by Hart, Randi
More silence.
“Stuart?”
“Alison, the man was nuts about you. I’m sorry I don’t remember anything specific. He was always talking about you. He loved you. He was looking forward to marrying you. Said something about wanting to go to Europe and have you show him around for your honeymoon maybe, when he got off parole, but just wanted to get out of here and start a new life with you. That’s really all I have.”
“That will do nicely.” Alison felt her eyes getting watery. “Thanks so much, Stuart. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. I’m all set. Thanks.”
“Okay. Thanks again, Stuart. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The next day, Alison met Brenda for breakfast. Brenda was outwardly compassionate, but it felt canned to Alison for some reason, the kind of consoling you would do for a coworker rather than a best friend. Maybe she was a little miffed over Alison having totally abandoned her these last six months. Still, Brenda did keep reaching out with her hand and touching Alison’s.
“You two were really getting close, weren’t you?” Brenda asked.
“Yeah. We were …making plans, too.”
“For when he got out?”
“Yes. I know it must sound stupid to you, for me to fall for him again after what he did.”
“Not at all. I understand, sweetie.”
“He wasn’t such a bad guy, Bren. Really. Yes he cheated on his fiancée, but it was almost like an arranged marriage, the way he explained it. He wanted to be with me. We wanted to be together.”
“You think he would have called you back even if he didn’t end up in jail?”
Alison thought before answering. “Yes. Yes, I do. I have to believe that.”
“Then I’m sure he would have. This whole thing is so tragic.”
“My life is what’s tragic,” Alison said. “Here I am, in my late thirties. Still single, never married, can’t have children, and the only man I ever really loved was cheating on somebody, and then died in prison. I swear, Brenda, a dark cloud follows me around.”
“I know it seems that way now Ali, but it’s not really like that. I’ve known you a long time. You love life, love living in San Francisco. You’re beautiful and funny and smart. You just spent a year travelling in Europe, a dream come true for almost any woman our age. Most of us will never do that! And there was that man in Germany, too. Remember? Those were good times, right?”
Alison just stared at the table and in an emotionless voice said, “Right.”
“Everyone goes through difficult times,” Brenda continued. “But you have so much going for you, girl. You’ll get through this okay, as hard as it is now. I’m sure there’ll be a beautiful rainbow in the sky when the storm clouds clear.”
Alison grabbed ahold of Brenda’s hand and squeezed it in appreciation. They didn’t talk too much more, as Alison got quiet and Brenda seemed to run out of things to say. That was understandable. They finished their lunch and parted.
When Alison got home she threw herself a pity party and cried for a while. It wasn’t about Rick so much as it was about everything. She had spun a web of lies in her life that she was now bound to. She couldn’t even be honest with her best friend, which was having a destructive effect on their relationship. The new distance between them was undeniable. Alison supposed this was all her doing, but weren’t best friends supposed to always be there and always continue being best friends?
Alison looked in the mirror and saw a childless, friendless, unloved single woman pushing forty with no reason to get out of bed in the morning. Nothing to do in this circumstance but to put on running shoes and go for a long walk, away from this depressing house. She had an important errand to run, anyway.
Toting a small backpack stuffed with cash and American Express gift cards, Alison entered the Farmer’s and Merchant’s bank just before their early Saturday closing and requested access to the safe deposit box as instructed by Tom. She half-expected—and maybe half-hoped—for some policeman to step out of nowhere and handcuff her right then and there. But after checking her ID they brought her into the vault and left her there with the assigned box. It was empty when she opened it but quite full when she left.
Alison then headed downhill in a northwest direction. It was a cool June afternoon and the days were long. She wasn’t in the mood to see any children playing in the parks today. The bay was more appealing to her at the moment.
Before she got there, however, a small catholic church nestled between residential houses on a quiet street captured her attention. She had passed by it many times before, but never really stopped to appreciate it. It was quaint and quite beautiful. Someone came outside through the main doors of the sanctuary. Alison thought she saw an attractive light flashing from the inside before the door closed again. On a whim, she decided to go in.
There was no obvious light source inside. It was mostly dark in there, but even more beautiful on the inside than out. Stained glass and sculptures of saints and the virgin were positioned in various places. Alison sat down in a pew in the back row and marveled.
Was God really there? Did He abandon her because she abandoned Him? Alison surely must have severed the cord when she took vengeance into her own hands and framed someone for a crime they didn’t commit. If not then, when she agreed to pay to have a man killed, that certainly sealed her fate. Alison regretted not having found a nice church like this to attend. Maybe she would have met a good catholic guy and her life taken a different direction.
The sound of an old wooden door creaking caused Alison to turn her head. An elderly woman with a cane was coming out of a hand-carved, cherry-wood confessional in the back of the sanctuary. Alison got up and opened the church door for her; one last desperate, futile attempt at showing God she wasn’t all bad. The lady smiled and thanked her. When Alison turned back around, a priest was standing next to her.
“Thanks,” he said, “you beat me to the door. Some people still prefer to use the confessional, especially the older generation. I’m Father Harrison. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No, we haven’t. I’m Alison Carson. I live nearby.” Alison tried to smile politely as she shook his hand, but knew she was failing miserably at it.
“Is there something I can do to help you?” Father Harrison asked. “You seem a little glum.”
“Glum, yes. That’s a good diagnosis, father.”
“I must confess it wasn’t very difficult to perform. Most new people I meet in here have come in because they’re upset. I’ve even been told on occasion that a flash of light from Mary’s head over there has beckoned them inside, our own little reoccurring miracle. I’ve learned it’s more likely to occur when a ray of sunlight hits the statue just right as the front door is opened in the afternoons. Would you like to sit and talk?”
“I don’t know, father. I wouldn’t know where to start. And if I start talking at all, it should be in there.” Alison pointed to the confessional.
“I take it you haven’t been inside a church in a while, then?”
“No.”
“Are you catholic?”
“I was. I sincerely wish I could say I still am—but it’s been so long, I would be a hypocrite.”
“Did you complete catechism as a child?”
“Yes, father.”
“In that case, if you have a sincere desire to call yourself catholic still, there is no hypocrisy. Our Lord promised he would in no wise cast out any who come to Him. Why don’t we sit down?”
Father Harrison led Alison back to the pew where she was before. Alison reluctantly followed. They both sat.
“The Lord didn’t cast me out, father. I cast Him out.”
“If that were true, I do not believe you would be here with me right now.”
“It’s too late for me,” Alison said. She reached for a tissue in her backpack. “Too late. I wish I could go back. God let me go back just a few years and have a do-over. I would start coming to mass in this nice church and lear
n all the right things to say and pray, and thank God properly for His goodness, and stay out of trouble.”
“My child, God has promised us that if we will confess our sins, He is faithful to forgive us. We are also told in the Bible that God is not slack concerning His promises.”
“But God also told us vengeance is His, and thou shalt not kill.”
Father Harrison suddenly looked gravely concerned. He placed a hand on Alison’s shoulder.
“Would you like to confess, my child?”
“Father, I can’t. I can’t. I went too far. God could never forgive me.”
“God has arranged to forgive repentant sinners all manner of sin, Alison. Tell me, do you still believe in the one God?”
“Yes.”
“And do you still believe in the one Son of God, who made atonement for our sin?”
Something caused Alison to look upward at those words. That’s when she noticed a large crucifix mounted on a beam just below the ceiling of the church. Jesus hung there with a crown of thorns on his head, and seemed to be looking right at Alison.
“I do.”
“Then you have not sinned so greatly that the sacrifice of Christ on the cross has come up short. God does not fail us, even when we fail Him.”
Alison remained fixated on the large, bronze crucifix at the top of the room.
“Father, I slept with a man on our first date. We had an affair. It lasted a month.”
“Go on, my child.”
“He left me, and I hated him. It turned out he was engaged and was cheating on his fiancée with me.”
“Yes, yes, good. Please continue.”
“I shouldn’t have been so angry. I should have let it go. Much time had passed, but I couldn’t get over it. I wanted to hurt him.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“Yes, father. He went to jail. He’s dead now. He just died last weekend. It’s my fault. I killed him.”
“How did he die?”
“He was stabbed in prison during a fight.”
“Then you did not kill him, Alison.”
“Father, I did. You don’t know. It’s my fault. He never would have been there if it wasn’t for me.”
“We often blame ourselves for circumstances beyond our control when we feel we could have taken action to prevent them, especially when we feel guilty over some minor causation issue which relates to the circumstances.”
“It wasn’t a minor causation father, it was major.”
“The Lord will not hold that man’s blood to your account, whatever the chain of events was that led to his death. You both sinned. All suffering and death is the result of sin. Our Lord, the Son of God, came to save sinners. He died for sinners, so that we need not die in our own sin. Now you have confessed your guilt in this manner, and even if I do not know all the details, the Lord does—and He forgives you, because He forgives sinners who come before Him to confess their sin and repent.”
“He does?”
“Yes, Alison. Do you repent of your sin?”
“I do,” Alison choked. She was suddenly sobbing.
“Then you are forgiven.”
Alison saw another beam of light reflect from the statue of the Virgin Mary’s head, and turned to see who was coming in the church. But there was no one there, and the doors were still closed. She felt a sudden fear.
“I think I want to go now, father.”
“Let me pray for you first, my child.”
Alison nodded.
“Heavenly Father, forgive your child Alison, and let her know that she is forgiven, that you have already paid the penance for her sins. Draw her again close to you, as her heart desires, and yours. If it not be against your will, I ask you to send her an angel to relieve her of the burden of her despondency, and restore onto her the glorious light of your salvation.”
“Thank you, father.”
“Bless you, my child. Please return.”
Alison was through the doors and into the bright sunshine in seconds. She put on her sunglasses and headed north towards the bay.
What did she almost do back there? Alison was pretty sure priests were bound by the same type of attorney-client privilege to not turn people in confessing to crimes, no matter how heinous, but the fact that she had just nearly confessed everything to a total stranger was frightening. If she was this fragile, how soon would it be before she blabbed to everyone how she committed identity fraud in order to frame someone for embezzlement, and then hired a paid killer to have him rubbed out? Then it would be her going to prison, and for a lot longer period than two years.
As Alison came out of the housing tracts alongside the northern bay shore, she realized she was a ticking time bomb. She wasn’t cut out for this life of crime stuff. It was probably only a matter of time before she was caught. What was it Tom said on that fateful day in the park—Rick figured out she was Carley with the help of his defense attorney? Did that mean Rick’s attorney also knew? If so, it was likely his attorney would be turning over all the evidence to the local DA’s office, if for no other reason than to clear Rick’s name for the family. Heck, she might have already told them. Maybe that was the reason they didn’t invite Alison to the funeral.
Alison couldn’t go to jail. That was not an option. Anything but that. But she also knew she couldn’t keep living like this, with the knowledge of what she had done hanging over her, all alone with no joy in life.
She looked up at the Golden Gate Bridge in front of her. It had been a long time since she went up on that. Such a marquee landmark, representing everything she liked about this city—even the tourism. Cars and trucks went back and forth across it, and she could see joggers and bicyclists up there as well. Brenda really liked going up on the bridge and still did it all the time.
Of course, there was another thing the bridge was famous for. The less-publicized, ugly part: suicides. Brenda had actually witnesses a jumper in the past. It was inevitable, as often as she went up on it. Alison had never seen any, thank God, but she did see some crazy climber guy crawling up and over the peak of the suspension structure one day. It made the national news.
Alison suddenly wanted to be up on the middle of the bridge. She knew it would take her a while to get there, so she strapped her little pack securely on her back and began jogging.
It felt good to run. Too bad she couldn’t really enjoy it anymore. Too many bad thoughts in her head. She couldn’t enjoy anything anymore. Life used to be so good.
Why did she always have such high standards when it came to men? Brenda preached at her over and over how she was limiting herself by only going for gorgeous guys. She was missing out on guys with “gorgeous hearts” by doing so. Alison knew she should have listened. Too late now. Sorry, Brenda.
She came to the base of the bridge and began to ascend it, without reducing her pace. Her heartbeat screamed in protest, but what did that matter? What good was her heart now? Nothing was any good anymore.
Soon she was up above the water along the bike and pedestrian trail. Good old San Francisco Bay. If you had to die, this wasn’t such a bad place to do it, was it? The view was beautiful and it reminded her of God.
Alison’s thoughts turned toward God. She found herself wanting to talk to him, even knowing how unworthy she was. Would God listen?
Oh God, if you really can forgive anything, please forgive everything I have done, and everything I am going to do. Jesus, if you really died for all our sins, please take mine from me, the ones I have so foolishly committed, and the ones I will still commit. Don’t hold this against me, God. I’m miserable.
Alison stopped near the high point of the bridge. She was exhausted and began sucking air rapidly. The protection railing was only chest-high here. It would be quite easy to climb up on it and then look down upon the water with nothing more holding a person up than a hand on a cable and two feet set on the top railing. Alison wanted to do that, to climb up to the top railing and look down. A moderate wind was blowing from the sea be
hind her. She put one foot up on the first rail and grabbed the side-cable with her left hand.
“Natural resting place, huh?” a voice from behind her said.
Alison was startled and turned her head to see the voice. There was a brown-haired man in a grey jogging suit bent over with his hands on his knees, obviously trying to catch his breath.
“Sure glad you stopped at the top,” he said. “I was behind you and decided to try and keep my pace with yours. Bad idea.”
He stood up and stretched his back now. Alison could see he was a handsome man, perhaps slightly on the heavy side—but only slightly—and maybe in need of a haircut. It wasn’t actually a jogging suit after all, just some grey sweats and a grey sweatshirt that had the logo of a local microbrewery on the front.
“I like to stretch my legs up here too,” he continued, “before going down.” He moved to the railings maybe six feet away from Alison, put his foot up on the first rail and grabbed one of the cables just as Alison had. He then began leaning over and away from his leg, a common runner’s stretch. The man was not the least bit threatening.
Alison decided to do the same stretch he was doing. It seemed natural. That must have been why she had her leg up on the rail. There was no other rational reason, after all.
“My name is Allison,” she found herself saying after she stretched. “I live on Telegraph Hill.” That was odd. Alison hadn’t planned on saying those words. She never spoke to strangers in such an open manner. Her mouth seemed to be acting independently of her brain.
“I’m Michael, hi. Pacific Heights. Just moved here from New York last month. The bridges there are a lot easier to run across.”
Alison laughed. “Moved out here for work?”
“Yes—sort of. I was in business finance, but my firm shut down. Had a half-dozen other job offers, but I decided I needed a break from the stressful corporate life. My friend owns this brewpub restaurant,” he pulled on his sweatshirt near the logo on his chest, “and is letting me work there behind the bar. Serving beer and food, talking with nice folks, it’s really quite a refreshing change. Man, I love this city.”