“Yes, that one,” Max acknowledged, his excitement undiminished by Tiar’s obvious lack of interest. “You should do one, too,” he suggested. “It would be fun. And, I even got an educational journal to sponsor a $500 scholarship for the essay winner.”
“I am sure you are going to get it, Max,” Tiar predicted. “Especially since you are the only one entering the contest.”
“There are two other club members,” Max objected.
“Who joined so they could be vice president and secretary and put it on their college applications next year,” she said flatly. Poor clueless boy, she thought to herself. He had already explained to her, beaming and bouncing like a puppy with a new chew toy, that he planned to research his great grandfather who had come to New York from Ireland as a mercenary during the Civil War and who later operated locks on the Eerie canal. His brain could not seem to comprehend why this hunger for knowledge was not something she shared. “Look. I am happy that you are happy for getting to do this project. You can be happy for me being happy not doing the project.” Tiar stood up and slung her book bag over her shoulder. She stared at her friend for a moment longer and finally murmured, “Later, nerd.” The name, which stung so much coming from bullies over the years, always sounded warm and almost affectionate coming from Tiar. He had come to understand that it was her way of saying, “You’re my best friend, but you are pushing me too hard.” He nodded again knowingly and listened to her descend down the steps, accepting he had chased her away until tomorrow.
The last of October’s orange and yellow leaves swirled past Max the next day as he drove east on the highway 39 for the second time in a week. He recognized the stretch of road as being close to the Caponata’s beach house where he and Tiar had been partying the previous weekend. Max had spent nearly the whole day walking through dusty stacks of documents, foundations of collapsed buildings, and crooked grave markers and was eager to get home.
Edward O’Connor’s job as a lock operator on the Eerie Canal promised a wealth of information for Max that he could only realize by trudging northwest to the various sites that had been a regular fixture in his forefather’s life. Max’s diligent efforts had yielded most of the data he would need for his biography. Now, Max was exhausted. The mud splatters, thorn scratches, and paper cuts that were invisible to his distracted, detective mind now seemed to burn him, threatening to seep their toxic contents through his skin until he scrubbed them thoroughly. On the way home, all he could think about was taking a shower. He was making good progress toward home when he hit a red light. Looking impatiently around the intersection, he realized he was in front of the church Tiar had recognized a few nights earlier. As unimportant as it was, it still bothered him that she knew the name of this church, a name that had been omitted from the map. He sensed there was another explanation, no matter how mundane, for the familiarity she had with the surrounding landscape which, as well as either of them knew, she had never seen before. He was ready to drive right past when he saw a tombstone through the wrought iron fence that he hadn’t seen in the moon lit night. Alfred, it said simply. Not an uncommon name; yet, to Max, it seemed enough of a sign to act upon. He put on his left turn signal and waited for the light to turn green.
Compelled by motivations he could not explain, Max found himself parking next to the rectory and knocking confidently on the side door. As he waited, he looked again at the grave marker that had caught his attention; it was worn with many years withstanding polluted rain and cruel New York winters. It’s been here far longer then Tiar’s family, he reflected. But, since I’m already here… Max’s thoughts were interrupted by the whine of a screen door opening. A woman in her 70’s with white hair and a shapeless blue sweater stuck her head out.
“Ma’am, my name is Maxwell Franklin and I am from St. Jude’s Catholic school,” he began.
“You raising money for the band?” she asked, eyeing his uniform suspiciously.
“No, ma’am,” he continued. “I’m doing a project about genealogy. I was wondering if I could possibly look at some of your records.” The woman eyed Max skeptically.
“What kind of records?” she asked.
“Uh, marriage, baptism… that kind of thing,” Max muttered spontaneously. The elderly woman thought about it for a moment.
“Can’t see the harm,” she said gruffly. She held open the screen door for him. “Follow me.”
Max followed her through the carpeted hallway and down a dark, narrow staircase that smelled old and closed in. At the bottom, she flicked on a switch. They were greeted by the hum and flicker of cheap industrial florescent lights. Max’s guide instructed him, pointing to a set of filing cabinets against the wall.
“Marriage, Confirmation, Baptism,” she said, waving her hand around the room. “They’re in alphabetical order. If you want to search by date, you can look in those log books on the top of the cabinets.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Max said respectfully. She turned and walked back up the stairs. Max closed his eyes and tried to reconstruct the few tantalizing scraps of information Tiar still remembered about her family. Neither of Tiar’s parents were born in New York, or for that matter, in the United States. Her mother was French-Canadian and her father grew up in Jordan. They got married in Buffalo after meeting at the State University there. They had three children from 1978 to 1982 before moving to Jordan to live with her father’s family. Max had no idea if either of Tiar’s parents were Catholic or if they had sent Tiar to St. Jude’s just because it had a good academic reputation. However, if either of them was Catholic, the only sacrament that anyone in the family was likely to have gone through in this remote country church was the baptism of their three children, Tiar, Henry, and Kevin. Max walked up to one of the cabinets. He opened the drawer labeled “Aa- Be.” He found a folder labeled “Ak – Ar.” It was mercifully thin. He flipped through, reading each name carefully. There were no Tiars. The only Alfreds were a Patrick, a Robert, and a Suzanne, none of them were born in the same years as Tiar and her brothers. Max set these aside and flipped through the names again, hoping perhaps an Alfred had been put back in the wrong order or had been spelled incorrectly. Akins, Allen, Almond, Ammons, Amonde, Anderson, Argeneau, Arnold, and again, Akins, Allen, Almond, Ammons, Amonde, Anderson, Argeneau, Arnold. What was I expecting to find? He asked himself. Did he really think he could just walk into a random church and find the baptismal certificate of someone who may or may not have ever been baptized? It was a completely illogical thought. But, he argued to himself, he knew Tiar’s mother and father had lived west of Hectortown before leaving the country, and Tiar had recognized the building.
Logically, Max knew he should cut his losses. He stood up to stretch his legs, mulling over his strategy. The dried mud and scratches on his legs once more started to itch and antagonize him, urging him to go home. Then, the bright green log books piled on top of the filing cabinet caught his eye. He walked over and picked up the one for 1978. He flipped through the early pages. Jan 2, 9, 15, 22. They were all before Tiar’s birthday. Feb 6, 27. March 31. April 2, 20. Even if Tiar had been baptized, it could have happened at any point between her birth in February of 1978 and her leaving the country in 1982. This is insane, Max thought to himself. He quickly scanned through all the names appearing in the log book for 1978. None of the names looked promising—none, looked like misspellings of Alfred. However, on his third time through, one name caught his eye. Feb 27, Argeneau.
Max walked back to the table with the logbook. He flipped through the folder again. Argeneau. Renee Argeneau. Mother Josette Argeneau. God Mother, Josephine Callen. God Father, William Callen. Father was left blank. Josette Argeneau, Max thought. The name sounded familiar. He wondered if that was really what Tiar said her mother’s maiden name was, or if he was creating that memory out of ill-founded optimism. Josephine Callen. Searching his mind for memories of the first day they met, Tiar had mentioned an aunt named Josephine. The probability of these names occurring together see
med low—too low for coincidence. Max’s heart skipped a beat as he realized this is what he was looking for. He looked around the room. In the corner was a copy machine. It warmed up with a reluctant whine before humming to life. Max copied the baptismal certificate and then returned it to the folder and placed it back into the drawer, closing it with a satisfying ba-dunk as it latched closed. He put the log book back on the pile and ran up the stairs.
“Got everything you need?” the elderly woman asked.
“All set, thanks,” Max answered as he was flying out the door.
The trip back to Hectortown seemed unbearably long as Max flew down the highway. Once he got into town, he headed straight for the shopping arcade. When she wasn’t studying at his house, Tiar often brought her books to the coffee shop in the arcade and studied there. Max walked into the coffee shop and found her seated near the back, her feet propped up on her book bag.
“Hey, Little Bird,” Max said, approaching her. She looked up from her book.
“Hey, Max, how was the research?” she asked, seeming happy to see him.
“Good, good,” Max said awkwardly. He pulled the photocopy out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Look,” he said simply.
“What’s this?” she asked, unfolding the paper.
“Read it,” Max urged.
“It’s a baptismal certificate,” she said, obviously confused.
“It’s your baptismal certificate,” Max explained.
“This says Renee Argeneau.” She picked up the paper, examining it carefully. “I don’t even know who that is.”
“It’s from the church you recognized on highway 39, Bird.” She stared at the paper, unconvinced. “Look at the mother’s name. That’s your mother’s maiden name.”
“Yes…” Tiar conceded hesitantly. “But, I’m sure Josette Argeneau is not an uncommon name, Max. There are a lot of people in the area with French ancestry.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Max said, undeterred. “But what are the chances two of them both in this diocese had baby girls in the same spring? Look at the date. It’s three weeks after your birthday. Look at the God Mother, Little Bird. Do you know your Aunt Josephine’s last name?”
“No,” she said, getting less sure of herself by the minute. She concentrated hard on the document, trying to take in its full meaning.
“So, say you’re right, Max. Say this Renee Argeneau is me. There’s no father listed here. Did you do all this just to show I’m illegitimate?”
“No, of course not,” he said. He had been so excited about sharing this news with her, he hadn’t even considered the consequences of his discovery.
“Were there any Henry or Kevin Argeneaus?” Tiar asked, already suspecting the answer.
“Well, no,” Max admitted.
“Or Henry or Kevin Alfreds?” Max shook his head reluctantly. “So, what you’re suggesting is that you found evidence that my mother had me and only me secretly baptized under an assumed name and then nine years later sent me and only me away to another country away from my brothers she didn’t baptize and my father who thought I was so evil, I somehow caused my own grandfather to die of cancer.” Max nodded slowly, his brow furrowed.
“I guess,” he admitted sheepishly. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Never mind,” he said shaking his head. Tiar raised her eye brows incredulously and Max knew he had to continue. “Unless she had them baptized under some third name.”
“And you don’t realize how bad that all sounds,” she continued.
“Well, when you say it that way, sure, but…”
“But?”
“We can try to track down Josephine and William Callen. Maybe they have some answers for you. Maybe they can tell you about your family... the parts you don’t remember.” Tiar shook her head, staring down.
“No good. It either isn’t my aunt, or it is, and she hates me. I don’t need to go looking for more family members to hate me.” Max looked at her, full of pity. She was still clinging to the stories she was told as a nine-year-old girl. He was sure half these things were untrue, but he had already overstepped his bounds and didn’t pursue his suspicion. “Why did you really show me this, Max?” she asked, obviously frustrated.
“Don’t you understand? You were baptized,” he said excitedly. “If you recognized the church, your mom or aunt probably took you there a lot. Don’t you see? You’re Catholic.” She looked at him, dumbfounded.
“You did all this so I could get confirmed?” she asked dubiously.
“Well, partly,” he admitted. “Partly just so you could know. So, you could belong to something. Look, you have all these holes in your life. You don’t have a family, or a church or a home or a past. If I can help you find some of those things, then isn’t that my job as a best friend?”
Tiar stared out the window silently. She didn’t like the picture this document was painting. However, now that it had been found, maybe some good could come out of it. She had been going to church with the Franklins almost every week for about three years. Although she had come to believe everything she heard there, she resisted calling herself a Catholic. She stayed separated from the church for one reason—she felt that seeking baptism would betray her real family, these people, now strangers to her, half a world away. But, if I was baptized… She now wondered if going through Confirmation was what her biological family intended for her all along.
“I can’t call my aunt,” she said firmly. “This is all so crazy, Max. The other kids started Confirmation class three weeks ago. They won’t let me sign up now.”
“You can sign up for next year,” Max suggested. Tiar shook her head, feeling embarrassed in anticipation of how awkward it would be to go through this solemn ceremony with the class of students a year behind her. Going through the ceremony separately was worse then not going through it at all, as it would only serve to call more attention to her. Tiar knew religiously this did not matter but still felt the sting of social isolation that had taken years to reverse.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she proposed. “I’ll get confirmed. But, only if they say that you can tutor me to get me caught up, so I can get Confirmed next spring.” Max laughed at the suggestion.
“You’re kidding, right?” Tiar’s expression did not change. Max suddenly looked serious and mildly anxious. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to do that?”
“Oh, come on. You know all this stuff,” Tiar insisted. “You just got confirmed a year and a half ago. I know you didn’t forget it. You’re practically a priest anyway.” Max shook his head in disbelief of what he was considering.
“I’ll ask the pastor tomorrow,” Max relented. “He’s never gonna go for this. You’re too far behind. But, I’ll ask anyway.” Tiar’s face brightened.
“Really?” Tiar asked hopefully. Max nodded reluctantly. What am I getting myself into? he wondered.
“I don’t think he’ll say yes,” Max said pessimistically.
The next day, Tiar, looking as pious and submissive as she could muster, sat next to Max as he tried to convince their pastor, Father Neman, to consider their unusual proposal. The first twenty minutes they spent trying to establish that Tiar had in fact been baptized, although not under her real name. While telling the pastor the factual truth, Max and Tiar left certain holes in the story to allow the elderly priest to make assumptions in their favor. In the end, Tiar sounded as though she was a refugee from a cruel and mysterious land who had narrowly escaped danger and possible death by moving to the United States. It was plausible, in this mysterious scenario, that her parents and brothers did not have access to phones or mail and might well be dead themselves. Tiar was baptized under an assumed name, they implied, due to unknown but surely life-threatening perils. The teens comforted themselves in the fact that they knew so little about Tiar’s actual life, this explanation was about as likely as any other.
Father Neman was understandably suspicious of this story. However, not being able t
o conceive of any possible reason a person would pretend to be baptized, he accepted it none-the-less. He now considered how he should deal with the fact that this fourteen-year-old who had never had a day of Sunday School in her life wanted to get confirmed in less than a year. He balanced out the pros and cons of Max’s offer to be her private tutor. Truly, starting so late in the game, Tiar, or Renee, should be in the two-year class designed for adults who want to convert later in life. However, she would be the youngest person in the class by a good twenty years. Although he guessed correctly she would not enroll in such a class, he knew he should be firm that this was her only choice if she wanted to receive her other sacraments. But, when he looked at her innocent green eyes so full of hope that she may be allowed to join the church with her classmates, he found it hard to say no. He was realistic enough to know most of the young men and women who would be confirmed in his church the next year were doing so because their relatives would be sending them cards in the mail with hefty checks inside and that they could hence forth stop going to Sunday School. Not one, he was fairly certain, so sincerely desired to be indoctrinated into the church as the girl now in front of him. And, come on… It’s Max. What could go wrong? He told himself. Max, who has been an alter boy since age 7, joined the choir at age 10, and volunteered as a teacher’s assistant for the preschool Sunday School program at age 13.
Max quickly found out what could go wrong. Tiar had no difficulty learning the factual material about church theology she had neglected to learn during the previous eight years when her friends had been in Sunday School. She diligently turned in quizzes torn from the work books Father Neman provided for her to use. It was what was not taught in these texts that Tiar pondered incessantly. She wanted to know why having crucifixes in church wasn’t considered idolatry and why believing in the Trinity did not constitute polytheism. She wanted to know the nature of Jesus’ genetic code and how, if he had only the Virgin Mary’s genetic material, he had been born a man and not a woman as were all parthenogenetically derived animals in nature. Max spent his spare time diving into theology texts at the local library to study the arguments a thousand years of church fathers and theologians had debated fiercely. Then came the questions no theologian could help him with-- how many calories of food could a person consume without having to say grace? Did vitamins count? or cough syrup, or tooth paste? She had a new list of queries every week. The first few times he asked Father Neman for guidance, Max was given vague words of encouragement and a facial expression that conveyed tacit permission to make up any answer that sounded reasonable. Some days, Max thought it would drive him crazy to have to formulate responses to her never ending list of questions. He wished he could tell her to take more on faith and not take religion so seriously. Yet, he reflected with a sigh, his insistence that she take her religion seriously was what had prompted them to embark on this journey in the first place.
The Paper Shepherd Page 3