Discretion

by David Balzarini

  I put my arm around her and try my best to console her. Then, my spirits are lifted as footsteps approach our way from down the empty hall. I take a gander in that direction, as a few other people waiting nearby do the same. And to our expectation, the doctor is on his way, dressed in dark blue scrubs with a cap over his balding head. His facial hair has a tinge of gray. Joanna comes to her feet and stops near him in the hallway. He speaks quickly and with a faint smile.

  The news is unexpected and positive.

  Jamal’s recovering just fine and should be able to live a normal life. It’s going to take time and he’s going to need physical therapy, but he’s expected to make it.

  Joanna returns to the supporters, a bewildered look on her face and she is surrounded by the three who remain and I stand with them. They respond with praise to God when they hear of Jamal’s surgical success. We join hands and bow our heads and I play along. This feels silly. I wasted enough of my life doing this and I’d said never again.

  One person, a calm, simple man of humble appearance, starts to pray calmly, reverently. His prayer is of praise and thanksgiving for healing Jamal, and his protection over him.

  I begin to mumble to myself. Why, I don’t know. My eyes are closed, so I cannot see whether anyone else is looking at me. The man continues to pray; after a few minutes, he stops and everyone says Amen in unison. Except me.

  I say a quiet expression of gratitude to Christel, for keeping my friend safe. It’s not some long-winded expression, but a humble thank-you for being my friend at a time of need.

  No one is allowed to see Jamal for several hours at the minimum, so people start saying goodbyes and clearing out of the waiting room. In twenty minutes’ time, I get an iced tea from the vending machine and bring one back for Joanna. Caffeine is needed, but my limit is hit on the coffee. Joanna feels the same way; hardly a connoisseur of coffee, she can tell the difference between a decent roast and what tastes like a dirty sock was used in place of a paper filter.

  “Colin…so…where do you stand?” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  Three sips into the iced tea, which is only Lipton, and I feel a little rejuvenated. The coffee must be bad on purpose, to serve as a distraction.

  “Prayer,” she says, calmly.

  “Digging up the past, I’ve little interest. You know that.”

  “Yes, but anyone can tell you were uncomfortable…” She coughs. “Okay, really uncomfortable. Do you think you were made by science? By some cosmic force that happened ages ago…with no one to explain it?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think science created me, no.”

  “Then how do you explain your existence?”

  “I’m here. Why do I have to know how?”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Look. I get what you and Jamal believe. I do. I respect people’s beliefs. But they’re not for me.”

  “Don’t you want to know—”

  “Know what? How the world is what it is?” I shake my head slowly. “I don’t need to know the answers because I think the answers aren’t available to us. There are some things we will never know or understand and I accept that. I don’t need to know how the Earth was made; it’s here and it’s nice. Hopefully we won’t destroy it.”

  “So why is such an important decision…unimportant?”

  “We’ve talked on this before. It’s not unimportant, just unfathomable.”

  “That’s true in lots of things. Do you believe that Jesus was real? Historically speaking.”

  “Evidence shows the man existed, sure.”

  “Okay. And what does that make him?”

  I ponder this a moment. “A person.” This topic is not comfortable, but I’ll go along with it, as thinking about Jamal is much worse.

  “You came to church with Jamal for years. And you came with Jamal and me many times. What’s kept you going?”

  “The preacher just talked about motivation, leadership. How to manage money, which was elementary, but I’m sure it helps people.” Several doctors walk past, followed by two nurses going the opposite direction. “The point is, he never said anything of consequence about Jesus, so it was tolerable. The topics were helpful to me, or at least interesting enough so I didn’t mind coming back. The whole religion point of the service was the smallest part.”

  She ponders this for a while in silence. I can feel her eyes on me, like a mother watches her child sleep—both affectionate and protective. I look around, for staff, for patients walking around, for anything to help pass the time, which feels endless.

  Joanna is the oldest of three sisters and spent the better part of her teen years preparing to run a home and be a mom. We met at SCG when Joanna was working in research; I got to know Joanna well during the stint. She was in a unique position to help my work see the limelight, which turned into my first promotion at Seaton; they say the first is the hardest, as so many new employees are fighting to get noticed. As a result, I am in part, in debt to Joanna for my career. I introduced her to my best friend Jamal, to even the score.

  Joanna worked for three years and for reasons I could not entirely understand—most of them relating to pettiness on Marisa’s part—Joanna and Marisa did not get along. Joanna has been pretending that she and Marisa will be good friends, knowing that she’s marrying me and the future families will be often together. Joanna always tried to be friends with Marisa, but the history between them stands like a firm, yet invisible barrier: both impenetrable and unseen by anyone but them. Joanna could only see the child who was aborted, deprived of life, and Marisa felt she was labeled a murderer. And the conflict between the two women has been a barrier since.

  “I see what you’re saying,” Joanna says. “But still…we’d love your company on Sunday.”

  We? Meaning her and Jamal. Oh, how I hope that is true. I nod in reply to Joanna and leave the subject where it is.

  “Now, I’ve not heard anything, but when is the wedding?” Joanna says.

  Wedding. That’s going to bring out the gloves with these two. No wonder the last dinner with Joanna and Marisa side by side was quiet.

  “No date yet. Possibilities galore, but no date. We just talk about it and write nothing down. She doesn’t want to make any rash decisions,” I say.

  She’s talking with me now since Marisa is not here. Some things never change.

  “Has Marisa bought the dress?” Joanna says.

  I nod. “First things first. Too early for me, but she rushed out and ordered it.”

  “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

  I sigh. “I know you two don’t get…along the best. And I’m not sure that’s ever going to change.”

  She nods slowly, and then shrugs her shoulders. “It takes two, Colin.”

  “She feels judged by you.”

  “She shouldn’t. I’m not perfect either.”

  “I know you accept her and what she did doesn’t affect you, but she feels that she can’t measure up to your holiness,” I say, a little tension building within me at being so forthright, but I feel it’s called for.

  “It’s complicated, Colin. She had an abortion, yes. It was many years ago and I’m sure she thinks about it. She probably visualizes what that child would look like today if he or she were alive. And that’s hard to live with. But I don’t judge her, Colin. We’re all sinners, saved by grace, and I accept her. She’s in the same boat as me.”

  “You’re a saint,” I say, grinning at my friend.

  She laughs at me. “And you’re a player. I know more than I should about you.”

  I give an exaggerated sigh, as if I’m bothered by her comment. “So judgmental.” I shake my head. “How can anyone be worthy?”

  She returns my verbal assault with a two-finger jab at my ribs. “I’m afraid that none are worthy. So I frequently extend grace.”

  “Glad to know I’m in a privileged circle.”

  “Well, I’m not sure it’s that frequently,” she says, smiling
.

  She and I talk for the better part of an hour and it feels like old times. We discuss her vision for the wedding and life in general; her as a stay-at-home mom for the past ten months, since she had Delana. She loves motherhood and doesn’t miss her career, though she was good at it. She loves the nurturing moments, the coos, the burps, and all that comes with them. Spit-up and all. So good to connect with my old friend, at last.

  Joanna diverts the topic back to Natalie, and I debate bringing up the email, only to remember the gravity of what Jackson said just hours ago. It suddenly bothers me that I’m keeping a secret from her—as if she’s entitled to know. And Christel remaining a secret…oddly, I’ve never felt a pull to tell anyone about her, but I want to in these moments of drama and I can’t explain why.

  For years, I’ve accepted that Christel should remain a secret, for my own safety. For protection of my work. My credibility. But now, after all that has taken place in the past twelve hours, I wonder why.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Joanna is not going to go home. Not with Jamal in this condition. Even though the news is improved, she won’t leave—that she’s decided on.

  Then Natalie walks into view, and I swear I’m seeing a woman who doesn’t exist. She looks great, tired from a day at work and stressed about Jamal, but she’s here, unexpectedly, and I find I’m a little uncomfortable. I stand to give my friend a hug and linger longer than necessary, shorter than desired.

  She loves you.

  She can’t. Not after all this time.

  Natalie falls into a chair hard and lets out an exhaustive sigh.

  “Don’t have the coffee. Drink tea instead,” I say to Natalie, and Joanna grins, nods with me. This sparks a short conversation about the horrible coffee. Natalie gets a cup anyway and insists it tastes like a cheap brand and will work with enough cream and sugar.

  “I thought you were coming tomorrow,” Joanna says, holding on to Natalie, beside each other on the seat. It’s a gross understatement to say that Joanna and Natalie are happy to be together now. They need each other.

  “Well, I’m happy to see you,” I say to Natalie. “I’m not positive Joanna is, though.”

  Both ladies laugh and Joanna brings Natalie up to speed on Jamal’s news. She nods constantly and holds back tears, fighting hard and fanning herself through the short monologue. They hug and linger awhile, faces to shoulders, to let tears flow and hold on tightly. They encourage each other with small words of affirmation, too quiet to understand, but loud enough to know it’s taking place. When the muted sobs stop, they lean on each other for support and just sit in silence, as nothing else needs to be said. All that can be done is wait for what’s next. The pain is lightened by Natalie’s company, but not removed.

  The three of us banter about sports, as Natalie and I like to do, and Joanna chimes in where she can. Music and fashion filter into the conversation and Natalie talks about cutting her hair short. When my ability to remain safely awake wavers, I elect to head for home. Joanna gets a long hug from me and I kiss Natalie like a teenager—awkward at first, but then, after staring at me a moment with that hopeful look about her, she kisses me again and lingers, as if she’s found me and claiming her prize.

  She loves you.

  When I lean away from Natalie, my hand still on her shoulder, I notice Joanna, her mouth gaping, watching the two of us. I think to say something, but decide against it—there’s nothing I can say now that hasn’t already been said. I don’t need Christel to tell me Natalie loves me; I know it’s true. Now I have to decide what I am going to do about it. Natalie is too good for me—too good for anyone—which is why she remains single. And the weight of guilt I feel occupies my mind—Marisa will know something is up.

  I will need to confess.

  The drive home is distracting, with thoughts of Natalie and Christel and why I’ve kept the mysterious spirit from the people I’m closest to. Jamal has no knowledge. Natalie and Marisa, Joanna, are all in the dark too, as I’ve feared they wouldn’t understand. Or perhaps I felt they would think less of me. My trusted friends…my fiancée. Must I keep them in the dark? Of course, Christel’s aid to me must remain a secret at Seaton Capital Group—as wind of such a source of information would have dramatic, damaging effects.

  Yes.

  But why?

  How I help you does not apply to everyone. You are special to me.

  Hmm. I should accept her answer. Christel is true to her word.

  Beyond exhausted, to the point coffee sounds good, but will do little to keep my eyes open, I leave my things on the kitchen counter and Max just wags his tail, with no motivation to move either. It’s the lazy dog’s way of greeting his master.

  I fall to the center of the leather sectional in the great room and turn on the plasma. SportsCenter comes to life and I catch the highlights. A bowl of popcorn keeps me company, as I can’t just watch TV, and I have far too much on my mind to go to bed, though I desperately need sleep.

  Unable to focus, I fish out the iPad, and then return to Jackson’s email with no small measure of apprehension. I find it hard to rest, but better judgment says to delete it. Christel telling me to trash the email makes me curious. What am I missing that she doesn’t want me to see?

  The articles, clippings, and reports are there as I remember: disturbing, with no answers, only a beautiful tattoo to connect at least a dozen homicides over a five-year period. I sift through the entire email, all the files, and no inspiration comes.

  Why do you want me to delete this?

  I wait a few moments, looking through pictures I’d rather forget, but can’t. Strangely, I’m attracted to these young, seemingly innocent victims. Several of them must be underage, not even sixteen.

  I focus on a dark-haired beauty, photographed with her back to a wall, her hands bound behind her back, her body bruised and bloodied, her eyes staring off into space, making me wonder what her final thoughts were as she left this cruel world. What were her dreams in life? Who did she want to be?

  She died like that. In that Godforsaken place. Helpless.

  Delete it and move on.

  Fine. I hit delete, and the message is gone from my life, and then I breathe in deeply, a newfound freedom in releasing the burden Jackson shared.

  Jamal will live, under a different standard, but to beat impossible odds, that is good news to end the day. Or shall I say, begin the new one, given it’s Tuesday morning. Peculiar that Joanna would bring up going to church with her and Jamal…

  My past in organized religion is grieving.

  When my parents were still married, my mother had a religious experience and decided we should start going to church. Which house of worship—her words—she wasn’t real sure of, but the idea we needed some religion in our lives cemented. She chose a place based on the proximity to the house, and a short time commitment on Sundays—forty-five minutes to a Mass was all and most of the parish took the summer off. She was in love. My father and I couldn’t understand the excitement.

  I was young, but old enough to think: why the hell are we going to this place if we don’t like it? If my father bothered to ask what she was on about, he neglected to mention it to me, even in later years when he had entirely too much to drink.

  Religion turned out to be the perfect accompaniment to her life and gave her a new group of friends to associate with, to make herself feel important. It was at a time before all the social networking caught on. The Internet, as it was then, was new enough that people had to be looking for porn to find it, a sharp contrast from the modern-day Web with scantily clad girls in ads on just about any site a man might have the passing thought to visit.

  Her need to feel important and satisfy her spiritual needs quickly became tiresome for me and my father, but we had little choice. It was tolerable at best, until she insisted I volunteer with the parish and become an altar boy. I was the perfect age of twelve. My father decided it was important enough to Sydney, my birth mother, so I followed orders un
der protest.

  It lasted about two months. The experience was fine and the kids I served with were fine people. The staff were pleasant to be around, as were the two priests, Father Damien, a tall and lanky lad who looked a tad Irish, and Father Nelson, short and balding and considerably overweight, always blaming his love of Polish sausage causing the inner tube around his waist. Father Damien, I deduced, kept lean by working out in his spare time and smoking, which I thought didn’t mix well, but is apparently a good combination for keeping pounds off.

  All was well until I learned that Father Damien had a taste for young boys.

  I remember the day well. It was during a rehearsal for an upcoming event, which required a special incense and Father Nelson didn’t want those of us serving to feel uncomfortable. So a special practice session was going on with three altar boys, myself included, to ensure we knew where we were supposed to be and when. I had thought that Father Nelson was more worried about us dropping the gold metal contraption, a small fire within, and burning the carpet.

  On going back to the rectory for a special errand, I walked in on Father Damien making contact with a young man, by my guess a teenager, as he was a year or two older than me. Nothing terrible happened, but the contact was enough to leave little doubt what the priest wanted and that was enough reason for me to leave.

  But I didn’t. Curiosity took over. I stayed, with the door cracked to the office, and watched like the juvenile I was. Once the young man’s undergarments hit the tile floor and Father Damien started going down on him, I’d had enough. In my twelve years, I’d never seen oral sex or so much as read about it, so the experience put me in a state of complete shock.

  I left without a sound, with the required materials Father Nelson had asked for and continued the rehearsal as if nothing were wrong.

  I didn’t know what else to do. Who could I tell?

  I thought about the boy and the priest and what was taking place quite awhile. It disturbed me, but intrigued me all the same. I concluded it must be pleasurable, though I knew myself to be quite naive about sexual activity and tried my best not to dwell on it. I would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wonder about it, imagine the event to my own horror. Like a virus, it found a way into my head and made itself at home, spreading and infecting.