by Alex Marcoux
Jessie stepped back from the mirror. She was stunned. She looked huge. The padded undergarments had expanded her shoulders, making her appear barrel-chested. Between the shoes and inserts, she approached six feet tall.
She stood awkwardly, not knowing exactly how to stand or where to rest her hands. Then she pulled a straight chair in front of the mirror and practiced sitting. It felt foreign and uncomfortable.
Determined to get this right, Jessie stood. One of her hands slid into a pants pocket. She turned slightly so she wasn’t directly facing the mirror. “That’s better.” Without thinking, she smiled, but quickly banished it from her face. Her smile made her look too feminine.
The jacket came off and was tossed on the bed. She then sat in the chair, critiquing her every move in the mirror. “Legs apart,” she whispered, and her legs parted so that they ran parallel to the chair legs. Over and over she practiced sitting, then her stance, until she could do it without thinking.
Jessie picked up the artificial facial hair. It matched her hair color perfectly. She adhered it to her face and she stepped away from the mirror. The goatee enhanced her masculine appearance, and somehow, she thought her scar was more fitting for Brennan.
She retrieved a small package on the bed. Inside, there was a vial containing contact lenses. She inserted the lenses and her brown eyes were now blue.
Jessie started in a low tone, “Hi, I’m Bren—” She cleared her throat, and said even lower, “Hi, I’m Brennan Keller.” This is going to take practice.
* * *
For the rest of the week, Jessie set out as Brennan. She visited the mall, hairstylist, post office, and grocery store. Each day she learned from people’s reactions to her disguise. She used Brennan’s credit card to purchase new clothing and shoes. She was pleased with her dress rehearsals, but she knew her true test would be her Friday night debut.
As the previous Friday, Jessie emailed another article to the Syracuse Herald. Again, she received a note back from Len Richards, complimenting Brennan’s work.
Chapter Ten
Early that Friday, Rachel received a mysterious voice mail from Jessie. “Hi Rachel. It’s Jessie. We need to talk. Meet me at the Westchester Marriot, in the bar, five o’clock.”
Rachel arrived at the specified time, which coincided with happy hour and the bar was jammed. Jessie was no place to be found. Rachel waited at an unoccupied table.
Within minutes, a man approached Rachel. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. One of those electronic blind dates…You wouldn’t happen to be her, would you?” The man was stylishly dressed in a black, pin-striped suit.
“No. I’m not her,” Rachel said.
“I’m sorry to bother you.” Politely, the attractive man retreated to a nearby table.
Rachel ordered a drink. She withdrew an electronic tablet from her purse and tried to review notes for a story she was working on. But the music blared and voices soared, making it difficult to concentrate. Consequently, her eyes wandered around the bar, and she found herself people watching. She noticed the man in the black, pin-striped suit nearby. When he caught her stare, Rachel shyly averted her eyes.
She drained her wine and glanced at her watch. It had been thirty minutes, and still no sign of Jessie. This didn’t seem like Jessie. But then again, she hadn’t known her very long. She glanced at her phone. There were no messages.
“Hi, beautiful.” A man slipped into the seat across from Rachel, not giving her a chance to object. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties.
Rachel smiled at the man. “I’m saving that seat.”
“I’m Paul and I’ve been watching you. If he hasn’t showed yet, he’s not coming.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m trying to do a little work,” Rachel touched the screen of her tablet and it lit up.
“Come on, it’s happy hour. Why don’t you play for a while?” Paul asked.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt.” The man in the black suit had moved to the table again. “You are Rachel, right?”
She gazed at the man. “Yes.”
“I am supposed to meet you. Didn’t you get the message from Jessie?”
“No.”
He turned to Paul. “Would you excuse us?”
Paul stood eye-to-eye with the stranger, then turned to Rachel, “See you later.”
The man slid into the seat across from Rachel and she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He had intriguing eyes: deep blue with long lashes. Although there was something familiar about him, she couldn’t figure it out. “I didn’t get a message. Who are you?” she asked coldly.
“A friend,” he said mysteriously. “I think I can help find out who killed Steve.”
Rachel eyed the man suspiciously. “How do you know Jessie? Where is she? Who are you?”
He grinned, slightly. “Let’s start over.” He offered Rachel his hand. Just as their hands met, he introduced himself. “I’m Brennan Keller. It’s nice to meet you.”
It took Rachel a few seconds to process the name Brennan Keller. When the epiphany hit, her mouth opened, revealing her shock. Her eyes roamed from Brennan’s eyes, to the familiar scar, to his wide shoulders and chest. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered, her voice lost in the noise of the bar.
“So, what do you think?” Jessie asked in Brennan’s low voice.
“I think you’re nuts. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to be a Mason.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Rachel said. “I told you what Steve told me. You won’t make it through the first initiation.”
Jessie leaned closer so that she didn’t have to talk so loudly. “I found a way to dodge the first three initiations.” Jessie passed a folded paper to Rachel.
Rachel opened and read the letter Jessie had written. She shook her head, eyeing Jessie with skepticism. “This is too dangerous. Why are you doing this?”
“I owe it to Steve to find out what happened to him.”
“You know your brother would never approve of this.”
Jessie was careful not to put too much emotion into her voice. “No woman has ever become a Mason. My brother has set me up with an alias, IDs, credit, real estate, even a profession that I can do. I can’t pass on this.”
“So, you’re looking for a story!” Rachel lashed out.
Jessie was surprised by the sting from Rachel’s words. Her eyes met Rachel’s. “Aren’t you?”
The women stared at each other, each stubbornly not budging. Jessie finally spoke. “I’m willing to give up the rest of the year to find out what happened to Steve and learn about Freemasonry.”
“You just want the story. I’ve been working on this for over a year, now.”
“Rachel, I write novels. I don’t report the news. Don’t you think there’s enough here for the two of us to use? Maybe we can approach this from different angles. I’d be happy to share my information with you.”
“And you expect me to share mine?”
Jessie sighed. This was not the reaction she had expected from Rachel. Perhaps she had overestimated Rachel’s friendship with her brother. She was Steve’s friend, not mine. Jessie scratched her goatee. The feel of the facial hair was foreign to her. “Rachel, what would you do if you were in my shoes?”
“That’s not a fair question.”
“Okay. What if I said I would give you Brennan Keller? Could you play him? Would you be willing to sacrifice the rest of the year to infiltrate the Masons?” As Jessie said it, she wondered, Am I willing to make that much of a sacrifice?
Rachel analyzed Jessie’s portrayal of Brennan—his stylish short hair, trimmed goatee, and thick eyebrows. Brennan sat with broad shoulders and his legs apart. When he spoke, his voice was low, with no feminine character. Jessie had completely fooled her.
Rachel shook her head no. “I don’t think I could make those sacrifices,” she admitted. “I still think it’s too dangerous, Jess,” she s
oftened.
Jessie smiled, and then quickly covered the goatee, concealing the grin. “I need to work on that.”
Chapter Eleven
The following week, Jessie telephoned Gary Stonewall. Her heart pounded faster than usual and her stomach churned as she waited for Stonewall to answer.
“This is Stonewall,” he said.
“Worshipful Master, this is Brennan Keller,” she said in a low tone.
“Hello Brennan. I received the referral letter from California yesterday. Are you in New York, already?”
“Yes, I was hoping we could set up a time to meet.”
* * *
That Thursday evening, Jessie drove to the White Plains Blue Lodge. As she approached the temple, she realized that she was walking in her customary manner. She faltered a bit, remembering that she was dressed as Brennan, and adjusted her stride.
Tiny barred windows with blinds prohibited her from glimpsing inside of the temple. The building’s cold appearance amplified the unpleasant feeling she had in the pit of her stomach.
Jessie opened the heavy door and entered the temple. Her vision was immediately drawn to the black-and-white checkered floor beneath her black wing tips.
“Can I help you?” a man at a receptionist desk asked.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Brennan Keller and I have an appointment with Gary Stonewall.” Mindful of her walk, she strolled to the desk.
“The Worshipful Master is in the Lodge room. He’s expecting you.” The man pointed to a door near him.
Hoping the anxiety knots in her stomach weren’t obvious, she moved to the door. Based on the information she had learned, she suspected that Stonewall would interrogate her. Jessie knew it was critical to find the altar and assess the position of the compass. This would determine how she was expected to greet him. Her hand froze on the knob. She took a deep breath, trying to settle her stomach, and opened the door.
Faint lights adorned the walls and the dimness intensified the ominous feeling in her gut. A stone altar stood in the center of the room. The ceiling was dark and when Jessie’s eyes adjusted, she realized that the ceiling was blue. Is that why its called a Blue Lodge? Gary Stonewall’s back was to Jessie and he was arranging items on the altar. As she advanced, she saw him adjust a compass so that its points were above a square. Both points above—the Lodge is open to the third degree! she concluded. Jessie knew she was expected to salute him with the sign of a Master Mason.
Without warning, Stonewall abruptly turned. “Are you a Master Mason?”
Jessie’s heart beat harder. “I am,” she said as she approached.
“What induced you to become a Master Mason?”
Jessie froze; she stood speechless. A wave of nausea hit and she feared that she was going to give back her dinner.
“What induced you to become a Master Mason?” Stonewall barked. She recalled the Master Mason examination she had found on an anti-Masonic Web site. She had rehearsed it repeatedly over the past week. Now when she needed to perform best, she couldn’t move.
“Jessie, you can do this,” a voice echoed in her head. “Just relax.”
Jessie hadn’t heard that little voice in such a long time. It sounded foreign to her, and yet, it was comforting. She took a deep breath and began. “That I might obtain the Master’s word…travel to foreign countries, work, and receive Master’s wages, and be thereby better enabled to support myself and family, and contribute to the relief of distressed worthy Master Masons, their widows and orphans.”
Stonewall was silent. Then, as if considering his prey before an attack, the stocky man circled around his victim. “What makes you a Master Mason?”
Jessie feared that Stonewall was suspicious. “My Obligation,” she answered.
“Where were you made a Master Mason?”
“Within the body of a just and duly constituted Lodge of Master Masons, assembled in a place representing the Sanctum Sanctorum of King Solomon’s Temple.”
“How may I know you to be a Master Mason?”
“By certain signs and tokens.” Her confidence grew.
Stonewall approached Brennan from behind. “What are signs?”
“Right angles, horizontals, and perpendiculars.”
“Advance a sign. Has it an allusion?”
“It has; to the position of my hands while taking the Obligation.” She extended her hands, palm down. Jessie knew that the initiate’s hands were placed on a square, compass, and Bible while taking the Master Mason oath.
“Have you a further sign?”
“I have,” Jessie answered with poise.
“Has that an allusion?”
“It has, to the penalty of the Obligation.” Her hands were still extended from the due guard and abruptly her left hand fell. She placed her right hand palm down, near her waist on her left side. With her thumb pointing toward her body, she quickly brushed the digit crossways as if severing her body, and then her hand rested by her side. Unaware of what the gestures meant, Jessie mechanically performed them as she had memorized from the Saints Alive in Jesus website.
“What are tokens?”
“Certain friendly or brotherly grips whereby one Mason may know another in the dark as in the light.”
“Advance and give me a token,” Stonewall ordered.
Jessie shook Stonewall’s hand. She wrapped her thumb and pinky finger around the edges of his hand, while the remaining fingertips dug into the inside of Stonewall’s wrist.
“What is that?” he asked.
“The pass-grip of a Master Mason.”
“Has it a name?”
Jessie played out what she thought to be a silly dialogue where she eventually offered the name of the pass-grip, “Tubalcain!”
“Will you be off or from?” Stonewall asked.
“From.”
“From what, and to what?”
“From the pass-grip of a Master Mason to the real grip of the same.”
“Pass. What is that?”
“The real grip of a Master Mason, or lion’s paw.”
“Has it a name?”
“It has.”
“Will you give it to me?”
“Place yourself in the proper position to receive it and I will.”
“What is the proper position to receive it?”
“On the five points of fellowship,” Jessie answered.
“What are the five points of fellowship?”
Jessie’s right foot stepped alongside Stonewall’s; instep-to-instep, her knee was against his and their chests converged. Jessie felt sweat dribble beneath her bodysuit. Her lips approached Stonewall’s ear and he laid his hand on Jessie’s back. “Foot-to-foot, knee-to-knee, breast-to-breast…” The contact with Stonewall distracted her and she lost her place.
“What are the five points of fellowship?” Stonewall repeated.
“Foot-to-foot, knee-to-knee, breast-to-breast, hand-to-back, and cheek-to-cheek, or mouth-to-ear.” She paused, and then she whispered, “Ma.”
“Ha,” Stonewall added.
“Bone,” she finished.
Stonewall receded and silently stared at Brennan with scrutinizing eyes. Jessie calmly waited for a reaction. She could feel the perspiration form on her facial hair.
Then, Stonewall grinned. He extended his hand and gave Brennan the pass-grip. “Brother Keller, I presume.”
Jessie nodded. “Yes, Worshipful Master.”
“Come, let’s talk.” Stonewall left the Lodge room with Brennan on his heels.
Jessie’s pulse slowed as she followed him. With a handkerchief, she wiped the perspiration from around her goatee and fake eyebrows. I think it worked. She breathed easier as she followed Stonewall into the lobby, down a hall and into an office with a nameplate WORSHIPFUL MASTER—STEVE MERCER.
“Take a seat,” Stonewall pointed to a chair across from a large desk. “So, I understand you’re from the West Coast.”
“Yes, the LA area.”
“What
’s bringing you here?”
“My parents are upstate. They’re getting older. It’s best that I’m closer.”
“What do you do for a living, Brennan?”
“I write. To help with the East Coast transition, I’ve been freelancing with the Syracuse Herald the last year. But I’d like to get into one of the Westchester or New York City papers. Upstate New York is a bit quiet for me.”
“Are you married?”
Jessie shook her head. “No. Never married.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“A good-looking man like yourself—are you gay or something?”
Jessie was surprised by Stonewall’s directness. She was careful not to smile too much. “I assure you, Worshipful Master, I am quite attracted to the ladies.”
“You can call me Gary.”
“I noticed there was another name on the door.”
“Yes. Steve Mercer. A fine man, he passed away…five weeks ago. A new nameplate is being made as we speak. So, are you settled in the metro area?”
“Not yet. I want to find a more permanent position before I move. In the meantime, I’m staying upstate.”
“Have you applied to The Empire? They’re the second largest New York paper.”
“No. Reporting is a new profession for me. I’m not sure a large paper would be interested because of my limited experience. I was thinking of trying to get into the Westchester weekly paper.
“To hell with the little paper,” Stonewall picked up a pen and started writing. “I know someone at The Empire.” He handed Brennan the paper. “His name is Clark Coburn. He’s the managing editor. Call him. Tell him I suggested that you call.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
“Are you considering the Scottish or York Rite, or are you just looking for a Blue Lodge?”
“I’m interested in the Scottish Rite.”
“I’ll be happy to provide you the degree schedule for the Northern Masonic Jurisdiction. Next time you come in, I’ll set you up.” Stonewall stood, suggesting the meeting was over. “It was nice to meet you, Brennan. I wish you luck.”
