by Ann Bauer
“I agree.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose you would.”
“So she threw you out …”
“I could not believe how furious she was. I started telling her, and she just flipped out. I don’t know what I expected but it’s been, what, sixteen years?”
“It’s a really pivotal time for people, the end of high school. The end of anything, really,” I said. “She probably felt embarrassed. Cheated out of something.”
Jem leaned against me, slipping one arm behind my back. “She had a right.”
I patted her hair in what I hoped was a fatherly way. “So, you’re homeless?” I asked.
“’Til Tuesday afternoon,” she said into my chest. “That’s when my plane leaves.”
“I’d be happy to help you find a hotel,” I told her.
Beside me, Jem was quiet. When she spoke, her voice was small, hopeful. “I know I can afford it. But I just …” She swallowed. “I don’t want to go back to the Holiday Inn tonight. It makes the fact that I’m alone so, I don’t know, clear. Like it’s punishment for what I did.”
This was a feeling I knew—exactly this. And the equation seemed so simple: We could, each of us, be with someone tonight rather than alone. I paused and ran through scenarios in my head. If Jem came on to me, would I have the will to say no? The grace to do so in a way that did not wound her? Or would I end up giving in to the flesh and closing my eyes, imagining Madeline in place of this lost and lonesome girl?
“My apartment is close,” I said finally. “It’s not nearly as nice as the Holiday Inn. But we can go there and watch TV if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” she said softly. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
I laughed. “Yeah, wait till you see how small my place is. Come on.” I stood and offered her my hand, though she needed less help rising than I. “I’m hungry.”
But I was, in reality, thinking about many things other than food. I was thinking of Madeline in the car on Friday night, her proud, tight face as she drove away. Of Chase handing me cash and saying, “Father, it’s the least I can do.” Of Isaac and the Red Oak investment team agreeing I deserved some sort of compensation for hearing the troubles of others every day. Of my empty apartment: its sad table and square, sagging bed.
I righted Jem and stood up behind her. As we passed the bench, I stuck a few dollars underneath the homeless man’s tarp and wordlessly Jem did the same. Then we started to walk, and silently, because there was no one to listen, I gave myself and my sins up to God.
• • •
I was not expecting Madeline at my door on Monday morning.
By this time, Jem and I had been living as a pair for some eighteen hours, which is long enough to feel like half a life. We’d left that park, gone to my apartment in the deep quiet of Sunday afternoon. Once inside, I’d made tea—redundant, as we’d just had coffee. And Jem had found enough in my refrigerator to put together grilled cheese sandwiches with ketchup, which she’d informed me was “her thing.”
“These are everyone’s thing,” I’d said, taking a bite of the perfectly browned bread, amazed that the items needed to make something so good had existed here all the time, right under my nose.
After cleaning up, we’d watched the evening news on my tiny television. There was a soft, sagging futon where we’d sat side by side.
The whole day had felt like dusk, with its gray, rain-filled skies. So it had been easy to move into bed early, and there we’d lain still dressed, talking with our bodies touching gently at the ankle or shoulder, simply a reminder that the other was there. Without my saying anything, we hadn’t gone further. Jem had burrowed close a few times, as she had on the slide, but she’d never slid in a suggestive way or climbed on top of me—for which I was grateful. I am animal enough that I might have succumbed.
None of it made any sense: why I invited Jem to my apartment or that she came. I had never had an encounter anything like it before. It made me think of stories I’d heard about men who paid women only to hold them and sleep next to them. But in this case, we both seemed to need someone. I could sense her quaint oddness, and it matched mine in the way of a puzzle piece that locks snugly. It wasn’t just guilt holding Jem back; it was she, herself. Her bewilderment with the world.
We’d talked until nearly midnight, about Jem’s life in Cleveland and mine in Chicago, about the Catholic Church and the reasons I left. It had been the first time I’d told anyone about my rage and confusion. The Church had disappointed me so cruelly, I wondered if this was why I’d gone along with Madeline’s plan. Was I simply vengeful? Jem had listened carefully and posed excellent questions: What would I do if not this? Was it possible to help people this way? Why not be compensated for hearing confessions, as she was for treating disease? Then she’d outlined the terms I should ask for, turning from homeless waif to shrewd negotiator. Commission, stock, trademark. It was my name, she’d said, and I should protect it at all costs.
“Never let them own you,” she’d said, her voice sleepy and slow. “Because life changes. And you never know what you’re going to want to do next.”
Jem had repaid her debt to me two or three times over, until I could no longer say that I’d heard her confession without stipulating that she’d done the same for me. My gratitude was profound; I’d actually understood in that moment how this business might work. I had been about to make my real confession—about Aidan—when Jem had leaned back, her skin ashen from fatigue, and asked if I would mind if she slept.
I had given her an old T-shirt, and she’d taken it into the bathroom along with the small case we’d retrieved from her hotel. When she’d emerged five minutes later, covered to her knees in my clothing, her face had been scrubbed and her eyes had been heavy. In my bed we’d drifted off, curled up like puppies, and I’d felt contented, grounded, certainly less alone. But I’d never even kissed Jem except once, like a benediction, on the top of the head.
Of course, there was no way to tell that to Madeline, who appeared at my door without warning to suggest I dress immediately, go to the bookstore, and quit my job. The time had come to start selling my services, she said. Our website would go “live” at the end of the week—whatever that meant. I was just about to ask her when Jem wandered out from my bedroom in a faded XL Maroon 5 T-shirt I’d picked out of the rummage pile at St. John’s.
Madeline was still straddling the doorway, no doubt due to our awkward misunderstanding a few nights before. But when she saw Jem she pulled her right foot back as if she’d just dipped it in scalding water.
“Oh!” she cried. Sometimes, I said to myself, life really does sound like a film. Not Gaslight but something slightly more modern, starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks.
“Madeline, this is Jem,” I said. Because it seemed to me this is what Tom would do. “She got, well, stuck here in Chicago, and I offered her a place to …”
“Hey, whatever gets you through the night,” Madeline said, each word bright and hard, like something radioactive. “Gabe, you’re just amazingly progressive for a priest.”
Jem was grinning, sweeping one green-painted toe around her body like a dancer. I stood between the two women, my face burning, feeling irrationally fearful. Some evolutionary impulse, no doubt. “Madeline, it’s really not. I don’t just do. I mean, it wasn’t like that at …”
“I’m going to go now,” Madeline interrupted. She was rooting around in her vast over-the-shoulder bag. “I apologize for barging in. But Gabe, it’s very important that we see you in the office this morning. This is not the time to get sloppy. We’re just days away from launch.”
“It sounds like you’re going somewhere in a spaceship.” Jem had come to stand next to me, bare feet nudging my slippered ones. I’d told her all about Forgiveness4You and the ad agency, but I hadn’t mentioned the complexities of my relationship with Madeline herself. Chaste though we were, it would have seemed indelicate to talk about another woman as we lay side by side. So I couldn
’t blame Jem for appearing half-undressed and rumpled from my bed, standing next to me like she owned me and extending her hand. “Very nice to meet you.” She used her grown-up doctor tone; I could hear it. “Gabe’s told me a lot about you,” she said.
Madeline shook Jem’s hand awkwardly then drew another step back and returned to her purse. “Here!” She handed me an engraved business card with a logo that depicted a trowel and a lightning bolt.
Jem, still hovering by my arm, put her finger to the image and laughed softly. “Ah, I get it!” she said. “Mason … and Zeus.”
Madeline ignored her. “Just get in a cab and give it to the driver. Tell him we’ll pay the fare.” And with that she turned, pulling the door closed with a thwack.
From: Abel Dodd
To: Forgiveness4You team
Subject: copy deliverables
People—
Here’s the copy for a magazine launch ad, banner ads, and two radio spots. I did some research into motivators based on Joy’s audience profile, and I’m using the themes of “regret” and “guilt” alternately. Both provoked anxiety and interest among our test groups—which is a positive response, as long as it’s followed quickly with assurances that we can fix what ails them.
Let me know if you have any feedback. I know we’re moving quickly, but let’s avoid on-the-fly edits, okay? I never want to repeat the verb-tense debacle of 2010.
—A. Dodd
ATTACHMENTS:
Magazine ad (print buy: People, Redbook, Esquire, AARP)
(headline)
What’s the Worst Thing You’ve Ever Done?
(subhead)
We can help you admit it, work through it, put it behind you, and move on.
(copy)
Regret. It can weigh heavy, causing emotional problems, family tensions, even physical illness. But now, no matter what your religious affiliation, there’s a way to rid yourself of regret and go on. Visit Forgiveness4You.com to find out how you can attain true peace of mind today.
Banner ad (to run on USBank, AARP, various legal sites)
(headline)
What’s the Worst Thing You’ve Ever Done?
(subhead)
We can help you admit it, work through it, put it behind you, and move on.
(call to action)
Forgiveness4You. Start improving your life today.
Banner ad (to run on Weight Watchers site)
(headline)
Guilt eating you so you can’t stop eating?
(subhead)
We can help put a stop to the cycle by freeing you from the weight of regret.
(call to action)
Forgiveness4You. Start improving your life today.
Banner ad (to run on Runner’s World and Nike sites)
(headline)
Guilt slowing you down?
(subhead)
We’ll help get you back on track by lifting away the weight of regret.
(call to action)
Forgiveness4You. Start improving your life today.
Flash banner ad (to run on Christian, gambling, and porn sites)
(animated headline against chaotic, graffiti-filled background)
What’s the …
Worst Thing …
YOU …
Have Ever Done?
(light breaks, screen glows)
We can help you admit it, get forgiveness, and move on.
(build)
Our spiritual leader understands. No matter what your religion—or your sin—he will move you closer to your God. Stop suffering with guilt. Forgiveness is available to you.
(call to action)
Forgiveness4You. Start improving your life today.
Forgiveness4You 3/12/--
Radio spot #1 1:30 AD
“THE END OF SLEEPLESS NIGHTS”
SFX: BUSY CAFÉ, PEOPLE TALKING, DISHES CLINKING
WOMAN 1: Sorry I’m late. My head’s so foggy. I haven’t been sleeping.
WOMAN 2: Sit down! You look really tired. Anything wrong?
SFX: SCUFFLE OF CHAIR MOVING
WOMAN 1: It’s, oh it’s a long story. Nothing I can really talk about. But there’s this thing from my first marriage that’s been weighing on me. I lie awake every night just … regretting.
WOMAN 2: I understand. I went through something really similar. Family problem. And I didn’t know where to turn. Then I found Forgiveness4You.
SFX: MUSIC UP
ANNCR: You don’t have to live with sleepless nights and guilt. Forgiveness4You is a spiritual service, but it’s not affiliated with any religion. We’re here to listen and help you move on, freeing you from the burden of regret. This is absolution for everyone.
WOMAN 2: Forgiveness4You really helped me.
WOMAN 1: Is it like counseling? Or confession?
WOMAN 2: Forgiveness4You takes the best parts of both of those but leaves the psychobabble and religious punishments behind. I’ve never felt so free.
ANNCR: You deserve a clean slate, a life free of guilt. And you can achieve that today, thanks to Forgiveness4You.
WAITER: Can I get you something, miss?
WOMAN 1: I’d like a cappuccino. (Voice noticeably lighter) Thanks. And from you, my friend, I’d like the number for Forgiveness4You.
woman 2: That’s easy. Just dial 1-8-6-6-4-G-I-V-E-4-U. Or you can go to their website Forgiveness, 4 like the number, capital Y-o-u.
WOMAN 1: Perfect. I’m going to call right after I finish my coffee. Soon, too much caffeine will be the only thing keeping me awake.
SFX: WOMEN LAUGH SOFTLY.
ANNCR: Forgiveness4You. Absolution for everyone. Our URL is Forgiveness, number 4, Y-o-u, all one word. Or dial 1-8-6-6-4-G-I-V-E-4-U. And sleep better tonight.
Forgiveness4You 3/12/--
Radio spot #2 1:45AD
“SHOULD I TELL HER?”
SFX: FOOTBALL GAME ON TV, MEN’S VOICES CHEERING AND BOOING
MAN 1: Hey, commercial break. You got a minute? I need to ask you something.
MAN 2: Sure, brother. Let’s go outside and have a smoke.
SFX: MOVEMENT; DOOR CLOSING; FLARE OF MATCHES BEING LIT
MAN 1: I’m thinking of telling Abby about … you know …
MAN 2: You mean about the girl? What, are you insane? Why would you do that? It’s only going to make your wife miserable. And she’ll hate you. And then you’ll get a divorce, and you’ll be living in my basement. Jeez, no! C’mon, get ahold of yourself.
MAN 1: I know. I thought about all that. It’s over and there’s no way I’d ever do such an idiotic thing again. But the guilt, man. It’s just eating away at me.
MAN 2: So tell someone else. Tell me. Okay, you did that. Tell a priest.
MAN 1: That would be great … if we were raised Catholic, you moron!
MAN 2: Yeah, too bad the rest of us don’t have a place to go and confess.
SFX: MUSIC UP
ANNCR: Now there’s a place for non-Catholics who want the experience of confession and absolution. Forgiveness4You is a spiritual service, but it’s not affiliated with any religion. We’re here to listen and help you move on, freeing you from the burden of regret.
MAN 2: So, did you tell her?
MAN 1: I was about to. I was headed home to sit her down and spill my guts. Then I saw this sign that said Forgiveness4You, and I pulled out my phone on the spot and got on their website.
MAN 2: And …?
MAN 1: It was exactly what I needed. I talked to a guy who helped me deal with the guilt. So I don’t have to destroy Abby with it.
MAN 2: That’s great. I think Forgiveness4You probably saved your marriage. And it saved me having my idiot brother in my basement.
SFX: BROTHERS GUFFAW.
ANNCR: You deserve a clean slate, a life free of guilt. And you can achieve that today, thanks to Forgiveness4You.
MAN 1: If you told me last month I was going to sign up to “talk about my feelings” (jeering tone), I’d have said you were crazy. But it’
s easy at Forgiveness4You.
MAN 2: You’re going to have to give me their contact info. ‘Cause you know, godlike as I am, I may make a mistake someday …
MAN 1: Yeah, yeah. Just dial 1-8-6-6-4-G-I-V-E-4-U. Or you can go to their website Forgiveness, 4 like the number, capital Y-o-u.
MAN 2: I’ll keep it in mind. You want to get a beer?
MAN 1: Okay, but just one. I have a date with my wife tonight.
ANNCR: Forgiveness4You. Absolution for everyone. Our URL is Forgiveness, number 4, Y-o-u, all one word. Or just dial 1-8-6-6-4-G-I-V-E-4-U.
IX
WHEN I LEFT JEM ON MONDAY MORNING I KISSED HER ONCE more on the top of her head—still the only place I had ever kissed her—to bless her on her journey. “Call me when you’re back in Cleveland,” I said, feeling guilty that I would not be accompanying her to the airport.
Jem nodded and slipped her arms around my neck. “Thanks for putting me up.” She smelled toasty and warm, like sleep, and I held on for one blissful moment. “It was really … nice.”
I walked several blocks to hail a cab—none would stop in my end of the neighborhood—and read the Mason & Zeus address off the card Madeline had given me. My driver grunted. He had a large wooden cross hanging from his rearview mirror and a statue of Mother Mary, in plastic, next to his clicking meter. Soft Christian rock on the radio. I sprawled in the seat, wishing I could ask him to drive around the city until the sun set. Here in this halfway place, maybe I could figure out my life.
An announcer came on the radio to describe the scene in St. Peter’s Square where hundreds of thousands of people were waiting in a rainstorm to see the smoke that would foretell the next pope. I had not seen Rome in more than a decade, but I could picture it as clearly as I could my childhood home. A few men I’d known at seminary had gone on to become bishops, including one of the worst and most calculating—a priest I’d suspected of being deviant long before the sex abuse news began to break. For years I’d been checking the newspapers, surprised every time that his name wasn’t among the accused.