Forgiveness 4 You
Page 11
“Rule number one, man. Don’t surprise her,” Isaac said. Then he winked.
Perhaps it was that—the wink—or the vodka or the feeling that for the first time in years I was among friends, but I actually shrugged. “It’s a deal breaker, Madeline,” I said, having no idea where I’d picked up that phrase. “If I can’t use some of our income to help people who can’t afford to pay … I’m really not interested. I’d have thought that would be clear by now.”
I looked at her and she at me. Isaac bounced back and forth between the two of us, as delighted as if we’d begun a juggling routine.
“Absolutely clear.” Madeline did not blink. “And for the record, I think you’re right. But I would have preferred to discuss it before we walked into that meeting.” There was a moment of tense silence before Madeline said, as cheerfully as if we’d been discussing the White Sox, “Hey, is anyone else hungry? I’m starving! What do you say, guys? Take me out for something to eat?”
“As long as you’re buying,” Isaac said.
“This is company business. Jim Lynch is buying.” Madeline unfolded herself languidly. “Give me five minutes to go brush my hair and put on lipstick. A woman likes to look her best when she’s out on a Friday night with a gay man and a priest.”
“Ex-priest,” Isaac called, as she walked out the door, holding her shoes.
“Same thing,” I muttered. “Being a priest is like being an alien. You can live among regular people and pretend. But you’re never quite … one of them.”
“Tell me about it. Remember?” He pointed to his chest. “Gay vegetarian who lives in Texas. Talk about feeling alien.” We were silent for a few seconds then Isaac asked. “Why’d you leave the Church?”
“Same reason hundreds of other men did—and women, too, I suppose. I was disgusted. Disillusioned, disappointed. I woke up one day and realized I was forty years old and I’d devoted my entire adult life to this organization that lied. Allowed children to be abused. Made arbitrary rules about people’s lives.” I waved in his direction. “Taught that homosexuality was evil.”
“Are you gay?”
“No. That would probably make it easier. There might be support groups, a life I could go toward.”
“Did you ever touch a child?”
“God, no! But that was part of it. I never could make sense …”
Isaac waited without tension or judgment, and for the first time I understood how it might feel to be the person confessing, seeking answers from a stranger. Leaning forward, eager to be understood.
“It was bewildering to me that so many of the men who felt as I did about the Church, about God, also wanted to have sex with children. That felt as foreign to me as …” As what? There was nothing I could conjure up that I’d desire less than a pre-pubescent altar boy. “I don’t know. It was frightening to me. Completely unforgivable. Men I’d gone to seminary with, the pastor who mentored me through ordination, people who were supposed to protect and minister. They all did this unspeakable thing. And sometimes I wondered: What made me like them?”
“So you were chaste?”
At first I pondered this question seriously, as I had for nearly twenty years. How much did my two slips as a priest count against me? I’d confessed both and received absolution. But what about masturbation? This I spoke of with no one. Was I saved the sin of pedophilia only because I regularly practiced the lesser sin of self-abuse?
Then it came to me, like a message from someone with a backbone—Madeline, for instance—that this was no one’s business but mine and God’s. “Is that relevant to our working relationship?” I asked in the voice I’d once used on the streets.
“You’re right.” Isaac ran one hand along the polished top of the table. “I apologize.”
“It’s all right,” I said, confused because I still liked him just as much as before.
“One more question: You were arrested once. Why?”
“You’ve been looking into me,” I said, then thought about what a strange phrase that was. Looking into me. It was precisely what Isaac was doing, what I did to others.
“It’s my job,” he said.
“That was a long time ago.” The liquor helped me to not picture it. My mother in the kitchen, with fat white ducks marching along the wallpaper border. Aidan coming up the steps from the basement, his eyes wet with the swimmy pleasure I’d introduced him to. A plastic bag clutched in the cop’s big hand. “I was nineteen.”
“An adult.” Isaac spoke slowly. “But really … not.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I was …”
“Ready?” Madeline was back, her hair pinned neatly to the top of her head, her eyes somehow more dramatic, drawn inside dark lines. “Let’s go, gentlemen. It’s nearly eight o’clock!”
Isaac rose and took his jacket from the back of his chair, and I did the same. “After you,” he said, with a gesture for me to follow Madeline. And then, lower, “We’ll continue this another time.”
And with that, I walked out the door after a beautiful woman and into the city on a sharp, dazzling Friday night.
March 17, 20--
MARKETING METRICS
Re: message testing on taglines for Mason & Zeus, project #207
Process:
Our test group was made up of 58 people with a mean age of 42, average income level of $83,900 per household, and a mix of Catholics and non-Catholics. We issued paper questionnaires asking subjects to respond to potential taglines with a “like,” “find intriguing,” “don’t like,” or “no feeling.” Afterward, we broke into four group sessions to discuss the findings and further refine feedback.
General Findings:
Like Find Intriguing Don’t Like No Feeling
Did Something? Tell Someone. 8 15 22 13
Absolution For Everyone. 29 12 5 12
Confession: It’s not just for Catholics any more. 14 9 31 4
Helping You Feel Better Today 13 5 12 28
What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? 10 34 14 0
Expert Exonerations For Everyday Sins 16 6 12 24
Recommendations:
Taglines 2 and 5 had the best testing metrics overall and clearly outperformed taglines 1, 3, 4, and 6. We recommend discarding these four and concentrating further refinement only on “Absolution for Everyone” and “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Tagline 2 (Absolution) offers a feel-good message and brand control, with the caveat that it contains a word that will be unfamiliar to some portion of the general public. Tagline 5 (Worst thing) is non-traditional and will, we predict, turn off up to 25% of people. But it is virtually guaranteed to be noticed and—in some cases—acted upon.
From: Isaac Beckwith
To: Forgiveness4You team
Status: High priority!
Hey y’all, as we say in Texas …
We’ve got the message testing report back on Abel’s fantastic taglines, and when you put that together with my own notes and observations, it looks like we’ve got both our tagline and our first campaign!
Read the attached docs on your own time, but here’s the skinny:
Absolution for Everyone is our tag. It’s friendly and warm and people seem to like it. Not everyone understands the word “absolution,” but frankly, the undereducated aren’t our target audience anyway. Those are the people who still go to church … and probably can’t pay for our services. We’re going after guilty, college-educated professionals who go boating or golfing on Sundays. They’ll get this, they’ll love it. “Absolution” sounds smart and like something desirable. So this is where we stand tagline-wise.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” is our launch campaign. MMM and I are seeing ads, bus wraps, internet banners, and assorted swag (Ted, could you research the cost of coffee cups, T-shirts, etc.?) We want to see executions on this by end of day Thursday. So cancel all your evening plans and bring a pillow to the office. Not that you’ll be getting any sleep.
I’l
l see you bright and early in the morning, which means 6 a.m. If you know of anyone on the team who isn’t checking email at 11:14 p.m., please make a call. I’ll expect to see you all tomorrow morning before the sun. Coffee and muffins on me.
With regards,
IB
From: Scott Hicks
To: Isaac Beckwith
Cc: M. Madeline Murray
Subject: Hey asshole!
Major decisons about messaging and concepting have always, since the beginning of time, been left up to the creative director. You just undermined my authorrity with the entire team. Good. Job!!
Scott
From: Scott Hicks
To: Isaac Beckwith
Cc: M. Madeline Murray
Subject: About last night’s email
Hey Isaac—
I probably shouldnt of sent you that note I did last night. I was mad and kind of wasted and the baby was up crying til like 2. Anyways, I’m sorry for calling you an a-hole but I still think I should have ben in on the creative decisons. Is this something we can talk abt today?
Scott
From: Isaac Beckwith
To: Scott Hicks
Cc: M. Madeline Murray
Hey Scott—
Don’t worry about the email. Tempers tend to get out of hand when we’re working this fast. It happens.
But you should know that because of the unusual nature of this project—and our client—we’re going to have to make some decisions without involving the creative team. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is. If that’s something you can’t deal with, please talk to Madeline about it. I’m sure she has a solution in mind.
Thx.
IB
From: M. Madeline Murray
To: Isaac Beckwith
Subject: Scott
Nicely done. I sent Scott’s “Hey asshole” message to HR. We’re building a file. If he sends you anything further without cc’ing me, please forward. I’m not going to fire him yet, because I think he can crank out something really fantastic on the Worst Thing campaign.
I may be a little late to your 6 a.m. work session. That’s a ridiculous time for a meeting, you freaking sadist. I’ll see you at 8, when civilized people start work.
xo,
Madeline
From: Isaac Beckwith
To: M. Madeline Murray
MMM—
You’re missing all the fun! We’ve been here for an hour and a half and other than looking like a week-old corpse, Scott’s been a prince. (His hangover is so epic I can almost feel it. You know how I never talk about how grateful I am to be sober because I hate all that bullshit? Well, today, I’m almost grateful.) He’s working on three directions for the Worst Thing campaign.
Meanwhile, fucking Abel! Love that guy. He wrote a manifesto already—I think he walked in with it at six o’clock. I don’t know when the guy sleeps, but I don’t care. Also, he ate six muffins. SIX. But Jesus, if he keeps working like this, I’m thinking of just handing him my credit card for lunch (which I suspect he may take around 11). See what you think of this:
We believe.
In you, no matter who you are, where you live, which religion you were raised in, or what you’ve done.
We believe.
That forgiveness will help you live a better life. Loving more, earning more, giving more. Becoming more, every day.
We believe.
Everyone deserves absolution. Without prejudice. Without judgment. Without the artificial rules of a faceless church.
We believe.
In raising you up with empathy and understanding. Purging your guilt. Bringing you to peace with your past.
We believe.
Less burdened, you will go on to live a happier, healthier, more productive life.
We believe.
In you.
IB
From: M. Madeline Murray
To: Isaac Beckwith
I’m loving the manifesto, except for the “artificial rules of a faceless church.” Somewhere inside Abel there’s a Marxist dictator plotting to overthrow Chicago. Can you schedule a three o’clock for the three of us to brainstorm on this later?
I’m going to stop by Gabe’s and pick him up on my way to the office.
MMM
From: Isaac Beckwith
To: M. Madeline Murray
Subject: KEEP OUR PRIEST PURE!! eom
VIII
IN ORDER TO EXPLAIN WHAT HAPPENED WHEN MADELINE SHOWED up Monday morning, I need to go back to Friday night.
Madeline, Isaac, and I had walked into four restaurants downtown only to find they were packed with patrons who glared as three more tried to approach the maître d’. Waits of more than an hour, we were told everywhere.
“Fuck this economic recovery,” Isaac said as we left the last one. “When the recession was on, you could always get a table.” Madeline bumped him with a sisterly shoulder and told him to be quiet, but I could see from the deep sway in her step how badly she needed food. I offered her my arm and she took it, leaning her full sprite’s weight against me. I felt as if I could lift her in my palm.
We ended up at a small Thai place with a linoleum floor, heat pouring out of the registers overhead. It met our criteria: tofu for Isaac and immediacy for Madeline. I had no criteria. I was, I thought as we sat, one of those people who kindly stays out of restaurants to the benefit of those crowding the foyers and showing newcomers their hostile, hungry eyes.
But the nine-page laminated menu overwhelmed me. Sections titled Red Curry, Green Curry, Sticky Rice, and Noodle Dishes were followed by numbered items going up to 252. The descriptions were sparse and elusive. There seemed to be scallions in everything. I had stood at the altars of cathedrals in Rome and Paris and Montreal—praying to the same God in Italian, Latin, and French—but I could not decipher rama or tom yum. Plus I was exhausted, the day’s meetings still squabbling in my head.
“Not a big fan of Thai, Father?” Isaac’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
“I have no idea.” I drank the entire contents of my tiny water glass. “We didn’t have a lot of Asian food in my neighborhood growing up. And this isn’t the sort of restaurant where priests go in groups.” I kept studying the menu, like it was cypher I could decode.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll hook you up.” How many times and in how many dark places had I heard those words? I glanced up quickly, half expecting to see some kid from Southie, hunched in an oversized coat and holding out his goods. But it was still Isaac, a grownup wearing a peacock-blue silk shirt.
When a man came to take our order, speaking in something remotely like English that lulled me with its secret sounds, Isaac ordered for me—a dish that when it appeared just ten minutes later was steaming, full of chicken and carrots with dark chili-flecked gravy. We ate in grateful silence, and it was one of the top five meals of my life.
Sated, finally, we stood. There was a brief exchange at the front counter during which I held back like a child. I had yet to obtain a credit card.
It had begun snowing—that light March variety—while we were inside the steamy little café. We walked, warmed by the food we’d just consumed, and our silence continued. Madeline was steadier now. She and I preceded Isaac who stayed a step behind, like a father duck protecting his young.
It was during that walk—seven long blocks—that I understood fully the life I had left at twenty-one. It wasn’t just the dingy warehouses, dark, puddled underpasses and cars idling in parking lots. These I relinquished willingly. But I failed to forecast the changes, the other lives that might have followed. Certainly I’d considered the fact that I was giving up marriage and children. But I had never before realized I was also sacrificing cheap ethnic meals and quiet walks with friends through spring’s winter. The occasional, thrilling touch of a woman’s hand on my arm as we navigated slick streets. This loss struck me with force.
When we arrived at Mason & Zeus, Madeline led us through a door to the right of the building and into
a small garage where only two cars sat side-by-side.
“It’s ridiculous that you’re driving separately.” Madeline’s voice startled me, but she broke into regular conversation as if the past half hour of vestal silence hadn’t occurred. “Now we’re going to get in our individual cars and burn a metric ton of fossil fuel just so we can end up in the same place.”
“Your bleeding heart is showing again,” Isaac told her. “Anyway, it’s hardly a metric ton. And this way we can live like adults, rather than me relying on you for rides. Besides, I’ve always wanted to drive one of these.” He waved in the direction of the sportier car. “I got an amazing rate.”
“Do not bill that to the job,” Madeline warned, grinning. “I’m serious, Beckwith. You have squeezed your last drop of blood out of this stone.”
“Father?” Isaac turned to me. I’d thought the first time he called me that it might be irony, but I now I saw it was simply his childhood training. “Can I take you home?”
I paused. The “live like an adult” comment played through my head, and I wanted to refuse. But the prospect of taking the El sounded thunderous and cold.
“I know where he lives,” Madeline said. “And you probably have a mileage limit on your ridiculous rental. I’ll do it.”
Something was transmitted, a glance or a gesture that I almost missed. I was too busy ruing twenty years of cloistered living without Thai food, fast cars, or women in my bed. In addition, I didn’t like being passed between them like a teenage babysitter who needed to be transported. Yet, I went obediently to Madeline’s car and climbed into the passenger seat.
Gloom crept up on me as we rode. I was facing an empty weekend—not unlike most of mine, but a cavernous contrast to this loud, long day. We arrived at my building before I was ready, and when I looked out, its windows leered in the quickening snow.
“Gabe,” Madeline said, then abruptly stopped. I released my seatbelt, but she remained strapped in. “Good night.” She leaned toward me and put one gloved hand on my neck, a spot no one had touched in about a decade. I came forward, intending to the best of my recollection to kiss her cheek, but I met her lips instead and stayed there, tasting briefly the evening’s worth of iced vodka, red curry, and dark Oolong tea.