Page 67 of Never Flinch

“Woman Power!”

“Woman Power!”

“Woman Power, let me hear you, Iowa City!”

They shout it back at her, ecstatic. The Life at Conception folks are sitting with their arms crossed like sulky children.

A hand grasps Holly’s elbow.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Corrie asks quietly.

“Yes,” Holly says. “She is.”

Especially because the woman who threw bleach at Corrie and dumped blood and guts all over her luggage could be in that audience right now. Armed. Not one of those in the blue shirts, either. Nor in a brown housekeeper’s dress. Someone who probably looks mild-mannered and interested. Applauding and cheering.

A woman, in other words, who might look like Holly herself.

Most of the crowd quiets. Not the Life at Conception cadre, however. As soon as the rest of the audience sits down, they leap to their feet and begin chanting, “Abortion is murder! Abortion is murder! Abortion is murder!”

Holly tenses and slides her hand into her purse. The majority of the crowd boos. There are cries of “Sit down and shut up!” A ragged chant of “Our bodies, our choice” gets going. Ushers are moving toward the blue shirts.

Kate raises her hands. She’s smiling. “Quiet, you libtards, you snowflakes. Rest easy. Ushers, stand down. Let them get it out of their systems.”

The Life at Conception people at first continue to chant, then realize they are being watched by the majority of the crowd the way monkeys in a zoo are watched when exhibiting some peculiar kind of activity—throwing feces at each other, perhaps. The chanting loses force, becomes ragged, fades… stops.

“There,” Kate says kindly. It’s the voice a parent uses when speaking to a child exhausted by their own tantrum. “You’ve said what youwanted to say. Stood up for what you believe in. That’s how we do it in this country. Now it’s my turn, all right? The turn of a woman who believesa raped child who turns up pregnant should have an option!”

A roar of applause. Corrie turns to Holly, and if Holly never saw a person with actual stars in her eyes, she’s seeing one now.

“It always gets me,” Corrie says. “Shealways gets me. Sometimes she’s a pain in the ass, but when she gets onstage… you feel it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She means it. Every word. Top to heels. She means it.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ve got my fix.” Corrie laughs and wipes away a few tears. “I’ll be in the greenroom, making calls and getting ready for Davenport. You can find your way back to the green, can’t you?”

“Yes. Remember we’re not going out the stage door.”

Corrie flashes a thumbs-up. “From the South Hall, right. Luggage and vehicles stay at the Radisson. We’ll get them tomorrow.”

Another wave of applause from the auditorium as Kate makes her patentedc’mon c’mon c’mongesture, wiggling the fingers of both hands.

7

Chris is sitting in the third row, short blond hair neatly combed, dressed in a blue Oxford shirt and new bluejeans. He has no weapon. He thought there might be metal detectors, but that’s only one reason. He will die if necessary, but is hoping he and his sister can end the bitch and get away clean. There are plenty of stops left on McKay’s Tour of Death. Martyrdom is a last resort.

She’s magnetic, he has to admit that. No wonder the women around him are enthralled. No wonder that Pastor Jim of the Real Christ Holy Church calls her “the handmaiden of the antichrist.” But it was Andy Fallowes, Pastor Jim’s First Deacon and the church’s finance officer, who set Chris on his current course. Because, he said, Pastor Jim could only be seen talking the talk.

“It’s up to Christian patriots like us, Christopher, to walk the walk. Do you agree?”

He did, most heartily. So did Chrissy.

Onstage, Kate is telling them to pretend they’re in school. “Can you do that? Good! I want all the men in the audience to raise a hand. Come on, guys, pretend I’m the teacher you crushed on in the sixth grade.”

There’s a murmur of laughter. Men raise their hands, Chris among them.

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