by Ann Bauer
“Sure,” said the rabbi.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Twin daughters headed to college in the fall. One at Northwestern, her sister at Yale. We’re very proud, also very broke.”
“And you?” I asked the bald man.
“My practice used to be spiritual,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice. “But these days it’s mostly Highland Park housewives and retired attorneys. Buddhism has become a very popular hobby. Doing this feels more authentic than selling rock fountains and gongs.”
“How about you, Bobby?” Rabbi Kahn said, as the curly-haired woman approached us. She was younger than I’d originally thought. With some makeup and a more revealing outfit, she could fit right in at Mason & Zeus. “Why are you doing this? Father McKenna wants to know.”
“Mostly for my dissertation,” she said. “I’m writing about guilt as a motivator for moral behavior, trying to tease apart how much is due to an individual ethical system and how much comes from societal pressures, both good and bad.”
“Excellent,” I said. “This should be perfect.”
“Like a gift from God,” she said with a wicked grin. “Plus I’ll make a little pocket change. My stipend doesn’t quite cover the bills.” She tilted her head, and the entire, wondrous mass of her hair moved with it. “And you? Why did you start this? Why are you leaving? Like Isaac said, the whole drug thing will blow over by next week.”
“Ah, you ask good questions.” I peered at the girl, who reminded me vaguely of Jem. “Unlike all of you, I never had a good reason for doing this. I sort of stumbled into the enterprise with a unique set of skills. But no … purpose. Or calling? I’m sorry, that’s a vague answer. But it’s the truth. I never really belonged here in the first place, so now it’s time for me to go.”
“Not before we have lunch, I hope?” Rabbi Kahn pulled a wallet from his pocket and rooted inside it until he found a card. “Call me next week, okay? I think it would help all of us to hear what you have to say.”
“Let me know where you’re going, and I’ll take care of the check.” I turned to find Isaac standing right behind me. “In fact,” he said, “if you want to make it a regular thing, we’ll just start an account wherever you choose.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said the rabbi. Then he shook my hand with both of his, and it felt like saying goodbye to a cousin I’d never known I had. “I have to run. It’s Friday tomorrow so I’ve got a fifteen-hour day ahead of me. But I’ll talk to you soon?”
“I’ll call on Monday,” I said, putting his card into my own battered wallet.
“Could I talk to you for a few minutes?” Isaac asked.
“Sure,” I said, though I suddenly felt worn and dull, as if I had been awake for days. I shook hands with Roberta and the monk and moved aside with Isaac to a small empty spot near the congealing food.
“I want you to know, I really appreciate what you’re doing,” Isaac said. “And we’re going to re-write the contract so you get 3 percent, founder’s cut. Meadow and I already discussed it, and she’s calling the lawyer in the morning. Also we’d like you to be a director, once we get our shit together to form a board. You can be the conscience of the organization. There will be a small salary, of course.”
I eyed him. “Is this guilt talking?”
“Maybe partly.” He swayed, a little zombie-like. “Christ, I’m exhausted. And it’s making me all emotional. But the truth is we need you. And I don’t want you to disappear on us. I’ve grown attached.”
“All right.” I couldn’t tell how much I was being offered. Three percent could be just enough to help me replace my wallet—or prop up the bookstore, fund the shelter where St. John’s used to be, and buy a car. I had no idea.
As if he heard my question, Isaac said in a low voice, “If this thing grows as fast as we think it will, we’ll start up in Seattle, Providence, Western Connecticut, and Austin by the end of the year. I’ll work out of the Texas office.”
“You’re staying on?”
He nodded. “That’s the plan.”
“And Madeline?”
We both looked in her direction. She was talking with Roberta Fox, and both were smiling. They looked like they could become friends.
“She’s um,” Isaac said warily. “Acting kinda strange. This whole forgiveness thing was her idea, and it’s huge. I mean, she could end up on the cover of Forbes. But right now, she’s totally lukewarm on the business. Says maybe she shouldn’t have started it. She’s not sure it’s ‘good for the world.’ It’s so odd. The other day, I heard Meadow talking to her mother on the phone.”
“I doubt they were all bad, her parents,” I said. “Sometimes we have to leave the tradition we grew up in to see its true value. Take back the pieces that make sense to us.”
“You sound like a shrink,” Isaac said. “New career path?”
I’d had it. My day had started before dawn. I’d driven (twice) for the first time in years. I’d been fired, essentially, by a man I would deeply miss and tried to pass myself off with a group of agitators, then sat in traffic cold, bored, and lonely for several hours. I hadn’t been able to touch or really talk to Madeline following our intoxicating night. My feet hurt, and I had a touch of indigestion. Sighing more heavily than I meant to, I backed up against the wall. “I think I need a shrink,” I said.
“Oh, don’t look now. But I think Joy wants to talk to you!” Isaac spoke in a jubilant whisper. “I guess her dad was on the phone with Lynch this morning, talking about free speech and freedom of religion. It’s a constitutional two-fer! I got a call mid-day saying we can’t fire her yet, and she needed to be at this meeting.”
“You going to keep her on?” I asked, watching Joy approach. The girl looked five pounds thinner than the last time I’d seen her.
“Thinking about it,” Isaac said. “She’s wicked smart. And we could probably get her back on better terms. Less salary, longer hours.” He snorted. “If that’s possible.”
Joy seemed wrapped in rags compared to her former self. She wore a plain dark dress and bowed her head as she neared me, the way old women did at early morning mass. “Could I speak to you alone, Father?” she asked.
Isaac drifted a discreet distance from us. But not, I suspected, so far that he couldn’t hear.
“I want you to know I’m …” Joy began, then looked at the floor between her feet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really don’t know why I did all that. But it wasn’t right.”
“You were angry,” I said, watching Scott talking to Abel out of the corner of one eye. “And none of us was behaving very well, myself included.”
“Still.” Joy said. “I didn’t mean to make you leave.”
I stood contemplating my options. I could have given her absolution; that would have been easy, but also a little cliché. So I went instead with what I was really thinking.
“I hope you’ll stay on with Mason & Zeus, even if the terms are harsh,” I said and saw her wince. “I genuinely think it would be good for you to work through this. And some of your criticisms of Forgiveness4You—more appropriately expressed—could be helpful.”
“My mother said the same thing.” Joy looked off into the distance for a moment. “I made this mess, and I need to stay and fix it. Stop being so defensive, look at things from a bigger point of view, grow up and be a better person.” She shrugged, and maybe it was only weariness, but I saw a glimmer of something oddly admirable: Joy was able to forgive herself.
“Hey, Father?” Isaac bobbed up next to me, and Joy averted her eyes. “I hate to interrupt you, but we need to draft a new media release tonight, and I’d like to pass it by you. Get your blessing, as it were.”
“As it were,” I echoed his arcane construction. Then I turned back to Joy and put one hand to her cheek. She waited, head bowed, no doubt expecting wisdom and grace.
“Just stop messing with people’s lives,” I said, surprising even myself. “I truly believe you can learn from this.
But if you have any true feeling for the Catholic Church, you must quit using it like a weapon to get what you want.”
She nodded, tears dribbling from her eyes.
“I’ve seen enough of that for a lifetime,” I said more gently. Then I gave up—delirious with fatigue—and hugged her. “Go.” I said. “Be good.”
March 21, 20--
FORGIVENESS4YOU EXPANDS BEFORE OPENING ITS DOORS
Media Release
Chicago, IL
Just two days ago we announced plans to launch Forgiveness4You, a first-of-its-kind forgiveness service that helps people resolve guilt and regret. Despite the fact that we are not yet officially in business, customer demand for our services has been overwhelming. So we’re revising our business plan and expanding before even opening our doors.
We’re happy to announce the addition of three forgiveness practitioners. Nathan Kahn is the assistant rabbi and director of adult education at Temple Mazel in Skokie. Yoshii Adrami studied Buddhism in Nepal and at the Institute for World Religions in Berkeley, California. Roberta Fox, a fellow in the philosophy department at the University of Chicago, is a leading expert in moral non-belief.
We are proud to welcome them and believe their services will make forgiveness available to an even greater number of people.
Due to commitments elsewhere, our founder, Father Gabriel McKenna, has stepped down as acting director of Forgiveness4You. He will remain on the board. We are engaged in a search for a priest or other Christian pastor at this time. We thank Father McKenna for his extraordinary work and for the inspiration that brought us this far.
Forgiveness4You will hold a grand opening in mid-April. By that time, we expect to have dedicated space with more than a dozen on-site consultation rooms and supplementary service options, including a massage therapist trained to help clients cleanse and relax after catharsis.
As always, we thank you for your interest and welcome any questions about this fast-growing enterprise.
Please contact Isaac Beckwith directly for more information at 512-345-8921.
XVI
“WHAT COMMITMENTS ELSEWHERE?” I ASKED ISAAC FOR THE third time. We were back in the smaller conference room where I felt the comforting presence of Zeus overhead. “I have no job, no parish, and no plans. My family is doing fine, except I left the church and broke my mother’s heart. Exactly what do I tell people when they ask what I’m doing?”
“They won’t. Don’t worry. Everyone knows why you’re leaving.”
“Then why not be honest? Or say nothing?”
“Because,” Isaac sighed, “in PR, this is the way it’s done. I didn’t make the rules, man. I’m just really good at using them to my own advantage.”
“When do you have to file the release, Isaac?” We both turned. Madeline had crept up to the door so quietly neither of us had noticed her. She was leaning against the frame in a simple black garment. She’d taken off her amulet. Her feet were bare.
“If we want to get into the Sunday news stream, by midnight tonight.”
“Fine.” Madeline rolled against the doorway and peered up at the clock. “That gives us two and a half hours. Let me talk to Gabe, and we’ll get back to you by 11:55.”
“No, don’t worry about it.” I stood. “Go ahead and do what you think is best.”
Isaac tilted back in his chair until he was nearly reclining and closed his eyes. “Just so you know,” he said to no one in particular, “I’m going to stay with a friend tonight. So you’ll have the apartment to yourself.”
“What friend?” asked Madeline. “I thought we were your only friends in Chicago.”
“Funny,” he said, righting himself so he could glare at Madeline. “If you must know, Abel’s girlfriend is at a mandolin festival in North Carolina this week. So I’m staying at their place, in her practice room.”
“You didn’t tell him …?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. He offered, completely out of the blue, as he was leaving tonight. Abel just seems to know shit. I have no idea how.”
Isaac gathered himself and his papers and edged wearily toward the door where Madeline leaned. I felt like we were saying goodbye after a long voyage together. He had showed up at my apartment, already exhausted, at dawn. Somewhere in the middle of the day I’d told him about Aidan. Not everything, but more than I’d ever disclosed to anyone else.
“Hey.” I caught Isaac’s arm, startling him. “Thank you.”
He yawned, wide, like a bear. “No problem, man. I’m sure Abel’s couch is fine.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean. Just thank you.”
He reached toward me, exposing a large, round armpit stain. I went to him and though I had to reach up to do it, I gathered him in my arms and tipped his head down to kiss it. Isaac gripped me hard for a moment then pushed me away and waved at Madeline. “See you tomorrow,” he said and disappeared.
We were quiet for a long time, both of us listening to him walk down the hall, waiting for the elevator to come, open, and close.
“Gabe?” Madeline finally said. “What do you want to do?”
“I want …” I stopped to consider the many things I wanted: Madeline herself. A design for my life. Proof of faith. Absolution. God. “I want to go home with you.” She took my hand in her own, which was cold. I turned it between mine, rubbing gently to warm it. “I’d like to have a drink,” I continued. “And if you don’t mind, I want to tell you the truth.”
• • •
It had begun to rain. We were silent on the way to Madeline’s apartment, traffic darting around us, buildings melting overhead. She drove slower this time, deliberately centering her car in its underground parking place. She turned off the car, and the engine quieted. Neither of us got out.
“The truth sounds a little ominous,” she said softly. “Is this something I’m going to hate? You have a wife somewhere, this priest thing was all a cover. You’re really gay, I was just an experiment. It’s really Isaac you prefer?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What, then?”
I’d imagined doing this upstairs in her apartment with a big glass of whisky in my hand. But now this spot seemed like the most appropriate place in the world. It was dark and quiet, and the two of us were contained in the little vessel of her car.
“I was one of those kids …” I started, picturing myself at eight, twelve, fifteen, based on photos my mother kept in silver frames on her mantle. “I was happy, smart, lots of friends, everything came easy.”
“That surprises me,” she said. “I thought you’d be one of those tortured boys.”
“No, that came later. First year of high school, I was cocky. And I got away with everything: breaking curfew, cheating on tests. My parents were tired and perpetually broke. My teachers had forty students in a class. No one had time to worry about a kid who was basically doing okay.” I shifted to look at her. “I didn’t mean that to sound pathetic.”
Madeline shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Someday I’ll tell you about the trauma of having a mother who breastfed my little brother until he was five.”
I laughed, despite myself. “I look forward to that.” There was a pause, a few seconds of lightness. But I had to go on. “Anyway, sophomore year in high school, I had this friend who was a senior. He always had money. Great clothes. He drove a red Jaguar with a sound system wired through the trunk. It was … everything I wanted. So just before he graduated—Peter, that was his name—he showed me how he did it.”
“Drugs?”
“Cocaine. Peter didn’t bother with the small stuff. Pot, psychedelics. Most of us had been getting high since we were about twelve. But cocaine was what successful people did. Movie stars, bankers. We were guys from Southie. It wasn’t hard to sell coke as a kind of … aspirational drug.”
“Nice branding reference,” Madeline said. “I can tell you’ve been paying attention.”
“Thank you.” I reclined my seat, realized I was positi
oned like a patient at a therapist’s office, and ratcheted it back up. “So when Peter graduated, I took over his business. It was like magic. I’d pick up a pound of coke in Dorchester. Take it back to my room and weigh out single-ounce bags. Peter’s customers came to me. I was clearing $3,000 a week. At sixteen.”
“Were you using?”
I sighed. “Not at first. I wasn’t stupid. I knew my money came from feeding other people’s habits. But then someone new came to me, a kid who’d transferred in, and he’d seen some movie where the guys buying heroin made the dealer do some to prove he wasn’t a narc. He cut some, handed me a $20 bill, said, ‘Snort it.’ So I did.”
“And you liked it?” Madeline sounded distant, like she was talking to a stranger. I suppose in some ways, she was.
“I loved it. Coke made me feel powerful, like I could do anything. No doubts. No weakness.”
“Sounds terrifying,” she said.
I nodded. “It was. Only I was too young, too full of hubris, to understand.” I stopped to gather a breath. “But really, this story is about my neighbor Aidan.” Saying his name felt like touching a bruise. “He was … slow. A little older than me, but he ended up in my grade in school. He had …” I stopped and swallowed, and Madeline reached out to touch my leg, but I drew it aside. “No! Don’t comfort me. I don’t deserve that.”
“All right.” She withdrew to her side of the car, and I felt a familiar loneliness. As if she were already gone.
“Aidan had something wrong with him. He was skinny and his chest sort of caved in. He walked like his legs were attached wrong.” I pictured him, shambling along the hall at school. “My mother made me play with him when I was little, so we knew each other. He thought of me as his friend. He was always hanging around, so one day he was there when I sold a gram to one of the baseball players. Mean kid. I remember he looked at Aidan and said, ‘You better not tell anyone, Lurch.’ And that’s when I thought: Aidan’s safe. He’s got no one to tell.”
