Salvation Boulevard

by Larry Beinhart

  “What is it, Carl?”

  I sighed. “Manny told me . . . see, I asked him, was this case pro bono. And he said no. But now I hear that it was. Do you know?”

  “It was.”

  “Why would he lie to me about it?”

  “He was upset that he did.”

  “He was?”

  “Yes. When you asked him . . . he really wanted you to take the case and work with him, but you caught him by surprise, and he felt that you would feel more comfortable if it was just a job, not a cause. But also, he didn’t want to ask you to, or even put you in a position where you felt you should, work for less or for nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Partly his politics,” she said. “I mean, look at this place. Manny made a lot of money. Off of crooks and corporations and who knows what. So, if he wanted to work for nothing, fine, but he felt it was wrong for someone like you to work for nothing.”

  “Yeah, ’cause I’m a . . . ”

  “Oh, Carl, you have to know Manny didn’t disrespect you. Manny never respected money.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “He loved it,” she said and laughed fondly. “He loved it, but he didn’t respect it. He was sort of amazed. And he just hoped that he wouldn’t come to depend on it. And he certainly didn’t think that he was better because he had it, or that people who didn’t were less. Anyway, once he said it, he couldn’t figure out how to unsay it.”

  “Why me? There’s lots of others out there.”

  “He said you were a stubborn Dutchman.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “That once you started, you wouldn’t stop. You wouldn’t be bought or intimidated.”

  “Why was this so important to him?”

  “Maybe because of all the money. He needed to do something for a cause. To make up for it, to make it worth something.”

  I nodded. That made sense to me.

  “He’s counting on you to finish it,” she said. “To make sure his life was worth something.”

  “Oh shit,” I said and sat down, head in hand. I wanted to quit this job so badly. So damn badly.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked and put her hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her. It was as if the room were exploding with light. I don’t know what to call it—lust, infatuation, possibilities, sin, a road over the mountains to a place I’d never been. She looked back at me in the brightness, and all of it went through her mind too: the permutations, confusions, complications, the inappropriateness, the betrayals, the sheer wrongness of it, and the shining light.

  “Oh dear,” she said in a very mild tone and withdrew her hand. “Oh dear.”

  “Well,” I said. “Well, I better go.”

  “I understand. Did you find out what you needed to know?”

  29

  The Angels sang.

  Our hearts were lifted. People rose in their seats. They clapped. They sang. They swayed and danced. They embraced their neighbors. They hugged complete strangers. There was ecstasy on their faces.

  I had my own two angels, one on either side of me. My heart was filled with love. And with certainty. My daughter, my wife, my family. This was what I needed. This was what I wanted.

  Paul Plowright, up on the stage, began to speak. He said, “I want to talk to the parents. And to the grandparents. And to those of you thinking of becoming parents.

  “My heart goes out to you because it is so hard.

  “Why does it feel like you’re all alone? All you’re trying to do is raise your children to obey the Ten Commandments, and it feels like the world is against you, the whole world.”

  The people around us were listening, listening intently, as was I, because he was right.

  “You’re not paranoid,” he said. “You’re not crazy. You’re not bad parents. It feels that way because it is that way.”

  Yes it is. And that was the response of thousands of others around me. They spoke their agreement out loud. They clapped, cheered, and said, “Amen.” It felt good to me to be among likeminded people.

  “They go to school, and their teacher tells them—their teacher is required to tell them—that the Bible is just a book, like any other book. That the Bible is no better than some Communist tirade. One that says religion is the opium of the people just because our faith makes us feel good.

  “I admit—I celebrate—the fact that our faith can make us happy, that Jesus can bring us ecstasy and soothe our pain, that prayer comforts us in times of grief and gives us strength in times of trouble. But the reason is because His way is the Truth. It does not mean that religion is a drug that turns us into fools and sheep.

  “Then, after school, your son or your daughter goes over to visit Joey or Janey across the street. Nice kids, nice parents. But they haven’t put adult controls on the Internet. In five minutes, they are watching sex acts that we didn’t even know existed when we were growing up. A lot of us still don’t. And don’t want to know. But our children know, and they have seen them and children learn by imitation.”

  He stopped and sighed, then changed his tone and rhythm. “You know what,” he said flatly and dryly, “you’ve heard this all before. I’ve said it all before. I said it and said it until I got tired of hearing myself say it.

  “So I did what I always do when I have a problem. I got on my knees, and I prayed. I said, ‘Jesus, what about all of these temptations and seductions and perversions.’

  “And Jesus said to me, ‘Paul, I’m tired of hearing you complain all the time.’”

  We all laughed at that. It was just so human. And real.

  “I tried to say, ‘Lord, I’m not complaining, but these are terrible times.’

  “Jesus said, ‘I don’t want my people to be whiners and bellyachers. That’s not what Christians are. Get up off your bottom and do something.’” That was an applause line, a big one.

  “Well, I admit, I was a little taken aback. I said, ‘But Lord, look at all we’ve done. Look at this big cathedral. Look at the schools. Look at the TV and radio. The this and the that and the other and . . . and,” Plowright sighed, “Jesus said, ‘Well, Paul, if you think you’ve done enough, then maybe you’ve done enough.’

  “I could feel he was about to leave me—not that He ever leaves anyone, but you know what I mean—and I said, ‘Wait a minute, Lord. I’m sorry. I’m being a little slow here, but I am a mere mortal, and sometimes I don’t get it.’ It seemed to me that he nodded. ‘It’s not enough, is it?’ I said. I realized that as long as there’s more to be done, it’s not enough. Whatever we have accomplished, if there is more that could be accomplished, it’s not enough.

  “He looked at me with love and kindness, and I felt that he was pleased that I had understood something.

  “‘You want me to do more, Lord, don’t you,’ I said. Then I asked, ‘Tell me, Lord, what do you want me to do?’

  “He just looked at me. And I understood. He gives us so much. He gives us faith and love and strength and community, but at some point, it’s up to us. It’s up to us to do some thinking, to do the work.”

  The Angels began to hum behind him, not an identifiable tune but gently rhythmic and uplifting.

  “So I prayed some more because I didn’t know what to do. But I knew that Jesus would guide me. I prayed until my knees were sore. Until my back was sore. Until I thought I couldn’t pray anymore.

  “Then I saw what He wanted me to see.

  “Jesus gave me a vision. It was a shining city on the hill. And its name was the City of the Third Millennium. Not Third Millennium Cathedral, or Enterprises, or Third Millennium Estates. A city, the City of God.”

  His face shone, and he spoke, as every once in a while he does, like a man who has truly seen a vision and is certain of it and is now sharing it.

  “Our own city,” he said, “with a great university. Greater than the ultraliberal, radical, anti-Christian university over there.” He pointed in the direction of the University of the Southwest. />
  “So when our children grow up, they can have higher education without being seduced by an atheistic professor into moral relativism, forced to endorse the homosexual agenda in the name of diversity, taught anti-Americanism in the name of multiculturalism. You truly do not have to be an anti-American, homosexual atheist in order to learn engineering, computers, medicine, or law.

  “It will have a medical school. With a teaching hospital. A law school, and from it, our own law firms. With high-technology research labs. God’s own Silicon Valley. You have to know that God can make better software than Microsoft.”

  When you have a good one-liner, you use it more than once. It got a good response.

  “I know what many of you are thinking. Oh, Pastor Plowright, that sounds great, but such things cost millions, tens of millions, even hundreds of millions of dollars, even billions of dollars.

  “Yes, they do. Of course, they do.

  “You may be expecting me to say, ‘Oh, let’s pray. Let God provide.’ You may think that I’m going to remind you of God’s law about tithing, that when you fail to give God’s one-tenth to Him, He says that you are robbing Him.

  “I’m not going to say any of that. What I’m going to say is that God has provided us with sources of funding.

  “Yes, he has.

  “I am not yet at liberty to say where and how. But in the coming weeks and months, I will reveal it to you as the money comes on line.

  “The dream will become reality. I invite you to join us in it. If you don’t already live here, think about living in the City of the Third Millennium. If you’re a builder or an entrepreneur or a businessman, think about bringing your business to God’s own city. We’ll need shops and supermarkets, restaurants, health clubs, and recreational facilities.

  “And auto repair. Wouldn’t you like to have your car fixed by a mechanic who actually believes thou shalt not steal?”

  That got a big laugh.

  “Banks and financial institutions that will invest in Christian enterprises. We will have our own mall . . . with a dress code.”

  There were cheers for that.

  “This will no longer be a cathedral. This will be a city with a cathedral at the center. A city built around love and obedience to the Lord. We will be ‘the light of the world. A city that is built on a hill cannot be hid.’”

  So this was what he’d been talking about. Yes, there would be opportunity here. More than opportunity, a way to genuinely bring Christianity into how we all work and live, every day, in every way. I stood and applauded along with the five or six thousand others. We were one. We were a movement. We were going to get things done.

  The Angels stepped forward and began to sing “There Is a City on the Hill.”

  The cameras focused on them and projected their faces onto the giant screens so we could watch them exalted by the music. I put my arms around my own special angels.

  Own special angels, own special angel, ownspecialangel, my own special angel—that’s how Nathaniel MacLeod had described the mystery girl. The girl with no name. The girl who had to make a secret of going to a class where atheism was taught and then was “seduced by an atheistic professor.”

  That was the connection. One of Plowright’s Angels had become one of MacLeod’s angels. Why was I so instantly certain of it? I searched the faces, wondering. It would be about more than leaving the choir. More than turning in faith for secularism. There were rumors, but I normally dismissed them because there are always rumors about powerful men and young women.

  Who was she? Plowright’s own little angel? Who had become MacLeod’s own little angel? Which one was she?

  On the way out, after services, Jerry Hobson waved a greeting to me. He gestured to me to come over. I excused myself from Angie and Gwen and crossed the lobby to him.

  Jerry said, “Have you seen these disposable camcorders?” displaying one. “Under two hundred bucks. You can pick one up at the drug store, shoot what you need, and download it to your computer.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Pretty good picture, too. Look at this. Come on, look at it.” He pushed a button and the video played on the small viewfinder screen.

  I was looking at the side of a building at USW. Then the camera zoomed in. The autoiris worked very well and adjusted to the light inside the room.

  My face was in profile, small but recognizable. And there was Teresa, and she was pressing her body up against me. You couldn’t see it because the window frame cut us off below the waist, but you could figure our groins were tight together. Then she tilted her lips up toward mine, asking to be kissed.

  Then my hand came up and grabbed her hair and pulled her face away from mine. But that didn’t make it look less sexual; it made it look more sexual.

  “You can practically read her lips,” Jerry said, leaning close to me and whispering in my ear. “Fuck me,” he said, managing to speak in falsetto, slobber, and keep in synch with Teresa saying the words.

  I threw her down. Toward the couch that was outside of the frame created by the window. Then I walked toward her, and I too disappeared.

  “They’re real fuckable lips, aren’t they, Carl boy,” he said, still in my ear, and I was unable to push him away, a small blackmail for the bigger one to follow. “Bet you banged that bitch up good. You gonna save some for Jeremiah? Pass her around, like the good old days.” He moved back a little bit so I could see his face, and we could stare each other in the eye. “When I tell you to stay the fuck away from something, stay the fuck away. Or I will crush you. I will crucify you, you sad little trailer park sheep, and when I’m done with you, I’ll do your wife and daughter too. Do you understand me? You don’t even have to talk. Just nod your big, square head up and down if you understand.”

  Then he smiled, like we were having a normal after-church conversation. “See,” he said, taking my hand and shaking it, “aren’t you lucky. You got a message, and a warning. Christ’s mercy instead of the Lord’s wrath.”

  As he finished, Gwen and Angie came over.

  “What are you boys talking about?” Gwen asked.

  “Just business,” Jerry said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “We were talking about the Nazami thing. Carl’s going to drop it. I told him that we here at CTM respect that and care about him, so we’re gonna find him some extra business to pick up the slack.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Gwen said.

  30

  Gwen has very light freckles on her breasts, and her nipples are the color of strawberries. Her eyes are blue. Not the intense blue you see when you look to the north with the sun shining toward it; they’re the light blue of southern skies.

  I kissed each freckle with reverence and fascination and growing arousal, working my way toward placing my teeth on the engorged tips.

  Sunday afternoon. Angie was at her church group. Gwen was very happy with my decision. She was rewarding me for doing what she wanted with a good fuck. What an ugly, angry thought that was.

  She began to stroke my arms and shoulders, and one of her hands found one of mine and brought it to her mouth, kissed it, then teased at it with her tongue and sucking lips.

  The phone rang and rang, but we adamantly ignored it.

  I tried to reconsider. Let us say, instead, she was no longer tense and worried and so was free to open up. I didn’t want my wife to fuck me as a reward for being a good boy. I wanted her to want me out of her own love for me, out of her own desires, for the sanctity of our marriage. That’s what I wanted. I made my way down her belly and she bit my hand with a sound that mixed a sigh, a whimper, and an inclination to moan. As she spread her thighs, she said, “Let my beloved come into his garden and eat his pleasant fruits,” from the Song of Solomon, and when I did she giggled. There are moments when it’s sexier to quote the Bible than just yell “eat my pussy, eat my pussy,” though Gwen can do both.

  I do love her, and I know she loves me, and I let my anger slide away in our sensu
ality.

  The phone rang again. We let it be. No one should call on Sunday afternoon when Angie’s at church group.

  Just before Gwen took me in her mouth, she said, “The roof of my mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly.” I’m not as biblically literate as she, so I just said explicit and obscene things to her, and she seemed to like that just fine.

  Afterward, as we lay on our backs, my arm under her, I said, “I have to say I’m sorry. For the other day.”

  “Why?” she said, too adrift for serious conversations.

  “I threw something at you, and when you didn’t react fast enough, the way I wanted, I got angry with you.”

  “It’s alright,” she said, rolling over and kissing my chest, her hand going down to my cock, using her fingernails to toy with it.

  The phone rang again.

  When I answered, Teresa said, “I have to see you.”

  I said, “I have to tell you, I’m not doing the case anymore.” My nervous system was firing sparks. I hoped it didn’t show in my voice or my body, and I prayed that Gwen didn’t pick up the extension.

  “I thought you were going to help me. I thought you were going to help me get the book.”

  “Listen to me, I can’t,” I said.

  “Now you’re hurting me,” she said, pouty and suggestive.

  “And besides, it’s Sunday,” I said, a good, businesslike statement.

  “Oh, right,” she said. “Time to get your fix. Marx thought it was just a metaphor when he said ‘Religion is the opium of the people.’ It’s not, you know. It affects your mind chemically, and a very versatile drug it is. It can make us happy, bring us ecstasy, soothe our pain, comfort us in times of grief, and give us strength in times of trouble—which is all wonderful. But like any drug, it can turn us into fools and sheep.”