Forgiveness 4 You

SAYING GOODBYE TO GEORGIA WRIGHT WAS HARD. BUT THE THIRD time Ted knocked on the door she winked and said, “I think they’re beginning to suspect us of something.” Then before I could stop her she called, “Come in!”

That’s how he found us hunched together, my hands clasped in hers. “It’s, uh, 12:15,” he said, averting his eyes as if we were also naked. “I’m supposed to take you downstairs.”

“All right,” she told him, all the while looking at me. “I’ll be needing a taxi.”

“Well then …” she stood regally, dragging me up with her. “I’d better be going.”

“And with you, Father.” Her golden eyes narrowed, and I had one more image of Georgia Wright prowling on large leopard paws. “He walks alongside you, too, Father. Remember that.”

After she left, I felt motherless. I had not told Georgia Wright about Aidan, though the impulse had been great to lay my head on her hands and confess everything. It wouldn’t have been professional, but I’m not confident that’s what stopped me. She was a woman who had lost a child. Aidan’s mother and Laura Larimar’s, Georgia Wright and the Blessed Virgin. They made up a vast sorority of women that cowed me with their suffering. Nothing could compare. I had no right to complain.

It was 12:30 by the time I could locate Isaac to tell him I was due at work in half an hour.

“But you’re at work,” he said, craning up from the table where he’d been going over layouts with Scott.

Isaac blinked repeatedly, as if he were trying to swallow this information with his eyes.

“Dude, you’re still working there?” Scott asked. Dude. Getting high with him had been a grave mistake in so many ways.

“Isaac thought it would be a good idea,” I said stiffly. “Wholesome, I believe he said.”

“Christ, I did, didn’t I?” Isaac rubbed one hand over his forehead. “Okay, fine. But we’re supposed to have a meeting at six. Can you maybe get off a little early?”

“I close the shop. Alone.” There was a clock on the wall, and I glanced up. Twenty-five minutes to one, and there was no way I could make it to Brooks by bus. “I hate to ask, Isaac. But could I use your car?”

“Aw, Father, please don’t ask me that. According to the rental contract I’m the only one who can drive it. I know, I shouldn’t have asked you to this morning. But, Christ, you ground the shit out of those gears.”

“Here.” Scott rummaged in the pocket of his baggy cargo pants and pulled out a set of keys that he pushed into my hand. “Truck’s downstairs, Level B. I’m gonna be here all night so you may as well take it.”

Finding Scott’s SUV wasn’t difficult. It dwarfed every other vehicle on Level B. I swung up into the driver’s seat and inserted the key, then spent five precious minutes moving the seat, steering wheel and mirrors so I could see over the car’s ludicrous hood. I’ll admit, I prayed out loud as I started it and the radio blared on. “God, please watch over me,” I said under the heart-thumping bass. “Don’t let me kill anyone with this beast of a car.”

I inched it backward, one foot on the accelerator the other on the brake. There was so much power in this engine, I was terrified of pressing down too hard and plowing backward into another car—or worse, through the garage wall. When I reached the gate, it seemed impossible that I should be able to drive this enormous thing—far larger than my little church van—through the opening. Sweating, barely breathing, I eased my way between two metal posts and out onto the milling street.

There were people walking across the intersection a hundred feet in front of me. This made me nervous. I stayed back, watching. When the light turned green, I hesitated long enough that drivers started honking. I cruised through on yellow, leaving the others stranded. In my mind, I reversed the route Isaac and I had taken that morning. At the next light I checked the digital clock on Scott’s dashboard; it said 3:42 a.m. That was no help.

The crowds thinned as I reached the edge of the city, and once I crossed 35th, it was like I’d entered a different world—broken-down and unpopulated. But ten blocks farther south, there were people congregating—not the people one usually saw in this area but men in suits and women dressed like librarians. There were maybe thirty of them, and they were all walking in the direction I was driving, which made me nervous, because every once in a while someone would step off the curb into the street. I slowed nearly to their pace, and we proceeded like a parade to the front door of Brooks Books.

It had never occurred to me that I’d have to worry about where to park Scott’s truck. Oren had a small parking lot that I’d never used, which typically had fewer than six cars in its ten spots. Today, however, there were cars and minivans and motorcycles parked randomly—at least thirty packed into the tiny space. The street was lined with cars, as well. And in front of the bookstore, there was a table set up with two people sitting behind it, handing out coffee and flyers. Protesters, many with children, stood in front of the shop holding signs on sticks. As I passed, I read the banner that hung above them all: CATHOLICS UNITED TO PRESERVE THE CHURCH.

This explained all the people walking. They’d parked a half-mile back in a neighborhood most of them had probably never seen before. I kept driving seven blocks until I found a spot large enough for the SUV. I ran back toward the bookstore, slowing as I approached the crowd. Chances were good one of my former parishioners was there and would recognize me. I made a sharp left and headed to the back entrance, jumping onto the loading platform where the UPS man dropped cases of books. But when I tried the door, it was locked.

I removed my confusing phone from my pocket and, after a few failed attempts, managed to dial the bookstore number. It took nine rings for Oren to answer. “I’m in back,” I said. “Can you let me in?”

“Sure thing,” Oren said, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request. “I’ll be right there.”

Inside, the shop was eerily quiet, despite all the activity out front. “Hello,” I said, shaking Oren’s hand. Something about this occasion felt formal to me. “I assume all this is my fault?”

“Seems to be,” Oren said cheerfully. We walked toward the chairs where Madeline and I had once sat. There was a new display on a table next to them: Maritime Literature with Moby-Dick—Oren’s all-time favorite—in the center. Around the Melville, Oren had arranged Treasure Island, The Old Man and the Sea, and Heart of Darkness. I’d worked at Brooks long enough to know this table would never be touched by a customer.

“They started off in front of that advertising company of yours, that’s what one of them told me,” Oren said as we sat. “But security chased them off. So I guess they thought they’d come here instead. Started showing up about ten.”

“I’m really sorry, Oren. I was hoping the publicity would be good for business.”

“Well, you never know.” Oren leaned back and tented his hands. “Things change. Could be tomorrow all the people who want forgiving will come in and buy books.”

We sat for a few moments listening to the buzz and clamor of the people outside. Someone named Barbara had arrived, to the delight of the assembled crowd. Calls of “Barb!” echoed in a chain.

“So it’s an odd thing you’re doing, Gabe,” said Oren. “Forgiving people for money. How does that work?”

“I’m not sure it does,” I said. “So far, all it’s yielded is …” I pointed toward the front window where we could see a bald man shaking someone’s hand. “This.”

“People don’t really buy books anymore,” Oren went on. “But they’ll pay for someone to take away their guilt?”

“Yes, that pretty much sums it up.” I thought for a minute. “Read anything good lately?” I asked.

“Ah, just you wait!” Oren’s old, hooded eyes glittered for a second. “It comes out in summer. I just finished the galley, and I’d give it to you, but Ruby is reading it right now. Story about a young widow who time travels back and meets the people who caused her husband’s death. But better than that sounds.”

“Does Ruby like it?” Ruby Brooks—Oren’s wife—could identify a great story within twenty-five pages. For the year of my employment I’d been reading directly behind her.

“Ruby loves it. You will, too. Tell you what. I’ll send you a copy when it comes out.”

While Oren got up and ambled into the back room with his cup, I looked outside. The people in front were five or six thick. They were socializing, mostly. Two women had set up lawn chairs on the sidewalk. At one point, they tried to flag down a teenager who was walking past, but he just crossed to the other side of the street.

“They’re waiting for the news guys,” Oren said from behind me. “One of ’em told me earlier. As soon as they get some coverage they’ll go home.”

“I’m not sure that’s going to happen,” I said. “I don’t think I’m very big news.”

“Oh, they’ll make sure it does.” Oren seated himself carefully, holding the cup out from his large body. “If this goes on another hour or two, they’ll pull out something more dramatic. Set up a confessional out front or release fifty doves or something.” He winked at me. “I might have even recommended it myself.”

“Well, if a thing’s going to be done, you know. May as well be done right.”

This was the first time he’d looked uncomfortable all morning, his broad brown face wrinkled up with concern. “No, no, Gabe. If you insist on staying, I’ll make a place for you. I always have.”

“It’s the reality of running a bookstore these days. You’re not doing it because it’s good business. You’re doing it because you want to. And if you hire someone, well …” Oren shrugged. “That’s really more of the same. It doesn’t take many people to sell books no one’s buying.”

“I like you, Gabe. You’re interesting; I appreciate your opinions. When you came in to apply, Ruby and I hadn’t been on a vacation in three years. So I thought, ‘Here’s a sign.’”

Oren looked at me over his cup, eyes lit from deep inside. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “it’s also that you really don’t need me anymore. You don’t need this. You have plenty to keep you busy.”

“That’s true.” I sat for a minute then got up and poured a cup of the Folger’s that Oren had made, half-decaf and extra-weak. “Mind if I sit for a while before I leave?” I asked when I came back.

Oren looked up and nodded. “It would be my privilege, Father,” he said, though he had only ever called me Gabe.

It was midafternoon when I left the bookstore through the back door. I walked around the building to peek out front and grew more brazen when a white-haired woman waved me over. “Are you here to join us?” she asked.

“Plenty of people leave the church for a while,” she said taking my arm. Hers was plump and powdery. It was the year’s first spring-like day, and she and a couple other people had shed their coats, even though the temperature was a brisk fifty degrees. “But if you were baptized, you’re always a Catholic. It’s like a tattoo. You can cover it up or have one of those surgeries to erase it, but it’s always going to be there. Under your skin.”

Instinctively, the fingers of my right hand—the one that wasn’t clamped under her elbow—went to my chest. She smiled and tightened her grip further. It was like she knew.

“People,” she announced in a loud voice as we approached the group, “this is …?” She turned to me with a questioning look.

“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 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.

“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?”

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

“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.

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.

“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.”

“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 make 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.”

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

“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.

“Twin daughters headed to college in the fall. One at Northwestern, her sister at Yale. We’re very proud, also very broke.”

“My practice used to be spiritual,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice. “But these days it’s mostly Highland Park housewives and retired attorneys. Buddhism has become a very popular hobby. Doing this feels more authentic than selling rock fountains and gongs.”

“How about you, Bobby?” Rabbi Kahn said, as the curly-haired woman approached us. She was younger than I’d originally thought. With some makeup and a more revealing outfit, she could fit right in at Mason & Zeus. “Why are you doing this? Father McKenna wants to know.”

“Mostly for my dissertation,” she said. “I’m writing about guilt as a motivator for moral behavior, trying to tease apart how much is due to an individual ethical system and how much comes from societal pressures, both good and bad.”

“Like a gift from God,” she said with a wicked grin. “Plus I’ll make a little pocket change. My stipend doesn’t quite cover the bills.” She tilted her head, and the entire, wondrous mass of her hair moved with it. “And you? Why did you start this? Why are you leaving? Like Isaac said, the whole drug thing will blow over by next week.”

“Ah, you ask good questions.” I peered at the girl, who reminded me vaguely of Jem. “Unlike all of you, I never had a good reason for doing this. I sort of stumbled into the enterprise with a unique set of skills. But no … purpose. Or calling? I’m sorry, that’s a vague answer. But it’s the truth. I never really belonged here in the first place, so now it’s time for me to go.”

“Not before we have lunch, I hope?” Rabbi Kahn pulled a wallet from his pocket and rooted inside it until he found a card. “Call me next week, okay? I think it would help all of us to hear what you have to say.”

“Let me know where you’re going, and I’ll take care of the check.” I turned to find Isaac standing right behind me. “In fact,” he said, “if you want to make it a regular thing, we’ll just start an account wherever you choose.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the rabbi. Then he shook my hand with both of his, and it felt like saying goodbye to a cousin I’d never known I had. “I have to run. It’s Friday tomorrow so I’ve got a fifteen-hour day ahead of me. But I’ll talk to you soon?”

“I’ll call on Monday,” I said, putting his card into my own battered wallet.

“Sure,” I said, though I suddenly felt worn and dull, as if I had been awake for days. I shook hands with Roberta and the monk and moved aside with Isaac to a small empty spot near the congealing food.

“I want you to know, I really appreciate what you’re doing,” Isaac said. “And we’re going to re-write the contract so you get 3 percent, founder’s cut. Meadow and I already discussed it, and she’s calling the lawyer in the morning. Also we’d like you to be a director, once we get our shit together to form a board. You can be the conscience of the organization. There will be a small salary, of course.”

“Maybe partly.” He swayed, a little zombie-like. “Christ, I’m exhausted. And it’s making me all emotional. But the truth is we need you. And I don’t want you to disappear on us. I’ve grown attached.”

“All right.” I couldn’t tell how much I was being offered. Three percent could be just enough to help me replace my wallet—or prop up the bookstore, fund the shelter where St. John’s used to be, and buy a car. I had no idea.

As if he heard my question, Isaac said in a low voice, “If this thing grows as fast as we think it will, we’ll start up in Seattle, Providence, Western Connecticut, and Austin by the end of the year. I’ll work out of the Texas office.”

We both looked in her direction. She was talking with Roberta Fox, and both were smiling. They looked like they could become friends.

“She’s um,” Isaac said warily. “Acting kinda strange. This whole forgiveness thing was her idea, and it’s huge. I mean, she could end up on the cover of Forbes. But right now, she’s totally lukewarm on the business. Says maybe she shouldn’t have started it. She’s not sure it’s ‘good for the world.’ It’s so odd. The other day, I heard Meadow talking to her mother on the phone.”

“I doubt they were all bad, her parents,” I said. “Sometimes we have to leave the tradition we grew up in to see its true value. Take back the pieces that make sense to us.”

I’d had it. My day had started before dawn. I’d driven (twice) for the first time in years. I’d been fired, essentially, by a man I would deeply miss and tried to pass myself off with a group of agitators, then sat in traffic cold, bored, and lonely for several hours. I hadn’t been able to touch or really talk to Madeline following our intoxicating night. My feet hurt, and I had a touch of indigestion. Sighing more heavily than I meant to, I backed up against the wall. “I think I need a shrink,” I said.

“Oh, don’t look now. But I think Joy wants to talk to you!” Isaac spoke in a jubilant whisper. “I guess her dad was on the phone with Lynch this morning, talking about free speech and freedom of religion. It’s a constitutional two-fer! I got a call mid-day saying we can’t fire her yet, and she needed to be at this meeting.”

“You going to keep her on?” I asked, watching Joy approach. The girl looked five pounds thinner than the last time I’d seen her.

“Thinking about it,” Isaac said. “She’s wicked smart. And we could probably get her back on better terms. Less salary, longer hours.” He snorted. “If that’s possible.”

Joy seemed wrapped in rags compared to her former self. She wore a plain dark dress and bowed her head as she neared me, the way old women did at early morning mass. “Could I speak to you alone, Father?” she asked.

Isaac drifted a discreet distance from us. But not, I suspected, so far that he couldn’t hear.

“I want you to know I’m …” Joy began, then looked at the floor between her feet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really don’t know why I did all that. But it wasn’t right.”

“You were angry,” I said, watching Scott talking to Abel out of the corner of one eye. “And none of us was behaving very well, myself included.”

I stood contemplating my options. I could have given her absolution; that would have been easy, but also a little cliché. So I went instead with what I was really thinking.

“I hope you’ll stay on with Mason & Zeus, even if the terms are harsh,” I said and saw her wince. “I genuinely think it would be good for you to work through this. And some of your criticisms of Forgiveness4You—more appropriately expressed—could be helpful.”

“My mother said the same thing.” Joy looked off into the distance for a moment. “I made this mess, and I need to stay and fix it. Stop being so defensive, look at things from a bigger point of view, grow up and be a better person.” She shrugged, and maybe it was only weariness, but I saw a glimmer of something oddly admirable: Joy was able to forgive herself.

“Hey, Father?” Isaac bobbed up next to me, and Joy averted her eyes. “I hate to interrupt you, but we need to draft a new media release tonight, and I’d like to pass it by you. Get your blessing, as it were.”

“As it were,” I echoed his arcane construction. Then I turned back to Joy and put one hand to her cheek. She waited, head bowed, no doubt expecting wisdom and grace.

“Just stop messing with people’s lives,” I said, surprising even myself. “I truly believe you can learn from this. But if you have any true feeling for the Catholic Church, you must quit using it like a weapon to get what you want.”

“I’ve seen enough of that for a lifetime,” I said more gently. Then I gave up—delirious with fatigue—and hugged her. “Go.” I said. “Be good.”

Just two days ago we announced plans to launch Forgiveness4You, a first-of-its-kind forgiveness service that helps people resolve guilt and regret. Despite the fact that we are not yet officially in business, customer demand for our services has been overwhelming. So we’re revising our business plan and expanding before even opening our doors.

We’re happy to announce the addition of three forgiveness practitioners. Nathan Kahn is the assistant rabbi and director of adult education at Temple Mazel in Skokie. Yoshii Adrami studied Buddhism in Nepal and at the Institute for World Religions in Berkeley, California. Roberta Fox, a fellow in the philosophy department at the University of Chicago, is a leading expert in moral non-belief.

We are proud to welcome them and believe their services will make forgiveness available to an even greater number of people.

Due to commitments elsewhere, our founder, Father Gabriel McKenna, has stepped down as acting director of Forgiveness4You. He will remain on the board. We are engaged in a search for a priest or other Christian pastor at this time. We thank Father McKenna for his extraordinary work and for the inspiration that brought us this far.

Forgiveness4You will hold a grand opening in mid-April. By that time, we expect to have dedicated space with more than a dozen on-site consultation rooms and supplementary service options, including a massage therapist trained to help clients cleanse and relax after catharsis.

As always, we thank you for your interest and welcome any questions about this fast-growing enterprise.

Please contact Isaac Beckwith directly for more information at 512-345-8921.

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