This Is How It Begins

by Joan Dempsey

  Meck softened. This sounded more like the Pastor Royce he knew.

  “I know that some of you are thinking that patience in this case could be dangerous to our children, and to you I would say this: I understand. I understand. When it comes to protecting our children, we must do what needs to be done. As we well know from Ecclesiastes 3:1, ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’”

  The passage from Ecclesiastes showed on the screen, then faded back into Religious Liberty. Meck frowned, once again confused. Was it only his newly wary imagination, or had others also heard a hidden meaning in Pastor Royce’s emphasis on do what needs to be done? No one around Meck seemed concerned. Pastor Royce walked far stage right, then stretched out an arm toward the screen.

  “We must protect our religious liberty, my friends, whatever it takes. Solemn business. Challenging times. Now go in peace and do God’s work, Redeemers. Do God’s work! Amen.”

  As vigorous applause burst forth from the congregation, as people called out amen, Meck once again became aware that his son was calling out to him, but this time Andrew also pushed hard against Meck’s chest.

  “You’re crushing me, Daddy, let go.”

  Meck immediately relaxed his arms. Andrew flashed him an annoyed look and climbed down.

  “I’m sorry, Sport, I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to hear Pastor Royce. Did I hurt you?”

  Andrew, his hands on Meck’s knees, considered this, then shook his head and shyly smiled. Meck smoothed a hand over Andrew’s hair. On either side of them, Whit and Jill continued to applaud. All Meck could hear was whatever it takes.

  Afterward, in the lobby, Meck stood with Whit, while their wives and kids converged on the refreshments table.

  “I can see why you’re saying that,” said Whit, “but don’t forget he also came right out and said he wasn’t applauding the acts of violence, that our preferred method is patience and compassion. Hang on, here he comes.”

  Pastor Royce was making his way toward them through the crowded foyer. When he saw Meck watching him, he donned a comically frantic expression and mimicked doing the breast-stroke to cut through the crowd. Meck smiled.

  “What do you think, fellas?” said Pastor Royce. “Too much political talk, not enough Bible?”

  “No, no,” said Whit, “it was just right. You struck the right tone of urgency and patience. Nice touch, too, with Corinthians.”

  “I don’t know. I think I was too wishy-washy about the violence.”

  “Honestly?” said Meck. “I did think you could have come out more strongly in your condemnation.”

  His heart picked up speed; he’d sounded more stern than he had intended, and Pastor Royce looked at him sharply. Whit rushed in to thwart the rising tension.

  “You’ve been going apace, Pastor, it’s understandable.”

  Pastor Royce dropped his hands and clasped them over his belly.

  “I guess I am a little weary these days. You don’t think those Westboro folks are behind all this, do you?” Then, as if thinking better of what he’d just said, he shook his head. “No, they do make a point about their protests being nonviolent.”

  “Doesn’t mean their message doesn’t encourage others to do their dirty work,” said Whit.

  Pastor Royce patted his belly.

  “Come on now, you two, it’s Sunday. Day of rest. How about some refreshments to see you on your way? And listen. I’m sorry if I let you fellas down.”

  “Not at all,” said Whit.

  Meck smiled thinly, and followed Pastor Royce to the refreshments table.

  —

  As Meck and Jill and the boys left the church, St. Hedwig’s was also getting out, and Meck saw Senator Zeilonka coming down the stairs with an elderly white-haired woman on his arm. She wore a black cape with a wide alpaca shawl in shades of gold and brown drawn over her shoulders. As Meck neared the church, the senator called out and asked if he might have a word. Meck told Jill to go on ahead with the boys, that he would catch up. A chill wind had picked up, and the senator’s already unkempt hair got further mussed. He didn’t seem to notice. The woman’s cape billowed out, and with her free hand she gathered the shawl closed against her throat. Frowning, she assessed him. Meck took off his right glove and shook the senator’s hand, which was warm despite the icy air and the fact he wore no gloves.

  “Warren, this is my mother, Professor Emeritus Ludka Zeilonka.”

  Ludka let go of Lolek’s arm and reluctantly offered her gloved hand to Meck. She wasn’t surprised at his flaccid handshake, at his assumption that she’d be fragile; she confidently grasped his hand and was rewarded when he widened his eyes in surprise, and tightened his grip.

  “So you are the man who gave my husband a run for his money on radio. The man who is glad my grandson has been fired.”

  Meck made a little bow.

  “I wouldn’t say glad, Professor. I’m sorry it had to come to that. I was horrified when he was attacked. And I was sorry to hear about the fire. On the news it said you were both fine—I hope this is true?”

  “I would not say fine, young man. So far we have a battered grandson, the bricks through the windows, incessant harassment on phone, vandalism, trespassing, threatening notes, picketers, and arson. All started when your cronies fired my grandson. How is this fine?”

  She threw up her hands, then clutched again at the neck of her cape. With some difficulty she pulled up her shawl to form a hood. Meck wondered if anger or the cold or both caused her to tremble. The wind wouldn’t quit. Meck flipped up his coat collar and fastened the top button. The air rang with shouts and laughter from the kids playing King of the Mountain in the parking lot, and despite the chilly air, people talked together on St. Hedwig’s steps.

  “I assure you, Professor, no one I know had anything to do with the violence.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Lolek. “Did you know the police are questioning two young women who go to your church?”

  Meck put a hand over his mouth.

  “Sophie Braddock and Ashley Grimes, do you know them?”

  Meck lowered his hand. He pressed it against his suddenly hollow stomach. He didn’t remember seeing either of them at the service, but of course the crowd was so large he could easily have missed them.

  “I do know them.”

  “They enabled the arsonist,” said Ludka. “Already they were at my home just two nights ago, for student tour of Polish art. And later that night? Fire!”

  “Do you know anything about it?” said Lolek.

  The senator’s jaw was tight, his eyes watchful, suspicious. Meck was troubled to find himself thinking about Pastor Royce, about the way he had said do God’s work. He told them the truth, that he knew nothing.

  “Are you sure, though, that it’s Sophie and Ashley? I can’t imagine them doing something like this.”

  “Then you are a naive young man,” said Ludka.

  “Okay, Matka, okay,” said the senator.

  “Do not shush me, Lolek.”

  Lolek sighed.

  “The police do think they facilitated entry for someone else,” he said.

  The first person Meck thought of was Brandon and his friends from the team. Sophie and her brother were close. But while Meck had been surprised to see Brandon’s anger at the arbitration hearing, he didn’t think him capable of arson. Really, though, how well did he know him?

  “It might be good,” said Lolek, “for you to proactively talk to the police. I imagine your fellowship will come under some heavy scrutiny, and I expect you know most of the players. My friend Shelly’s in charge over there. Tell him I sent you.”

  The senator scrawled a phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to Meck.

  “Of course, Senator, I’ll call him as soon as I get home.”

  “For what it’s worth, Warren, there are some who threw out your name as a suspect”—the way he said it made Meck think the
senator himself might have been one of those people, and clearly, judging by the way she was watching him, the professor seemed to have no doubt he was involved—“but my father spoke up on your behalf. I don’t know what transpired between you two during that radio show, but he thinks you can be trusted.”

  Meck flashed on the dignity with which Rosenberg had taken Clancy’s hand and invited him into the guest studio. He winced, remembering his own fear in the face of that small mob.

  “Your father—your husband,” Meck said, inclining his head to Ludka, “is an admirable man, and he’s right. I can be trusted, I promise you. Believe me when I tell you I’m as concerned as you are. There’s no room in my circle for such things.”

  “Watch out for the confidence, young man,” said Ludka. “When you fired my grandson, you unleashed your circle.”

  She heard herself use the word unleashed and swayed on her feet. She took Lolek’s arm again, and he turned to her with concern.

  “Okay then, Matka?” She nodded. To Meck he said, “She got out of the hospital only yesterday.”

  He gazed beyond Meck, then, and seemed to be considering whether or not to say what he was thinking. He momentarily closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he looked directly at Meck.

  “If I’ve learned one thing in all my years in politics, Warren, it’s this.”

  He waited for a group of people to pass by.

  “You don’t always notice what’s right in front of you. People will surprise you. You think of trust as a virtue, but it can also be a naiveté.”

  Under Lolek’s searching gaze Meck withered. Meck swallowed hard and shivered again—the senator must know about Eric, and if he knew about Eric, it made sense he would believe Meck was up to no good. But then the senator’s face fell, and he appeared exhausted, his mind far away on something else entirely.

  “I expect,” Meck said tentatively, “in a position like yours it would be hard to trust anyone.”

  The senator seemed to drag his thoughts back to the moment. “Take a look around, Warren. I find it hard to believe this recent violence is random. Someone is orchestrating it. Someone who believes in fear as a motivating force. Someone people trust, and blindly follow.”

  I know, Meck thought. He closed his eyes against the realization that for some time now—and not just since this morning’s dubious sermon—he’d been trying not to admit to himself precisely what the senator was telling him. But the senator was right—there had been far too much violence for it to be random, and there was only one person in the campaign who could command such blind obedience. He opened his eyes to quell the thought. Both the senator and his mother were watching him pointedly, and Meck abruptly understood that they suspected Meck himself. He tensed and took a deep breath through flared nostrils to calm himself so his voice didn’t thunder.

  “It’s not me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  The senator and his mother both narrowed their eyes, and for an uncomfortably long moment they appraised him.

  “Come, Lolek,” said Ludka. “He is pawn only.”

  Meck winced. His whole body flushed with an uncomfortable heat, and his hands and feet broke with sweat. How dare this woman call him a pawn?

  “You know nothing at all about me, Professor.”

  He hadn’t tempered his most thunderous voice, and both the senator and his mother visibly recoiled. From St. Hedwig’s steps, a slew of heads swiveled toward Meck. He lowered his gaze and repeated, more quietly, “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know you work for that pastor,” said Ludka. Her eyes shifted beyond Meck to the Regent. “That is all I need to know.”

  Meck looked back at the church, where people were still exiting. Outside the door, Pastor Royce put a hand on Arnie Dengler’s shoulder and leaned in close to speak to him.

  “You’ll call the police, then, Warren?” said Lolek.

  Meck inclined his head, not trusting himself to speak.

  “See you Wednesday at the Education Committee’s public hearing, I presume?” Again, Meck nodded.

  “Better get there early if you want a seat,” said Lolek. “A-1 gets crowded pretty damned fast.”

  With that, the senator and his mother walked away. Meck flexed his fingers, damp inside his leather gloves, and tried to curb the shameful mental image of hitting the old woman in the back with a piece of hurled ice. He didn’t remember ever having felt this angry, but he wasn’t so angry that he didn’t have the presence of mind to realize she wasn’t the proper target. He had to find out what was going on so he could bring his campaign back to heel. Reluctantly, he turned and headed back to the Fellowship. The front doors were now closed. Pastor Royce and Arnie Dengler were nowhere in sight.

  32

  The Chorus

  Three days later, Meck sat in Representative Gauch’s State House office with Whit and Pastor Royce, preparing to testify later that morning at the Education Committee’s public hearing, scheduled for 11:00 a.m. in Room A-1. Pastor Royce’s seldom-worn suit had fitted him nicely a year ago, but now the jacket was tight across the shoulders and hung open like decorative curtains on either side of his bulging stomach. He was still breathing heavily from the walk to the fourth floor.

  On Sunday, when Meck had found him alone in the green room, the pastor had assured him that he was just as surprised as Meck to hear about Sophie and Ashley.

  “There must have been plenty of other kids at the art function that night,” he had said. “I can’t believe it would be them.”

  “But something isn’t right,” Meck said. “This thing is starting to seem orchestrated. You have to be more careful about what you say. You said it yourself today—you’ve been too wishy-washy about condemning the violence. People parse your words, you know that.”

  Pastor Royce was quiet as he pulled on his hooded parka. He sighed.

  “Look, Warren, I’m doing the best I can. I’m sorry if you feel I’ve let you down.”

  He zipped his parka and pulled on a pair of fleece gloves.

  “I’ve frankly started to wonder lately if I should step aside, if I’m getting too old for this. What you’re seeing, Warren, is a tired-out man, a man who’s not at the top of his game. I hope you can understand that. Can we just get through next week’s State House hearing and then pull up and assess where we’re at?”

  Pastor Royce put a hand on Meck’s back and steered him toward the green room’s exit. The pastor had sounded so unlike himself that Meck, bewildered, had simply fallen in next to him and let himself be led out.

  Now, crowded into Representative Gauch’s office, Meck could see the fatigue on Pastor Royce’s face, the sag of his jowls, the heavy folds of his upper eyelids. With sudden alarm he wondered if the pastor was ill, if that’s what had been going on. On Sunday, Jill had suggested that Meck start reaching out to other national leaders so he didn’t risk his chance of moving up to the next level; he had angrily dismissed her. Now he wondered if she’d been prescient. Adrenaline coursed through his chest and back. His palms grew clammy.

  “Don’t forget,” said Gauch, “that today we have to pull out all the stops. Our job here is to convince this committee that it’s crucial for the board of ed to define sound moral character when it comes to certifying our teachers, that a legally vague definition is no longer acceptable. And the best way to do that is to show the committee what unsound moral character looks like. I know my office heard from Arnie Dengler yesterday, and he’s planning to bring photographs. Any idea what he’s got?”

  Meck and Whit exchanged a look, and Pastor Royce laughed.

  “It’s Arnie,” said the pastor. “Only the Lord knows what he’s up to.”

  “I’m feeling fairly confident,” said Gauch, “but not enough to tell you 1298 will pass. We need at least nine votes and I’m only certain of seven.”

  Meck checked his watch.

  “We have a couple of hours—there must be two fence-sitters we can coax over to our side. Who should we talk to?”<
br />
  The door flew open and Carey Best stepped in. He greeted them quickly.

  “I don’t know how I missed this, but they’re setting up for a press conference at the foot of the Grand Staircase. It wasn’t on the calendar when I checked, close-of-business yesterday. Zeilonka must have snuck it on there this morning. I’m sorry, Chief.”

  Gauch quickly stood and buttoned his suit coat. Meck and Whit did the same. Pastor Royce stood more slowly. He tried in vain to button his jacket. Gauch tossed his reading glasses on the desk.

  “Get Jensen, Peabody, and Creedon out there, Carey. At least we can be available for counterpoint comments. Who’s here?”

  “I only saw Wendy Chen, but you can bet if she’s here, everyone will be here. There’s already quite a crowd assembling near the stairs. I’ll get out there as soon as I can.”

  “At least the Westboro people have gone home,” said Meck. “We won’t have that distraction.”

  Carey hurried from the office.

  “Warren,” said Gauch, “your fence-sitters will probably turn up at the press conference. You might want to try to catch them before they head over. Reps Sweeney and Nicholas. Both are right here in this suite.”

  “We’re on it,” said Meck.

  One floor below, in Lolek’s office, Wendy Chen and the Channel 7 news crew had just arrived for an exclusive interview with Tommy and Robert, who sat side by side on one of the rosy brocade-covered couches. Two LED lights had been raised and directed at them from adjacent angles, and the woman who’d adjusted the LEDs dabbed light foundation on their faces, explaining that it dulled any shine.

  “Can we get some mascara to go with that?” asked Tommy.

  Aggie, who was leaning back against the front of Lolek’s desk, barked out a laugh, just as Robert lightly backhanded Tommy’s chest.