The 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.