It wasn’t the first encounter with Ronnie that had left me wondering if I should have a cold shower installed at my place of business. She had that effect.
I worked downtown. Roanoke retained an old-world charm despite being a moderately sized city, surrounded by a moderately sized county. Strong hospitals and multiple colleges kept money pouring into the area. My office was on Campbell Avenue, downtown Roanoke, second floor. The building was constructed in the 1920s, like most of the street—classic revival and Beaux-art. The walls were plaster, the floors refinished wood, and the stairs creaked when someone ascended.
Which they did at two that afternoon.
The windows and door were open. I sat at my laptop reading an essay when the wooden slats creaked and snapped in the stairwell, heralding a visitor.
Into my office walked Louis Lindsey, the man himself.
Louis Lindsey bore a remarkable resemblance to Marlon Brando. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, in his early sixties, neatly trimmed hair going gray. He was handsome and fit, from swimming laps at the downtown YMCA. He didn’t have jowls but soon might, based on subterranean indications. He’d wear them with class and dignity, the same way he wore his sports jacket and white clerical collar.
He indicated the sign on my door. Said, “Inspector August.”
I stood. “Father Louis.”
A big voice, built for pulpits. “Inspector August, working on the biggest case of his illustrious career. Trying to prove or disprove that a local priest is gay. How invigorating.”
He already knew. Heavens.
Was I surprised? I was.
Did I let it show? I did not. A man’s only as good as his stoicism.
“Case of my career? Hardly. Once I rescued a cat from a pine tree. Imagine the sap,” I said.
He came farther into the room. Pulled back his sports jacket so he could rest his hands on his belt. He stared through my window with a disapproving shake of his head, a father lecturing his son.
“It grieves me, you given this assignment. That the church considers this its most pressing issue. Do we worry about the homeless? Are we concerned with Roanoke’s widows and orphans? No, we’re anxious about the gossip. Run along, Inspector. Get your magnifying glass. Free us from this scourge, this intolerable rumor.”
“I hear sarcasm is the lowest form of communication.”
“No. Gossip is. Trust me, son. Here I am, a happily married man, still with the bride of my youth, dodging sniper fire from my own congregation. The hardest part of my job isn’t the grueling schedule. It’s not the hurting people or the sick. Nor the teaching or the preparation. No, the hardest part is enduring the backstabbing. It’s suffering through unsigned emails laden with criticism.” He moved away from the window to stand in front of my shelves, hands still on his hips, scrutinizing my panoply of worldly possessions. I sat, to better absorb the haranguing. He carried forth. “That is the hardest part. It’s the inspectors bought to pry into my private life. Some southwest Virginia boy with bourbon on his shelf thinking he understands the mysteries of the universe. Who holds himself in the position of judge, who can preach to me, the ordained priest of thirty years.”
“You got all that from my office shelves?”
“Gossip—the lowest form of communication. I despise it. Other than that, Inspector, do you know which vice I consider the worst? For human beings to indulge in?”
“Let me guess. Sounds fun, like ontological Jeopardy.”
I saw him pause. Shoulders bunch a little and he pivoted at the waist to regard me.
“Ontological,” he repeated.
“Ontological, a fancy word us idiot southwest Virginia boys use. My first guess about the worst vice is acedia.”
He turned the rest of his body to face me. Placed his hand on my client chair.
“I’m impressed, Inspector. But no, it’s not spiritual sloth.”
“My second guess. Onanistic sins.”
He smiled. A bit chagrined.
“You are putting me in my place,” he said.
“Unless you know what onanism means, I win.”
He pulled my chair an inch. Came around and lowered into it. I got the impression he was staring at my mouth.
“The politest way to say it is coitus interruptus. I sized you up too rashly, Inspector. I apologize.”
I steepled my fingers. Regarded him shrewdly. Remained silent and mystical.
“I am unaccustomed,” he said, “to enormous and powerful men like you being well-read. And here I am, the hypocrite. It is judgment itself which I despise most of all.”
There was something about Father Louis Lindsey that even enormous and powerful and erudite men like me found arresting. He was handsome, sure. Moved with the self-awareness and prepossessed grace of someone accustomed to cameras and sermons. But more than that, he carried an otherness.
On the outside, a celebrated priest.
Under the skin, something more. Something alien.
Maybe it was his eyes. They were pale, and they changed temperature.
He said, “Have you ever pondered why God placed the tree of the forbidden knowledge in the middle of Eden?”
“I rarely think of anything else.”
He smiled. It wasn’t fake but, I thought, it was for my benefit.
I said, “It’s an unusual placement and an unusual prohibition.”
“Quite. Eating of the forbidden fruit, eating of the knowledge of good and evil, one becomes aware of goodness and of evilness. Adam and Eve, once innocent, lost their innocence. They suddenly realized, ‘Oh no, I’m naked.’ Before then, they didn’t mind. After? They experienced shame. They decided, being naked isn’t good. They judged their nakedness. They became judges. Before then, only God was judge. And thus it should have remained. Because once they started judging one another, they could no longer remain in paradise. The very act of judgment places you above others. And that is poison, and poison must be respected. We must respect the corrosive power of judgment. God put the tree in the middle for them to see and respect, not on the outskirts where one might sneak in secret. Your sin is only as big as your secret.”
“Insightful, Father Louis.”
“Isn’t it.”
“My initial reaction is to ponder the difference between judgment and discernment.”
“Oh yes. Despite their similarities, the first is a poison. The other, a godly skill. So you understand…” He paused. Scanned my desk. His eyes hovered on my belt—like he could see the pistol I wore, though from his point of view he couldn’t. “You understand why the hardest part of my job is enduring the judgment of my own congregation. Especially when it’s aimed at me.”
“Sure.”
“Especially when they hire a private detective who is blindly convinced the mere rumor of homosexuality is worth wrecking lives over.”
“I am?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Did I give indications I believed thusly?”
He tapped his pursed lips. “Perhaps not. Have I sized you up incorrectly a second time?”
“Maybe you are projecting your own misgivings onto me,” I said.
With a finger, I swiveled my laptop around so he could see the monitor. On it was an article he’d written several years ago, titled, The Looming Threat Above Our Adolescents: Society’s Blind Eye to the Evils of Homosexuality.
His eyes heated four degrees. Anger and…something else. Something excited.
“I regret that article,” he said. “Even if it did earn me a rich lecturing tour. I did more harm than good, however.”
“I have found no public retraction.”
“Nor will you. Christian leaders expressing sympathy for homosexuality are essentially excommunicated.”
“The truth isn’t worth the price?” I said.
His fingertips were white, gripping the chair rails. He was experiencing a lot of emotion but I couldn’t tell what kind.
“Is that judgment? Or discernment, Inspector?”
“You wouldn’t be excommunicated from the Episcopalian church. They’re somewhat sympathetic to the LGBT crowd.”
“My influence far exceeds my local church. And my denomination.”
“Wow. You’re quite a guy. With all your influence.”
“I wonder, son. Where does this obstinance come from? What are you afraid of?”
“A life of quiet desperation.”
“You crack a joke. But the truth rings beneath it. Few men operate out of terror as much as you do. That was obvious within a minute of our meeting.”
I didn’t think he was correct. I did my best to operate out of core principles and convictions. And yet…the man was anything but unintelligent. Did I operate out of terror?
Shucks. The list of things that would keep me awake tonight was lengthening.
He took my pause as assent.
He said, “Did you lose someone? Where does this pain and anger come from?”
I stayed quiet.
“I see it under your myriad of defense mechanisms. We’re all afraid, Inspector. Aren’t we. So it’s best we don’t scurry around this planet during our short lives and waste it hurling rocks at one another.”
“And your fear?”
“That’s easy—purposelessness. Lack of achievement. And if you perpetuate the gossip, Inspector, you’ll participate in the evil. I am not gay. Inform those who hired you and consider your job complete.”
“I will,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“As soon as the investigation is, in fact, complete.”
He stood. Face a little red against the white collar, but his eyes were still pale. Walked away and came back. Placed his hands on the back of my client chair. He lost the lofty pulpit voice, now mean and low.
“You play games,” he said. I still retained the impression he watched my mouth. “You play games with me? You tell me no. Like it’s a…like you and I are playing a game?”
“I told you no because that’s the answer.”
“You think a private license gives you the right to play God.”
“No. It gives me the right to find truth.”
“Truth is subjective, boy. You flatter yourself. You’re a glorified cop who likes writing tickets.”
“Are you speeding? Have you something to confess?” I said. But I regretted it. Instantly. A clumsy metaphor. Come on, Mackenzie, you’re better than that.
“I see a young boy in a framed photograph on your shelf. Your son?” He said it without looking.
I didn’t respond.
“But I see no indication of his mother. Let me guess why, Inspector. You’re no innocent man either.”
“By no means.”
“You wallow in sexual transgressions the same as the rest of this broken planet. Your hands are red. Guilty as sin. And yet you want to ruin others, ruin me, for the same sin. Alleged sin. I’m leaving, Inspector. You will not uncover any of my private life.”
I didn’t want him gone yet. I had the man babbling with emotion. Ready to undo himself. Could be the shortest investigation of my career. He needed only a nudge.
“You misunderstand the point of my investigation, Father.”
“Oh?” Said it with a sneer. And it was a good one. I almost ducked.
“I wasn’t hired to discover if you’re gay.”
That stopped him. He raised up. The hands squeezing the fabric of my client chair slackened. His brows furrowed. He searched my lips for answers.
“Then…?”
“I was hired to look into accusations against you.”
“Accusations that I’m gay,” he said.
“No. Accusations that you’re making unwanted sexual advances.”
“Unwanted?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Someone is accusing me of unwanted advances.”
I nodded helpfully.
“Unwanted,” he repeated. It was the undesired nature of the advances that he was stuck on.
“Sexual advances often are.”
“Someone…complained,” he said.
“Several someones.”
“Several. That’s not true.” He tried to say something else but couldn’t. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed. He squeezed the chair back until his nails dug small holes in the fabric. Made a growling noise. “That cannot be true.”
“Which part?”
He threw my chair to the floor.
“Who?” Low seething voice. For a dangerous moment, he looked as though he considered trashing my shelves. “Tell me who.”
“No.”
“Give me a name!”
“Nooo.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Except,” I said. “My favorite chair is sideways.”
“You’re making a mistake. A big mistake.” He turned and stormed from the office. Thankfully the staircase survived his wrath. The door leading to the street slammed.
“Heavens,” I said again.