“And there would have to be some way you could prove that to me.”
“And?” she encouraged.
“No more of this Wicca crap. In fact, you’d have to go to church every week.”
“What?” Jillian almost yelled. “You don’t even believe in God! You’re just trying to be difficult.”
“No, I don’t believe in God,” John said calmly, “but I don’t disbelieve either. And you have to be cured of this pagan foolishness. And I do believe there are benefits to prayer – and to regular moral instruction. In your case, going to church every week would bend your mind back towards normal.”
“My mind doesn’t need ...,” she began, then tossed up her hands in exasperation. “Forget it. You’re impossible.”
“Suit yourself,” John said, and turned back to his dinner.
* * *
John’s mother Liz was throwing a party for the baby’s first birthday. Everybody was there. Jillian, Sean, Al, most of his co-workers, including his boss, Jillian’s friends from the book club, and several people from that fateful party at the farm. When Liz brought out the cake, something didn’t seem right. John took a closer look and noticed that the bright blue and green cake had a large, fire-rimmed eye right in the center, which stared intently at John.
Under the gaze of that lidless eye, John realized he didn’t have a present, and then he realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.
* * *
“So let me get this straight,” Ron asked after setting his Reuben sandwich back on his plate. Ron was an old friend who did contract law for a local firm, but he’d started his career in family law. They were meeting for Sunday brunch at a small place in Bethesda near Ron’s home.
“You were dating this woman and you took her to a party, right?”
“Right,” John said.
“Did you know what kind of a party it was going to be?”
“Yes,” John admitted.
“And you drank too much. Did Jillian serve you any of this alcohol?”
“I don’t think so,” John said after thinking about that for a while.
“So while you were drunk, at a party you intended to go to, that you knew was going to be a little wild, with a woman you were interested in, you had sex and she got pregnant.”
“Right, but let’s say the roles were reversed,” John interjected, not liking the way this was going. “Let’s say this was a fraternity party and I was a woman. Wouldn’t I have a case?”
“Maybe. If you were on a college campus, then probably yes. They have really silly rules. But the roles weren’t reversed and you’re not a college girl.”
“So you’re saying there’s a double standard,” John complained.
“I’m saying there are different standards,” Ron corrected. “People who say that men and women are treated equally in the law are either morons or liars. No matter what people say, the truth is that a woman might be able to get a rape conviction in those circumstances, but a man couldn’t. No way.”
John fumbled around in his jacket pocket and found a business card, then handed it to Ron.
“That’s not what this guy told me,” John said, pointing to the card. “He said I could get Jillian on rape charges.”
Ron looked at the card for a moment, then looked up at John with a concerned expression.
“I know this guy,” he said. “Or, rather, I know of him. Lawyers are supposed to tell you how the law is, not how they want it to be. I’m afraid he doesn’t always follow that rule.”
“This isn’t right,” John said, his frustration starting to show. “Why am I responsible for a kid I had no intention of fathering?”
“Okay,” Ron said, “let’s think about it this way. Let’s say you were drunk at the party and decided to leave. And let’s say while you were driving home you ran over some kid, but you can’t remember it because you were too drunk. Would you be responsible for that?”
“I see where you’re going,” John admitted. “If you get behind the wheel while drunk, you’re responsible for whatever happens.”
“Let’s make it broader than that,” Ron said. “When you choose to drink you’re responsible for whatever dumb thing you do while drunk.”
“But that doesn’t apply to women,” John said bitterly. “If a woman gets drunk and regrets it the next morning, she can still accuse the guy of rape.”
Ron just shrugged.
John wanted to make more excuses. He didn’t know how strong the wassail at that party was. He didn’t intend to get that drunk. But he realized he was on the losing end of this argument.
“So what recourse do I have?”
“For what? Other than hurting your feelings, what harm did she do to you?”
“I guess what I mean is what leverage do I have? What if she tries to get me to pay child support?”
“You contest it in court. She might not win, given the circumstances, although it might be hard for you to prove that she was using you to get pregnant.”
John took a long sip of his iced tea and thought about that. He didn’t have any real evidence.
“Listen,” Ron said in a fatherly tone, “here’s my advice. Be as nice and considerate to that woman as you possibly can be, and hope and pray that she and Sean have a long and happy life together.”
John looked away for a moment, then turned back with a glum expression.
“She and Sean have broken up,” John said.
Ron’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he looked at John with a sad but serious look in his eyes.
“Then you, my friend, are in a heap of trouble.”
* * *
There had to be a way out.
John spent that afternoon and evening searching websites, “men’s rights” blogs, and even digging through the Maryland code to look for answers. The more he read the more depressed he got. He found stories of men who were required to pay child support under the most ridiculous situations. In one case a sperm donor was required to support the recipient’s child.
If Jillian decided to take him to court, this was not going to be easy.
He read a sad story on one of the blogs about a man who loved his wife and his kids, but the wife decided she was unhappy and wanted a divorce. She got the house, the car, and custody of the children. The poor guy had to pay child support, could only see his kids every other weekend, and now they were calling some other guy “daddy.” A commenter on the blog told him he should pack his bags and flee to South Korea.
Everywhere he turned there was one clear lesson. Family law is stacked against the man.
When he couldn’t take any more of it he pulled a Tom Clancy book off the shelf, poured himself three fingers of bourbon, and read until he fell asleep.
* * *
Work the next morning was a blessed distraction. The regular, routine work he set aside for Monday mornings before the staff meeting, the new assignments .... He could almost forget about Jillian and the threat of child support.
He had lunch with the cute new email specialist in the marketing department, then abandoned himself for the afternoon to the almost meditative state he assumed when totally absorbed with a new project. When 5:30 rolled around he finished up a few details, made some notes for tomorrow, and then headed out for the evening.
When he got to the front door he noticed an unusual collection of people waiting around, and then he saw why. It was pouring rain outside. John, like the rest of them, hadn’t brought an umbrella, and it was raining so hard that even with one he would have been drenched.
“Do you think it’s worth a mad dash to Maddy’s?” Joe asked.
Maddy’s was the tap room about 50 feet south of the door to their building. Even at a run, they would be dripping when they got there, but .... What the heck? It would be better than standing around in the lobby.
“Let’ see,” John said, then bundled up his things as well as he could against the downpour and rushed through the rain to the bar.
In a few moments they h
ad a table and a beer.
“Frankly, Joe, I didn’t take you for a drinker,” John said after a long pull from a Bass Ale.
“Drunkenness is a sin, John. Drinking is not. What made you think I wouldn’t drink?”
“It’s a stereotype, I guess. If you read the Bible a lot you’re less likely to drink.”
Joe nodded. “A lot of people read what they want into the Bible,” Joe said. “How they read a prohibition on alcohol has always mystified me. Do you read the Bible much?”
John hesitated a moment. He didn’t want to get into this kind of conversation, but ... maybe.
“No I don’t,” he said, “but I have been reading about religion.”
“So have you come to the point in your study of religion that if you were to die tonight, you would be sure you’d go to Heaven?”
“Frankly, Joe, I haven’t been thinking about dying and going to Heaven,” John said truthfully.
“Okay,” Joe persisted, “but if you were to die tonight, and God asked you why He should let you into Heaven, what would you say?” Joe said. It was clearly a practiced routine, but he pulled it off well.
“Like I said, I haven’t really thought about it. But I guess I’d say that I’ve led a decent life, haven’t hurt anybody and have generally minded my own business, so I don’t see why He’d keep me out.” It wasn’t a well-considered response, just an off-the-cuff reply to something he hadn’t given much consideration. John had always just assumed that if God wasn’t real, then when he died he’d simply not exist anymore, but that if God was real, he’d be pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t considered Hell as a serious possibility.
“So you think you’re good enough to get into Heaven?” Joe asked.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” John said, laughing a little. “That sounds presumptuous. I guess I’d say I’m not bad enough to go to Hell,” John replied, then caught the waiter’s eye and ordered a second ale.
“Well, I’ve got bad news for you, John. God’s moral standards are pretty demanding. Jesus said that if you so much as lust after a woman, you are guilty of adultery, and if you call someone a fool you are guilty enough to go to Hell. We may think we’re clean and pure, but compared to God’s perfect righteousness, we’re vile and wicked.”
“You mean God would send me to Hell for having lusted?” John asked, incredulous. He remembered how Suzanne, his girlfriend in college, had given up on her faith when she realized she didn’t believe in Hell. Joe seemed to take it seriously.
“No,” Joe replied quickly and somewhat indignantly. “God isn’t petty. He wouldn’t send you to Hell for one sin, or even for lots, but because you’re a sinner. Lust is just the evidence.”
“And you don’t lust? You’re not a sinner?”
“No,” Joe said, shaking his head. “I do and I am.” Joe let the contradiction hang in the air for a moment.
“So why do you think you’re going to Heaven, Joe?”
Here it comes. I’ve set off a prepared lecture, John thought.
“Because even though I’m a sinner, Jesus paid the penalty for my sin on the cross. You see, I’m not righteous enough to go to Heaven, but in the gospel, St. Paul says, a righteousness from God – Jesus’s righteousness – is offered as a gift to those who believe. If you have faith in the Son of God, Jesus’s righteousness is credited to your account. It’s that simple.”
John raised his eyebrows in a show of skepticism and took a long drink. “That’s simple alright. In fact, it sounds too good to be true,” John replied.
“Yes, it does, but think about it. It’s good for you, but it wasn’t good for Jesus. He had to suffer and die to redeem all who would believe in Him.”
John studied his ale and thought for a minute. Just a few months ago he wouldn’t have given these things a second thought.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, Joe,” he finally said. “I guess I just don’t know why I should believe it. I don’t doubt that the Bible says what you’re telling me, but I’m not convinced it’s true.”
Joe nodded, somewhat sadly. “That’s a common problem. But what will you do with your sins, John? If you don’t have a savior, you still bear the weight of your sins, and if what I’m saying is true, then you’ll face the judgment of a holy God with those sins unaccounted for.”
“Yeah, that’s the point,” John said. “The problem and the solution are both in the Bible. I’m not convinced I have this big problem with sin, Joe, so why should I accept the solution to a problem I don’t think I have?”
Joe chuckled. “What you need, my friend, is a good dose of serious preaching. You need to see the depth of your need before a holy God.” He paused, looked at his watch and called the bartender for a check. The rain had tapered off to a manageable level. “I’m sorry, John, but Sandy’s got to take Gina to dance, and I’ve got to get home and watch the other kids.”
“No problem,” John said.
“Let’s do this again,” Joe said, “and try reading the Bible. Maybe God will decide to reveal himself to you.”
Joe left more than enough cash for his share of the bill, and John decided he’d try his luck at the bar. He mentally rehearsed all the lessons he’d read on how to approach women, how to be cocky and funny, how to measure interest, when to move in and when to move on.
He’d never felt like more of a hypocrite than he did this night. He was aching inside while he forced himself through the motions.
“Fake it until you make it” had been his mantra for several weeks, and it was working. Last Saturday night had been a big success, and his phone was full of contacts. But right then it all felt like a twisted game.
Tonight he’d lowered his sights and was working an easier target – older, not as pretty, a little awkward. Within twenty minutes she mentioned that she lived a block away, and within thirty they were walking through her front door.
* * *
John woke up with a bad head the next day and called in sick. He’d never done that before. In fact, he hadn’t taken a sick day at all for more than two years.
I guess I’m entitled, he thought, trying to assuage his conscience as he went back to bed. He slept until noon, then took a long, hot shower and spent the rest of the afternoon eating chips and watching old movies.
By five o’clock he was disgusted with himself. The walls of his townhouse seemed like prison walls. He had to get out and get away – from the TV, from other people, and if he could manage it, from himself. He decided to go for a run.
It was a pleasant enough evening for early December, but it was dark by the time he hit the pavement. Commuters hurrying home for dinner hardly noticed him in his dark sweats by the side of the road. It was only the reflective patches on his shoes that caught their attention.
He took a two-lane road that winded through the woods, with barely any shoulder. The drivers that managed to see him honked in alarm when they suddenly noticed him, a few feet away. John didn’t care.
After four miles his vision started to get blurry. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he realized he was dehydrated and should stop, but he kept running. After another mile the car headlights started to look like eyes, and he played games with himself, imagining what sorts of animals they were. After seven miles he had a pounding headache and he could barely focus on the road in front of him.
At eight miles he couldn’t go any further and collapsed in the driveway of a trailer home.
* * *
“Easy there,” came an unfamiliar male voice when he woke up. He was on a medical bed in a very small room, which seemed oddly familiar. A burly, rough-hewn man with a shaggy beard was sitting in a small metal chair, which looked somewhat ridiculous under his large frame.
John sat up slowly and looked around. He knew this place. It was one of the rooms at the local clinic.
“What happened?” he asked.
The man pulled open the curtain and called out, “Hey, he’s awake. Forget about that ambulance.” He turned to John and w
inked. “You don’t need that kind of bill.”
“I found you passed out in my driveway,” he continued, “so I brought you here. You’ve only been out about a half hour total, I’d say.”
“Thank you,” John said, then tried to sit up and felt his head swim.
“Here, drink this,” he said, handing him a small paper cup of water. “What the Hell were you doing running at night in dark clothes?” the man asked in a voice that combined a little anger, some confusion and a lot of amusement. He sounded like a man who was accustomed to people doing stupid things.
John shook his head as the pieces started to come back together. He remembered being angry at himself. He remembered his desperate need to get out. But mostly he remembered the feeling that eyes had been watching him, and following him. He looked down at the floor.
“None of my business,” the man said, reading John’s face. “I hope you don’t mind, but I found your phone in your pocket and called your mom. She said she’s too far away to get here, so she called your girlfriend. I think she’s on the way. But you better call your mom. She’s worried.”
The man rose to leave.
“Hey,” John said. “Thank you. What can I pay you for your trouble?”
The man shook his head and frowned. “You don’t owe me nothing. Just wear one of those reflector things when you go running, okay? And drink some damned Gatorade or something.”
With that he pulled back the curtain, shook his head and chuckled to himself as he walked out of the clinic. The nurse was at his side a moment later and spent a few minutes checking his pulse, his blood pressure, asking him to smile, to lift his arms, to repeat short sentences, and repeatedly urging him to go to the emergency room. John said he would be fine.
The doctor came in a minute later and John had to try to piece together the last day and explain everything. He tried to spin the story to emphasize dehydration. He didn’t want any more fuss, and he didn’t bother mentioning the eyes.
“It sounds like dehydration,” the doctor said. “I want you to stay here for a half hour with your feet up, and drink lots of water. Then I want you to go home and rest. No alcohol. If you’re up to it, eat a light meal later.”
The Five Lives of John and Jillian Page 10
