I decided to try to figure out what I liked to do, and then determine if any of those interests had any marketable value. I made a list of my talents and hobbies in my head, of course placing drawing at the very top. I was not so naïve to think that I was going to find a lucrative job drawing pictures, so I continued with baking cookies, running, caring for horses, and playing trivia games.
The next morning when I woke up, I wrote down all of my sleepy thoughts. I reviewed my list with frustration. What was I, six years old? I was discouraged with my lack of professional skills, but remained determined to make something happen that day. I opened up The Village Voice and searched the Classifieds section. To my surprise there were three jobs claiming to need artists who were skilled at illustrating by hand. I circled those with a pencil. There was one job as an assistant baker at a somewhat famous cupcake bakery in the West Village. My stomach rumbled and I decided to pursue that job first, because at that point in time, I would have been willing to do just about anything for cupcakes.
I walked the city all day long, stopping only at coffee shops to warm up and use the bathroom. Everyone at the cupcake shop seemed hip and cool, and no one smirked at my hair. I filled out a real job application there and handed it back to the young guy behind the counter with the biggest smile I could muster.
That afternoon, I walked right past an enormous art supply store and then back tracked.
Art supplies!
I knew all about art supplies. I could definitely sell art supplies. I had grown up with a private art tutor; I had experience with decoupage, watercolors, oil paints, acrylic paints, all kinds of clay, applying gesso to my own canvases and cleaning my brushes with linseed oil. I even knew how to make my own canvas stretchers, although using a wood saw scared me. I confidently went inside and asked the girl behind the counter if they were hiring. She sent me to the back of the store near the custom framing counter to ask for a guy named Jim.
Jim was in his late forties or early fifties, with salt and pepper hair and wire-framed glasses. He did not look at all like an artist or someone even remotely interested in art, but nevertheless, he was the manager of the SoHo branch of Prekin Art Supplies.
“Can I help you?” he asked me after he finally took notice of me standing at the back counter.
“I was wondering if you’re hiring,” I said, unfazed by his bored voice and obvious disinterest in talking to me. “I’m an art student and I would love to work here.”
Enthusiasm never hurt anyone, right?
I was sure I seemed unnatural and overly-motivated, but I didn’t care. I needed a job, was hungry, and was going to do whatever was required of me to not feel like I hadn’t tried hard enough by the time I got home that night.
“Do you have any experience?” Jim asked me, looking me up and down. He was easily a foot taller than me.
“Yes,” I lied, and made up the name of an art store where I had worked in Los Angeles.
“Can you work weekends?” he asked. “Because all of these kids try to talk their way out of working weekends. Or they go out and get wasted and then call in sick.”
“Sure,” I said. This guy, Jim, was such a downer that under different circumstances I would definitely not have wanted to work at this store at all. But a job was what I wanted, no matter what.
And a job was what I got.
I filled out a very basic application form and rushed through the parts where I had to lie, which was basically all of it, other than home address. I kind of felt like the less effort I put into lying, the less severe the sin. None of it mattered, though. Jim barely looked at my information, weakly shook my hand and told me to talk to a guy named Mark in the front about starting.
I was elated as I walked toward the front of the store again. I’d be making almost ten bucks an hour all in cash, because Jim explained that he didn’t like to put people on payroll until they’d been working there at least a month; he had a lot of turnover. I would work as many hours as they would give me, and I was hugely relieved that no one had scrutinized my ID or asked to see my high school diploma or anything insane like that.
Mark, the shift manager, was stocking acrylic paint in an aisle near the front door. He was really cute. He had a row of tiny hoop earrings lining his left ear, and a short brown beard. He told me he was an art student at Pratt, and asked if I could start working the very next day at nine a.m.
“I can’t believe Jim hired you,” Mark said with a smile.
My heart sank.
“Why?” I asked.
“He never hires cute girls,” Mark said, flooring me. “And you are totally cute.”
“Thanks,” I said, blushing furiously. I was so flattered, I honestly thought I might pass out and I felt dizzy as I left the store.
I was overjoyed. I had scored a totally cool job, uncomplicated for the moment by taxes or social security numbers or any of that stuff. My manager was a hot artist who thought I was cute. Working at Prekin had the potential to be a billion times better than a job folding sweaters and checking ladies into the dressing room at Eagle Ridge. I kind of wished they had let me start working right then, that very afternoon.
My joy was short-lived, however. Just as I was lost in a fantasy about making enough money during my first few weeks at Prekin Art Supplies to buy my own cell phone and maybe some cool shoes to replace my not-so-cool suede boots, I entered a coffee shop to buy myself a celebratory cup of joe and was greeted by my father’s face.
Not my actual father, of course, but his picture on the cover of a copy of Time magazine being read by a man in a business suit sitting at a table. The picture had been edited to look like it had been very severely lit, with sharp contrasts emphasizing the angles in my father’s strong face. The headline written above the picture said, “AN AMERICAN SCANDAL.”
The cover looked not unlike my father was being named Man of the Year; only he wasn’t. Far from it. I slurped my piping hot coffee from the table next to that of the guy reading the magazine, waiting patiently to see if he would leave it behind when he left the coffee shop. Fortunately, he did, and as soon as he stepped outside, I was on my feet, snatching that magazine up as if it were gold.
The article was brutal. In the week since Aaron and I had pretty much fallen off the grid of mass communication, apparently all hell had broken out at home in Phoenix. All of my father’s political connections had abandoned him. It seemed like most, including Rick Davies, were being somewhat mum with their opinion about what had happened between Aaron and Heather, but there were two scathing quotes in the article, one from the governor of Colorado and the other from a senator in Texas. Both used the word hypocrite.
And those quotes were gentle compared to ones from left-wing politicians, who had been just waiting for something like this to happen to the Christian community so that they could point fingers.
“…one set of standards for all hard-working, tax-paying Americans, and a set of exceptions for themselves.”
“…cowardly avoidance of public acknowledgement of the scandal, taking low shots at the morale of the young woman involved and questioning her ethics when the issue at hand is one of national debate, one for which his own son shares responsibility.”
The Managing Director of The Spirit Channel, a man named Brad Marshall, who I had only met a handful of times at family parties, had resigned. The Editor-in-Chief of The Church of the Spirit’s monthly magazine had also resigned. The article went on to say that the IRS had begun an investigation into my parents’ finances over a year ago and that while supporters of the church might have been sympathetic to the suspicious findings before the scandal, there was a strong likelihood that the allegations of tax evasion and misappropriation of charitable funds were going to bring about the end of my father’s empire.
And the icing on top was that a federal court in Arizona was actually entertaining the case being presented by Heather’s parents against Aaron, in his home state. They were trying to have my brother brought up on manslaug
hter charges. A court date had been set for mid-January. Her parents had hired a famous celebrity attorney from Hollywood.
I felt a wave of nausea.
Arizona was a state where anti-abortion lobbyists, many of whom received funding and support from my father, had already succeeded in pushing a lot of pro-life legislation forward. In Arizona, any woman seeking an abortion also had to receive information about pro-life options before receiving any kind of treatment. Anyone under the age of eighteen requesting an abortion also needed parental permission. The entire situation was dizzying. Of course I had been raised to believe that abortion was murder and that pro-life was right; but it was a heck of a lot more complicated when my own brother was being accused of murder. Any chance that Heather could have come clean and admitted she had been lying about my brother’s reaction to her pregnancy was gone; an apology or confession would do nothing to lessen the entire country’s interest in this out-of-control debate now.
There was mention in the article made also of James Santangello, Juliette’s father, and about how he, too, had taken advantage of his clients’ trust. The journalist authoring the story claimed that both Juliette’s and my fathers’ plights were the latest installments in America’s disenchantment with beloved leaders. This writer, some guy named Anthony Michaels, was trying to make the point that there were no trustworthy people in power left in America.
“Holy crap,” I muttered to myself repeatedly as I read.
None of this could actually be possible. My father’s followers were completely devoted to his teachings. They wouldn’t abandon him over a mess that my brother had gotten himself into, would they? These were people who had spent years – decades – following my father. They came to Phoenix for his events, some from as far away as India and Australia. They tithed parts of their salaries, donating money to my parents’ charitable efforts directly from their paychecks. They trained for the charity marathon my father sponsored in Arizona every spring. Belonging to The Church of the Spirit was a lifestyle, a community… way beyond just a religion. Were people really going to just walk away from that so quickly?
The article didn’t include any direct quotes from Daddy or Mama; it went on to say at its conclusion that they had left the country and were reportedly working at the charitable foundation they had established in Coffee Bay, South Africa. Naturally the journalist implied that leaving the country to bury himself in charitable work was Daddy’s pathetic attempt at trying to earn some positive PR during an ugly time. But I knew my dad, and I knew that if he and Mama had flown off to Coffee Bay, it was because he was in need of some serious spiritual healing. My father was never more at ease than when he was spending time among the poor, helping them with the simplest of tasks, like teaching kids how to read English and rolling up his sleeves to help build a house. This was the kind of thing that never really made it into our televised specials; but when it came to pitching in, my dad took his charity work very seriously. Daddy was the real deal; he had worked on so many house-building projects around the world that he knew how to install insulation, rig up electrical wiring and lay tiles on a roof. How many millionaires could do all that?
The article also did not mention Aaron or me directly until the very end. At first, I was a little startled to read my own name in print. I guess I had previously thought that mass market magazines would refrain from mentioning minors by name, but I was wrong.
“…The couple’s daughter, Grace, has reportedly withdrawn from classes at the prestigious Treadwell Preparatory Academy in Western Massachusetts. The school has refused to release information about Ms. Mathison’s whereabouts but has confirmed that she is no longer on campus.”
So. The cat was out of the bag; Treadwell was at least acknowledging my absence. What my parents had to say about it was a mystery, but seeing that they knew I was missing in black and white print on a page, and knowing that they were not concerned about my whereabouts, was like an unexpected slap across the face.
Somehow, reading about all of this so far from home should have enraged me, but instead it made me miss my parents terribly. I really wanted to call Daddy and just tell him everything and ask him to come and get me. I really wanted to believe that he had magical words that would explain why he and Mama hadn’t come after us and why he had been so cruel to Aaron. I desperately missed hearing his voice on our nightly ten o’clock phone call.
That article undid the entire amount of happiness that finding a job had provided to me. Walking home to our apartment on Baxter St., I admitted to myself that I really didn’t want a job at Prekin, or anywhere else for that matter. I wanted to go home to Phoenix and see my parents with my own eyes and face the music about what was happening with my dad’s following.
What if we lost our house? What if we lost our ranch? What if I never, ever saw True again? What if we had to sell him and his new owners mistreated him or didn’t feed him properly?
I just wanted to hear Daddy’s voice so badly. For the last week, “Eric” and I had been playing house and convincing ourselves that we were capable of caring for ourselves. But it seemed abundantly clear to me as I climbed the stairs up to our apartment that we were totally incapable. We were just kids.
I wanted the adventure to be over. I wanted to go home.
Aaron wasn’t home yet by the time I got to our apartment, so I stretched out on the floor and read one of the two novels I had brought with me from Treadwell. During the hours that passed, I grew infuriated with our lack of furniture and my sore back, shoulders and elbows. In my ire, my resolve to insist that we call Daddy solidified. I convinced myself that I could be back in Phoenix the very next day if that was what I truly wanted. Treadwell? That was out of the question. Those vicious girls would eat me alive with the headlines focused on my dad now instead of Juliette’s.
“I got a job!” Aaron announced, completely overjoyed when he arrived home. “An amazing job! At like, the coolest new restaurant in town!”
I hesitated before I opened my mouth. I hadn’t been expecting him to come home with good news. It had been my hunch that he would come home beleaguered after another day of rejection, and that it would be an emotional – but swift – affair convincing him that we should call Mama and Daddy and bring an end to this stand-off. We could both be at home in twenty-four hours, eating Anna’s enchiladas with the windows open in the dining room to let in the arid desert air.
He anchored himself in the doorway to my room with an enormous smile spreading across his face.
“Simone Renault, like, the most famous chef in France, is opening a bistro two blocks away! The hostess saw me walk past this afternoon and she chased me down the block to see if I was looking for work. I didn’t have to fill out an application or anything, all I have to do is show up tomorrow,” he bragged.
“Wow,” I said quietly. I had never seen my brother so excited about anything before. As he rambled on and on about what a great opportunity had been made available to him, my chest began tightening. I felt like I was going to cry. I didn’t want to sleep on a hard wood floor anymore. I didn’t want to eat another meal out of a plastic container. I felt horrible because this was the happiest I had seen my brother since I’d met him in Boston, but all I wanted was to go home.
“So, like, they’re already booked up for three months with advance reservations. And the menu is really expensive, which means… you know, if people generally tip twenty to thirty percent, I can expect to bring home a couple hundred bucks every night. Crazy, right? I learned so much stuff today about the restaurant business. Did you know that if you wait tables during the dinner shift you can make three times as much money as you would if you worked lunch instead, because there are three sittings in New York City? Early dinner at six o’clock, regular dinner around eight, and then the late crowd?”
Aaron trailed off when he noticed tears pouring down my cheeks. I was trying not to cry, honestly, I was. But my eyes had plans of their own. Right down to the core of my being I wanted to be at h
ome in Phoenix at that moment. I wanted to get up in the morning and visit True Heart. Aaron’s new job, plus Daddy and Mama being so far away in Africa meant that we were stuck in this new life.
Maybe… forever.
“What’s wrong, Gracie?” Aaron asked, plopping down on the floor next to me.
I sat upright and wiped the tears away from the corners of my eyes with the backs of my hands. I had a really embarrassing problem in that whenever I cried, my nose would start to bleed a little. It was rarely a concern because I didn’t cry frequently. Why would I have spent a lot of time crying? I had been a girl who lived in a mansion with a pool and a stable of horses.
“I want to go home,” I whispered.
Aaron threw his arms around me and a few sobs escaped my mouth.
“Oh, Gracie, I’m so sorry this has been so hard,” he said. “Things are going to get better, though. I promise. I’m going to get us real beds and cooking utensils and you can even get a kitten if you want.”
“Aaron,” I said, gasping for air. “Things are bad. Really bad. Daddy’s on the cover of Time magazine. They’re saying that The Church of the Spirit is going to go bankrupt and Daddy might be facing charges for tax evasion.”
My brother looked upset by this, but I could tell I wasn’t going to change his mind. I didn’t even have the heart to tell him the part about Heather, and the litigation; and that he might have to be in a court of law in Arizona in January, and be facing jail time.
“Grace, Daddy always says you reap what you sow.”
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