by Martin Clark
“You can’t simply quit, Sophie, close your eyes and cower and do nothing and wait for the Lord to throw you a lifeline. I had to act, to try to rectify things and overcome my mistakes. I’m not expected to sit about passive and defeated, watching people run all over me. The Lord wants us to carry a little of our own load.”
“Yeah, and to carry it honestly, Joel. I’m not going to debate this with you—I’m not the one who quotes the Bible and got paid out of a collection plate to be an example for others. You’ve conned yourself if you truly believe half the bullshit you’re saying, and that’s tragic.”
“I bent the rules for the greater good, to do justice,” Joel protested.
Sophie didn’t respond, allowing him to keep at his explanations.
“I mean . . . Well, for instance, if Ted Bundy were asking where you were, I think you’d agree it would be permissible to mislead him, to lie, rather than have you abducted and killed. But I’m supposed to let Sa’ad and Edmund make off with millions of dollars at my expense?”
“Whatever, Joel. Or you could tell the truth and trust Providence, huh? Who knows what would’ve happened to Sa’ad and Edmund, how this would have finished—as it stands, you’ve probably managed to triple their take. Seems the question is how deep your faith runs, and yours is fairly shallow. How long did you last before you signed up with this crook Edmund? A week or two?”
“A month,” he mumbled. “And that was after half a year in jail and the kitchen catching fire.”
“A regular Job,” she chastised him. “Congratulations.”
“Well . . . ,” he said.
“Well?”
“I suppose there’s some truth to what you’re saying,” he admitted.
“Hey, I’m the one who thinks everything is relative and believes in a great big gray area and compromise and leniency and flukes over divine order. But lying and breaking the law can’t be too noble, especially lying to me. I’m not as sold on religion as you are—far from it—but I do believe in decency and a few absolutes. You’re the one who was complaining not so long ago that people do what the hell they want to and then ask the church to tell ’em it’s okay and award them gold stars.”
“There’s a big difference. I’m trying to do the right thing, to fix my error and serve the Lord. It’s not as if I’m out whoring and drugging and preying on innocent folks.”
“And I’m sure He’s mighty proud of your efforts. Delighted. It was especially good of Him to suspend all the normal rules for you and still let you use His name while you were setting affairs in order here on earth. Doing His will, right? Lying and conniving and stealing to promote God’s agenda. Yessir, I’m sure the banquet table is arranged and the goblets are ready with wine—you’ve done well, carried the banner high.”
“There is a difference,” he said feebly. “I was at least trying to do the Lord’s mission, was aware of right and wrong and the big picture. Maybe my tack was misguided, but I’ve always meant to arrive at the ultimate good. I wanted to repay the church as best I could, give you and Baker a life and put a stop to Sa’ad and Edmund’s corruption. And, like I told you before, I hardly feel guilty about beating an insurance company at its own game. They’re all dishonest corporations, and you and I and the church deserve the cash more than they do. Certainly you don’t disagree with me there?”
“I never said you didn’t have fine intentions. Your sincerity almost makes it scarier. I’m recalling Jim Jones and David Koresh and that freakish Marshall whatever, the spooky, castrated guy whose disciples all went to the mall and bought Nikes for the final trip through the Milky Way.”
“They’re obviously crazy. That’s an extreme example. Unfair.”
“And you’re what, Joel? Merely opportunistic? Step back and think about where you’ve wound up. Think. Isn’t that the proof of the pudding— there’s no way you’re in this dilemma if you’ve been making sound, moral choices. Obviously something’s pretty screwed up.”
Joel paused and considered her point. “It all just crept up on me piecemeal, and before I know it I’m in a quagmire and there’s no escaping. But I’m still not sure where the train jumped the tracks. I’m not denying I made some questionable decisions, but, my goodness . . .” He sighed, shook his head. “Virtually everything you’re saying is true. As much as I’d like to quarrel with you, I can’t.”
“I’m not claiming I have all the answers, okay? But it’s time to play the rest of this straight and quit pretending you’re someone else.”
“I plan to,” he said.
“Good,” she replied.
“So what do you recommend?” he asked.
“Get an honest lawyer, tell him the truth and see what happens. This insane plotting is only making the situation worse.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Promise me,” she insisted.
“I don’t really have any other option,” he said sadly. “There’s nothing else left to do.”
“The honest lawyer part might be a problem,” Sophie said.
“Yeah. I’m darn sure not going to trust whoever Sa’ad sends.”
“No kidding,” she replied.
“You realize how much I regret putting you through this?” Joel’s eyes watered, but he didn’t cry. He kept his gaze directed at the floor. “I’m sorry. I keep having to say that, don’t I? You are such a smart, righteous person— I’m proud of you. You’re so much better than I, so much stronger and tougher.” He took some satisfaction in what he was telling her, perked up, managed to face her. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” She seemed uneasy, looked away and rearranged herself, moved her legs and feet. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
They sat there and didn’t talk any more, brother and sister at the end of Joel’s confession, stayed where they were and grew comfortable again without uttering a syllable, heard the wind gust and cause a loose gutter to flap against the house and Baker start a child’s merry, content humming while he worked on his studies, adding numbers together and totaling them in his head, writing three-digit answers for his mother and Joel to inspect.
That night, before he went to bed, Joel recalled the solid sense of Sophie’s counsel, and he dropped to his knees, rested his elbows on the mattress, shut his eyes and prayed fervently, first asking to be forgiven, then simply requesting help and an indication of what the Lord wished of him. He furrowed his brow and said the words aloud and with conviction, repeated phrases, pleaded for guidance and promised to be compliant, surrendered. After he finished, he lay in bed and waited, listening and watching, but nothing arrived, no pillar of fire, no paternal baritone, no swooping messenger, no tableau of saints and scrolls, not even a creak in the floor or a rumble when the furnace switched on and filled the ducts with warm air.
eighteen
Joel maintained his prayerful entreaties the following morning, swaying and rocking and worshipping on abject knees for fifteen minutes. He thought of nothing but his mistakes, lit a candle—yellow and slender, a birthday cake leftover—before he knelt and ceaselessly murmured the chastened request Sophie had suggested: He asked to be forgiven and submitted to his Lord’s will, the very same Lord he believed in and had preached about, the Lord he had carried into the pulpit hundreds of Sundays and urged others to accept no matter how persistent the affliction or how barren the horizon. He begged for deliverance, and he finally prostrated himself, belly-flopped onto the concrete where he lay spread-eagle, his cheek flush against the floor, the plea to God rote, rhythmic and tranced, the basement awash with Old Testament piety.
He also decided to fast, so he skipped breakfast and drank only two glasses of water during the afternoon. He prepared supper for Sophie and Baker—fried hamburger steaks, browned potato slices in the oven and mixed together a foil bag of processed cheese and Kraft macaroni noodles, made the dish thoroughly soggy the way Baker liked it. He found not eating difficult, but he felt virtuous and holy, somewhat at peace with his circumstances, the suffocating worry that came
from struggling to stay a step ahead of a virulent, nipping pack starting to lift.
Sophie noticed right away that he wasn’t having dinner. “You’re not hungry?” she asked.
“I’m fasting,” he answered.
“Pardon?”
“I’m fasting. No food today.”
“And there’s a reason for this?” she asked, chewing her meat.
“I’m attempting to make amends. To be penitent.”
She cut a potato and raked the piece through a pool of ketchup. “Seriously?”
“What’s so odd about that? I took your advice. I’ve asked to be forgiven, and I’ve surrendered my burdens to the Lord.”
A slyness enlivened her eyes and mouth. “I’m certain not eating will solve your problems. Once the FBI gets wind of your decision, they’ll turn tail and run, leave Montana forever. And it’ll be good practice for your hunger strike if you’re sent to prison—you and the other inmates will be able to protest like champs, really show ’em who’s boss.”
“It’s my way of dealing with things.” Joel spoke evenly. “I feel better today than I have in months.”
“Do I need to keep watch on the rooster?” she asked.
“The rooster?”
“Yeah. You’re not planning some kind of sacrifice, are you? A burnt offering? Firing up Tut over a pile of kindling, chanting and writhing and speaking in a mystical tongue?”
Joel laughed, and so did Sophie. “I’ll stick to less dramatic remedies for the short term,” he said.
“You’re not going to hurt Tut?” Baker was alarmed, enough so that he quit eating. His plate was a topsy-turvy medley of colors and jagged cuts, and several yellow, cheesy noodles had tumbled onto the table.
“No, not at all,” Joel promised him. “Your mom’s only joshing. I’d never do anything to Tut or his hen.”
“You better not,” the boy warned him.
“Don’t worry,” Joel answered. “Tut’s my pal.”
After dinner was finished, Sophie helped Joel wash the greasy skillet and the macaroni-and-cheese pot and stow the dishes. While they were straightening the kitchen, she poured a cold beer into a tall glass and removed an elastic band from her hair and shook loose a ponytail, then scratched her scalp with all ten fingers. “So what have you decided to do?” she asked when they were almost through. “Beyond starving yourself, I mean.”
“Well, I think I should talk to a lawyer and tell the whole story, everything, the unvarnished truth, and hope for the best. Isn’t that what you recommended?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“I spoke to Dixon this afternoon,” Joel said.
“Oh?” She swallowed some beer. “About a lawyer? Did he give you a name?”
“Well, sort of. I’m going to see Lynette Allen, the lady who’s handling the case with Karl and Lisa.”
Sophie placed her glass on the counter and gave Joel a quizzical stare. “Uh, help me here, but isn’t she the prosecutor, the person from the other side? Maybe you should consult a defense lawyer, the slippery folks who’re paid to help you, not the state.”
“Well, maybe I should, but what good would it do? Dixon says Lynette is fair, and from my dealings with her, it would appear she is. I think she’ll know how to manage the threats I’m getting from Karl and Lisa, and I’m planning to tell her about Sa’ad and Edmund and this blasted red sister ring. Better her than Hobbes or the state police, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, Joel . . .” Sophie sounded troubled. She lifted her beer but didn’t drink. “You could still be honest and retain your own attorney.”
“To what end?” he asked.
“I want you to leave this nonsense behind and shake free from the fraud and sorry people, but I don’t want you to go to jail for the rest of your life.”
“I don’t think I will. I don’t think that’s the Lord’s plan for me. And if it is, I’ve probably earned it.”
“You fly from pillar to post, Joel, from one extreme to the other. Gangster to altar boy. Why don’t you simply disavow the stealing and lying, locate a lawyer, keep quiet and shoot for the most lenient deal available? There’s nothing wrong with looking out for yourself.” She set the beer down without tasting it. “We’ve only had the contrite Joel for a day— shouldn’t you consider this a while longer? Maybe pop a Prozac before you get too rash and swept away by your newfound virtue? A lot of people who leave the tent revival wake up the next morning broke and really regret being seized by the moment and forking over their paycheck.”
“Believe me, Sophie, I’m not trying to hang myself. This is a good solution, and an honest one. I’ll be careful.”
“Have you heard from Sa’ad? Wasn’t he going to hire someone to represent you?”
“Right,” Joel sneered. “Some shyster named Harper phoned this afternoon and left a message on the answering machine. Claimed he was returning my call and said he was eager to meet with me about my legal woes. It goes without saying I didn’t call back. The heck with that—he’s working for Sa’ad and Edmund, not me. I’d be crazy to trust him.”
“No doubt,” Sophie said. “I was just curious if they’d followed through.”
“Of course they did. They want to keep tabs on me and have their guy pulling the strings.”
“When are you going to see Lynette?” she asked.
“Tomorrow. And Dixon’s agreed to go with me.”
“Does he understand what you’ve done?”
“No. He said he’s not interested in knowing the details.” Joel took his sister’s hand, and she held on for a few seconds before pulling away.
“I want to go too.” She was determined, her tone emphatic.
“Why? I’m grateful, but you don’t have to do that. I’m a grown man—I don’t need my baby sister there to tie my mittens and wipe my nose.”
“I want to make sure you don’t screw up and do something foolish.”
“Sophie—”
“Hush, Joel. I’ve made up my mind.”
“It would be sort of embarrassing,” he said. “Makes me look like a stupid child who can’t take care of himself.”
“Tough. And that characterization isn’t far from accurate given what I’ve been hearing.”
“You’ll miss work,” he protested.
“The hell with work. You’re my brother.”
Driving to see Lynette Allen the next morning, Joel and Sophie became trapped behind two tractor-trailers monopolizing both lanes of the interstate. The truck immediately ahead of them was covered with dust, and someone had finger-written “show me boobs or leg” in the dirt on the trailer’s rear doors. The trucks finally pulled to the right lane at the same time so Joel could maneuver around them, and he floored the Volvo, accelerating to almost eighty-five. The eighteen-wheelers’ huge, noisy tires were at eye level, and Sophie gripped Joel’s thigh as he sped the car past, the trucks not giving any ground. “Hurry up, Joel,” she told him, “before they swerve over here and wreck us.” After they’d almost made it by and she’d regained her composure, she looked up at the driver of the second truck and scowled. “Assholes.”
She was still steamed about the trucks when they met Dixon outside Lynette Allen’s office. Joel was actually thankful for the distraction, grateful the inconsiderate drivers had taken their minds off the harrowing, Hail Mary conference he’d arranged. He’d been reduced to one final shot, a let-it-rip meeting with a virtual stranger—a prosecutor—whose reaction could ruin the rest of his life or set him free, and sadly, he was forced to slink through her door as the worst kind of Judas, a traitor betraying his cronies in hopes of hitting the courthouse jackpot. Tension and his stool pigeon’s guilt had been gnawing into his entrails all morning, turning him nauseous as he sat solitary at the kitchen table, nibbling a spoonful of Baker’s sugary cereal and watching dawn swirl the sky blue, orange, reddish and lavender.
The meeting was scheduled for ten-thirty, and they’d all arrived early. Dixon quietly greeted Joel and said
hello to Sophie, and they sat in a sparse waiting room and killed time discussing the snowpack and the prospects for spring, how much water the rivers would hold after the mountains thawed. On the wall, there was a large round clock with a second hand, and Lynette appeared punctually at half past the hour and invited them into her office.
She had no idea why her friend Dixon was accompanying Joel, and she couldn’t have known why Joel and Sophie wanted to speak with her. She was delighted to see Dixon, talked to him about mutual acquaintances and getting together for some fishing on the Blackfoot. She offered them coffee, and everyone declined. There was a lull in the conversation after Lynette finished telling Dixon about her sister’s successful knee surgery, and Dixon abruptly steered the subject to Joel’s problems.
“Joel has some troubles, Lynn,” he began, squirming forward and sitting on the edge of his chair. “Some of his situation has to do with this damn fight out on the Blackfoot, and some of it’s unrelated. I understand the additional stuff is serious. I told Joel you’d treat him fairly. You and I have known each other for years, and you’ve always been square with people. I don’t know the details of Joel’s predicament, and don’t care to. But I did want to come with him today. I’m vouchin’ for him, Lynn. He’s a good man. I’d like to have him at the shop come May.”
“Your being here means a lot,” Lynette Allen told him. “You know that.”
Joel felt a push of emotion, of gratitude, and his eyes welled. Dixon Kreager’s friendship was unearned and his help was of the priceless variety, without hooks or loopholes or hope of reciprocation, a donation from the stores of an optimistic man, a handout offered because it was needed and for no other reason. Whatever else might happen, Dixon had made up his mind about Joel King, weighed him by his own set of standards and not found him wanting. “Thanks, Dixon,” Joel said.
