It’s after one o’clock in the morning when I get home, and Rocky greets me with three sneezes and a yawn. I refill his dish with kibble, which he scarfs down in less than a minute. I reach into the refrigerator, getting him a piece of cheese and retrieving a bottle of Chardonnay for myself. Rocky knows the drill and is out the doggy door and waiting on the patio for me when I take my spot on the swivel chair. It’s late and I’m tired, but I still need to unwind. I light my cigarette and look up at the clear sky as I exhale, waving a mosquito away from my left eye.
It’s been a rough few years for me after my divorce from Winston, but I am finally beginning to feel like myself again. I have a pretty good job, a decent house, a fantastic dog, and—most importantly—a cleansed soul. I do not have much of a love life. I tried the Internet dating sites, but I suppose I’m an old-fashioned girl.
I think about work and how I can help Spiro. I’m low on the corporate totem pole, and I’ve planned to spend what limited vacation I get practicing for the club championship next May. Now, however, I wonder whether bad karma from not helping Spiro may result in me driving into lakes and chipping out of sand traps for the whole three-day tournament.
I check my cell phone for flights. There are no economy seats available on Monday, and first class is over $2,700. The rest of the week looks equally bleak. It looks as if I’m off the hook—Spiro can’t possibly expect me to spend that much out of pocket just to get a head start with helping him solve his problem with the homeless shelter.
But then a thought enters my brain, despite my renewed commitment to walking the straight and narrow. I consider it. On the plus side, I would be helping out Spiro, using my skills to better the world. On the minus side, I would be lying and probably cheating my employer. Would it really be cheating, though? I would be working—although perhaps overstating the urgency of the work.
I decide that I’m a work in progress, as Spiro put it.
I access CoGenCo’s website and look for the number in bold in the top right-hand corner. I down the rest of my wine and pour another glass, sipping my drink while considering my plan.
After going over the details in my mind, I smile at my dog.
“How would you like to spend some time with your buddy Bill?” I ask Rocky. Bill Matheson is a hotshot tort lawyer in Houston whom I have known for years. He had my dog for a while after my divorce, and even though I don’t particularly like spending time with him, Rocky, it seems, does. Bill has a two-acre estate in River Oaks on the bayou, which—along with his two chocolate labs—offers Rocky something along the lines of a doggy fun park, complete with pool and woods full of possum, armadillos, and other critters to chase.
It only takes a moment, after I dial the number, for the line to pick up. “Integrity Helpline,” says the voice on the other end. “Would you like to make a confidential allegation?”
“Yes,” I say. “The president of Westwind in San Francisco is involved in a bid-rigging scheme.”
I slam down the phone and think, Oh my God! What have I done? I’ll have to consult Spiro when I see him again next week.
After a fitful sleep, I wake up later that morning and calm down while I’m in the shower. I think about the fact that my plan is both genius and foolproof. I’ve called in a bogus allegation to the helpline about Westwind, our affiliate in San Francisco, which means that my company, CoGenCo, will probably send me out alone to investigate the complaint. That’s my job, after all. Will they ever know that I called in the complaint? No, they will not; the call center is completely anonymous. I know this, because part of my job is to perform an annual test of the helpline service.
When I step out of the shower, the phone is ringing. I still get excited when the phone rings, a holdover from growing up in a large family with only one telephone. While I knew that the calls were never for me, I would pick up the receiver. I could usually identify who was on the other end and gain some shred of useful information that would translate into power over my sisters, something that was difficult as the youngest of eight.
One would think that years of telephone solicitors would have tempered my enthusiasm. But it hasn’t, and I instinctively grab a towel and run naked into my bedroom to answer the phone call before it is sent to my voicemail.
“Hello?” I say, cradling the receiver between my shoulder and ear while wrapping the towel around my torso.
“Hi, Tanzie. It’s Lucy.”
My sister Lucy and I are close. We’re just a year apart, but we couldn’t be more different. While I lean toward life’s comforts, she prefers the rockier road that comes with a purposeful life. Every decision she makes is for the end goal of planet sustainability, from shying away from plastics of all kinds to hand-weeding fifty acres of cotton and wheat crops in hundred-degree heat. Still, we have a sisterly bond that transcends our divergent political views and life choices. She calls like clockwork every Sunday at nine, and thanks to my routine being shattered by my late flight, I’d completely forgotten. I ask to call her back in a few minutes, so I can get situated with a cup of coffee and my morning cigarette.
When I dial her back, I sense uneasiness in her voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Um, well …”
“What, Lucy? Tell me.”
“It’s Honey. She’s upset because you came to San Francisco and didn’t call her.”
“I didn’t call you,” I say. “Are you upset?”
“No,” she says. “But I’m surprised you were here yesterday! What for?”
“I know it’s weird, but I flew out to go to confession.”
“You’re kidding. Since when do you go to church, Tanzie?”
“It wasn’t church, Lucy. It was confession.”
“Don’t they have priests in Houston?”
I wait. I’m not sure how much I want to tell Lucy about how lost I’ve been feeling. “Did you know Spiro Cosmo is a priest?” I say instead.
“Yeah. He called Honey. That’s how she knew you were here yesterday.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I didn’t even know he was Catholic. I thought the Cosmos were Greek Orthodox. Can they just switch around like that?”
“Maybe if you came out here more often, you’d keep up with things better. He got that scholarship to Notre Dame, remember? I think they did some sort of recruitment exercise. Anyway, Honey was hurt that you didn’t call. She’s in seclusion.”
“Again?”
My oldest sister, Honey, is a Catholic nun and somewhat of a drama queen. She occasionally lapses into a funk and goes into seclusion, praying and observing strict silence until others rally to solve whatever her particular issue is. To me, this is the ecumenical equivalent of holding her breath until turning blue.
“She told me you may be coming out here soon. At least, that’s what Spiro told her.”
“I thought priests were supposed to keep their mouths shut,” I grumble.
“I don’t know everything that was said, Tanzie. All I know is that Honey called Bumby, Bumby called Blondie, and Blondie called me. They are all really upset that you were out and didn’t tell them.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I was there for about four hours. I didn’t call ANYBODY.” But of course they knew, I think. That’s the problem with making a last-minute decision to leave the state for atonement: You forget about the O’Leary web of intelligence. That was a rookie mistake. What was I—fifteen and sneaking out of my room at night? This was much bigger. Airplanes had been involved.
I do a quick emotion check and rein myself in. “I think I may be coming out again. Maybe tomorrow or next week, for work,” I say.
“You’re kidding? Next week I’ll be in Sacramento working with some Green Party lobbyists, and then I’m off to Oregon. I’m the keynote speaker at the Black Sheep Gathering up there.”
As the black sheep of my own family, perhaps I should be at the gathering, not Lucy.
“Come on, Lucy,” I plead. “Can’t you shift things around? I haven’t seen you since Tulsa.” Deep down, I know better than to try to persuade Lucy. She is a fanatic, and although I know she’d love to see me, saving the world from environmental ruin is more important. So I try a different tactic. “You’re not going to leave me to deal with Honey all by myself, are you?”
There is desperation in my voice, but again Lucy won’t budge.
“Sorry,” she says. “Be sure and let someone else know that you’re coming out, okay? You know how Honey is. She’s still upset about your divorce.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I say, and I hang up the phone. There will be no sisterly help from Lucy on this. My path to redemption will have but a single lane.