Forgiveness 4 You

by Ann Bauer

  “Aidan,” I said.

  “Welcome, Aidan,” said a man in a lawn chair who looked to be about eighty. I scanned the crowd, which had thinned considerably over the course of the afternoon. There was no one I recognized, and apparently there was no one who recognized me.

  “We’re just waiting for the news people,” said the white-haired woman. I turned to look at her and realized she wasn’t nearly as old as I’d assumed. Her girth and her hair color combined to give the wrong impression. It was clear, looking at her tough skin and hardened jaw muscles, that she’d lived through some very difficult times. But she was only about a dozen years older than I.

  “Why?” I asked, just as I glimpsed Oren standing at the front window, watching the goings-on with amusement on his face.

  “Why what?” asked the seated man.

  “Why do you want the news to cover this?”

  “Why do we want the news to cover this?” corrected my companion. She must have been a schoolteacher at one time. Or at least Sunday school.

  “Yes. Why is that good for us?” I appeased.

  “People need to know,” volunteered the man from the chair. “This is serious business, confession. It’s not like soda pop you can sell to any old person on the street.”

  “So are you, are we saying that only Catholics deserve to be forgiven?” I knew I was stepping out of character, whatever that character was. But it felt important that I stand up for something I believed in. And I had very little to lose, even if they figured out who I was. More people were gathering up their things, and it appeared that soon only the three of us would be left.

  “Of course I’m not sayin’ that,” said the man, trying twice—unsuccessfully—to rise from his chair. I pulled free from the woman’s grasp and put my hands under his elbow.

  “Ready?” I said. “One, two, THREE!” I hauled the man up and helped set him on his unsteady feet.

  “Thank you, son,” he said. Upright, even bent a little, he was as tall as I was, with beetled, long-haired eyebrows and a hawkish nose. “Everyone deserves to be forgiven in their way, by their people. The Jews have their rabbis and the Baptists have their preachers and the Arabs, the what-do-you-call?”

  “Muslims?” I asked.

  “Yes! They have this system, I believe, where they kneel on the floor facing east.”

  “But if everyone deserves absolution, why not …?”

  “Because.” The man’s voice boomed. “This one is ours. It means you believe with us, it means you’re one of us. We don’t take other people’s holidays or go into their churches and light up all their candles. We stick with what’s ours.”

  The woman had been looking at me oddly ever since I separated from her arm. “It’s diluting our faith,” she said, speaking as if this were something she’d heard or rehearsed. “It’s using something that Catholics hold sacred and making it …” She waved one hand on the air dismissively. “Nothing. It’s taking it away. From us.”

  There was a sudden shift around us. Voices, louder than before. People were on the sidewalk streaming back. “We saw them!” a woman called to where we were standing. “The news truck. Channel 7. They’re coming!”

  About twenty people who had been in the process of leaving rushed to re-open their chairs and set their coolers down and shrug off their coats. At the corner, a News 7 van nosed its way toward Brooks.

  “You’re him, aren’t you?” I thought I’d imagined someone saying this until I turned to see the white-haired woman, arms crossed, glaring at me. “You’re that, that fallen priest.”

  “I’m …” The van was parking, slowly. They seemed to be in no hurry to unload their camera equipment and interview the united Catholics. “Yes,” I said to the woman. “And I should be going now.”

  I didn’t quite run. But I walked so swiftly I began to sweat in the cool, dimming afternoon. When I got to Scott’s truck, I swung myself up into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and started the engine with its mighty roar. When I saw the sign for the expressway, I took it. No experienced driver would have made this mistake.

  I had often heard it said that there is no “rush hour” in Chicago, only two small stretches around noon and midnight when the traffic is not so bad. When I checked Scott’s clock, it now said 7:22, which I took to mean it was somewhere near four. The line of cars I entered was still. I gazed out from my perch above all the others and the scene was apocalyptic. Metal roofs glinted as far as the horizon. With the windows rolled up, everything was silent. There were no birds. Nothing moved.

  I turned on the radio and found a traffic report, relaxing as the announcer’s voice joined me in the cavernous cab. There had been a crash at the intersection with Interstate 55 involving a semi and at least nine cars. Traffic was backed up for twelve miles to the south, she chirped. If you’re on the expressway, you’re not going anywhere soon!

  And true to her word—which she repeated many times over the next hour—we were there for an hour by the clock. I could practically watch the gas gauge needle tick back; Scott’s behemoth of a truck rumbled and exhaled a full quarter tank. Finally, I turned the truck off and sat in the dusky light shivering. When my feet and fingers grew dead with cold, I’d turn the truck back on for a few minutes, run the heat on high, and switch it back off to save gas.

  As the sky darkened, a few cars maneuvered and turned, driving on the median and up over the shoulder to turn around and head the wrong way up an exit. Twice, the radio woman warned us not to do this, saying it was dangerous. I considered it, but I was afraid I’d damage Scott’s truck, and besides, I could barely fit into a wide-open lane of traffic. There would be no edging into small spaces. But each time a car escaped, I advanced a few feet.

  Well after a new announcer told us the crash had been cleared, my line of cars finally started moving. I’d been waiting dumbly, hungry and not quite sleeping, so it took me a few moments to get my bearings and figure out where I was going. I turned right on the Eisenhower and there was another, lesser traffic jam. By the time I arrived at the agency, I’d been on the road for longer than it would have taken to fly to New York.

  The elevator took me up from the garage level, where I’d parked Scott’s truck in the same place I’d found it, only with an eighth of the gas. Candy was not at her desk, so I wandered through the abandoned offices. The conference room we usually occupied, the one with Zeus looking down at the assembled, was dark and empty. I kept going and heard a voice coming from a room in the back of the building, near the café. When I leaned on the door, it swung in to reveal a huge room paneled with windows that offered a sparkling view of the city and a long banquette lined with chafing dishes. A dozen people sat around a table the size of half a tennis court, eating noodles with plastic forks.

  “Gabe! Where have you been?” Madeline asked, and it was unclear to me whether she was speaking as CEO or the woman who had begged me to fuck her faster.

  “There was a crash on the Expressway.” I looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 6:30. “Sorry to be late.”

  “We were just getting started,” said a man in a gray undertaker’s suit. I remembered him from the meeting a few weeks ago. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “I’m sure Father McKenna is hungry.” Isaac’s voice was challenging. “He’s been working all day.”

  “Yes, well, your agenda said half an hour for dinner, and I for one don’t want to be here all night.” The man turned to me. Jim Lynch, I recalled. Even his face was gray. “If you wouldn’t mind helping yourself while we start the discussion, Father? Then we can stay on task.”

  I walked behind Scott on my way to the buffet, and he turned in his swivel chair, jostling me with his knee in the way of a ten-year-old showing allegiance to his best friend. Something animal and warm bloomed inside me, and I reached out to grasp his shoulder as I passed.

  “Let’s start with the financial prospects for this forgiving business,” said Lynch. “What’s the state of the state?”

/>   I lifted the lid on the first of seven chafing dishes and saw that someone—Madeline?—had ordered Thai food, maybe from the very same restaurant where the three of us had eaten the night I kissed her awkwardly in her car. I still didn’t know the names of the various noodles, rice medleys, and meat stews. But I heaped my plate with a bit of everything and took a can of ginger ale from the ice bucket at the end of the line.

  “The prospects are extraordinary.”

  I turned just as Madeline began to speak, and she was looking directly at me, her face winsome and sad. She was in the wrong costume for this meeting, I ached to tell her. Go put on your armor. Be the CEO.

  Since this morning’s newspaper article appeared, we’ve had …” she looked down to consult a set of notes, “114 calls and 346 people contact us online—all requesting an appointment, or at least more information about how to get a forgiveness session. Preliminary data shows we’re converting 58 percent of all inquiries into a commitment, either in person or by Skype. And word is traveling fast.” She took a quick breath and drank some water before going on. “Currently, we have Forgiveness4You clients registered in twenty-three states, plus one call from Belize.”

  “We’re already seeing the need for a bilingual forgiver,” Isaac added. “Five of our requests so far are from people who would prefer to speak Spanish. We expect that number to grow, especially when we go out with translated ads in the Southwest.”

  The only open chair was between Ted and a man I’d never seen before. I took it and spread a napkin on my lap, then began devouring my food as discreetly as I could. Those hours on the highway in Scott’s cold truck had left me empty and wanting. This meal wasn’t nearly as good as the one I’d had in the restaurant with the cracked linoleum floor; after spending time over little gas burners, the noodles and rice had taken on an identically sticky texture and taste. But I didn’t care. It felt like I was feeding a fire inside.

  “Are you telling me,” asked the stranger to my right, “that this response is based entirely on one newspaper article? No marketing, no outreach of any kind on our part?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re telling you,” Isaac said. “We’re not scheduled to run our initial campaign until Monday.”

  “So perhaps this young lady did you people a favor?” The man moved his hand under the table, and I saw he was gripping a cane that had four little feet with rubber stoppers on the ends. I thought of Kat Seaton and her description of her kind, now disabled husband. This must be Rich. Then I lifted my gaze to see, on his other side, a ghostly white female face with wide frightened eyes.

  I hadn’t recognized her when I came through the door. But now I sat just feet from Joy, who had traded in her shiny lip-glossed style for the look of a woman in mourning, or shock. I tipped my head in recognition and smiled, even though there was a good chance I had something in my teeth. She cringed and bowed her head.

  “No, no. There is absolutely no chance Joy’s disclosure helped us.” Isaac was tight, working to control his temper. “What today shows is how much potential there is for this project. But frankly, we anticipated that going in. That’s why everyone here …” he pointed in the direction of Abel, Scott, Ted, even me, “has been working so damn hard. It would have been far better for us to control the message and launch this concept right.”

  Joy gasped a little and looked as if she might be sick. I noticed there was only a can of diet soda in front of her. No gummy noodles, which was probably good.

  “As it stands, we’ve got a lot of interest. But we’ve also got some publicity challenges right off the bat.”

  Madeline cleared her throat. “Along with the 114 calls for forgiveness service, we received 72 from people who were complaining or angry. Two bomb threats, which we called in to the police.” She alone looked completely unmoved by any of this. It was as if she were reading from her grocery list. “We also logged 569 protest emails. But most of those were just copies of a petition that someone generated in, um …” she re-checked her notes, “Barrington, Rhode Island.”

  “What’s their objection?” I asked, surprising even myself. But I was curious.

  “All over the map,” Isaac said. “Some of them think we’re doing the work of the devil, drawing people away from a spiritual life. Others say we’re preying on people’s misfortune.” He turned to the gray-suited man and the one with the cane. “Same could be said of divorce lawyers or funeral parlors—anyone who makes money when other people are in pain.”

  “And the others?” I prodded, still scooping up heaping bites of curry and remembering the taste of Madeline’s mouth.

  “Most of them call for us to fire you, Gabe.” Isaac did not blink or avert his eyes, for which I was grateful. I put my fork down and folded my hands on the table.

  “For what reason?”

  “Well, we’ve got Catholics who say you’re blaspheming the faith and a wacko contingent that has you lumped in with priests who molest children. We discounted all of those.” He was quiet for a moment then went on. “But about half the mail is from anti-drug groups saying your history makes you an inappropriate choice to lead a business that’s more or less in the field of mental health.” He held up his hand. “Not because you used drugs. There are thousands of therapists with a history of addiction, including every single chemical dependency counselor I know. Their problem is that you hid it. The Catholic Church helped you hide it. They feel like this is just one more church cover-up.”

  I thought about this for a moment. Every pair of eyes in the room was trained on me, but this was not uncomfortable in the least. It was like being in the pulpit, chalice held high above my head, people in the pews following my every move.

  “They’re wrong about that,” I said, finally pushing my plate away. “I’m not saying they’re wrong about my inappropriateness as a leader, or having me removed. That’s a different discussion and one that I think we should have. But they’re wrong about it being a cover-up. The priesthood was my penance. Also, probably …” I looked from Scott to Madeline. “My salvation.”

  There was a rustling, but no one spoke. It was a familiar sort of quiet.

  “I think Father McKenna has helped locate one of the problems with this model,” said a man a little older than I with a thick beard and Santa Claus-ish spectacles. “If we as clergy are presented as super human, we will all fail to live up to that image.”

  “It happens with athletes all the time,” said Isaac. “Tiger Woods, Lance Armstrong.”

  “Yes, but they are hired to be strong, attractive, powerful. For us the stakes are even higher. We …”—he held his arms out to encompass me, the curly-haired woman by his side, and a bald man wearing flowing white clothes—“are hired to be good. Faithful. Almost godlike. Who among us can deliver on that? Not I.”

  Isaac groaned. “We’re going to have to trash the whole superhero campaign. That photographer cost me …”

  Madeline cut him off. “So we know the problem. Let’s figure out the solution. We’ve got hundreds of customers lining up already. People seem to be responding favorably to the name, most of our creative concepts will work, we’re all ready to go on Monday. Let’s figure this out.”

  “But we still have the problem of Father McKenna.” Lynch rose and pointed at me. “Right now, the attention is focused on him.”

  “So I’ll resign.” I said it so quietly, even I barely heard myself. But everyone quit moving and again, there was that hush.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” asked Isaac, but he sounded hopeful. I glanced at Madeline. She looked like she might weep.

  “I’m sure. It sounds like the only insurmountable issue right now is my history—which I probably should have told you about. It just seemed …” I was stopped by a memory of Aidan, his hand out, face screwed-up and pleading; then my own hand reaching into my pocket and handing him the bag. “So long ago.”

  “But will that take care of it?” Lynch’s voice was grating, like a rusty gate. “Even if we mak
e an announcement. Won’t people always associate this thing with Father McKenna?”

  “No way.” Isaac looked more relieved than I’d seen him in days. He was practically melting into his chair. “That’s the public’s form of forgiveness. They forget quickly, every time.”

  “I’d love to take your word for that,” said the man with the cane. “But do you have data? Some kind of proof?”

  “Remember that very famous Chicago comedian who was arrested a few years ago and charged with child abuse?” Isaac asked.

  There was a long silence, raised eyebrows, pensive looks. “That sounds vaguely familiar,” said Lynch. “Remind me of the name.”

  “Exactly!” Isaac leaned back and crossed his hands over his stomach. “I won’t tell you the name because that’s the point. You see this guy on television every week. You don’t remember. People forget. They forgive without even knowing they’re doing it.”

  • • •

  The four from Red Oak filed out first, including the man next to me, who needed my hand to get out of his chair and balance with his cane.

  “Sorry it had to come to this, Father,” said Rich Seaton, to which I shrugged.

  “It may all be for the best,” I said with absolutely no conviction; when I left this building I would have no job, no car, no income, and no purpose. He nodded and stumped out behind the others, who did not even give me a glance.

  But the bearded man circled the table and shook my hand. “Good to meet you,” he said, showering me with all that goodness he’d claimed he was too fallible to have. “Nathan Kahn.”

  “Rabbi?” I asked, and he looked at me with merry eyes.

  “A rabbi, a priest, and a yogi walk into a bar …” Next to him, the bald man sputtered out a laugh.

  “Anything I can do for you two, let me know.”

  “Three, actually.” He tipped his head in the direction of the curly-haired woman. “Roberta Fox is our secular humanist. Brings in the non-believers.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” I sat on the table, woozy from the day, the drive, and all the starchy food.