by Ann Bauer
So here’s my idea: We should set up a Facebook fan page for Father Gabe and build a whole campaign around making him look like a superhero. It can be subtle: just the way he stands and maybe even a phone booth in the background. It’s a little bit funny but it’s also a little bit true, you know? Like his superpower is coming in to take away people’s guilt and suffering and cure their lives.
Ted already has a Facebook page and a “like” badge started for the business, and that’s great. But I think this should be like the fan page for Justin Bieber or Michelle Obama. We could run little video clips of Father Gabe standing like Superman while saying quotable things and I bet anything they’d go wild on YouTube.
So what do you think? Isn’t that a great idea? And what are we doing on Friday? I can totally get rid of my roommate if you want to come to my place.
xoxoxoxoxoxo
Joy
From: Scott Hicks
To: Ted Roman
Bcc: M. Madeline Murray, Isaac Beckwith
Subject: Facebook
Hi Ted—
I had this idea last nite as I was going to sleep. What if we made a Facebook fan page for Fr Gabe and made him look a little bit like a superhero? It can be subtle: just the way he stands and maybe even a phone booth in the background. It’s a little bit funny but it’s also a little bit true, you know? Like his superpower is coming in to take away people’s guilt and suffering and cure their lives.
He’s not a bad-looking guy when Madeline gets him cleeaned up and we could dress him up in those preist robes and make some YouTubes of him blessing people and stuff. I think making him like som rock star online mght be the way to go.
Sorry if I’m stepping on your toes. I just thougt it was a good idea that I shd really share.
Scott
From: Ted Roman
To: Scott Hicks
Subject: Re: Facebook
I have to admit, that’s a pretty brilliant idea, and I like to think I would have come up with it myself eventually. We’ll need to get Father Gabe in here soon for a photo shoot. I’ll need budget for that (would you maybe put in a good word with Madeline?). Plus, it would be really funny if we add a mash-up; nothing too outrageous, maybe Gregorian chant with DMX’s “Lord Give Me a Sign”. I’m going to get on this right away.
Thanks, Scott. I’m sorry I jumped all over you about the What Not to Wear thing. Glad we were able to start fresh.
Ted
Jabber IM session—March 18, 20--
@MMM: Hey, did you see the email Scott sent Ted? It’s a really great idea! Surprised that idiot thought of it.
@IBeck: Yeah. But he’s a slimy motherfucker. You see he bcc’d us? And I’m pretty sure he stole it. There was a section in the middle that wasn’t misspelled. Cut and paste job.
@MMM: Let’s pretend we never got the email and give Ted credit. Drive him crazy.
@IBeck: Sounds like fun. But we’ve got other things to worry about.
@MMM: Whaaaaattttt?
@IBeck: I got a vm from Sandy Nelson this a.m. She was angry. Something strange happened w/Fr. Gabe yesterday.
@MMM: Bad?
@IBeck: Apparently. He refused to forgive her. Offered her a refund instead.
@MMM: Why?
@IBeck: No clue.
@MMM: U going to refund Sandy the $$?
@IBeck: If she tells me what happened.
@MMM: Hmmmm. Not good PR for 1st time.
@MMM: I’ll talk 2 Gabe. Maybe we set some ground rules?
@IBeck: Like?
@MMM: Customer’s always right? No, that won’t work. What if he gets a murder confession? Or a pedophile???
@IBeck: Now you’re just making up bad shit. Relax.
@MMM: K. I guess that can wait. But I’m putting our other beta clients on hold, til we work this out.
@IBeck: Sounds good. You on board with the superhero motif?
@MMM: Love it. Set it up. But remember, ALL TED’S IDEA.
@IBeck: U R an evil woman.
@MMM: I know …
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: MY idea
I could not believe it when I got the memo from Ted this morning saying he was going to make a FB fan page for Father Gabe where he comes off like a superhero. I honestly believed that we had both come up with this great idea at exactly the same time because THAT’S HOW STUPID I AM.
But I went to talk to him, to see if I could help and maybe give him some of my other ideas from yesterday. And when I told him I thought of this, too, he looked at me like “oh you poor thing,” and he asked if I’d told anyone. I almost said no, because you’ve got me trained to protect your farce of a marriage. But I said yes, that I mentioned the idea to you. And then he showed me your email. Scott, you are such a fucking asshole (literally) and I can’t believe I let you do that to me the other week. For the record, I hated every second of it and spent the whole time praying for you to be done.
I told Ted there’s no way you’ll let him take all the credit. For sure, you let Madeline and her gay boyfriend know about this somehow. Forget about your surprise on Friday. I never want to see you again. And be prepared for all your work on Forgiveness4You to tank. It’s a shame that other people have to suffer, too. But I’ve never been comfortable with this whole campaign, and I think it might be time to do the right thing.
By the way, I was looking through your phone log the other night. I have your wife’s cell number, and if you breathe a word to anyone at Mason & Zeus about me not being on board with F4Y, I’ll call and tell her everything.
J
From: [email protected]
To: Jill Everson
Subject: You were right!!!!!!!!
Mommy—
It’s me. I’m writing to you on a Hotmail account I set up for private stuff and this definitely qualifies.
Scott, that guy I was sort of seeing, turned out to be a jerk just like you said he would … Okay, you didn’t actually say it, but I could tell you were thinking it and you were right. He’s still married and even if his wife is a shrew and a total shopaholic (which I’m not sure I believe any more) it was wrong of me to get involved with him and I know that now. It’s over and I promise I won’t make that mistake ever again.
And Forgiveness4You, which I not only named but thought of a huge, great idea to market, is about to launch. But I’m streaming the pope election on CNN, and it’s really getting to me! I see why you and Daddy have stuck with the church even if some of the priests turned out to be molesters. Because there’s something really beautiful and historic, and I’m thinking now that maybe we shouldn’t be turning confession into a business. Because it’s really only for true believers, right? And it’s not about money. I don’t care what Madeline and Isaac say.
I’m sure I’ll say this over and over throughout my lifetime, but you were right about everything and I’m so glad I have a mom like you.
Love,
Joy
From: Jill Everson
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: You were right!!!!!!!!
Hi Sweetheart—
I only have a minute because I volunteer today at the Somali refugee center.
I’m glad you’re done with the married man. Those things always end badly for the woman—believe me, I know. Someday we’ll talk.
As for the priest project, I think you should do what you know in your heart is right. But remember, we all have to make compromises to survive. For instance, your dad hated representing Monsanto in that big class-action suit a couple years ago, but he did it because it was his job and we had a daughter (you!) in an expensive college. So sometimes you have to weigh a lot of factors …
Must run. I’m in charge of opening up the food pantry, and there was a bit of a panic last time our ladies showed up and the doors were closed.
Love,
Mom
XI
I AWOKE TUESDAY MORNING TO THE SOUND OF A BIRD
TRAPPED IN my apartment, an insistent chirping that had me up looking on window ledges and under the bed. There were only so many places it could hide.
I could see the bird nowhere, yet the chirps went on, stopping for a moment during which I—still on hands and knees in white underwear—listened intently. Then it started up again. I was crawling over my pants, which were lying where I’d discarded them on the floor, when I felt a vibration along with each twirp. I stuck my hand into the pocket and pulled out the phone Madeline had given me yesterday, now suddenly alive with motion and sound and lights.
I tried pushing “buttons,” but the screen was smooth and flat and nothing happened. Eventually the phone went dead in my hand. Then it started up for a third time, and when I poked at the picture of a telephone receiver, Isaac’s voice came through the device, tinny but real.
“Hey Father, sorry to wake you,” he called from the little black box. I put it tentatively to my ear. “I was hoping we could get some breakfast before work. I’m in your neighborhood. Okay if I pull up?”
I looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m., an hour that I avoided because I used to spend it in prayer. Waking at dawn but without my ritual, I felt furtive and unprepared. “Yes,” I said slowly. “But I really need to shower. Can you make it 7?”
“Sure,” Isaac drawled. “I’ll just wait here.” And that’s when I knew he was already in his car downstairs.
I hurried, dressing in the “business casual” outfit Raj had sold us. I once read in a magazine at a barbershop that men should dress to feel powerful. At the time, I hadn’t understood it. But now I had a sense I’d need my olive green shirt and bold purple tie.
“Looking good, Father!” Isaac said as I opened the passenger door of what looked like Batman’s car and folded myself in. “You must have read my mind. One of the things I want to talk about is a photo shoot we’ve got planned for 10 a.m. So don’t spill any anything on that Versace, okay?”
Thus, I sat in a booth at the Daybreak Diner swathed in napkins, drinking my coffee with an anteater’s extended lips. The room clattered and buzzed around me, that low happy noise that makes even a place you’ve never been feel homey. “Listen,” Isaac said. “I want to understand what happened yesterday, with Sandy.”
“Here ya go, gentlemen.” A woman wearing a nametag that said “Dora” and hair in a beehive straight out of 1965 slid our plates onto the table. “Egg white omelet and dry toast,” she said to Isaac, “and the Farm Hand special for you,” she cooed, turning toward me. “You’re my favorite. I like a man who eats ham in the morning.” Then she winked one spidery eyelash and walked away.
“I’m not sure I can talk about it,” I said, fork suspended above my plate. I was starving but stopped by this question. “Isn’t what people confess to me confidential?”
Isaac was already eating; he shook his head and swallowed. “We wrote the language of the contract very carefully. It’s got all the standard outs that priests get: You have the right to go to the police if some guy tells you he’s got a sex slave locked in his basement. But we also put in a clause about being able to discuss the content of your sessions ‘as a whole’ for business purposes.”
“As a whole?” I pierced one perfect egg, and it oozed steaming yolk.
“Yeah. You’ve had one session so far. With Sandy. She is the whole. Go ahead and eat, Father.”
I piled a bite of egg and ham on toast and bit into it, closing my eyes and giving up silent thanks to God. When I opened my eyes again, Isaac was pushing his plate away. “Uh, I’ve gotta get going in about ten, fifteen minutes, and we have a couple things to discuss. So, about Sandy?”
“I felt I couldn’t offer her anything, under the circumstances. She’d abandoned a very ill friend who needed her—who still needs her—and she wanted me to forgive her, both from what she’d done in the past and, as I understood it, what she plans to do in the future.”
“But isn’t that the way it works? A guy comes in to confess every week, says I slept with my secretary, the priest blesses him and gives him ten Hail Marys with the understanding that he’s just going to go out and do it all over again? Isn’t that what Indulgences are for, perpetual forgiveness?”
I laughed involuntarily. “Your Catholicism shows up in random ways,” I told Isaac. “Like the way you have everyone at the agency calling me Father Gabe.”
“It’s a disease that leaves something inside you,” Isaac said. “Like chicken pox and shingles. I’ll never quite be cured.”
“Why did you leave the church?” My stomach was straining, but I was still hungry for something. I soaked up the last of my egg yolk with toast.
“The real answer is probably long and complicated and has something to do with my inability to be faithful. But the short answer is: because the Catholic Church teaches that who I am is perverse and a ‘violation of divine law.’”
“You could have gone to confession every week or month, or however often you chose, admitted that you sinned and received absolution. Many gay men do.”
“How does that make sense?” Isaac asked. “I’m still a gay man, and I intend to have sex with men. With one man, at this point—if I ever get to see him again. But receiving absolution every week like I’m punching a ticket? That sounds …”
“Pointless?” I was finally sated so I pushed my plate to touch Isaac’s and tore off the napkins that draped me. “What the Catholic Church teaches about homosexuality is wrong, on so many levels. But it’s also really shrewd. People buy it. Gay men and lesbians who’ve never done a thing to hurt anyone, at least not where sex is concerned, spend a lifetime feeling guilty. And Church doctrine locks them into this ridiculous merry-go-round of so-called sin and absolution—like a lifetime membership.”
“Excellent retention tactic.” Isaac waved at Dora and made a scribbling motion in the air.
“Then again, maybe not,” I said. “It didn’t work on you.”
“I’m smarter than most,” he said, grinning like a boy.
“So am I,” I said. “I have nothing to offer someone who comes to me and says ‘I’ve hurt someone and I’m going to continue to hurt her, though it’s in my power to change things, and I want to be forgiven.’ Would the Catholic Church offer Sandy weekly redemption? Probably. But I can’t hand out my blessing like some … some … paid flower delivery.”
“So what you’re saying … Thank you,” he said to Dora when she dropped the bill in a puddle of water that had sweated off his glass.
“You come back soon, sweetheart,” she said to me, grazing my hand with her red-painted nails before she left.
“So what you’re saying,” Isaac began again as we left the café and climbed into his Batmobile, “is that we’re running a for-profit business with higher moral standards than the Catholic Church?”
“I wouldn’t say higher, necessarily.” The spires of Michigan Avenue loomed and glittered in the bright morning sun. “Just different.”
• • •
By the time we arrived downtown, Isaac had spoken at length about a photo shoot, “social media entry points,” and some campaign to make me a forgiveness hero, which sounded silly in the way so many wildly popular television shows do if someone tries to explain them to you.
He dropped me off at a salon a block past Mason & Zeus with instructions to go inside and submit to whatever Henry deemed best. “You’re irresistible, Father,” Isaac said. “Did you see that waitress? She wanted to rip your clothes off right there in the booth, despite your $9 haircut. Imagine what a really good style will do.”
I couldn’t imagine, or I was afraid to. I’m not quite sure which. The shop was still technically closed, so it was just the two of us. Henry—a man-and-a-half size person with long, graying golden locks of hair—draped me with something soft and began by massaging my neck with oil, which was startling at first. I might have objected, but it felt too good.
He talked in a shouting voice during the entire shampooing portion of the procedure. I could have s
worn he said, “I was on a Bugis Schooner.” But the truth is, I wasn’t really listening. With my eyes closed, I could pretend it was Madeline holding my neck and rubbing fragrant soap gently on my head.
“Indonesia!” Henry boomed, as he toweled me. “No one here understands. It’s not like any place else on earth. Seventeen thousand islands! No way anyone could see them all. That gives me hope!” He propelled me back to the chair and gave a little shove on my back that meant I should sit. This was a little like ballroom dancing, with its gentle leading cues.
Henry had taken my glasses so his reflection in the mirror above my head was downright lion-like in its fuzzy unreality. I could imagine him in the jungles of Bali or Borneo (though I had no idea whether either place actually had lions), crouching as he did now to examine my right temple. “What do you think, Father? Highlights or just a cut?”
“Just a cut,” I said, inferring that “highlights” was the more involved process.
“All righty then.” Henry moved around me as if I were prey. “I think I can work with this. Have you ever been overseas, Father?”
“Paris,” I said. “And, well, Rome, of course.”
“Not a big fan of France.” The scissors made a soothing, snippety sound. Full of food as I was, I could have drifted to sleep in Henry’s chair. “Now, Rome, on the other hand. Loved it. But it was mostly the food. Fagiole! You ever had fagiole, Father?”
I searched my memory for such a thing, but by the time I’d come up with the bean dish Mother Aemilia would serve on Sunday evenings, Henry had moved on. “Prague. Christ, I had more amazing women in Prague than anywhere else on this earth, literally.” He spun the chair to the left, my own little teacup ride. “You know where I never got, though, Father? South America. Would you believe it? Right down south, and it’s the only continent other than Antarctica that I never set foot on. Peru. There’s my goal. I mean, how hard can it be? It’s even the same time zone! Nothing to get used to. Except my Spanish is pretty rusty. But still.”