Except one thing.
I fish the box of chocolates out of my Macy’s bag and eat half the box.
The next morning, I really don’t want to go to church. What’s the point? Why do anything? The more you learn about someone and the closer you get to them, the harder you fall when they reach out and rip the rug out from under you. Then again, I know it’s my fault.
I force myself up, feeling hollow inside, and I walk to the subway.
I don’t know how to put it any other way, but Natto’s sermon is stirring.
It’s about a series of devastating floods and mudslides they had the past week in Venezuela. I’ve only heard a little about it, and I chide myself because thousands of people died.
“Why would God do that?” Natto asks. “Babies, mothers, sisters, animals, everyone was treated equally by the Venezuelan floods. Some people killed were pure good. Some were so young that they never even had the chance to act on their good intentions. Why were they all killed? Can anyone come up with a good explanation?”
Not really, but I’ll bet Natto will!
“There’s a passage in the Bible,” he says, “Isaiah 55:8–9. ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts your thoughts.’ What this passage tells us is, there is a reason, but we don’t know it yet. God knows. He sees things that we do not. He knows things that we do not. We cannot understand God.”
Natto pauses.
“Do I believe this?” he asks. “Do I believe God has a reason? To explain thousands of deaths? I’m not sure. Even for a scholar of the Bible, even for someone who tries to believe, it’s very hard to see what good could come of such devastation and destruction. Such carnage and carrion.”
SAT words!
“So how were these people judged? How will we be judged? We get up every morning thinking that if we’re good, we’ll make it to heaven, and if we’re bad, we’ll have trouble. But then we see a six-year-old girl die of cancer. We see raging waters and mud swallow innocent people in South America. And we see our neighbor, who cheats on his wife or steals from his boss, become wealthy. We see our cousin, the liar, win the lottery. What sense does this make?”
A few people shake their heads. I want to know, too.
“Got me,” Natto says. “Got me. But I’ll tell you this. I want to know. I want to find out. And I’ll tell you two more things. One is, overall, we have seen a lot of times in life that what comes around goes around, haven’t we?”
A few people nod.
“In the case of Venezuela, there’s no good explanation. But we see sinners locked up every day, and brave men rewarded. And last night on the news, they showed heroes, people who saved lives in Venezuela. We saw people working together. Rescue workers. Relief workers. And that is God.”
He stops pacing.
“That is God,” he says again.
He goes back to pacing. He has a strong gait.
“These people do good. And if one of their planes crashed on the way back to wherever they came from? What sense would that make? I don’t know. I don’t claim to have all the answers. And maybe there are cases where I will never ever understand them. This is something a lot of churches don’t want to admit, but I really might never have the answers. And sometimes, this might make me very angry.”
I like this.
“But I said there were two more things I’ll tell you. One is that we have seen that what comes around goes around. And here’s the second thing. We judge within ourselves. Those people in Venezuela, the dying, if they led a good life, they knew it. They died at peace. They knew that they didn’t deserve it, that it was just something that happened. But a guy who’s been hurting people, who suddenly feels a rumble and the sky caves in, he’s lying there, torn apart, and besides the physical pain, he knows in his heart, or he feels in his heart, that he’s being punished. He can’t lie there and say, Please God, I don’t deserve to die. Because he knows he did wrong, and he has to apologize and make amends. And so in that way, judgment comes upon him. And we all know in our hearts, whether we’re to be judged in the afterworld or not, that while we’re on this earth, we judge ourselves.”
He’s actually making sense.
“No man who has been an awful person can, in good conscience, pray to God to save his dying sister without first apologizing and pledging to live a better life.” He pauses and looks out, into the audience. “No man who’s worried about something can ask God for help without taking back the bad he’s done. Sooner or later, we all own up to the hurtful things we do. That is why all of us, whether we think life is orchestrated or happenstance, must stay true to our knowledge of right and wrong. And that will most likely correspond to God’s sense of right and wrong. Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve read the Bible, and sure, there are some things in it I’d like to understand better, but in many places, it makes a lot of sense. Don’t be a good person just because it’s in there, or just because Joe Natto told you to, or because you read it in my own good book, or because you’re afraid you won’t get into the pearly gates.” He bends down a bit and makes a little funny shape with his hands as he says this. “Be a good person because when you did look at the Bible, or when you did listen to a sermon, you believed that what’s in there was right. Not out of fear. Not from rote memorization. Do it because you’ve thought about it, and you believe it. And if you don’t believe it, ask me about it. Challenge me. I can be wrong. I want us all to understand. I want us to think. I want us to believe.”
Clapping starts, probably from Eppie, and then everyone joins in. “I see more people in this church than last week. Last week, I saw more than the week before. You are all bringing people in, so right away, you are doing a good thing. There should never be a disaster befalling any of us, if what’s right is right, but if there is, if that happened to befall us, we’d know it wasn’t our fault. We’d know we were good. And we did positive things that we didn’t have to. We wouldn’t go out of this world blaming ourselves. We must do our best to stay true to ourselves, even in the face of a sometimes-cruel world. We’re strong. Can I hear you say, ‘We’re strong?’”
“We’re strong!”
Natto nods decisively. “Let’s take a moment and pray silently for the people of Venezuela.”
We do, and we finish, and Natto talks some more, and it’s over. A few people cluster near the door to buy his book, and I head back through a hallway to Eppie. “Right in here,” Eppie says, and I’m taken into a small office with a miniature brown fridge, a bulletin board, and three desks piled high with books, newspapers and magazines.
I wait a few minutes. Then Natto comes in, wiping his brow with a towel. “I tell ya,” he says to Eppie, talking now in a worn-out voice, not his sermon voice. “Ah,” he says when he sees me. “You’re Carrie?”
This rarely happens, but I almost get the impression he’s attracted to me. And I’m not someone who thinks that a lot. There are women out there who think every man who walks past them is hitting on them. I think that they have no self-esteem, so they talk about that to build themselves up. But the reaction I get from Natto when he sees me is sudden surprise, as if he was hit in the face with a gust of wind, like when the subway’s coming and you feel it in the tunnel a minute before. “I’ll take it from here, Ep,” Natto says, and Eppie leaves.
“Mr. Bronson called me about the twenties group,” I say. I try to figure out how old Natto is. He can’t be anywhere near my age, but he doesn’t look Petrov’s age, either. Maybe he’s forty. He has a Roman nose and dark hair, neatly combed to the side.
“Yes,” Natto says. “That’s a demographic we’re not reaching.” He sits down. “I’m sorry about all the clutter.”
“It’s all right. My desk at home looks like this.”
“Do you read a lot?”
“Yes.” To give him things to like about me in a hurry, I add, “It’s one of my favorite t
hings.”
“Mine, too. Where’d you go to school?”
“Harvard.”
“Not bad.” He smiles, leaning back. “How long you been out?”
“Out? A year.”
“And what brought you to the church?”
“I got a flyer on the street, and I wanted to find out if you were a cult.”
“And?” He leans back. His eyes are twinkling.
“I liked what you said today. Especially when you admitted that you don’t have all the answers. I had this one professor freshman year who admitted on the first day of English class that he hated Joseph Conrad, and I thought it was great. I didn’t agree with him, but I liked that he had the courage to say that. And the funny thing is, he taught Conrad better than any teacher I’d ever had.”
“Was Conrad one of the students?” Natto asks.
“Oh,” I start. “No. He—”
“Just kidding,” Natto says, and he smiles. “I know who he is. I even read Lord Jim.”
“I never read Lord Jim,” I say. Now I’m the dumb one.
“Don’t read Lord Jim. It’s the worst one,” he says. “What’s your favorite literary period?”
“Victorians. And the Modernists.”
“That’s a ridiculous term, though, isn’t it?” Natto says. “Everyone is modern. Do you remember the story about the head of the U.S. Patent Office, who supposedly said in 1899 that everything that could possibly be invented had already been invented? Well, the story’s apocryphal, from what I’ve read, but the message is clear—people always think they’re as modern as can be. Here we are a hundred years later, saying we’re the modern ones, as if there will never be anything more advanced. Well, actually, now we’re post-modernists. Isn’t that the period we’re supposed to be in now?”
“Yes.”
“How can we be in the ‘post-modern’ era? That term makes no sense. And what comes after post-modernism?”
“I guess it has to go on forever.”
Natto leans forward. “So you came here to make sure we weren’t a cult. Where did you get the flyer?”
“From a guy with…he’s balding and kind of short. He was giving them to mostly Spanish people, but I hung around.”
“How did you know the people were mostly Spanish?”
I laugh. “I mean, he was mostly giving the flyers to Spanish people. Sorry. Spanish-speaking. Not from Spain.”
“Ah,” Natto says. “Well, maybe he was doing that because they’re more polite than the Yuppies. People can treat you badly when you start a church, or anything else that’s new. The Mormons, they got it the worst. But I won’t get into religious history now.”
“Mormons are interesting.”
“Very interesting. I was a religious studies major. Religion, theology, philosophy. English minor thrown in.”
“Where’d you go?”
“City College,” he says. “Had a great time there. It really doesn’t matter where you go to college as much as what you make of it.” I know that he’s right. “I was in three different foster homes before I was eighteen, and books were the only constants in my life.”
I look around. There are books piled on Natto’s desk, on bookshelves, on the floors.
“So, do you think we can get more young people into our church?” Natto asks.
I know he wants to sell his book. I know he claims to have had some sort of vision. But I don’t feel like challenging him right now.
Wait. There I go again, wimping out based on feelings. Doing what’s easy, like everyone else. I didn’t rat Matt out to Shauna. (Yet.) I actually kissed Kara. And Matt, too. And now, I’m becoming transfixed by a cult. Help!
I am warming up to this place. But this is how cults get you.
Then again, maybe I should play along to see what’s really going on.
“I think you could get a lot of young people in,” I say.
“How?”
“Have your congregants pass out flyers to all people, not just minorities,” I say. “Have them go to places like Wall Street and Union Square and Times Square, where the young people work.”
“How do we keep them from throwing the flyers away?”
I actually feel like my opinion matters. “Well, you need something to let them know what your church is about, and that it’s different from all these other churches. Like the Jews for Jesus, they have the best literature around. Their flyers almost make me want to convert to Judaism just so I can be a Jew for Jesus.” It’s true. Their literature is strewn with cartoons and jokes and pop culture references. But I guess converting to Judaism just to be a Jew for Jesus would be like having a sex change so that you can be gay. Which actually would not be such a bad idea for some of us. If I had a sex change and became a man, I think the guys I could date would be much more interesting. I wonder if they’d be able to sense that I’d been a woman. What would happen if I dressed as a man, dated a gay man, and got him to fall in love with me? Would that mean that he was suddenly straight? And what if I then revealed I was a woman? Would he suddenly become unattracted to me? Or would he stay attracted and be straight? I should write a movie about this.
“What do you think our flyers should say?” Natto asks. “What would make someone your age pick one up?”
I gaze at what’s taped on his walls. Church flyers. An ad for a play at CCNY. Newspaper articles pertaining to churches and church groups. A Domino’s pizza coupon. A scroll with a story called “Footprints.” “I don’t know,” I say. “Something like what you said today—‘We don’t have all the answers.’ Or maybe even bolder—‘Church is a drag.’ Then you open it up, and it says, ‘Except at First Prophets’. The hip new church that’s attracting young people in droves.’ Or something like that. But it’s not just the words. You need a really neat design. Someone with advertising or graphics experience would do better than I would.”
“Hmm,” Natto says. “I wonder who I can get?”
I think.
Shauna.
She’s starting her own advertising firm.
She needs clients.
“I know someone,” I say. “Sort of. Through friends.”
“Great!” Natto says. “Would he be interested?”
“It’s a she,” I say. “I actually only know of her. She’s just starting her own firm, so maybe she’ll do it for free, if she thinks it’ll help her business.”
I hate this, but as I talk, I find myself searching Natto’s desks and cabinets for a photo of a wife and kids. It seems strange that someone single would start a church. There are certain things it just seems like a person doesn’t do unless he’s got an immense pool of support behind him. Maybe Eppie Bronson’s his lover.
“Your mind’s working,” Natto says. “That Harvard mind. I can tell.” He’s amused, and his eyes are turning to slits as he peers at me, like a TV screen the second it turns off.
“I’m thinking,” I say. His comment reminds me of David, the way David used to ask what I was thinking about. David Lance Harrison, professor of English literature. I wonder if Natto’s reminding me of him is a bad thing.
“Well,” Natto says, getting up and clapping his hands. “Got to go talk to my parishioners. I’m going to give you a call, and maybe you can talk to this advertising person.”
“I’ll try to set up a meeting,” I say.
As I leave, I see him walk over to a short, fat woman and shake her hand. She’s there with her elderly mother, and he’s got his head cocked, giving them his full attention. She talks with her hands and gestures a lot. He’s amazing, the way he can listen without a look of condescension or boredom. I think he means it, too. He seems genuinely interested. It’s compelling the way people respond to him. That’s the kind of person I want to be around. But so, apparently, does everyone else.
I have an advantage in getting his attention because I’m young. I wonder if that’s my only advantage. But everyone needs something, and they have to work it. Men can dash across a ball field or bang on a gu
itar or run for president and win a thousand pairs of adoring eyes. Women can wear a short skirt or talk in a throaty voice and get men to bend. Yes, I’m being very sexist. But sometimes it’s true. What it comes down to is that in many cases, we do have differences, different strengths and weaknesses, and they sometimes correspond to our stereotypes. Are they right? No. Some things just are. Just like Venezuela. We don’t always have to accept it. But sometimes that’s the way it is.
Chapter Ten
A few mornings later, I go to my appointment with Petrov.
“I need the full hour today,” I tell him, sitting down. “I mean, I know it’s forty-five minutes, a forty-five-minute hour, but whatever. I need all forty-five. I’m not going to argue about it. Let’s start now.”
“Okay.” He smiles. “Is the list working?”
“It’s not going too badly.” It is true that I met Matt, in a roundabout way, because of the list, which is not necessarily good, but at least it made things interesting. It’s true that I joined the church because of the list. Even if what’s happening isn’t great, it’s still happening. If I’d sat inside, nothing would have happened. And if I get out there and go to a party or on a date, even if I dislike it, perhaps it eventually will lead to an invitation to a better date or party. I’ll call this…the social butterfly effect.
“So, which things have you done? Gone on a date? Joined an organization?”
“Both,” I say. “I went on a date with this guy Michael.”
“Great! You met him how?”
At this point, I have to lie. “Through legal proofreading,” I say. “The date was lousy, but I feel optimistic that someday I’ll go on a better one.”
That’s only because any date I go on couldn’t be worse.
“Good,” Petrov says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Well, we were sitting in the law library,” I begin.
All of the inappropriate routes this story could take flash through my mind. I have to resist the urge. This has to be believable.
Carrie Pilby Page 23