by G. H. Holmes
His gaze went up to the slanted ceiling. “You see, a one-time… action may not be lethal for a man’s soul, or a family or a career. But what if you find you like it? What if you feel particularly fulfilled afterwards? What if it happens again. And again? My high school principal always said, ‘Starting booze is easier than quitting booze.’ Real deep. But he was right. Some habits form quickly, and then it’s juggling nitro.”
She looked into his eyes, her elbow on her knee, chin in hand, and listened, slightly amused.
“See,” he said, still tense, “there’s a character in the Bible, Samson.”
“The strong man?”
“Right. You know, long hair, strong arms. It went hand in hand.”
“I imagine he looked like you, just that you don’t have long hair.”
He cast his eyes down.
“No, really. I mean it. You’d probably look good with it. Long hair, I mean.”
“I had long hair once.”
“Ooh. I’d like to see that. Do you have pictures?”
“I’m afraid not. They’re all gone.”
“Argh. Too bad. I’m sure you looked… interesting. Maybe like Jesus?”
“We don’t even know if Jesus had long hair. In the Mid East they shave their heads and let their beards grow. We do the opposite. We let our hair grow and shave—“
She was nodding affirmatively. “I know.”
He sighed. Samson. “See,” he leaned back, “old Sam got bored with life one day and decided to go visit some girls in Gaza.”
“Women,” she said blandly.
“Yes. Guess he was lonely.”
“He was not married?”
“I don’t know.” C’mon, let me finish this.
“Poor guy, if he never found anybody.”
“They were of the kind you could buy,” he said pointedly.
“Ooh,” she said. Her brows went up and her eyes began to search the carpet.
“The women in Gaza. Well, he… toys with a girl until midnight. Then he gets up to go home. He pulls his socks on and so on, when the Spirit of God descends on him and makes him supernaturally strong. He leaves the house, turns toward the city gate, and runs into a bunch of soldiers who try to kill him. At midnight. And he kills them all.”
“Interesting,” Gina said.
“What I’m trying to say is, Samson sinned until midnight, and at midnight the power of God came on him. I mean, right after he sinned. Usually God doesn’t condone sin, you know. He judges sinners. But here he helps a sinner seconds after he’s sinned, and we’re talking big sin; and God helped him big time.”
“God is merciful,” she said shyly.
“Isn’t he,” Tom said. “Samson unhinged their city gate and carried it all the way to Hebron. If you follow his route on the map, you’ll see that he carried that thing over a distance of sixty kilometers. Sixty kays! It’s as if God ignored his sin.”
She followed him with here eyes. “You have given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”
Ouch. She’d caught him. “His mercy’s not cheap,” he said quietly.
“But it’s available…”
“It cost Jesus everything.”
“What do you mean?” He’d confused her.
“Jesus suffered and died in our stead, so we can go unpunished. We have to honor him for that.”
“But how do we do that?”
“By not sinning,” Silly.
“But he already suffered, Tom. He’s done with it. Today, mercy doesn’t cost him anything. And Jesus knows how we feel, he was one of us, he can relate. He knows that we’re just dust. Look at some of the old pictures the artists drew of Jesus; look into his eyes. They’re so full of love.”
Stark became tense with suppressed excitement.
“Don’t you think that if he forgave Samson back then, he’ll forgive us now?” she said.
His head swam. “Gina… It’s not that easy,” he said after a while. “You see, Samson thought the same thing…” His voice tapered off.
She furrowed her brow and said, “What do you mean?”
“Samson got himself a girlfriend, Delilah…” He fell silent.
“Delors.”
He looked up. “Huh?”
“My name is Delors,” she said.
He shook his head. “Silly, I wasn’t talking about you. Delilah was Samson’s girlfriend, a Philistine. She wasn’t a believer in God—“
“But I am!” Gina said, her voice quivering.
Tom’s heart skipped a beat before it began to race. His mind went blank. He closed his eyes. Don’t do this to me.
“He never married her,” he went on. “Samson never married Delilah. He couldn’t; she wasn’t Israelite. As I said, the notion of romantic love wasn’t invented yet; back then they didn’t marry if it wasn’t proper socially. Today, Christians don’t marry non-Christians; at least, that’s the ideal. So he wanders up to her house and sees her in the cool of the night, not just once, or twice, but continually; his sin becomes his lifestyle.”
“Tom…”
“Samson thinks he’s immune to judgment. After all, God helped him out once; he’s sinned since and nothing happened; this can go on forever as far as he’s concerned. But one day… One day, the Delilah he loves, sells him to the Philistines. She makes him happy, and afterwards, while he sleeps, she shears off his hair, the token source of his superhuman strength. Then she calls the Philistines, who come and catch him and stab his eyes out and imprison him. His eyes are wells of blood when they haul him off.” He looked at Gina. “Can you imagine how that felt? Now he’ll never ever look at another woman in his life. Samson was finished.” He fell silent.
“But God’s mercy, Tom,” she said tenderly.
He swallowed against the lump in his throat. The way she sat there, turned toward him; her knees… She suddenly threw her hands to her face and burst out crying.
“Oh, Tom…!”
He got up from his chair.
She rose too. “Tom…” Her hands trembled.
He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment, his half-lifted arms frozen in a semi-circle. But she moved toward him, so he pulled her close and embraced her. She relaxed in his arms. When she began to shake, he held her tighter, and she sobbed unashamedly. His heart was pounding.
He was holding Gina.
Of all the women in the world, he held the one—the only one—in his universe that mattered, perhaps forever. How he wished he could freeze that embrace in time, that first intimate—and last innocent—moment of their relationship. They would be transformed after this. Where would they go? What now? What was to come? A tender madness enveloped them both. Were madmen sinners?
“Gina…”
She had her face in her hands and sobbed, her forehead resting on his collarbone. Looking up at him through the tears, she said, “Tom, I-I trust you.”
He didn’t reply. What were words in an instance like this, where being alive was all that mattered. A gust of blistering air came through the window.
“I trust you.”
She trusted. The most intimate quality a relationship can produce is trust. He’d done it. He’d arrived at the top. She trusted him. God, we’re going mad…
“Gina,” he said tenderly, stroking her hair. It was blonde hair, big hair; so different, so alive, radiant, like fiery feathers.
“I trust you like I’ve never trusted a man,” she said. “I’m opening up to you, Mr. Stark.”
Gina…
“Sit down,” she said, leaving his embrace and indicating his chair.
Her eyes glistened like diamonds and he felt helpless for a moment.
“Please sit.”
His brows went up. What was she up to?
“Sit.”
He sat back down. She returned to her chair as well.
She inhaled deeply. “Tom…” Her gaze sank and settled on some spot on his shirt. “There’s something you’ll have to help me with…”
“I’ll do wha
t I can.”
“I mean, as a pastor.” Her eyes flashed up now. “Tom, the story with my dad…”
“What’s with it?”
“There’s more…” She began to cry again, softly, wrinkling the tissue in her hand. She quickly rose again.
This time he only followed her with his eyes.
From the bureau which had held her childhood passport she produced a picture and held it close to her chest. Standing in front of him, she hesitantly reached out and handed it over with an outstretched arm. He took it, and she sat down again.
Stark studied the photo. It showed Gina with a strikingly handsome silver-haired gentleman lying front-to-back on a sofa. They were smiling into the camera.
He frowned. “Mr. Bollinger?”
She nodded. “His wife took the shot,” Gina said with embarrassment in her voice. Her gaze was on the floor. “I didn’t show it to Ralph.”
I can see why, Stark thought, staring at the shot. It was brimming with energy. Gina wore a T-shirt and the same shorts she had on now; Bollinger wore jeans and no shirt at all. Both were barefoot.
“Tom,” she said, “I have to tell you something.”
Into the ominous silence he asked, “What?”
“You see…”
Stark’s eyes became cold as steel.
“What you’re seeing wasn’t the end of the story—“ She looked up. “They still listen to that radio man. What’s his name…?” Her fingers went to her forehead; she was concentrating. “He’s really famous; Paul something, Paul…”
“Harvey?” he supplied.
“Right.” She smiled. “Harvey. I learned all about him last September. My dad really likes him, and—“
“Gina,” he interrupted her. “You were getting at something.”
“Yes.” She sighed. Her eyes got unfocused. She looked down. “I don’t have to describe it, do I?”
“Describe what?” Tom asked blankly.
A moment of painful silence passed.
“He kissed me,” she said.
Stark adjusted in his seat. “No,” he said, “you don’t have to describe it.” His insides began to burn. No, she didn’t have to describe it.
“I’m still thinking of him as my father,” she said, laughing helplessly.
The muscles in his cheeks pulsed. That dirty rat. That dirty, rotten, no-good rat… Stark began to seethe. He suppressed his rage, but a bulging vein in his forehead betrayed him. “That’s what he is, isn’t he?” he said hoarsely. “Your father.”
“No!”
She startled him.
“He’s not my father at all. He told me everything, why mom and he split up in Seventy-eight; she had fun on the side too. Tom,” she said. “Tom, I’m not his child.”
Stark heard her, but he was staring at the photograph, searching their faces for similarities. They where there, if you were inclined to accept them; the eyes, the nose… But Bollinger was short, her mother was short as well; Gina was tall. Could two short people have a tall daughter?
“And…”
He looked at her.
“And we didn’t go on,” she said. “He quit after a while.”
He cast her a probing glance. “But you would have gone along, had he pursued the matter?”
She studied her toes. Then she whispered, “Yes.”
She trusted him. She really did. Tom felt sick. He cleared his throat. “Does Ralph know?”
“No. But he suspects something.” She paused. “Things haven’t been the same since last September.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
She sighed, shame distorting her pretty face. “I don’t know why I—”
“Mooom!” Raphael’s voice boomed from downstairs.
“Coming!” Dabbing her eyes again, she got up. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Stark fought back tears of his own when he walked home. For one, he was mad at himself for misreading her. There she was, desperate for a pastor, and he’d come to her like a love-sick pup. He’d been oblivious to her need. It seemed so obvious now; her drinking, her e-mail escapism; this wasn’t mere worldliness. She was guilty, she needed a competent counselor…
Burning with shame, Stark clenched his teeth. That this had to happen to him—to him who walked circumspectly, never watched pornography, never ever turned to the smut of the Internet for titillation. Tom was so disappointed with himself, he could have walloped his face.
22
Thursday, 17 July 2003, Afternoon, 37° Celsius
Romy saw that the door to Tom’s office was closed. She gave it a faint knock. “Are you in there?”
He mumbled a “Yes.”
Depressing the handle, she tried to enter, but found the door locked. She exhaled slowly. “You alone?”
“Mmh.”
She stared at the wood, unsure. “Everything all right?”
Paper rustled.
She took a half-step down the hall and stopped. Then she returned and asked, “Did your talk go okay?”
He fired off an impatient “Yes.”
Her eyes began to dart. “It’s almost five,” she said. “I’m running Ben over to soccer practice. Can Sarah stay here?”
All she got for an answer were indistinct noises.
“I’ll have to pick up Raff,” she went on. “Gina’s bringing them back later. She’s still at home, isn’t she?”
“Mmh.”
“I might run on to the store; just so you know who’s ringing in an hour or so, in case you’re still in there when they come back. Aldi runs a special, and Sarah’s playing upstairs and—”
She heard the key rumble in its lock. The door flew open.
“For crying out loud!” Stark said, his face pale, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Just do it, will you! Just go!”
Romy caught sight of his eyes…
“Now beat it! Please.”
She grumbled and walked toward the kitchen.
Raphael pulled the heavy BMW door open and threw his black-and-yellow backpack in. Loud rap music became audible, a prickly Eminem yelling ugly things about his mother out of an upstairs window of Raff’s home. The boy’s face wore a frown. He clambered into the kid’s seat next to Ben.
“Hi Raff, ole buddy,” Ben said, strapped in behind his mother. A rucksack similar to Raff’s sat in the footwell by his feet.
“Mmh,” Raff replied.
How annoying, Romy thought, listening to the music. At least nobody here comprehended the rapper’s obscenities; at least not Raff, who understood no English. Gina wasn’t proficient either. Romy turned around. “Gee, Raff. Who’s listening to this loud music? What’s the matter, young man?”
Raff, fumbling his seatbelt into its lock, said, “Nothing. My mom’s just sad.”
“How come,” Romy said, her voice as even as she could muster.
Raff shrugged. “She sits upstairs, crying.” He drew the door shut.
“Oooh,” Ben said.
Romy’s eyes were darting when she pulled away from the curb.
Stark was furious. For months this man had left Gina in the faith that he was her dad, playing the role until she sat on his couch and he was ready for a second act, where he changed hats and became her lover. He rolled his eyes. A 56-year-old and a 29-year-old. What did that say about both of them?
Even this afternoon she’d introduced Bollinger as her father to him—in spite of knowing better. After what she’d been through with him, however far that went, she still spoke of him as her dad. What did that say about her emotional stability, about her ability to relate to men in general? What did she see in Bollinger?
Tom understood that women with her looks were bound to view the world with different eyes. Men constantly fawned over them—even he’d done that—and that had to warp your perception. She had appeal and that wasn’t her fault. Favor had removed every obstacle in her way, and now she thought she could get away with—
How much of a hold on her did Bollinger retain? They were separated by
an ocean, but they still e-mailed; this very afternoon he’d installed a program for her so she could watch—or listen to—an Internet download Bollinger had suggested. What’ll that be? Tom grumped. More scratch-and-sniff junk? She found that stuff funny, didn’t she. Bollinger mailed and she laughed. Bollinger said, “Jump in the mud and wallow,” and she eagerly complied. She was still with him; separated by an ocean, but still with him; heart and heart united in a single, perfect sphere.
There had to be more. Stark turned to the shelf holding his psychology books. Not being able to think of a Biblical precedent—apart from Lot’s daughters—he took a handful of books down, sat by the desk, and began to search for comparable instances in professional literature, seeking patterns, looking for a glimpse into Gina’s soul, trying to anticipate that which was to come.
Romy knocked cautiously. She didn’t try to enter. “Klever is on.” It was 9:45 PM and Stark hadn’t left his office once in the last four hours.
“I don’t want to see him.”
A sensation of helplessness spread over her. “Your food is on the counter.”
“Mmh.”
She hesitated. “You coming out soon?”
He didn’t reply.
“Coco’s still outside. You’ll need to let her in, when you…”
She didn’t get a reaction, so she turned and went upstairs, having taken off her makeup before trying to say good-night.
In the end his thoughts did return to Abraham’s nephew and his daughters. Gina was one of them. He closed his books, trying to imagine everyday life in those weird, lewd ancient times. How different were they from his today?
Gina…
Modernity produced ancient results; she was living in Gomorrah.
Rubbing his eyes, he sat up.
The daughters of Lot.
Sodom had utterly corrupted the faith and morals of those two women, even though they’d been reared in a believing family, in the best in town. They had a righteous father, and God spared them for their father’s sake from doom; they fled the city on its morn’ of destruction with him, escaping into the surrounding hills, where they somehow—irrationally—lost all hope to ever get married, intoxicated their father—and were impregnated by him.
