Forgiveness 4 You

by Ann Bauer

  “Perhaps.” She was a tough one, unwilling to give me points I hadn’t earned. “But I could have sought them out. Someone. There were groups of women becoming enlightened. Our Bodies, Ourselves. That sort of thing.” She paused. “But I do think you’re right. I spoke to no one, except Rick. And he?” She held her hands up, creased palms to the sky. “He didn’t want to talk.”

  We sat. This seemed unsatisfying to me. We’d solved the puzzle of Mrs. Seaton’s, behavior but I felt no godly work had been done.

  “How is your marriage now?” I asked, casting about for what we’d left unsaid.

  “Wonderful. Same as it’s always been.” She was firm. But I took a chance, let her sit, looked at her with what I hoped was deep meaning in my eyes. “We’ve been lucky. We’ve always had enough money, more than enough. And we’ve traveled.” More clichés. I was ready to give up. “But Rick isn’t well.”

  “The knee surgery?” I asked. Oh, the problems of wealthy runners, I jeered in my head.

  “No. That’s what we told people.” She knew what I thought. “He has diabetes. It’s been terrible the past few years. His eyesight is failing. He had his left foot amputated. He thinks …” She stopped and breathed, head tipped back. “He’s going to get a prosthesis and be able to pass off the limp as a side effect of knee surgery.”

  “He’s a man who avoids the truth,” I said.

  “We all do,” she told me sternly. “And one of the reasons he’s so terrified now is,” she swallowed, “there are no children to rely on, no one to inherit everything he’s built. No point.”

  “You’re right. This story is very different from what I expected.”

  Mrs. Seaton took less pleasure in this than I would have thought. “Do you see now?” she asked. “I can’t tell him what I’ve done. It would damage him—us—at this point in our lives. And for what?”

  “But it’s hard to live with this alone.”

  She nodded and pressed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes, briefly smoothing out the furrowed skin.

  My hips were cramping, so I stood and paced a few steps in either direction. Kat Seaton was easily twenty years older and had been in her chair longer, but she looked perfectly comfortable. Clearly, I thought, I should check out Pilates. “Mrs. Seaton?” I said from above.

  “Kat, please.” It seemed late to achieve that level of intimacy, but I went along.

  “Kat, are you talking to me because you feel guilty, or because you’re sad? I can absolve guilt. Sometimes that works. But sadness over something that’s real?” I leaned against the wall, hands in pockets, a little thug-like. “There is no cure.”

  Finally, she placed her hands on the table and allowed her old eyes to fill. “I was afraid of that. It’s why I’ve never confessed. But we came today, and Madeline talked all about your amazing power, how you make people …” A tear slid down her cheek; otherwise, she was motionless. “Whole.”

  “I’m very sorry.” I pushed off the wall and went to sit next to her and put my hand on one of hers. “I can’t make you whole, because there will always be something missing. What I can do is bear the sadness with you. We all make choices in life that cut off possibilities. We marry one person and not another. Or marry no one and devote our life to God. We have children or, in the case of both of us, we do not. And there’s always something haunting us. Everyone to some degree, but people like us more than others.”

  She did not respond for a long time, and her hand under mine was as still as stone. Then she cleared her throat into the air and spoke in a strong voice. “I’ve noticed that most people get more certain as they get older. You will find this, Father. As our friends have gotten to be sixty and sixty-five years old, most insist that whatever they have done, it was the ‘right way.’ Everyone should hold the same political opinions or religious views. However they have lived their lives, whomever they have married, they’d do it all again. No regrets, no regrets.” She shook her head. “If I had a dollar for every pompous ass who’s sat at my dinner table saying that.”

  “You know it’s a coping mechanism,” I said. I was way off my usual spiritual turf, but flexibility seemed to be a requirement of my new job. “What you’re talking about is a type of myopia that people use so they can live with their choices. It’s magical thinking. It’s not real.”

  “Yes, well, I want that.” Mrs. Seaton—no, Kat—gave me a steely, demanding look. “I was hoping you could give that to me.”

  “If I could do that for you,” I said severely, leaning forward and matching her ire word for word. “Don’t you think I’d do it for myself?”

  “Yes, I suppose you would,” she said, that sly smile returning as her hand finally came to life and turned over to grasp mine. “Peace be with you, Father.”

  “And with you,” I said, grinning in return.

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever used that phrase with such an awareness of what it means,” Kat said, rising neatly from her seat. She stood first on one foot and then on the other, a move I imagined she executed most often in a black leotard.

  “I wish your husband great healing and faith,” I said. “And I wish you the solace of knowing that you have lived as best you could.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  I stood and picked up her coat from the back of her chair, holding it as the acolytes once held my robes so she could slip her arms into the sleeves.

  “You are a very sweet man,” she said turning, touching my cheek in a motherly way. “I’m not sure you’ll make it in this business.”

  “What a nice thing to say,” I told her, and meant it. “But I’m not even sure what making it means.”

  From: Abel Dodd

  To: Forgiveness Team

  Subject: possible taglines

  Comrades—

  Here are the taglines I’ve worked up for message testing on Monday. I pulled these from a much longer list that I’m happy to share if you want to see the unabridged contents of my demented mind. But I’m pretty confident these are the best options. Let me know what you think.

  —A. Dodd

  What would Gabe do?

  Yeah, it’s overused. But everyone gets it, and we could distribute those ridiculous rubber bracelets and bumper stickers with WWGD on them.

  Did something? Tell someone.

  Plays off the public safety message: “See something? Tell someone.” Not my favorite, but it has a nice asked-and-answered rhythm that people will remember.

  Absolution for Everyone

  Speaks to the egalitarian nature of this service and sounds like a civil rights rally cry. Also, sounds nice said out loud.

  What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?

  This may be my top choice. It’s weird, gets to the heart of the matter. And it’s a twist on the typical tagline that makes assurances.

  Confession: It’s not just for Catholics any more.

  Pushes the boundaries but you have to admit, it’s funny. Will get people’s attention and could make for a great campaign.

  Helping You Feel Better Today

  Goes immediately to the primary benefit and may appeal to the Buddhist-convert self-help crowd.

  Expert Exonerations for Everyday Sins

  Alliterative, a little bit sarcastic, and pretty darn accurate. People who get the irony will love it. A close second for me.

  From: M. Madeline Murray

  To: Abel Dodd

  Cc: Isaac Beckwith

  Subject: Re: possible taglines

  Hi Abel—

  Thanks so much for all your hard work! You’ve provided some excellent options here. I’m going to recommend removing the first one: “What Would Gabe Do?” I think that trope has been played out, and since our idea is completely original, we need language that’s just as fresh. Everything else? Pure gold.

  Just wanted to let you know, because I’m calling a check-in for this afternoon to get input from the team. We go into testing Monday morning at 9 a.m. with the goal of producing creati
ve by late that afternoon. It’s my meeting but would love it if you’d take the lead.

  Thx.

  MMM

  From: Isaac Beckwith

  To: M. Madeline Murray

  Subject: Re: possible taglines

  Hey sweetcheeks—

  Wish you’d checked with me before calling that meeting. Whatever Scott, Joy, and the rest of the Scooby Gang have to say this afternoon, I plan to take the full list into testing. Abel’s a genius. And no, I don’t care how much it costs.

  By the way, I saw you eyeing our client during the Red Oak meeting. What’s the deal with women and priests? It’s so fucking Thornbirds. Just keep your hands (and other parts) off him while he’s working for us. Okay? If this thing falls apart, you can dress him up in feathers and ride him in Buckingham Fountain, for all I care.

  Dinner tonight?

  IB

  VII

  IT HAD BEEN ANOTHER VERY LONG DAY, THE BOARD MEETING AND interlude with Kat Seaton followed by a raucous two-hour session devoted to logos that most resembled in my mind a professional volleyball match. I was, for once, very ready to go home to my solitude. But at six o’clock I was still sitting in the Mount Olympus conference room at Mason & Zeus. Madeline had broken out the vodka and was distributing glasses.

  “They’re a client,” she said, waving the bottle then pouring a good three ounces over ice. “Part of your clan.”

  “That’s Scotch, Madeline,” Isaac said. “Remember, none for me.”

  “Oh!” She froze, the half-extended drink rattling like a castanet. “God, I’m sorry! I totally forgot. How could I do that? Let me get you something else.”

  “It’s okay.” Isaac said soothingly. “Sometimes I forget myself.”

  He turned to me as Madeline darted out of the room. “Back when we worked together before, I was a lush. But I went to Texas and got sober, which is kind of like going to Texas to become a vegetarian. Which I also am.” He sighed. “My man back in Austin does love his bourbon and steak.”

  He laughed, and I laughed too, relaxing with my glass like we were all old friends. My desire to leave dissipated around the time I took my second sip.

  Our swivel chairs were large and curved; sitting in them was like being gently rocked inside a huge hand. “I’ve had more to drink in the past three weeks than I had in the year before that,” I said, raising my glass to look at the clear liquid. It could have been water. Or lighter fluid.

  “Yup, that’s advertising,” Isaac said. “Occupational hazard, right? What did you say yours was? Honesty?”

  “That’s the virtue.” I took a big slug and let it burn. “Righteousness is the sin.”

  Madeline returned then, her hands full of bottles and one small rectangular shape. “Okay, I have Pepsi, Mountain Dew, Perrier, and …”

  “Whoa! Is that a juice box?”

  “Cran-apple.” Madeline held it up proudly. “It was in the refrigerator. I think Melanie left it the last time she brought the kids in.”

  “Give it here,” Isaac said, and Madeline tossed the box across the table. I watched with admiration as Isaac rose without hoisting himself and swiped it out of the air.

  “So, I think this week was a win,” Madeline said, taking a chair and leaning way back to slip off her shoes. “The investor meeting went better than I expected. Kat Seaton was on our side. Her husband wouldn’t have been nearly as supportive. His knee surgery? Gift from God.”

  “Ooh, bad one, Madeline. I expect so much better of you!” Isaac leaned forward and sucked on the tiny straw in his juice box. “But I’m actually glad you said it. I have to remind the team on Monday: No puns. No riffs on God. Ever. We’re dead in the water if we make this thing into a joke.”

  “Agreed. I thought I’d have Abel start on a general lexicon: words to use, words to avoid.”

  “Abel?” I asked, because the vodka was working just fine and the day was becoming a pleasant swirl of noise and strange laughing heads. This was reminding me of Friday nights in my dorm at BU, before everything happened with Aidan, back when I anticipated a future filled with money and women, and believed I was in control of what happened to me.

  “Abel,” Madeline said, leaning back again and stretching her little body, then tucking it, legs and all, up into her chair. “The big guy.”

  I recalled a burly, tree trunk of a man, around six-five, 260, with a reddish Ulysses Grant beard.

  “Abel’s gotta be, what?” Madeline glanced at Isaac. “Forty-five? He was one of Mason & Zeus’s first employees. Beautiful writer, just extraordinary. But that’s all he wants to do. He’s the only creative I have who isn’t nagging me twenty-four hours a day for a director title.”

  “Yup, Abel’s great,” said Isaac. “Scott, now there’s another story.”

  “Scott’s a shithead, whom I am about to fire,” said Madeline while Isaac leaned forward with the bottle to refill our glasses. I knew exactly what he was doing. We “recovering” addicts are always out to prove that our drug no longer has its hold on us.

  “Thanks,” I said, nodding at my glass but leaving it on the table. “Did I meet Scott?”

  “Last week, when you first came in. Scott Hicks is our art director. Tall blond guy with those ridiculous sunglasses that he wears backward on his head.” Madeline took a long draw on her second glass. For a small woman, she drank like a Marine on leave. “I can’t stand him.”

  “So why is he involved?” Alcohol always made me braver, which I knew was its chief danger. Things usually went better for me when I was afraid.

  “Several reasons. Originally I picked him because no one else was available and I knew Scott could be bought off. If I said, ‘Here’s a $10,000 bonus to keep your mouth shut about this project,’ he’d absolutely do it. Only thing Scott cares about is Scott. So as long as I take care of him he’ll do what we need. And he’s a pretty good art director, even if he is a totally shitty human being.”

  “There is, however, a complication,” Isaac said.

  Madeline sighed. “Go ahead. Tell him. Because if I have to say the words, it’ll destroy my appetite forever.”

  Isaac grinned like a jack-o’-lantern, and I found myself wishing I could learn to do that: break into happiness like a child. With a juice box.

  “Turns out our strategist, Joy Everson—you know, the young woman who dresses like a hooker and isn’t Candy?—she’s sleeping with Scott. Or maybe just giving him blowjobs in the office. Who cares? Their ‘relationship’ is important to us. Why?” Isaac held up one finger and stopped, a screwed-up questioning look on his face. This was theater. And I knew a little something about that after sixteen years of raising my cup to drink the blood of Christ.

  “It’s important because Joy is a weak link,” Madeline explained. “She’s young, she’s idealistic, she thinks she knows more than she does.”

  “I don’t think she can be trusted,” Isaac said. “I’m betting that when I hack into everyone’s email, we’re going to find out she’s been breaking confidentiality up and down, left and right.”

  “Wait, email?” Madeline sat up, a little wobbly but alert. “We never discussed that. I’m not comfortable …”

  “Meadow Madeline Murray!” Isaac interrupted. “What kind of a half-assed CEO are you?” His eyes were glittering, and his smile turned as sly as a snake’s. I chortled and settled in to watch. This was turning into the best Friday night I’d had in years. “You own those email accounts! Well, Mason & Zeus does. And the law says you have access to any digital material that passes through company-owned equipment. Legally I could break into the personal accounts of every employee, if they’re accessing them on their agency laptops. Which, you know, everyone is.”

  “Don’t do that, okay? It’s … wrong. People deserve their privacy. Even Scott and Joy.” Madeline was sitting with her legs tucked up under her, like the first time we’d met. Her cheeks were fiery, her Hellenistic face tired but regal. I had a strong urge to nuzzle up and smell her that I quelled by suckin
g on an ice cube and reciting First Corinthians in my head.

  “She hides it well, doesn’t she?” It took me a second to realize Isaac was speaking to me.

  “Hides what?” I asked, struggling to sit up straight in the shelter of my chair.

  “Her bleeding heart. No one would guess that Meadow here is such a humanitarian soul.”

  “Meadow?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Madeline put her head in her hands. “I was conceived during Woodstock. Not at Woodstock, mind you. My parents lived in Skokie and they couldn’t get their shit together to hitchhike to New York.” She turned, head still touching the table, to glare at me. “Don’t you dare tell anyone.”

  “I think your secret’s safe with the priest,” Isaac said and they both laughed, Madeline straightening and fluffing out her hair.

  “But …” I was concentrating hard, tracing the conversation back. This day had worn through parts of me I never thought about. My ears buzzed after hours of perpetual talk. My nose was dry from the scent of dry-erase markers. It was one of those shaky highs: both pleasant and exhausting. I needed to sleep for about fourteen hours. “Why do you care if Joy and Scott are involved? What difference does it make?”

  “It’s always a disaster when people who work on a team together start fucking,” Isaac said. “Throws the whole dynamic off every time. Weird shit happens.” He stared at me pointedly, and the room grew silent.

  “Well then,” I picked up my glass, took a long, burning drink, then raised my eyes to meet his. “I guess I’ll have to resist my desire to have sex with you.”

  Isaac let out a loud, braying laugh and sat back, stroking his flat stomach as if it were a pet he loved. I glanced down at my own spongy middle and pledged to start doing sit-ups in my apartment each morning. Sixteen years of wearing robes, and I’d let myself go.

  “Speaking of secrets.” Madeline had switched back to her official voice. “That was quite a surprise, what you said about pro bono work in today’s meeting. We’ve never discussed that.”