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Kate and Corrie arrive in Omaha at two in the afternoon, Kate driving most of it with the hammer down. They take half-hour turns playing the Sirius XM, Kate bellowing 80s rock anthems at the top of her lungs, then Corrie singing along with Willie, Waylon, and Shania. Tonight’s gig forA Woman’s Testamentis at the Holland Performing Arts Center. Two thousand seats and, as Corrie gleefully reports, “A butt in every one!”
Corrie stands in her accustomed position, behind the house manager with his earphones and little wall-mounted TV screen, as Kate strides onstage to thunderous applause that drowns out the booing section. She hasn’t bought a new Borsalino or even ordered one. Tonight she’s wearing a red Cornhuskers lid. She sweeps it off in her usual bow, grabs the mic from the podium (at every stop Corrie emphasizes that itmustbe a cordless mic and not a lav; Kate considers lavs unreliable), and walks out to the apron of the stage.
“Woman Power!”
“Woman Power!” the audience roars back.
“You can do better! Let mehearyou, Omaha!”
“WOMAN POWER!” the crowd bellows. Most of it, anyway.
“Good, that’s good,” Kate says. She’s moving around. Pacing. Brilliant red pants suit that matches the hat. Corrie found it for her in Fashion Freak. “That’s great. Go on and sit down. I need to testify, Omaha. I feel the spirit strong in me tonight, so sit.”
They sit in a whoosh of clothes. A few women are crying for happy. There are always a few. Some have Kate McKay tattoos.
“To start with, I want you to pretend you’re in school. Can you do that? You can? Good! Terrific! Now I want all the men in the audience to raise a hand. Come on, guys, don’t be shy.”
There’s some laughter and shuffling around, but the men are determined to be good sports. They raise their hands. About twenty per cent of every night’s audience is male, Corrie has decided. Not all of them are in the booing section, but most are.
“Now those men who’ve had an abortion, keep your hands up. Those who haven’t, put your hands down.”
More laughter. Most of the women applaud as all the male hands go down.
“What,noneof you? Wow! I mean holyjeepers!”
General laughter. Corrie has heard this warm-up routine many times.
“But who makes thelawshere in Nebraska? I’m thinking of that question as regards the Dobbs decision, which kicked abortion legislation back to the states. In Nebraska, the cut-off is twelve weeks. Seventy-two per cent of the legislators who made that law are men, who have never had to decide whether to terminate a pregnancy.”
“God’s law!” someone shouts from the back of the auditorium.
Kate doesn’t miss a beat. She never does. “I didn’t know God had been elected to the Nebraska Legislature.”
This brings a round of applause. Corrie has heard it all before, and since she won’t be called upon to make a guest appearance tonight—Kate will have the stage all to herself, which is just how they both like it—Corrie heads to the greenroom to make some calls. There are loose ends to be tied up before the next stop.
Their current security cop is parked in a corner of the greenroom, snacking away from one of the many hospitality plates. He’s a Douglas County sheriff’s deputy named Hamilton Wilts. (“You ma’ams can call me Ham.”) Corrie knows it’s not politically correct to think of overweight persons as fat, but when she looks at Ham Wilts, she can’t help thinking of her father nodding at such a one and murmuring,There goes a walking cheese wheel.
The greenroom TV is showing Kate onstage, pacing, really getting into it—testifying—but the sound is turned down and Wilts is reading a paperback mystery. As well as snacks, the long counter running beneath a trio of makeup mirrors is loaded with so many bouquets they jostle for space. Most are from various women’s groups, the largest from the one sponsoring her talk. The flowers and snack plates were already here. Now there’s also a white envelope. It’s new.
Corrie picks it up. In the upper lefthand corner it says, FROM THE OFFICE OF MAYOR JEAN STODART. The envelope is hand-addressed to Ms. Kate McKay and Ms. Corrine Anderson. If not for what happened in Reno and Spokane, Corrie would have opened the envelope without hesitation and left it propped open on the counter for Kate to glance at when she finishes tonight’s performance (nothing else to call it). But Renodidhappen, and the picture with the threatening note did, too. So Corrie hears alarm bells. Probably stupid, but her fingers seem to feel somethingbulgyin the bottom of the envelope. Maybe just some fancy embossing on the card, but—
“Officer Wilts… Ham… who brought this?”
He looks up from his book. “One of the ushers. Is Ms. McKay almost done?”
“Not yet.” It will be twenty minutes, at least. Maybe longer. “Man or woman?”
“Hmm?”
“The usher who brought this, was it a man or a woman?” She holds up the envelope.
“Pretty sure it was a young lady, but I didn’t really notice.” He holds up his book. On the cover is a terrified woman. “I’m just getting to the part where I find out who did it.”
You’resupposedto notice, goddammit, Corrie thinks.It’s your fuckingjobto notice, you… you cheese wheel.She would no more say this aloud than Holly would.
Ham Wilts goes back to his book. Corrie goes through the various drawers in the greenroom. She finds old makeup, a bra, and half a roll of Tums, but not what she’s looking for.
“Officer Wilts.”