starts when you emerge from the womb—sentient life, if you will. Anyway, nothing I can say will ever convince the opponents of abortion, nor vice versa, but if I could think of something to say to dispel your malaise, I would.”
“Malaise? Mother, it’s gold-plated guilt.”
“I don’t mean to make light of it. Does Blair know?”
Little Mim shook her head again. “No. There was no reason to tell him.”
“I think you must.”
“I will.”
“Are you worried about him?”
“No. I don’t expect any man likes to hear about his wife’s sex life before him, even if it was in college, but Blair’s open-minded. I mean, he’s not one to trumpet that double standard.”
“Who was it who said that if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament? Gloria Steinem?” Big Mim studied the postmark again.
“I don’t know.” Little Mim bent over to read the postmark, too. “Friday, September twenty-sixth. Mother, how did he get these letters out?”
“He didn’t. There’s a partner on the outside. There has to be.” She slapped the envelope on her knee, which made Pressman’s head swivel from the cowbird he was watching. “How much have you paid?”
“Nothing.”
“No, Marilyn, before this?”
“The threats started three months ago. Each time the demand was for ten thousand dollars. I paid by postal note made out to Jonathan Bechtal. Not even a cashier’s check.”
“How?”
“I sent it to Jonathan Bechtal, care of Love of Life, P.O. Box Fifteen, Charlottesville, Virginia. That is a legitimate organization.”
“So to speak,” Big Mim wryly commented.
“What do you mean?”
“You know how I feel about charities. The accounting rules differ from Chapter C corporations, and more to the point, it’s so bloody easy to steal in so many ways that someone whose IQ would make a good golf score could easily enrich themselves. I’d be willing to bet ten thousand dollars myself that what you paid dropped into someone’s pocket.”
“Jonathan Bechtal, but the address was Love of Life?”
“We’ll see about that.” Big Mim leaned back on the wooden bench, feeling the slats press into her back. “I haven’t met Bechtal, but from what Rick and Cooper have said—I peppered them with questions, naturally—he’s a true believer. Those kind of puritans rarely are larcenous. I could be wrong.” She pressed her forefingers to her temples. “This is strange. What’s truly strange is, why is Bechtal taking the fall? Is there more violence to come? Is the money going to fund it? Or is he the dupe?” She began to rub her temples, her mind almost overheating.
“Do you have a headache?”
“I do now.” Big Mim smiled, then again reached for her daughter’s hand. “We’ll get through this. And—I hope you know this—about the Democrats, you know your father has nothing to do with them going after you or what may come next.”
“I know. He can’t help being a Democrat.” Little Mim smiled, a bit of relief flowing into her thanks to her mother’s response. “Any more than you can.”
“It’s a generation mark. My generation would sooner die than register Republican. But in those days a Southern Democrat was a conservative. Well, that’s irrelevant. We have to get to the bottom of this. How were you asked for the money before?”
“Same.”
“Seems stupid to send a local letter airmail, doesn’t it?”
“Does. But I never got a phone call or anything like that. Just three letters and now the fourth.”
“When you had the procedure, did anyone else know?”
“Harry and Susan.”
“You all were never close. Although you’re closer now. How did Harry come to know?”
“Serendipity. It’s a long story.”
“Did she have an abortion, too?”
Little Mim replied, “No, no. Harry and Susan just happened to be there when I opened the letter with my pregnancy report. They helped me after that. Right now, let’s go to Rick Shaw. You’re right. I can’t go along hoping the worst doesn’t happen. I might as well face the music.”
Big Mim rose; Pressman followed. “I’ll go with you.” As they walked toward the house, Big Mim said, “She’s solid, that Harry.” Yes.
“Darling, don’t shy away from motherhood. You will find it changes you profoundly. Blair, too. Don’t deny yourself that love and, well, all that work, too.” She smiled, a small but sweet smile. “I know I wasn’t what people would call a loving mother. I’m too reserved, but I did love having you, raising you, watching your first steps, hearing your first words. Do you know what they were?”