by Martin Clark
“Thank goodness you didn’t say ‘with that woman,’ ” she interrupted.
Joel ploughed ahead, determined to finish his story. “I never had intercourse, okay? In fact, in one sense, I did very little. The popular term is ‘heavy petting’.”
“Are you serious, Joel? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“What I did with Christy was wrong and terrible, but I’m not the ogre everyone thinks. Well, that some people think.”
“As I recall, you admitted being an ogre, went to jail for it and threw your life away.”
“Christy was assigned to the church to do community-service work. She was in dutch with the juvenile court system, was supposed to clean toilets and scrub floors and mow the grass. She was also directed to meet with me once a week for counseling. Most of the time she did absolutely nothing, leaned on a broom or smoked marijuana in the fellowship hall. I never caught her using drugs, but I could smell it and her eyes looked stoned almost every day. The place would have been filthy if we’d actually counted on her to keep things tidy. She didn’t set foot in my office bathroom for over a month and looked stricken when I suggested she take a bag of trash to the landfill.”
Sophie unwound herself, stood and started toward the coffee pot. “Keep going, I’m listening.” Her tone was noncommittal.
“She spent more and more time hanging around, talking with me. She got credit with the court for the ‘counseling,’ and it beat doing any real work. She is—and I have to say this, even though you’ll shudder—a beautiful, lovely girl.”
Sophie had poured half a cup and left it black. She was back in her seat, facing her brother. “It’s only sad and typical, Joel. Sad doesn’t rate a shudder. Creepy gets a shudder—when you start describing her perfect alabaster feet, or how innocent she looked in her schoolgirl uniform, that’s when I’ll shudder.”
“Her uniform was hip-huggers, high heels and a push-up bra, as best I can recall.”
“Ah.”
“At any rate, she’s spending a lot of time in the office. She’s pretty. She’s very aggressive for her age, very flirtatious.”
“Tell me again how old this seductress was?” Sophie said.
“Seventeen. And I was old enough to be her father—I’ll save you the rhetorical effort.”
“Thanks.”
“I was a hundred percent wrong in letting matters get out of control. She flattered me, and I was vain. She tempted me, and I was weak. Probably five days a month, I’m sitting in my study with this attractive girl who’s wearing halter tops and short-shorts, and she’s talking about sex, my eyes, how she wants to kiss me just one time.” Joel paused, licked his lips. “About ninety-five percent of life is not doing the things you have an urge to do. Keeping your head in the foxhole and avoiding trouble. Sin can be glorious fun in the short term—that’s why it’s such good bait.”
“Jeez, Joel. That’s a sanitized way of saying you wanted to screw a teenager.”
“But here’s my point: I never did. One afternoon, we sat on the sofa at my office and kissed until I finally asked her to leave. Two days later, she’s there again and we . . . uh . . . we sort of do the same thing, this time a little more involved. And I can’t lie, Sophie—I liked it. It was so . . . I can’t give you the exact word, but to kiss someone and not know how it would feel, how it might turn out, what to expect . . . All the newness and excitement and—”
“Spare me the mad-love spiel,” Sophie said. “Otherwise, I’ll puke. I’ll puke all over the kitchen. I like the basic version better: Most sorry men would delight in screwing a child, and most men are sorry.”
“I’m not saying I was justified or anything. I’m merely trying to explain why it happened. Here’s the good news, Sophie. That’s the end of the story. Some kissing, and I stuck my hands inside her bra on the second occasion. There was never sex or nakedness or sneaking into hotels. The last time, I stopped and told her she’d have to go. She came back the next day, of course, and I explained to her I’d asked to be forgiven and that I couldn’t see her anymore. I gave her another minister’s name to help with the counseling. Oh—I apologized, too. Said I was sorry.”
Sophie began rubbing small circles around her temples, squirmed in her chair. She was sitting normally now, both feet touching the ground. “This doesn’t make sense. What are you conveniently forgetting?”
“That’s the story. The whole truth.”
“Then why, Joel, did you lose your job and your marriage? You’ve got to be omitting something. Got to be.” She still had her fingers against her temples, but the circles had ceased.
“I’ve told you everything,” he said.
“Okay, so tell me how you got from there to here. Why did you go to jail? Why did Martha divorce you? Why didn’t you fight the charges? Why wait till now to tell me this version?”
“Let me give you a preface that’ll make this easier to understand. When I was in divinity school, I had a professor by the name of Amos Stone. He was a take-no-prisoners Baptist, had wild, flamboyant eyebrows and a big round head with two white clumps of Bozo hair, bald on top. Had the ear thickets, too, bristles like you wouldn’t believe.” Joel paused, allowed himself a smile. “Dr. Stone—we called him Dr. Brimstone—taught Old Testament in the days before the church became concerned about membership drives and giving totals. Nowadays, we’re so worried about getting people in the door, we deliver them a religion without any sting or grit. We never castigate anybody, never step on toes because we’re afraid the banker or car dealer or canning-factory heir will take offense and spread their coin elsewhere, and there’ll be no dollars for the splashy buses or the hotel-size addition. People make fun of the obsolete pulpit-thumpers who lit you up, pointed fingers, spewed damnation and spelled out the price you pay for stepping over the line. It’s all so much nicer now, but the truth’s the truth. Congregations these days want to do exactly as they please and have us validate it. We’re the church of accommodation and sycophancy and scented candles.”
“Is this going somewhere, Joel? I really don’t give a hoot about church doctrine. And I hope you don’t expect me to sit here while you preen through a twenty-minute sermon.”
“I’m almost there. ”
“Preachers love to hear themselves talk, don’t they?” she said, the glimmer of a grin underneath the jab. “Do you even remember what I asked you?”
“Sure, and I’m answering you. We used to have these highbrow ethics debates in Dr. Stone’s class. You know—is stealing justifiable to feed your starving kids? If you knew your unborn child would grow up to be Hitler, is abortion acceptable? Topics like that.”
“Important, real-world concerns. I understand. It’s why you guys are so good at your jobs and have so much to offer.” Sophie finished her coffee and set the empty white cup on the table. There was a lukewarm spot of brown remaining in the bottom.
“I don’t want to get sidetracked, but I’m flat weary of people taking shots at us for addressing tough issues and actually believing in something other than smart-mouth skepticism.”
“You holy men bring a lot of it on yourselves, Joel. What’s the great Rita Mae Brown line—if God’s so smart, then why does he hire such bad help?”
“We’re not perfect, okay? At least we try.” Joel locked Sophie in a stare, daring her to push him any farther.
“Okay,” she said. “Forget I said it.”
“There are missionaries rocking famished babies, and priests who’ve treated sin and distress for thirty years still living in a freezing room with a hard bed. There are soup kitchens and food pantries and shelters and day-care centers and vacation Bible schools—a whole empire of charity and compassion supported by people of faith. Do you really want to discount all that and poke fun at millions of honest, devout people because a few cads and charlatans dishonor the pulpit? Beat on your chest because you believe in nothing?”
“I said okay, Joel. I do believe in God. I just haven’t made a career out of it.”
Joel stayed stiff, remained silent long enough to let her know he was distressed. He finally leveled one last stern glare at her. “Anyway, we’d have these rip-roaring debates, and at the end old Dr. Brimstone would yank off his glasses and give us the same speech. You don’t get to average good and evil, he’d say, don’t earn the Lord’s blessing if your deeds tip the scales a tad in your favor, don’t get to choose the middle road or the gray solution. There’s the straight, correct, narrow route, and the rest is just plain heathen mischief. There is no alloy in righteousness, no shades and degrees in morality.” Joel recited the words with conviction, his eyes animated and earnest.
“That’s bullshit, Joel. It’s a fine story, and you preach it well, but things aren’t quite so simple as you make them out to be. The world isn’t black-and-white, though life would be easier if it were.” Sophie toyed with her coffee cup, rotated the handle until it pointed toward Joel. She peered at him without speaking and did her best to read his expression. “But you truly believe your own nonsense, don’t you?” she said after studying him.
“Yeah.” The answer came out hoarse. “I do.”
“And where does this take us, Joel? I’m still not sure what you’re trying to get at.”
“Well, what I did was wrong. And wrong is wrong—it’s an either-or situation. There’s no such creature as a minor sin. I believe that, and I deserved punishment. Bad conduct invites suffering, right? Not much room for dispute there.”
“So you make a mistake and then simply surrender for the remainder of your life? Touching a breast is the same as axe murder?”
“My particular mischief left me without any options. Once Christy told her parents and the police became involved, what could I do? I mean, what’s my defense? Ethically and practically, I’m dead in the water. I could lie and fight to keep my job or just leave. You can bet the ranch that if I admitted to necking with a teenager, I’d be tarred and feathered and chased out of Roanoke on a rail. So my only choice was to lie—to the police, to my church and to my wife. I couldn’t do that. Also, if I tried to save my own skin by attacking Christy’s honesty, I would split my church apart and polarize my congregation, become a distraction. So I was stuck with the consequences of my misdeeds, unless I wanted to up the ante and add more wrongs to my list.”
Sophie crossed her legs and adjusted her socks. “From what I understand, your lying options were pretty limited, weren’t they, Joel? Didn’t they have DNA evidence against you? Correct? Pretty difficult to bob and weave past the guys in thick glasses and white coats, huh? Which brings us back to square one. You screwed a child and couldn’t lie your way free.”
“I’m still puzzled by the tests. I can’t solve that part,” Joel said, “and it’s worrying me to death.”
“No kidding.”
“I’ve considered a number of possibilities. Her father is wealthy and well connected, so perhaps he used his influence. Or maybe the police set me up.”
“Or maybe it was the CIA, or Mossad, or the black-helicopter operatives, or the same people who nailed Princess Di and Dodi. What about the Queen of England? Remember how she brought down Lyndon LaRouche? Give me a break, Joel. The police framed you?”
“It’s also possible the lab made a mistake. They’re not infallible.” Joel was agitated again, rushed his words. “You read about legal errors all the time. Heck, people are set free from death row.”
“Yeah, Joel, they’re set free because the science proves their innocence. Not exactly your case, is it?”
“Well, whatever. I didn’t have intercourse with her. I didn’t. Period. The tests are wrong or fixed or bought and paid for.” He paused, slowed his speech. “I know this is difficult to accept, given the facts against me.”
“We’re dangerously close to the Richard Pryor defense, Joel. Remember the routine? Man’s wife catches him in bed with another woman, and the man says to his wife as she stands there looking at him and his girlfriend: ‘So who you gonna believe, me or your lyin’ eyes?’ ”
“I hadn’t heard that one. But I take your point.” He grinned, attempting to lighten the mood. “Here I am reciting theology, and you’re quoting a lesbian author and a drug-ravaged comedian. Nice.”
“Yeah, well, I guess Hell will have an unrivaled variety show.” She smirked at him. “So why did you go to jail if you weren’t guilty? Why plead guilty?”
“I am guilty of something. And what chance did I have in court? I get on the stand and say I simply kissed her, touched her breasts? Lot of good that would do me—who’ll believe that story? And the prosecutor would make it sound really sick and stunted, use the word ‘fondle’ a million times. Even my own lawyer didn’t think I was being truthful. Plus he tells me some of the men on the jury will think I’m a loser for not having sex with her, conclude I’m some kind of troll or pervert and lower the boom. Don’t ask me to explain the logic there. Also, they threatened to charge me with rape, forcible rape, a felony, up to life in prison, and who knows what crazy Christy might say. Would you take that gamble, see what’s behind door number two? Risk going to trial? I don’t think so. And even if they believed my version, I could still be guilty of ‘taking indecent liberties,’ which is also a felony—or so my attorney told me. In the end I took the safe, certain deal. It’s not unfair I was jailed because of what I did. It’s just how I got there that’s so vexing.”
“And of course you spared your church the pain of a nasty battle. Fell on your sword for the benefit of Roanoke First Baptist.”
“To some extent,” Joel said. “It was a consideration.”
“What about Martha? I’m supposed to believe she left you over a few kisses and a sofa grope?”
Joel was silent. He looked around the kitchen and out the window over the sink, then at the floor. There was a hint of collapse in his eyes and mouth, trembles and strains that threatened to spread and crumble his face. He made a gulping noise, shook his head and buried himself into his palms. He sat there concealed behind his hands for several minutes, said nothing, didn’t stir. When he finally uncovered his face, a slight tear had formed and was ready to break loose on his cheek. “I, uh, wasn’t honest when she first asked me. She blindsided me at breakfast one morning, said she’d heard rumors, and I denied everything. What an idiot, huh? When I tried to tell her the truth, I had no credibility. Then she gets wind of the test results. She believes to this day that I committed adultery. I begged and pleaded and apologized and did everything in my power to convince her otherwise, but I just didn’t have much to work with. I should’ve been truthful from the git-go.” He dabbed the corner of his eye.
“I don’t know, Joel. I just don’t know.” Sophie sawed her teeth along her bottom lip. “Why’d you wait so long to explain this to me?”
“I shouldn’t have,” he said. “And I sort of mentioned it when you were berating me about the kitchen fire.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t believe me either, do you?” he asked.
She stared at her white cup.
“Sophie?”
“I see the wisdom of Dr. Stone’s theory,” she said cryptically. “What else can I tell you?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Let me put it like this. You know how people say that things aren’t always as they seem? Well—”
“Exactly. That’s my point. It looks bad for me, looks—”
“Hush, Joel. Listen to me. Things aren’t always as they seem. It’s just the case about ninety-nine percent of the time. Like when I mentioned to one of my friends I suspected Neal was having an affair, and she told me I had to trust him, that things aren’t always as they seem.”
“Well, you’ll see soon enough. I have a plan, a way to redeem myself.”
Christy sashayed into the Tanglewood Mall food court fifteen minutes late. She was dressed in a short top and low-riding pants that missed her belly button by two inches of bare skin. She was wearing tiny blue sunglasses and had a red and purplish dragonfly tattooed
on her forearm. A man eating a pizza slice spied on her over the top of his magazine, and two young boys with voluminous, knee-length shorts were trailing along behind her, laughing and elbow-poking each other. A husband and wife followed her as she passed their table, their heads shifting in unison, their stares absolute ice and disdain. They stopped chewing and eating, watched Christy until she flounced in beside Joel at an orange table with four black chairs. The couple transferred their stares to Joel, bore down on him for an instant, then returned to their food.
Christy immediately unnerved Joel when she sat beside him instead of taking a seat across the table. He noticed her hair was longer and seemed lighter, perhaps from the summer sun. He said hello, took a sweeping look around the mall. His stomach was queasy, his eyes were blinking too quickly and his breathing was erratic, a string of staccato fits that shorted his lungs. It was Sunday, the dog days of August in Virginia, and he had traveled directly from the airport to the mall, still had his unpacked bag and a sheaf of legal papers and someone else’s expensive jewelry in his rented turquoise Neon.
“Kiss me,” Christy said as soon as Joel had croaked his nervous hello. She scooted closer to him and swung her legs so their knees hit. “I’m, like, thrilled to see you. I couldn’t believe it when you called.”
“Okay. Slow down.” Joel rearranged his legs and sat formally in his chair. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
“A cheek kiss, like friends do.”
“I can’t kiss you, Christy. I tried to make the purpose of our meeting clear when we spoke.”
She didn’t change her expression. “So where do you want to go? I wish you could’ve been here last night. There was a superb bash at the lake. A huge boat tie-up and major alcohol, but I couldn’t totally focus on the party because I was so excited about you coming to see me. The adrenaline kept smotherin’ my buzz.”
“Do you want something to eat?” Joel asked.
“Do you?”
“I thought maybe I’d try the Chinese.”
