Forgiveness 4 You

by Ann Bauer

  “Hey,” I hissed, pretending it was low enough the cabdriver couldn’t hear. “I have fifty dollars cash. That’s it.”

  “The ride’s on me, Father,” Chase said. “It’s the least I can do.”

  I stopped to consider this. Chase was willing to put up money in order to finish this conversation. He would pay a cabdriver a hundred dollars to keep me captive and listening—and our eavesdropping cabbie certainly had no moral problem with that. Were I stationary, sitting in an office or a coffee shop, what would be the difference if Chase’s money went directly to me?

  In the midst of fretting over the transaction I became calmer, and my better self won the battle with the swindler I used to be. It was wrong, I decided, to punish this boy out of a selfish sense of justice and Schadenfreude. Instead, I thought of a more priestly angle to take.

  “Chase,” I said, and he sat up straight like a student. “Did you take pleasure from Laura Larimar’s death? Was there even the tiniest bit of satisfaction as you hit her? Did you feel a sense of achievement or power or, or … victory, at that moment?”

  He sat considering for a full $9.60 (by the taxi’s ticking meter) before he answered. “No, I can honestly say I didn’t. It was horrible. The second I felt her on the car and then“—he swallowed—“under the front right tire, it was like this constant unbelief inside me. You know? I just wanted to take it back.”

  “You felt guilty.”

  Chase shook his head. “Not exactly. I mean, I knew I hadn’t done it on purpose, and my mom kept telling me, ‘You have nothing to feel guilty about. You didn’t do anything wrong.’ That’s the first thing she said when she came to the police station to get me.” His face took on a pinched, rabbity look that I assumed was meant to emulate his mother; I remembered her now from the church and he wasn’t far off. “‘Don’t you start feeling guilty about this!’ she kept saying.” Chase switched back and forth between his own uncertain voice and a preachy, higher one. “Or she’d tell me, ‘It was an accident, like an act of God.’”

  I snorted. I couldn’t help it. In that moment my head was filled with many thoughts—all of them unchristian. “Tell your mother you have it on good authority that your running a girl over with a Humvee was not an act of God,” I said.

  Chase shrank inside his woolen coat, like a man preparing to disappear in a wisp of smoke. “So you do think it was my fault?” he croaked.

  It had been a long day, and I was so hungry by now that the frozen pot pie had started to sound not just essential but delicious. I put one hand to my aching gut and sent God a silent request for guidance. But it was as if I could hear Him answer. This time, Gabe, you’re on your own.

  “You killed Laura.” I said it so baldly that even the cabbie drew in his breath. “But …” I took a breath and recalled what it was like to be this boy. I could see the dull chaos in Chase’s eyes. I’d felt exactly this way: paralyzed by what I’d done to Aidan—how carelessly you could wreck a life in hours, minutes even, and never get the chance to go back!—furious with fate, afraid that my soul was ruined and the rest of my life as meaningless as a polluted river. There was a chorus of honks from outside, and I had to wait for them to die down. Then I went on.

  “There was no bad intent behind your actions. No evil. None. You did something careless and human and understandable. Most of us have been that reckless at one time or another. Yes, you were the instrument that caused Laura’s death. It was in some sense your fault. But it was not a fault you could control.”

  “I don’t understand,” Chase said. I half expected the cabbie to chime in, too.

  “Chase.” I placed my hands together and closed my eyes, as much for the dramatic effect as for the moment of contemplation. It never hurts to pull out the old clerical look. “What you did, driving as you did, was wrong and unthinking, but that is exactly what humans do. Especially sixteen-year-old boys. It caused a girl’s death, which is horrifying but also …” Always in the end it came back to this word. “Forgivable.”

  “It is? My parents …”

  “Your parents,” I broke in, “thought that if you admitted to feeling remorse, you’d be held responsible and thrown in jail. Or they’d be sued for millions, and their insurance rates would go up.” There, that felt good. It was exactly the sort of truth I was not allowed to say as a priest.

  “So I’m supposed to feel bad?”

  I nodded vigorously. “You’re supposed to feel bad and wish that day had never happened for the rest of your life. But you’re also supposed to learn to drive again and pick up your Rachel and, carefully, remembering how large the consequences can be, drive her to dinner.”

  “Do you forgive me, Father?” Chase asked softly.

  Briefly, I was lost in memory. I had touched that girl’s glorious clean hair. I had offered my arm to her mother and let her lean on me, a small woman who’d become densely heavy with grief, as we walked away from the cemetery. I’d had occasional nightmares about Laura Larimar, dreams I was not proud of that turned from funeral to orgy and featured a bizarre amount of oral sex.

  “Yes,” I said. And I found that I actually meant it. “I forgive you, Chase.”

  We rode in silence for only a few minutes before the taxi pulled up in front of my dank, smoke-hued building. To the left of the stoop, a drunken woman in rags held her HOMELESS AND DESPERATE sign. Chase peered out the window.

  “You live here, Father?” he asked, his head still turned away.

  “Gabe,” I said, firmly this time. “Yes, I do.”

  When Chase finally swiveled his head there were tears on his cheeks, and he appeared suddenly mature, a boy I was ready to send back out into the world.

  “What can I do, Gabe?” He was reaching into his pocket for his wallet even as he asked the question. “Please,” he said placing something crisp in my hand and then closing my fingers. “I’ll be careful. You, too.”

  I didn’t look back as the cab drove away. It felt like a week had passed since I left my bed that morning, and I stood for a moment looking at the building, seeing it as Chase must have: the sheet hanging on floor three and the garbage scattered by a sub-basement unit. The shadow where the address above the door used to hang.

  Climbing the stoop past the tattered, toothless woman, I stopped to look at what Chase had given me. There were three $50 bills and two twenties, probably whatever he’d had in his wallet. I paused and fought my baser instincts for a moment. Then I pulled out one of the fifties and handed it to the woman, who looked at me with suspicion.

  “I’m not goin’ upstairs with you,” she said.

  I nodded. “Be with God,” I answered before I could stop myself. And then I continued climbing toward home.

  Mason & Zeus Advertising, LLC

  Naming Exploration: Forgiveness Provider

  Client: Gabriel McKenna

  Job Number: 48011

  Challenge: Client needs a name that will translate easily for the general public, as well as a URL that is easy to spell and discoverable using keyword searches. Easy options (e.g., Forgiveness.com, Forgiver.com) are already owned and in use. Forgiveness.net is available—and should be purchased—but cannot stand alone due to the fact that users habitually type “.com” instead.

  The following is a range of options with our top recommendation on page 2 of this document.

  GabeForgives.com

  Personalizes McKenna as the forgiver and offers nice layout possibilities. Would also buy GodForgives.com (surprisingly available!) and could potentially create a campaign around the two, Gabe and God, for great halo effect. Could be problematic if business were sold or incorporated.

  4Giveness

  Interesting play on the word that lightens the message and may make younger consumers feel more comfortable with the concept. Great ad campaign possibilities around the number “4.” Primary disadvantage is that URL won’t pop on word searches for “forgiveness.”

  YourAbsolution.com

  One of our favorites because it�
��s direct and conveys authority. Currently owned by a core strengthening exercise program (“your ab solution”) but could be purchased. Concern is that 30–40% of consumers polled cannot define “absolution” and an even greater percentage would not use it to search.

  Forgiveness&Freedom.com

  Love the double “F” plus the ampersand. This option also speaks to the benefit for consumers of freedom from guilt. Major issue with direct competitor Emma Goldman, a television actress and “spiritual coach” who offers forgiveness services at ForgivenessandFreedom.com.

  Mason & Zeus Advertising, LLC

  Naming Exploration: Forgiveness Provider

  Page 2

  OUR RECOMMENDATION:

  Forgiveness4You.com

  This URL is available and offers the primary benefit of discoverability terms related to forgiveness, absolution, and guilt. The symbol “4” gives it a slightly playful spin, lightening the weight of the word “forgiveness”; they also make clear that the benefit is to the consumer—with this service, they will receive personal forgiveness in an easy, friendly environment.

  We’ve already purchased Forgiveness4You.com. If client is ready to move ahead, strongly advise purchasing Forgiveness4You.net and Forgiveness4You.org, as well as Forgiveness.net and Forgiveness4You.co.uk.

  From: Joy Everson

  To: Jill Everson

  Subject: Re: How are you?

  Hi Mom—

  Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. Work has been crazy. But I did receive the package and thank you. The pants fit great, and I love the paisley (where did you find those?). But did you have to send the cookies? I’m not in college anymore, and it’s just me here most of the time—Rebecca is “in love” and I never see her unless she and her BF have a fight—so of course I ate all the cookies myself, and tomorrow I probably won’t fit into the pants. Bad combination, Jill!

  My job is strange. I didn’t get a raise at my review, even though I got an “exceeds expectations,” b/c we’re supposedly in “cost-cutting mode” so investors will see that we’re making money and decide to buy us. Scott says (have I mentioned Scott? he’s one of the creative directors) that if we’re bought everyone will get a big bonus on the day the deal goes through. That’s what happened to a friend of his in New York, and he took the money and started his own shop. So Scott and I might start something together if that happens. I think you’d really like him. He’s brilliant. Maybe next time you come to Chicago we can have lunch or something?

  Anyway, here’s the really bizarre thing that’s happening at Mason & Zeus. We’ve got a client who used to be a priest, and he’s going into business doling out forgiveness to people, like in confession, but they don’t have to go to church. They just come in and pay him, like, $1,000, and he’ll forgive them for whatever they did.

  So I’m helping start this whole business, which seems to be something our CEO dreamed up. It’s a very high-profile project, and this is probably my best chance to make director before I’m 30.

  But it’s all really surreal, and I’m not sure I like it. I mean, what if a murderer or a rapist comes in and pays the fee? Do they get absolution even if they’re not sorry, the same as if they went to confession with Father Monahan? But then I think well that’s a bad example, b/c if they’re not sorry, what does it matter if the priest who’s forgiving them is real or not?

  And there’s another part of me that’s like, what about the Catholic Church? Isn’t this kind of disrespectful?

  But at work I’m totally on board because Madeline (that’s our CEO) would replace me in a second if she didn’t think I was 100% behind this concept. It’s really rare for Madeline to be this involved with anything, and Scott says it’s a great opportunity to get on her good side—or it would be, if she had one. Scott is so funny. And he has an adorable little three-year-old girl called Magenta; he named her because he’s a designer and he wanted her to feel like a piece of art. He’s such a unique person, Mom. I really think you’d like him.

  I’m kind of curious for your opinion about the priest thing, since you still go to church. I keep going back and forth inside my own head b/c there’s that huge sex scandal and all those abused boys, so on the one hand I think the Church isn’t doing its job very well. But taking money to forgive people seems kind of awkward to me and like it might be disrespectful toward real priests.

  Please don’t tell me you think it’s a terrible, immoral idea and I should quit, because that isn’t really an option. I’ve got eight more months on my lease, and Rebecca can’t ever find the $$$ to pay her part of the cable bill.

  I hope you and Daddy have a good time on your trip to New Mexico. Happy 50th! I love you, Mom, and I’ll talk to you soon!!!!!

  Joy

  From: Jill Everson

  To: Joy Everson

  Subject: Re: How are you?

  Hi honey—

  You ask some tough questions, and I can’t really give you the answer. Our church doesn’t even have confession anymore, at least not the private kind that I did when I was a kid. Now we do something called “communal confession,” where Father Monahan has us think about our sins during a certain part of the service and then, after a couple minutes, he bestows a group absolution. I’m so used to it now I don’t think I could go back to the old way where I have to say things out loud. Not that I ever had much to say. That was the big problem for me when I was young. I was such a good girl I was afraid the priests were bored with my confessions! LOL

  But about this Scott. He sounds very nice. How old is he? Is he divorced? I think it’s very tricky to get involved with someone you work with and you should be very careful.

  We’ll call you from Santa Fe.

  Love,

  Mom

  IV

  I WAS WATCHING SOME LATE-NIGHT LADY-COP SHOW ON TV, MY stomach still plump and full of Stouffer’s chicken pot pie, when the phone rang. It was past midnight, and when I picked it up to hear my brother’s voice, I assumed my mother was dead.

  It was an hour later in Boston, and Jack had called me roughly five times in the past decade. “Hey, you sleeping?” he asked gruffly. I noted that his voice, at forty, finally sounded grown-up.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Is it Ma?”

  “Huh?” Jack sounded either slow or stoned, which I couldn’t imagine. He was a whippet of a guy, sharply clever rather than smart, who worked twelve hours a day and competed in triathlons on the side. He’d had my example all his life to keep him straight. “Oh. No. Nothing like that. Ma’s fine.”

  “Thank God,” I said reflexively. Then, “Strange you should call. I was thinking about you earlier today. I was at a place called …” I closed my eyes and conjured up a picture of a horse. “Au Cheval, I think.”

  “Really? It’s supposed to be great. What were you doing there?”

  I clenched. How to explain commercial, transactional forgiveness in thirty seconds? To my still very Catholic brother? At 1:15 a.m.? “I had a meeting. Woman I ran into at a bookstore wanted to tell me about this project in Chicago. Helping people …” It was a weak answer but vaguely, mostly true. Besides, my brother wasn’t interested.

  “Huh,” was all he said.

  Then there was a long pause. This was a most unusual and unhurried post-midnight call. I reached over to turn the volume down on the TV, but left the show playing. The brunette officer reminded me somewhat of Madeline, only this woman ran and bent oddly—her blouse falling dangerously low—whenever she brandished her gun.

  “How are the kids?” I asked. I’d sent my twin nieces matching Target gift cards for their recent birthday, because they’d turned eleven and I was befuddled about what they might want.

  “They’re good, good. Growing up too fast.”

  I was just about to inquire about Jack’s wife, a cool Connecticut girl improbably named Inga, when he broke his own silence. “Gabe, I’m in trouble,” he said, as I’d deduced he eventually would.

  “What sort of trouble?” I asked, thinkin
g immediately about women. Jack was a chef who owned a pub in the newly stylish South End specializing in what he called Colonial Irish food. His staff were buxom young ladies in small outfits that seemed torn (literally) from the eighteenth century; the rafters of his roughhewn restaurant hung with twinkling lights. We’d eaten there the night before our younger brother Sean had gotten married in a ceremony that I’d performed.

  Jack let out a long sigh. Either that or my jock brother had started smoking. “The restaurant is closing. I mean … actually, it’s closed. Nonpayment of, um, everything. Starting with my Jameson’s bill. $42,000.”

  “For whiskey?” I didn’t mean to sound so amused, but this was a figure I hadn’t approached, even in my own bad old peddling days. “That’s a lot of booze.”

  “Eh, not so much, actually.” Jack took a quick, audible draw. He was definitely smoking something. “We cooked with it, too.”

  “So … I’m really sorry to hear this. It must be very hard for you and, uh, Inga.” I always had to swallow before saying her name so I wouldn’t laugh out loud, which had been mortifying at the christening of their two girls. I’d been a very avid Young Frankenstein fan back in the day.

  “Yeah, right? It’s goddamn heartbreaking. Sorry, Father.” This was something I had never—even at the peak of my priesthood—become accustomed to. That my brothers insisted on calling me Father felt wrong in a backward, Faulknerian way. It occurred to me that Jack and I hadn’t talked since I left the Church. It was possible that in his panic my brother had forgotten that part.

  “Not to worry,” I said. “You know I …”

  But Jack was rambling on, “Black Irish has been my whole life for six years. Six years! A man will go to some extreme measures to save something like that, you know?”

  I was yearning for bed at this point. Even the lush cleavage of the brunette police officer no longer captured my thoughts. But something deep in my brain clicked, and I reviewed what Jack had said. There was a clue embedded in it. “What extreme measures, Jackie?” I asked, picturing him at nine, scuffed and sullen, holding a hank of hair in his hand. “Wait a minute. What did you do?”