The Gospel According to Gay Guys

Introduction

2011-06-16T20:07:00.032-05:00

No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. By this we know that we abide in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit. (1 John 4:12)

Welcome. This blog contains a complete novel, to be published in the next few months—though it is not endorsed in any way by the women above, the first women priests ordained in The Episcopal Church. I put their picture up there so I can start telling you a Gospel story, from the place where it ought to begin.

To read this like a book you have to go to the Archives and find May 2008 to begin at the beginning. Otherwise the chapters are in reverse order, as I wrote them.

On the content: you got here by clicking Yes on the warning page. This book is sexually explicit at first, but there's no violence. As a Christian I'm more concerned about violence than sexuality.

But why is there sexuality at all in a so-called Gospel book? Because at its best, within a committed and non-exploitive relationship, sex is sacramental, an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. I'm not writing Scriptures here, but two people's lives.

The Church seldom says so out loud, but we do believe sex is sacred across theological divides; sex is good, God created it—for all of us, I say, Gay and Straight. Now that homosexual behavior has been identified in over 400 species, it's clear that the spectrum of sexual orientation is part of the divine plan. You could blame Mother Nature or Father God, but one of their names is Reality.

I believe God opposes the ideology of heterosexual superiority, with a whole system (much like apartheid) of financial and legal advantages for those in power, and punishments for those who are not. I believe God favors justice, and that includes marriage equality.

As a writer I have to be true to my own people, Gay men, and we are sexy. Gayness is one of my topics here—it's not all politics and show tunes.

God built sexual energy and tension into human bodies because it's good for us.

If we use sex wrong it can create all kinds of destruction—but if we use it right, in a context of love, commitment and high mutual regard, sex can reveal to us the nature of God. The Church has always said so. Thus I repeat that old advice and call it Gospel.

This is a sequel to my first book, Murder at Willow Slough. An openly-Gay investigative reporter, who broke a story about a serial killer targeting Gay men, met a cop assigned to the latest victim. In the process a deep friendship was born.

That book contained no sex at all; I'm proud of that. I believe it's the world's first (maybe only) Gay novel where no one got naked.

It now seems appropriate to me to begin the sequel making up for lost time. The characters demanded it, so that's what I wrote, and I don't apologize.

God loves all of us in our sexuality, not despite it. Within committed marriage, anything safe goes, as long as there's no exploitation. So I wrote a few love scenes as a Gay guy. They contain plenty of character development, but you can skip them if you must, Chapters 2, 6 and 20.

Afterwards you'll know what's going on, even if you do omit some good information and funny stuff. Later sexual interactions are progressively shorter until at the end I write, "beyond that, no one needs to know."

There are some sexual graphics on this blog too, but they won't be printed in the final product, so just scroll past. You wouldn't be here if you weren't a modern adult. I'm just aware that in today's media environment, one does get tired of endless vulgarity.

Where does the Gospel come in? It's there in Chapter 1 and every other, as these guys grow as a couple.

Every Gospel has an evangelist who wrote it, so here are my Christian purposes beyond mere entertainment:

• to support and affirm all persons, including Gay men and women, in committed relationships, particularly those who are Christians;

• to refute the popular Gay-held stereotype, now hardening into prejudice, that Christianity automatically equals homophobic oppression;

• and to invite back to church those millions of GLBT people who rejected the church that rejected them.

I understand; I left the church too for years. But the church is coming to us now, and I grieve for those who never quite stopped believing, but felt themselves homeless.

Please, think about coming back to a church that welcomes you just the way you are.

It's never been Jesus who's the problem; it's what church you go to. Stay away from the bad ones and come to the good ones. God has loved us in the depths of our Gayness this whole time. Come and see.

I write about a good denomination I know, The Episcopal Church, but there are thousands of other inclusive churches of all denominations around the world—and open-hearted Straight believers. Don't deprive yourself of great Straight friends.

While all churches have a lot of heterosexist history to answer for and confess, they have never been more welcoming than now. Christianity derives from Judaism and that means ancient patriarchy, some of the same Middle Eastern bigotry we see today. But women and men, Straight and Gay, have started to liberate the Church by the guidance of the Holy Spirit—that Person of God who is with us today. I like to think of her as female. Where she's in charge, women help lead; and where women lead, all kinds of outsiders are welcome. Hallelujah!

Therefore I dedicate this book:

To the Philadelphia 11, first women Priests in The Episcopal Church
To the Right Reverend Barbara C. Harris, first woman Bishop in The Episcopal Church
To all Women Clergy of every denomination and country
and the men who have learned from them and helped them,
especially Louie Crew

and most personally to my spiritual director,
the Reverend Marcia Smith-Wood
a Presbyterian
who gave me every imaginable support, always delivering the Gospel.

Please go to the 2008 Archives for Chapter 1.

Meanwhile I end with this gal, Katharine Jefferts Schori, the first woman Presiding Bishop in the history of Christianity. Men outnumber her, but men elected her, for good reasons. Come and see.

She doesn't endorse this book—I haven't always approved of everything she's said and done either—but she's the single best reason to come back to church: times have changed. God's on the move toward justice and compassion. God always pulls us that direction.

Pray that we have the courage to accept and embrace our freedom, with the wisdom and compassion to fulfill our responsibilities to each other.++

59. The Gospel According to Gay Guys

2011-06-12T12:19:00.099-05:00

In mid-afternoon on the Fourth, after most people had gathered and the party was in full swing, a big black Buick with Canadian plates pulled up the lane and found a parking place. Three people got out, parents and a grown son. Kent didn't recognize the car, so he headed toward it, wanting to meet these folks.

The father wore a gray suit and fedora; the mother had a vivid dress, red, white, black, lavender, pink and orange, and a colorful hat tilted perfectly. The son also wore a fedora and white suit, but not a tie; his eyes were bright.

Kent wondered if they might be Black. The lady was somewhat dark, the son less so, but the gentleman, maybe not. Jamie jumped up, fingers pointing in the air, shouting, "Étienne!"

The son doffed his hat to him, bowed deep and yelled, "Back home again! In Indiana, wherever this is!"

Jamie came running. Kent wasn't sure what was going on, but if Jamie knew them, they had to be friends.

Mama's progress was slow; she used a cane. But she proceeded like the Queen Mother and her menfolk were thoughtful attendants.

Jamie caught up with Kent and stayed; he wanted to run and chest-bump Étienne for getting here, but he belonged by Kent's side. Shortly the two groups met each other and the man said, "You're Mr. Kent Kessler, I believe?"

"Yes, sir." They shook hands.

"My name is Adrian Guillory." He pronounced it the French way. "I'm a patent attorney. Let me introduce my wife Vivienne, my son Étienne, also now in law school."

"How do you do, ma'am?"

"Quite nicely," Mama smiled. Étienne tipped his hat; he was slick.

Mr. Guillory said, "We have come here from Montréal, Province of Québec. My son located your website on the internet. He thought we ought to make contact, and this might be the day to come, your family reunion, on your Independence Day. We inquired beforehand. A Mr. James Foster kindly invited us, and assured us we were welcome."

The blondboy piped up, "I'm Jamie Foster. Thank you for coming, madame et monsieur."

"Guillory?" Kent repeated in French. "Guillory?"

"You might know us as Gillory," the gentleman replied. "I'm not always familiar with the Indiana dialect. We believe we may have ancestors in common. Your Miss Evangeline Guillory, who married Mr. Josiah Kessler, was a sister to my several-great grandfather, Mr. Antoine Guillory, who we believe passed through this country from Louisiana to Indiana, then Ontario and Québec, on the Underground Railroad, with the assistance of your ancestor Mr. Kessler."

"Guillory?! Ma'am, yes sir!" Kent cried, pumping those fists. "Right here, welcome home! After all this time? Come, come, come! We are so glad to have you!"

Étienne was a hot number and he fixed his eye on Kent—friendly to the blondboy, but he was liking that big hunka man. Jamie punched Stevie in the gut and told him to knock it off. "Aw, can you blame me?"

"No, but fuck you." Mama gave him the evil eye.

Étienne put his arm around Jamie's neck, "I don't mean anything, but I do like my eye candy," and they walked toward the party. "Dude, what you fellas have got going here is fabulous."

"I'm so glad you made it. I can only imagine that distance, the difficulty your mother might have with traveling." Jamie was always concerned about people with disabilities, thinking of Rick again.

"Travel just takes a little organizing. Mama's fine; she's a trouper."

"And that hat!" Jamie turned to her. "An actual fascinator. Ma'am, if you don't mind I'd like to nominate you in our hat contest. Your chapeau coordinates perfectly."

She eyed him, then gazed at the pleasant landscape. "If you like. Thank you."

Stevie poked Jamie, "She's always like this. She's an Anglican!"

"Well, that explains it," Jamie grinned.

"Papa's a Commander of the Royal Victorian Order, with letters in back of his name and everything; he considers himself French, of course, but she's a Royalist from Toronto. The day his honours came out—a French Canadian cited for the highest personal service to the Crown, because of this patent case he handled—she turned into the Duchess of Hampstead and Mont-Royal right in front of our eyes, and she's been that way ever since. You'd think she was the one who got knighted."

"Wouldn't Miss Evangeline be proud of such a nephew." Jamie held out his arm to her, "Lady Hampstead, may I have a turn?"

"Of course, young man." She smiled; this American knew who she was.

They walked. "I must ask who your milliner is."

"Well," she said, "I did know you were wanting to encourage the ladies to wear hats, especially outdoors in this sun, so I looked up Indiana on the map; very close to Louieville. I thought, perfect, there must be a quality hatmaker there, or how else do all the ladies get fixed up for the Kentucky Darby?"

"Of course," Jamie smiled.

"So from there I simply telephoned the wife of the rector of the biggest Anglican parish in town; that is, the Episcopal church. Surely Mrs. Rector would know. And she did, a lady named Stansbury with a shop called Darby Fascinations. We spoke, I trusted her with my dress so she could match the colours, and a couple of photographs so she would know the shape of my face; and two weeks after the Darby, a man delivered it all to my door."

A few hours later, the ladies voted Mrs. Guillory the runaway winner of the Best Hat Contest, and she posed for her official photograph. Cher came in third, wearing a homemade concoction with peachfaced lovebirds. She told everyone, "This one's Jamie and that one's Kent!"

Kent put his hand on Mr. Guillory's shoulder, "We have some special guests this year, members of the Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Crawfordsville, our county seat. They were a stop on the Underground Railroad too and worked with Father Josiah all the time. We don't know for sure, but they may well have helped the Guillorys make it here those last nine miles. Coulda just given directions, ya know? Follow the creek, then when you come to a grove of hickory trees, that's the place."

The gentleman surveyed Kent's face, open, honest, down to earth. "I look forward to meeting them."

***

People ate, kids swam, Frisbees went flying, dogs ran around; Gypsy was in rare form, barking down dogs who ventured where she didn't want them to go. She wasn't allowed in the house, so they didn't get to go there either. Once they understood that, she was all smiles and tail-wags. Jamie looked over and found her surrounded by acolytes. Then she took off and snagged a Frisbee clearly intended for someone else. That dog yapped and chased her, but she stood there, plastic in mouth, staring, whereupon the defeated dog quickly gave up and joined the royal court. Gypsy dropped her blue disk and nudged it with a paw toward the other dog, who picked it up and ran away, then looked back at her. She waited patiently, soon the other dog brought it back and handed it over, so Gypsy ran it back to Uncle Wesley, who was really good with dogs and a Frisbee.

She was a showoff, that Gypsy; she was an alpha dog, she lived here, and the rest of them were mere visitors.

The Youth Steel Orchestra played from Frederiksted on St. Croix in the United States Virgin Islands, the highlight of their diocesan fundraising tour. The dance band combo from New Year's would take their place in the evening while all the kids got ice cream.

Aunt Penn and Judge Schneider introduced John of California to Jamie; tall, shaved bald, with deepset black eyes, John Kessler Schneider, Lincoln's son. He hadn't been back to Indiana but once in 24 years, six years ago when his mother died. He and his father corresponded occasionally, but they hadn't talked much since. John said, "I would never have come back, but you're making it safe here."

Jamie kissed his cheek, "Welcome home, John, we want you here. What do you do?"

"General practice attorney like my father. Though the contexts are very different, he's Hizonner and I'm just one guy in a crowd. Do some civil, criminal and civil rights work, immigration cases; divorces are my bread and butter, but every now and then I'm a U.S. magistrate in bankruptcy court."

"Would you ever consider coming home?" Jamie glanced at the Judge and Aunt Penn.

"Well… probably not, but the cost of living is so cheap here."

"What is it like to come back home after all these years? What is it like to find this place, with the family who have always loved you, but only now learned to speak your name?"

John gazed at the gorgeous blondboy and smiled, "Don't tempt me. I have a nice life in San José."

"We need you, though. If San José ever gets tiring, come back and be with us."

John leaned down and kissed his cheek, "I'll consider it. I won't plan on it, but I'll think about it."

"We're a lot more fun than bankruptcy court. When your father retires years from now, we'll need the best possible family counselor. John, might that not be you? Come home, run for judge, I'll back you."

John caught his father's eye. "It's not a bad idea, son. Come home, you'll like it here. I'd love to see you sitting at my old bench."

Aunt Penn said, "I'd think, as Lincoln's son, you'd stand a good chance. People respect your father; why wouldn't they go for you?"

John told Kent, "Get him away from me, Satan."

Kent grinned and told him, "Come unto me, all you guys who work too hard. I got me a blondboy here, and you never know what he'll do next."

John said he would consider it, then moved on to other relatives. His father faced Jamie, "There was never anything I could do to get him back to Indiana. But you brought my son home. You, when I could not." They hugged, and Aunt Penn closed her eyes in thankfulness, remembering little Johnny in the fifth grade. Smartest kid in his class; what else would he be? The Kessler kid who fled the Town of Friends, then finally came back as a Kessler man.

***

The Annual Meeting was held; Jamie gave a short, hard-hitting speech. His news was mostly good, but not all. He demanded a dividend freeze before they bankrupted themselves; the market wasn't doing that well and he feared a deep recession.

Their Indiana land was undervalued on the books by millions of dollars, based on that Purdue survey; far worse, they were charging their renters $75 less an acre than the competition got. "Times 23,000 acres, that's some money!" He called it "a thorough scandal," caused by too many dividends and not enough watchdogs, with (obliquely speaking) his husband the President, his advisers and the Annual Meeting all to blame. They could have been making much more money all this time, but they fell asleep. But Jamie wouldn't give them more money until they built up their cash reserves; if the economy declined they'd have something to fall back on.

Philadelphia was in better shape; unused livings were a problem, that golf course and wilderness area, but the Bank of Friends was "conservative, strong and sound," with a well-capitalized loan portfolio. He announced he was bringing back Robert as vice-president of agricultural lending, a great relief to the people afraid of the new kid in town or any other hint of family discord.

They didn't mind that Robert got demoted—they were all his customers and he screwed over everyone, nickel-and-diming them to death—but Jamie said the bank was well-run, which could only be Robert's doing, so it felt good to knock him down a peg or two but keep him on.

Jamie glowered, "But I have not and will not rehire Jill Padgett."—and at the mention of her name Robert turned bright red. His dimwitted wife Susan was gabbing to someone and missed the whole thing.

Jamie then tripled the family's charitable contributions and cut their taxes. He announced a million-dollar gift to the National Museum of African American History and Culture, part of the Smithsonian in Washington, and that Cuttington University in Liberia would soon break ground on Josiah and Evangeline Kessler Hall.

People enjoyed the artist's renderings and campus photographs. The Kesslers knew they weren't Black, but they liked thinking of Miss Evangeline's roots and imagining Africa.

Overall they were fairly shocked at Jamie's blunt talk, but he had all his figures, so they voted him everything he asked for—carte blanche. He made a study paper available online on male primogeniture and the entail; he was determined to repeal male supremacy. "It isn't Kessler-like. It isn't just. It isn't Quaker, it isn't Christian, it isn't Methodist—it isn't American. We meet here on the 4th of July, when Thomas Jefferson opposed this English nobility protection racket. If all are created equal, why is not the fourth-born equal to her brother?"

His look withered everyone in sight. "It's oppressive to half the population; it impoverishes our leadership and endangers our future. Don't pass over a competent woman to empower an incompetent man. Don't enthrone a first-born when the second- or fifth-born is smarter, with better character, better training and more ability.

"The good news is that it's given us Kent, the latest in a long line of great leaders. But next year even he will ask you to repeal male primogeniture."

Martha, Miriam, Aunt Penn, Cher, Aunt Nora and Kiera all stood up and applauded—and so did Uncle Micah, shifting back and forth on his feet, half-scared to be drawing attention to himself.

Then Joey came up, put his arm around his dad and started yelling, "We want girls! We want girls! We want girls!"

Kent stood, "You already got yourself a girl, and she's more woman than you can handle. So stuff a sock in it." Joey disappeared, and Kent stood there applauding the women in his life.

Robert rose to his feet too, and people noticed that.

Kent didn't wait a year to endorse Jamie's study paper, which soon came to be labeled the Titanic Report; iceberg up ahead, let's try not to hit it this time, uhkay?

Then Kent passed out the checks and everyone was ice cream.

Later Jamie huddled with him, and they asked if Mr. and Mrs. Guillory would sit with them in the parlor. They showed off Mr. Abner's marvelous woodwork.

Jamie said, "We're about to unveil a sculpture outside, dedicated to your ancestors and ours. We'd like you to help us with it."

Mr. Guillory listened closely, then turned to his wife, "Mama, I think this is your department."

She looked over the liturgy; Jamie pointed out her parts. She was a Lay Reader in the Anglican Church of Canada; once Jamie heard that, the deal was done. The Youth Steel Orchestra started up again; those kids were great.

***

Food, sunshine and baseball: Kent and Jamie played on the same team this time, a winning combination, though no one really cared who won; the game was about the kids, especially little ones—and taking pictures. If a kid could handle a pitch she got one; if not, Kent placed the ball on the ground right in front of home plate so she could smack it and run run run!

He stood on the mound, loving his life at the James Earl Kessler Stadium for Baseball. He didn't know how he got so lucky as to be born here, or have Jamie make things so good.

"Swing batta, swing batta!" his shortstop cried, pounding his mitt. Étienne Guillory, now in jeans and a red Spandex T, picked up a bat, settled into the box and looked for a pitch. Kent went for a strikeout, got him down to 0-2 in the count; Uncle Wes was the umpire, padded up and bending down.

Then Étienne punched a hard line drive—Jamie leapt and brought it right down in his glove, whack! At that second all three of them knew, You're out, Stevieboy. No hunka man for you.

Étienne was slightly gracious, "Nice shag! For a blond."

And Jamie said… well, he would have, but Mama gave him that evil eye.

She was having fun, didn't mind these boys; Mama was a Jays fan and loved her baseball.

***

As nightfall came on, preparations for the fireworks began. People gathered in the meadow next to the hickory grove, with the charging creek behind them.

Kessler men, the firefighters, were deployed at five ignition stations across the field. This year they had an Italian woman pyrotechnics expert to guide them. Much of the job was now computerized, but someone still had to light the match and prevent the consequences.

Loudspeakers, new this year, started up with music—not the usual "Washington Post March" or other patriotic crap, but the New World Symphony by Antonin Dvorak.

Oohs and ahhs. Randy helped shepherd Sammy, J.J. and Cherisse; the kids lay on the ground and watched the sky explode.

Mrs. Shuey put her arm around her son Chad, who just got a tennis scholarship at Wyoming State.

Robert sat in a lawn chair amidst all the popping sounds and somehow accepted reality. The queer was his boss now; Robert was VP of ag lending.

Pow! Wow! Pow!

***

When the fireworks were done, everyone proceeded to the front circle. The scaffolds were gone, but the tarp was still up; people were extremely curious.

Jamie stepped up to a mic and lectern with the Hickory Grove logo. "Ladies and gentlemen, children and young adults, members of the Bethel AME: thank you all for coming. We are here to dedicate a sculpture, which we hope you will consider a symbol of our family."

Kent came up. "He gave the money. It did not come from the trust, it's Jamie's gift. I'm excited we've finally come to this, I wanna see what he came up with. I been lookin' at this big thing in my front yard and thinkin', What's that boy done now?"

Cher laughed and pumped her fist.

People could see, despite Kent and Jamie's decorum, how much they loved each other. Jamie accused him of messing up the land rents; Kent wondered what this monstrosity was.

They fit together like a man and a man.

Randy walked up, bent down the mic and said, "This is a memorial to a father and a mother, and the children they had." He looked at the little hickory tree, right in the front yard.

Judge Schneider said, "We're very proud this evening to welcome Ms. Vivienne Guillory, wife of a direct descendent of Miss Evangeline Guillory Kessler's brother, Mr. Antoine Guillory, who, we can document by recently discovered records, arrived here on June 29, 1854, because this house was a stop on the Underground Railroad. That's right, Jamie has finally located Josiah's old account books, which were hidden behind a false bookcase in his attic library. Finally, Aunt Penn has the proof she's been looking for all her life.

"Folks, I give you your aunt and cousin, Ms. Vivienne Guillory."

The applause for Mama swelled and swelled. She stood there taking it in, from her husband's family.

The Kesslers were a whole lotta White people, that blondboy most of all. But the Bethel members leaned forward, everyone was eager and listening, so she began. She had the voice of the Black Church.

"This is a reading from Exodus, chapter 13:21-22. Moses describes what the people of Israel saw, as they traveled in the Sinai Desert from slavery to freedom.

"The LORD went in front of them in a pillar of cloud by day, to lead them along the way, and in a pillar of fire by night, to give them light, so that they might travel by day and by night. Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people."

Four Kessler EMTs untied ropes and pulled the tarp off; the sculpture was intertwined stones of black New Hampshire granite and white Indiana limestone, a tall, stylized pillar, modern and exciting.

Then water started gushing out. It was a fountain!

The people stood there listening and watching, seeing something for the first time. Kent pulled Jamie close.

Ms. Vivienne continued, "These waters symbolize many things; the waters of baptism, by which we are joined to the Lord. The river of Jordan; the waters of the rivers Evangeline and Antoine crossed, the Mississippi, the Ohio, the Wabash, the Sugar—with their father Abner the Woodworker.

"It also symbolizes the tears of the oppressed—and tears of joy, when liberation finally comes.

"The waters of Sugar Creek run right behind this house. The waters of the Weas, the Shawnees, the Miamis and Potawatomis who lived here, and whose land this will always be.

"This land is Indiana, the land of the Indians. This land is also, for the slaves out of Africa, the first foot of freedom.

"May it always be this way, no matter who the oppressed might be; may this land forever be the first foot of freedom."

She spoke the prophetic voice of the Black Church with Anglican precision.

"As we look at this monument to a Black woman and a White man, Mother Evangeline and Father Josiah, let us come to understand it as symbolizing, in its spray, a Pillar of Cloud. Clouds disperse and re-form, like the rainwaters do. The spray is the Pillar of Cloud, as we can visualize it now."

She leaned her forearm on the lectern, focused her soul, adjusted her cane, eyed that fountain and let 'em have it. "God led the slaves into freedom. That is what God always does. The message of Exodus is the same as the message of Christ; God leads the slaves into freedom, to the land of plenty, if only they can accept it. Let us pray that with the deep, abiding courage of Miss Guillory and Mr. Kessler, we always accept and embrace our freedom, with the wisdom and compassion to fulfill our responsibilities to each other."

She sat. Jamie gave her the good eye with a wink. She knew what he was like, she just didn't care for four-letter words.

Aunt Penn stood with Kent, Martha, Randy and Judge Schneider. Kent handed Penn a remote, showed her which button to push. She didn't get it right the first time, so Randy showed her the mistake. Then she mashed it.

Flames soared high. The water sculpture ignited into a Pillar of Fire.

Kent almost fell over, he was so amazed. Jamie propped him back up and told him, "That's what your boy's done now."

Kent stared at the fire and slowly knew that every prediction ever made about Jamie was true; that they would be equals, no matter how much that boy liked dick; that Hickory Grove had a new prince, and the family a new sheriff; even that Episcopalians are expensive to keep around.

He gazed at the blond royal next to him, then bent down and gently kissed his neck.

Jamie wasn't an aristocrat; he grew up in a garage east of Bucyrus. His father was violent and his mother was cold. He was oppressed for being Gay every day of his life until, at 14, he struck out on his own by moving to a big city. There it was possible for him to rise by his own merit, and rise he did.

Kent eyed the flag by the new monument next to the fence; this boy was an American who believed that all are created equal, and when that proved to be untrue, he set out to make it come true.

That was why no one was more important to him than Daveyboy. That was why, when the Incident came down, Jamie traded his life; Davey meant everything to him, even a total stranger.

Maybe that was how the red-shirt boy ended up in Kent's unit in Jamie's arms—how Jamie ended up that day in Dublin in the arms of Christ.

Did any of it really happen? Hadn't Kent seen it with his own two eyes? He shut them, trying to comprehend.

Maybe it didn't really happen as his senses thought it did; maybe he saw what no one else could. Maybe it was all a vision, and Jamie just took a nap that day on the floor.

Maybe the entire Bible was one gigantic parable, not of what actually happened, but of what should; of what men and women ought to make happen for the love of God, and for God's love of them.

Or maybe Jesus loved Jamie literally—and Kent, the family, Gay people, the whole entire world—just as the Gospels describe. Was the Testament journalism, allegory or both?

A giant tingling sensation started in Kent's scalp and ran down his entire body. He became frozen to the ground, he couldn't move. His chest stopped moving, his lungs quit.

But it didn't last as long as it did that first time at the state police post when Jamie walked in; it was only a recollection of that time God struck him dead. When his body became kinetic again, by instinct he grabbed Jamie and said, "I love you."

They looked at each other, and Kent stared at those emerald eyes, adoring him back.

---

The sculpture's flame was also the dance bandleader's cue back in the pavilion; he waited five respectful minutes for the people to gaze at their new artwork and discuss it.

The Kesslers' whole family story was finally out in the open; their history right up to the present, back home again at Hickory Grove.

Then the conductor gave a downbeat and the band launched into "Le Jazz Hot" from Victor/Victoria. Their young guest artists, sitting in from Frederiksted, beat their drums like drag queens, the trombonist took Julie's spectacular glissando—and the Kesslers had themselves a ball.++

THE END

Josh Thomas
The Gospel According to Gay Guys

© 2011, All Rights Reserved.

58. The Slow Life

2011-06-12T00:13:00.028-05:00

The Fourth of July was on a Sunday that year, which meant a weekend-long celebration. On Friday night, three dozen people gathered to dedicate the new Patriots' monument, with its flagpole and markers for Our War Dead (those two brothers) and Our Service Members; on the other side Our Protectors, the family sheriffs and other police officers, judges, firefighters and paramedics. Retired Judge Lincoln Schneider presided in all his white-haired, sonorous glory. The EMTs in particular were stunned; their plaque had all their names and showed someone being loaded into an ambulance while a helicopter hovered overhead.

That whirlybird was for Kent, because of the Incident.

Saturday afternoon, more people came for the "Hannah Kessler, Our Mother and Friend" memorial, a very nice bust, beautifully rendered in that Italian marble, surrounded by bushes and flowers with meditation benches, a peaceful, quiet place. Aunt Penn told a little of the story of the Hickses, Coffins and other prominent Quakers in the Richmond area; Hannah was the niece of the famed Elias Hicks. Then everyone repaired to the new pavilion in the backyard for tea and cakes. The pool was open, so all the kids took advantage, "Cannonball!" and giant splashes.

Randy Weishaar came with his parents and 283 students from Mud Pine Elementary School in big yellow buses. They planted a little hickory tree right in the middle of the front yard, "For Michael Guzman, Our Favorite Friend." Randy patted the ground down solid, so the tree would grow.

He ate a hot dog and some salad, but didn't feel like swimming. Jamie sat in the lifeguard's chair in his red, white and blue Speedos and watched him cling to the fence.

Every now and then, Jamie noticed him stealing glances at him. Finally he blew his whistle and ordered everyone out of the pool. "The lifeguard's taking a break; no swimming. Everyone out of the pool."

He went over to Randy and spoke softly to him. Randy stood there looking at that body out of a magazine and somehow burst into tears.

Jamie motioned for the parents, knelt down and held him, "Don't be afraid. I will help you."

Randy remembered those twin hugs for the rest of his life, and how his Mom and Dad came running.

***

James Earl Stadium, the family baseball field, had a big new sign with Dad's name; the field was newly dragged and the grass mowed, Mr. Shuey on his John Deere. The dugouts were repainted and had new water fountains. The bleachers acquired an awning to protect fans from the sun. Kent loved all of it, but kept saying, "I don't know what I'm gonna do with you."

That night the people retired to prepare for the Fourth; the women were going to wear hats this year. In fact it was getting a little competitive; Jamie put them up to it.

Kent supervised some last-minute fireworks set-up; Jamie'd even had a new fire hydrant installed.

Once everyone left they had a little picnic in the hickory grove next to the creek, just the two of them, shirtless in boots and jeans. Rode the horses out, grilled on Dad's old brick barbecue. Simple summer food, Jamie's ranchburgers with roastin' ears, soaked and still in their husks, homemade potato salad and other veggies from the garden, starring John Wesley's fabulous tomatoes.

Kent didn't know you could make your own ranch dressing; he thought it was something you had to buy somewhere. "Great grub, baby. Your own burger recipe, huh?"

Jamie remembered inventing the burgers a few years ago with Rick; that is, Jamie invented them but Rick got the first one. "I ran across a recipe for mushroom burgers once; I wasn't that successful with it, but it gave me the idea for these. It was about this time of year, when the good tomatoes start. A thick slice of homegrown tomato shows off the beef like nothing else can."

They sat at the old picnic table on the edge of the trees; the creek was pleasantly noisy, running high from all the rain. Jamie watched the horses for a minute, feeding on prairie grass, flicking away an occasional fly with their tails. "What a lovely spot this meadow is. A green and pleasant land, our own Albion."

"Promised ya you'd like this place in the summertime. Remember when we were down in the islands a few months ago, and you were threatenin' to live there all winter?"

"It's still a good idea," Jamie smiled, "but you're right, I love it here now. It's so quiet; we live in such a noisy world, but here, nothing happens."

"I like it this way."

"So do I. Here it's just the crickets and grasshoppers and birds in the air, living out their life cycles, foraging for food like always, heedless of any concerns the humans think are important."

"Real life. When you think about it, life's mostly eatin', sleepin' and fuckin'."

Jamie laughed. Kent said, "Well, am I leavin' out anything important?"

"Prayin' maybe. Nothin' else." Jamie could talk Hoosier with the best of them.

"One more slice of tomato." Kent salted it and lifted it up, "Here ya go." He fed it to his buddy, who took it in one bite and soon had juice dripping down his chin. "Yeah, that's the way, baby. Eat up all the good stuff life gives ya till it's overflowin'."

Jamie wiped off with his napkin. "It's almost like being a kid again out here."

"Nothin' to worry about. Yeah, tomorrow's July the Fourth, big party comin'. But ya don't gotta do anything more to get ready for it, baby; what's done is done, and what ain't never will be."

"I'm relaxed about it."

"You should be, you worked hard enough on it. It's gonna be the best 4th of July we ever had. New pavilion, outdoor kitchen; conversation areas all around that pergola. People are gonna love it, buddy. And they're gonna know who did it, too—not to mention that big sculpture thing in the front waitin' to be unveiled."

"It should be a good night. I'm glad we got away from it all back here, just the two of us."

"Let's kill off this rosé, huh?" Kent poured the last of the wine in their glasses. "What country's it from again?"

"Portugal. Their rosés are the best in my opinion. It's not an afterthought with them, an in-between. It's what they do, the kind of wine they make."

"Lotta changes around here since New Year's; new heatin' system pretty soon, new kitchen, all new decoratin'; new website, the start of a real museum."

"Plus we've been together nine months almost."

"That's the best part, baby."

The collie came running up, carrying something in her jaws. Kent stepped down, "Whatcha got there, Gypsy? Come on, girl." She stopped and dropped, and he peered at the thing. "What do I want him for?" He laughed.

"What is it?"

Kent crouched down and petted her head. "You ain't never gonna be a huntin' dog, if you can't do no better than that. You think I need a day-old woodchuck after a good supper?" He laughed again, "Not even with homegrown tomaters."

Gypsy turned away; if Kent didn't want it that was his problem. She trotted off to be with the horses.

He came back and sat on the table next to Jamie, put his arm around him. "Got our backs to the sunset, but look at them colors overhead."

Jamie gazed up. "Thanks for bringing me home, Kent."

Kent stretched out, crossed his boots, took his black hat off and wiped his forehead with his arm, then tapped his hat back in place. "Remember when we used to argue about where your home was?"

"We haven't done that in awhile."

"It's all about this land, baby. To me anyway. This place where we're sittin', generations have gathered here."

"Saw the same things we see. The same butterflies, the same stars."

A bird started singing; Jamie didn't know the name of it, but he knew that call, it's-weird it's-weird it's-weird it's-weird it's-weird.

"Three months from now we'll be in a hotel in Provincetown, waitin' for our wedding day."

"That will be so strange, the civil part of it. I hope Judge Schneider gets approved by the state."

"Who's gonna turn him down? A distinguished trial judge from Indiana, wantin' to officiate one time for his nephew. Then I'll get you as fast as I can to the church wedding you been wantin', baby, the Holy Eucharist and all. Priests runnin' back and forth." Jamie laughed. "Incense smokin' up the joint. Acolytes, the pipe organ blastin' out. Plus it should be worth some money, according to the trust."

"Hospital visitation and inheritance rights are really the more important part, Kent."

"Just get us legal, that's all I care about. In a coupla states anyway."

"The others will come around eventually."

"You think so?"

"DOMA's unconstitutional, Kent. Marriage is a basic human right. This country's so unfair to Gay people."

"I want to give you that church wedding, baby. I know it's important to you."

"Back when I was an acolyte and served at all those weddings, I'm not sure I identified with the brides and grooms so much; it was more a matter of helping to lead the service correctly, assisting the priest, following the rubrics and the parish rules. But now that we're together, I want so much to be publicly married; it's the bookend to our private vows. A church wedding is the only one that means anything to me. It's a sacrament; you don't rent a banquet room in a hotel. The only place to take my holy husband is to a holy place, so a holy thing can happen."

"God's house."

"God's house," Jamie nodded, "and nowhere else."

"Wish we could use the Chapel. Even though I know you don't like it."

"Mister, I'd rather go there than P'town."

"We don't know anyone there."

"If only the Church would wise up. But even in Massachusetts they're not ready; the priest blesses what the government's done, instead of giving us what you deserve."

"Are you sure God blesses Gay people?"

"The Boy in the Red Shirt answered that."

"How you figure, baby?"

"Little bitty toddler in terrible danger; interstate highway, didn't even have a coat on. Ends up in a Gay cop's unit. I mean, Kent, what proof do you need?"

"I wonder how he's doin'."

"I don't. That kid's fine, he's blessed for life. He got the best foster parents in Indiana."

"You're so sure of things. I envy that."

"Maybe it's a gift, just like my life is, Kent. I've had too many experiences not to be sure. You were there for the most important ones. Have they changed your views at all? Or not so much?"

"Yes, they have, pretty much. I haven't thought it all through, though."

"Well, no one has."

"It's a lot easier to pray now, I think. I know God's out there."

"That's terrific. I'm so glad."

"But I'm still gettin' used to the idea that he actually pays attention and does stuff."

"Almost everything people say about Christianity is wrong. We have to engage God directly if we want to know what she's like."

"Like your centering prayer; shut up and listen."

"Yes."

"I never believed in miracles before. But I seen 'em myself; I know they happen. Baby wakes up from a coma and feeds me burgers."

"I read something the other day; just a little snippet, so I'm still thinking about it. It was from this overview of Eastern Orthodoxy."

"What's that?"

"Russians and Greeks, all that territory from Eastern Europe onward. They're Catholics without the Pope."

"Like your E-pis-co-pa-lians?"

"Yes and no. There was this one sentence that talked about 'everyday mysticism.' Unfortunately I haven't been able to find that reference since. But the term itself was helpful; I realized that a good deal of what I experience of God is not as uncommon as it feels."

"Didn't you kind of refer to that yourself, though, that time? Something about, no one talks about it, but if you took a survey of church people…"

"I did say that. But I liked finding that little reference to ordinary mysticism as a recognizable category that someone had a name for.

"If I were the only one this happens to, you could lock me up and not worry about it. But I'm not; we're not.

"Everyday mysticism is what I go through fairly often when I work on the Daily Office website. It's more computer work than prayer for me, Kent, but God and I do converse pretty regularly, and something happens often enough. It's seldom dramatic but it's pretty noticeable. God's there all the time, really, even though I'm doing the most ordinary thing—typing on a keyboard, moving a mouse. I've been doing it all my life, but once a day for an hour or so I get to spend some time with God, who's never not there."

"Is it hard for you sometimes, to devote yourself every day like that?"

"There are times it has been; but the more I do it, the more fun it is. Even when the technology's failing me, the template doesn't work right or the internet's slow. I can get very frustrated, but now when it's noon, I always do the next day's Office; I don't think about whether I want to or not anymore, I just automatically start in. Who wouldn't spend time with their best friend? Would I turn down a chance to be with you?"

"I'm glad you don't, baby."

"It isn't always scintillating, with God any more than it is with you; chances are I'm the one who's not scintillating that day. But I'm never not going to spend the time; God doesn't require me to be scintillating every day." Jamie chuckled, "And fortunately, neither do you."

"I dunno, bud, you're pretty outstanding most of the time."

"When the Boy in the Red Shirt showed up, that wasn't everyday mysticism. He goes in another category, that was dramatic. You could say that it wasn't mystical at all; it was practical, instrumental. God had a kid who needed saving; Commander happened to be in the neighborhood. So you and I got entrusted with this child. There was a mystical aspect to it, but only after the fact; how did that happen? Mystical and mystery come from the same word; things we don't understand."

"You got that right."

"The Orthodox word for sacrament is mystery. They know enough about it to teach that the soul's journey—our destination, our goal, God's will—is always toward union with the mystery of God. He knows we don't understand these things; he knows we can't. And yet we fly to him anyway when we're truly ourselves; and he's permanently there to catch us—waiting for us even, longing for us, as we long for God.

"And notice, there's that word flying again; you used it that day with the Red Shirt Boy. He went flying and landed in your unit. Maybe we were just a way station for him, but we happened to be there when he needed somewhere to land."

"I doubt he'd-a landed with me if you hadn't been there."

"I think the opposite. I won't be there the next time. I'm more and more convinced, God has something in mind for you."

"Oh, jeez."

Jamie smiled. "Don't be afraid." They exchanged a glance. "Be on the lookout, Unit 1477. You're used to handling emergencies. You're a Kessler man."

Kent mulled that over, thinking of the other LEO's and firefighters in the family, and that new monument.

Jamie said, "I want to marry my Kessler man publicly, with all the legal rights we're supposed to have. And you're right, I want to do it in church. That's where it belongs, in God's house. Like you take me to the Chapel, I want to take you to the cathedral. I want holy matrimony with my holy husband in front of the Holy One.

"Yes, we can do it anywhere, but the church is reserved for God, set aside to be her special place—so the church is where we should go."

"Your husband ain't too holy, though."

"Oh, you're wrong. Holy husbands are always mortal men; what else would they be? Becoming a real husband is what makes them holy. And you, sir, are my true husband." Jamie dropped his shoulders, closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest on his shoulders. "Oh, dear God, thank you for this man right here beside me. My soul thanks you for Kent forever."

Kent put his arm around him again, pulled him close. "Even though I'm kinky?"

"Kink didn't stop the Red Shirt Boy. And it sure didn't stop me. I love you, sir. I always will."

"Kinda reminds me of that time in Dublin—that centurion you talked about."

"Couldn't live without his slaveboy."

"I know I couldn't."

"Jesus healed that man's païs."

"Just like he healed mine."

Jamie slapped a mosquito on his forearm, then brushed it off, telling that filthy bug, "I am not your dinner."

"It's startin' to get dark out here, baby; mosquito time. Let's load up our stuff and get back to the house." Kent scooted off the picnic table, took a stick and separated the coals so they'd die out.

Jamie threw their garbage in a paper bag, packed the food and dishes in his hamper, then walked over to the horses to stow them away. Gypsy came up in case he had goodies, but he said, "I already gave you a burger, so I don't want to hear it." She sat and made eyes at him, tail wagging. He grinned, hugged her and called her a burger whore.

"Ow!" Kent cried, slapping himself. "Why did God make mosquitoes?"

"I could have done without all the insects, frankly. God was asleep at the switch."

Kent kissed him, "Maybe he didn't want us to get too happy in this life. How would we know heaven when we get there?"

"It better not have any bugs. Or St. Peter can have it, 'cause I'm leaving!"

Jamie swung up into his saddle and patted Pal-O-Mine's neck; Kent had bought him a new yellow horse for his birthday. "You're sure a pretty boy."

Kent grinned, "You two blondboys do make a pair." He mounted Buster and they set off at a gentle trot for the house.

After a silence Jamie said, "Even the kink reveals God to me."

Kent frowned, "Huh?"

"God knew exactly how to reach me. Knew just what all my issues were. You're the miracle, Kent, as much as the boy in the shirt."

"Now, Jamie. This is goin' far even for you."

"An everyday miracle. Oh gosh!" Jamie exclaimed.

Kent didn't know whether to say something or keep quiet.

Jamie thought and felt, then finally said, "Who taught me self-surrender but you? That's the soul's desire, the ability to surrender. And now I'm learning how to do it. Relax, let go. Obey."

"What does all this mean, though?"

"Self-sacrifice is part of it, I think, but so is the ability to accept the love we're given. If every soul's journey is a flight to God, we have to learn some major things. Trust is one; people have a hard time trusting God, even when we know he's 100% love. I've had trouble with that; I've been afraid that a merging with God, the true communion, would involve destruction of my own personality—which I'm not the least inclined to give up. God made me to be Jamie; does this communion mean my selfhood is lost in him?

"No, it doesn't, but I had to learn that. It wouldn't be merging with God at all, but a spiritual vampire. God likes what he's made, and every snowflake is different. But to get past that fear of losing my selfhood, I have to trust.

"So what does God do? Sends me a man I completely trust. He kind of roughs me up a little sometimes…"—they grinned at each other—"but he's never once been unkind to me. What a gift that is, Kent."

"I do hurt you at times, though. Remember the Presbyterian?"

"It's stupid to fast on Sundays," Jamie sing-sang. "The Wesleys weren't Anglican priests. Jesus couldn't possibly be Jewish. It says so in the King James Bible." Jamie cackled. "You're not unkind, mister, you're fucking ignorant." He laughed again. "But learning fast."

Kent smiled too, "Sorry, baby."

"Oh, but I love you anyway, you great big lunk. What's the other thing my soul has to learn?"

Kent shook his head, didn't know. Jamie said, "Obedience."

"Ah."

"We're supposed to obey God's will, right? Well, who wants to? I don't. Nobody I know wants to obey God's will as their first choice. What he wants might be the very thing we're inclined to do anyway, but hearing it's God's will makes us want the opposite."

"A buncha rebellious kids, huh."

"Who trains me in obedience anyway, even though I think I don't want it; who does that for me, husband?"

Kent grinned and started whistling.

"Even has it inked on his pubes, as arrogant an act as any I can think of."

"I got what you need, baby. Always toldja I do."

"Your cock's getting me ready for God, Kent."

They exchanged a look. That was so shocking, but immediately true, that Kent couldn't speak for a minute. Finally he said, "Ya think people stay married in heaven?"

"The Church has wondered about that, and decided the answer is yes."

"Really?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"Yeah. How 'bout you?"

"Definitely."

"And the priest says we will be?"

"Marriage is a sacrament. Marriage is forever. God's not going to take you away from me so he can have you."

"Do people fuck up there, ya think?"

"The Church usually says no. But they can't be really sure; why would our bodies get resurrected if we just turn into wisps of wind? Still, it is a mystery."

"Maybe the pope don't like thinkin' about people fuckin' in heaven, 'less he gives 'em permission."

"I doubt he gets to decide there any more than he does here. At any rate heaven is a state of spiritual ecstasy. But it has to vary at times, I'd think. A person can only sing God's praises for so long before we start wanting to see some baseball."

"There ya go," Kent laughed. "I wonder if Babe Ruth's in heaven."

"He never forgot that God rescued him when he was a kid and put him in a Catholic school."

"Then watched him play sometimes, I bet."

"I bet so too. Why make a baseball player if you never get to enjoy him?"

"That'd mean Dad is up there too."

"Yup."

"Oh, thank you, Lord."

"The day is coming, Commander. You and Dad are going to have a lot to talk about."

"Jamie, I wanna go there with you!"

"You know what I think? When I'm with you, we're already there."

"Halfway, anyway."

"Take flight, O my soul;
And bring your holy husband with you."

They got to the barn, fed and watered the horses and let them bed down for the night, then walked into the house together. "Shower, buddy?"

"I hope to tell you. You smell like horse, dude."

Kent took him in his arms. "If there ain't no lovemakin' in heaven, how 'bout we try it again while we still can?"++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

57. Havoc

2011-06-11T18:20:00.054-05:00

The Purdue Boilermakers did not win the conference championship that year. They did not go to the College World Series. Michigan State shut them out and it was over—a century of futility.

But Kent was all right; they performed above their athletic ability, which is what a Purdue team's supposed to do, what Purdue coaches are supposed to get out of their players. It was a great season; they were in the race till the end. Someone won and someone lost; that's the nature of sports, most people lose. It can be hard to take in the moment, but eventually players always learn, "It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game."

As kids they were winners and he loved every one of them—except for Bascomb; that guy was a jerk.

Then Kent prepared to go to Washington, New York, London and Brussels; Scotland Yard, Interpol and the FBI. The people he most wanted to meet were the ones in NYPD.

Jamie went to Ohio for the fashion show and strawberry festival for Jamie's House, his final appearance. Cher and Ma came with him and modeled clothes too, a wonderful experience; Cher did makeup for most of the cast and was roundly hailed. They raised a record amount, $152,000. Martha sold a dress for five grand.

The ladies left Sunday night, then on Monday he headed for the Honda plant in Marysville for three days to portray his goofy-smart autoworker. He was never funnier than in that film—but at the end of the shoot they laid him off, all film production was moving to Southern California.

They did offer him an option for five more years of commercials in Japan at $2.5 million, so he took that, but no one seemed to know whether he was wanted for the Indianapolis "500," so he decided he wasn't; he never attended the race again.

Maybe he could offer his character to Subaru of Indiana, based in Lafayette, where they made Outbacks, Legacies and Tribecas, and Honda could watch him being goofy-smart while building cars in his home state. He was no one to fuck with, and Honda might someday learn that.

He visited the Subaru plant and the workers thought he was a celebrity; they'd all watched those Honda videos to get a competitive edge. He let the acclaim happen for a second, then went into Goofyman, and they whooped. The Goof could barely make out Japanese production methods, but he excelled in witty translation, and with his first Subaru film he was a hit.

He asked for and received Kent's permission to relocate the flagpole in the center circle outside; he had in mind something grander, next to the fence by the side of the road, so that everyone who passed by would know, "This house celebrates America." They looked at the spot together and Kent said yes. Jamie wanted to pair it with two new monuments, one for the family's soldiers and sailors—especially those two sons of Josiah and Hannah's who gave their lives in the Civil War—and another for cops, firefighters and EMTs. Judge Evan too; he was a lawman. The Kesslers had a lot of lawmen.

Kent looked at drawings Jamie'd had made up, with his new crew of architects and designers; one was a bust of white Italian marble, HANNAH KESSLER, OUR MOTHER AND FRIEND. That would go on the east side of the property, well within view of the house. The other, nearer the drive, was called "TEACHERS," with a big bronze casting of Aunt Penn, Martha and some kids who looked like Kiera, J.J., Cherisse and Little Kent.

Yes, these markers would cost some money. But they had money and Kent didn't even look at the bottom line. If Jamie said they needed them, they did.

They were very tender with each other the night before Kent left. He warned him solemnly, Jamie wasn't allowed to meet other men or touch himself. If that was difficult, and Kent hoped it was, they were to IM, e-mail and talk on Skype. "No exceptions!"

"Yes, sir."

For the airport trip, Kent drove Jamie and Mrs. Shuey; the boy wasn't allowed to drive. But he was allowed to design—and please, don't ever let a Gay guy do that, or you don't know what you'll end up with—and that very morning a phalanx of contractors descended on Hickory Grove.

***

On Thursday of that week, a photograph of Kent and Jamie ran in the Crawfordsville Beacon-Telewire with the following article.

"Martha Tanquery Kessler of Hickory Grove, Town of Friends, announces the engagement of her son Kent Tanquery Kessler to James Rees Foster of West Lafayette and New York.

"Kent Kessler, 27, is a sergeant with the Indiana State Police. He is the son of the late James Earl Kessler, a farmer, Montgomery County commissioner and Kessler Township trustee, and Mrs. Kessler, a Crawfordsville Public Schools teacher and current county commissioner. Kent is a graduate of Indiana University and a former Major League Baseball player with the Atlanta Braves. As a student at Northmont High School, he was the only three-time winner of Indiana's Mr. Baseball award. In 2002 he was selected for the National League All-Star team and was named the Most Valuable Player in the National League Championship Series. He retired due to injury.

"Jamie Foster, 26, is a freelance journalist, until recently employed by The Ohio Gay Times, where he was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting. Founder of the online marketing firm InFashion Corp., he is a son of the late Thelma Rees Foster of West Lafayette, a clinical pharmacist at the Indiana Veterans' Home, and Ronald James Foster of Orlando, Florida. He is a graduate summa cum laude of the University of Chicago, where he played basketball, and holds a master's degree in journalism from Columbia University.

"In 2002 Jamie Foster won a Daytime Emmy award as Best Younger Actor on 'All My Children.'

"The couple met last year while investigating the FBI Snuff Film murder ring. Fifteen people are awaiting trial on murder and conspiracy charges in the deaths of 13 Gay men from Indianapolis. Seven additional conspirators were killed in a shootout last year, commanded by Sgt. Kessler's inter-agency task force.

"A September wedding is planned in Provincetown, Massachusetts, followed by a liturgy of blessing and Holy Eucharist at the Episcopal Church of St. Mary of the Harbor.

"After a sail to Rockport, Maine and a honeymoon in the British Isles, the couple will receive friends at a reception at Hickory Grove, the family estate, a Hoosier Heritage farm since 1832."

It was a large, handsome photograph. But Kent was six inches taller and Jamie wondered if he should have stood on some phone books. Maybe it would have made a better shot.

Kent e-mailed him, "No! You're perfect as it is, little boy.

"Let yourself be little. Let yourself be mine."

So Jamie waited for hateful phone calls. There was only one, "blow you away" and blah blah, which he reported to the state police. Some guy got picked up for phone harassment and Jamie signed a paper.

Congratulations poured in, including John in California. But women and girls throughout Montgomery County wailed and gnashed their teeth. Jamie they didn't mind; he was Gay, how nice. But Kent Kessler, of all people! Their hopes were dashed.

The Outlaw Josey Wales was a little scared to show his face after that engagement announcement, but nobody paid him the least little mind. He was already married and besides that, he was just Joey and what could you expect.

***

Kent got home a few days before the 4th of July. His conference was good; he learned a lot. It didn't change much, though; the conferees quickly caught on that this guy was Mr. Indiana.

The driveway was paved now, fancy bricks. The front circle, much bigger, had some kind of giant sculpture thing, shrouded with scaffolding and blue tarp. The back yard had a new wood pavilion that looked fantastic. Obviously Jamie'd been planning all this for months. He said he "wanted to learn about the family," but meanwhile he was plotting behind Kent's back.

Kent walked into the sunporch, with refurbished windows, no curtains and Father Josiah's kitchen table now the spotlit eating area, and entered his kitchen. It knocked him on his heels.

Aquariums, fishes from the Virgin Islands; pots and pans overhead, work counters everywhere, art on the walls, a baking area. Flat-screen monitors with internet access, a new sound system; the old hearth ripped out and a smaller one installed with seating on either side. The lighting! The appliances; of course those got replaced. The old fridge was now three side by side, with glass doors and lights so you could see inside. The freezer was a walk-in, with a hook for your hoodie so you wouldn't get cold; Kent smiled at that. The sinks were operated by pedals, like a hospital, to prevent contamination; Jamie was all excited about his sinks. The flooring was gorgeous too, ivory, diamond-shaped tile with with red flecks and well-placed drains, "It can all be hosed out every night." He was very big on sanitizing a kitchen; he wasn't going to lose his husband to bacteria. He'd already lost a husband once, and he wasn't about to lose this one.

Even the scullery got a makeover, with an industrial rinsing garbage disposal, an energy-saving dishwasher ("the water's so hot we won't need to dry dishes"), a fan and air conditioning, shelving and nice new everyday dishes, with service for a hundred. "That many?" Kent asked.

"Darn right," came the reply. "What about the Kent Kessler Boys and Girls Club Classic? Not to mention those awful check parties. Should people come to Hickory Grove to eat off plastic plates?" Plus new gold-trimmed flatware.

But what Kent liked the best were the new kitchen cabinets; "Hickory," Jamie told him, "from your own grove. Remember all those trees that got knocked down in the ice storm on Christmas Eve?"

"These cabinets are so light, though. I was thinking our hickory wood was a lot darker, like Josiah's table."

"These weren't. I had them cut a board and make color samples. These are just varnished, not stained, and I decided I liked them the best. Your mother's kitchen was kind of dark. A northern exposure, so thank God for that sunroom."

Kent ran his hand over a cabinet door. "I hated losing those trees. But I love having them for cabinets. Oh, baby, you done so good. The kitchen's so much lighter this way. Josiah's own trees made our kitchen cabinets." He choked up a little. "Yes!"

Jamie wanted to show him the rest of his projects; they went up the back stairs. The workers repairing the windows were only halfway along on the second floor, but Jamie said, "No replacement windows; maintain the architectural integrity of what you have. This is already cutting our electric bill." Kent said uh-huh in a daze.

But there, as they prepared to descend Mr. Albert's grand staircase to the foyer, stood an amazing aqua waterfall that must have been thirty feet tall. It reached up to the second floor, the whole thing done in glass. Kent stared at it like a dumbard as they stepped down to the front rooms. "How much did this thing cost?"

"It's my contribution. The house needs a unifying theme. This installation is called Justice Rolling Down, after the famous passage in the Book of Amos, 'Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.' Isaiah quotes it, too."

"Well, as a law enforcement officer, I believe in justice, all right." That sculptured glass waterfall was dazzling.

"But justice isn't only individual cases, Commander; Amos said the social and civil arrangements of society are the most essential aspects of justice. That's what Father Josiah and all the Quakers took to heart."

"We better make sure JJ don't wreck this thing when he's runnin' around like Spider-Man," Kent grinned, "or his Daddy's gonna get a great big repair bill from Lady Justice."

Jamie smiled. "I'm also paying for the sculpture outside. I thought we'd unveil it on the Fourth."

Kent peeked inside the dining room, the most important one in the house. The banquet table, the portraits, everything was fine—but the portraits were brushed off and brighter than ever. Ms. Evangeline, cleaned up good and proper, had quite a bosom. No wonder Josiah married her.

The other rooms were not molested too much, most of the furniture remained; Evan Kessler was upgraded from the coat closets to the parlor because he was the state Chief Justice. But the art in the gallery was becoming art: gone were the minor family portraits, to be relocated upstairs. Instead the walls held an image of William Penn; a skillful copy of a portrait of William Wilberforce; a gilt icon of Martin Luther King Jr.; a bronze bust of Oliver P. Morton, Indiana's Civil War governor and U.S. senator, with a hand-lettered copy of the 15th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, which he sponsored:

Section 1. The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

Section 2. The Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

Another display showed Mr. and Mrs. Coffin and their home filled with hiding places. Original framed letters from Josiah and Levi Coffin described the sending and receiving of hams. Josiah had three big ones and two small ones to send; Levi reported their safe arrival and remitted $3.16 for merchandise received.

You couldn't exactly tell by how they wrote, but they seemed to be enjoying each other; "Dear Sir," "Kind Sir," and Levi never failed to praise "the superior smoke of Hickory Grove."

Kent read those letters and kissed his husband five times.

Hannah was back downstairs too; a print of Harriet Beecher Stowe, with a first edition of her novel. Pieces of pewter; a 1920s ad in Hoosier Horseman for an ancestor's horse-breeding operation, called Kessler's Stud Service, and paired with it, a little cartoon from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Kent swinging for the fences.

Another frame held a photograph of James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier (and unmarried) Poet, with two of his letters to his friend Judge Evan, commenting on "Little Orphant Annie" (which was supposed to be Allie, after a friend of his) and the enormous popular success of Rhymes of Childhood. A photo showed the columnist and Broadway playwright George Ade from Kentland, Jamie's hometown, helping the elderly Mr. Riley prepare a new edition of his works. (Ade never married either.)

A big new painting of James Earl and Martha sent Kent down to his knees; that was exactly his Dad and Mom. Big, powerful, smiling Dad; smaller, beautiful, compassionate Mom. Jamie said, "The artist was born in Lafayette, but he lives in Evanston, Illinois now. He came and interviewed your Mom so he could get to know her a little bit, and so she could tell him about your Dad. This artist has works in major museums all over the country, man. This is a valuable piece in every way." Kent marveled at it.

And for the first time, a portrait of Kent and Jamie appeared, based on a photograph Ma took of them last Christmas; small and discreet, just fifteen inches high but evocative and sexy, by the last, best photo-realist commercial artist Jamie could find: only their bare shoulders and heads visible in an embrace, Kent leaning down with one hand behind Jamie's head, another hand guiding his jaw as Jamie leaned up for a kiss.

It did have a certain Breck Girls quality to it, as the artist focused lovingly on Jamie's bright blond hair and Kent's black and sexy. Plus it emphasized their muscles; very homoerotic. Jamie didn't tell Kent there was a much larger version in the works; maybe someday, after their deaths probably, it would become their official portrait in the dining room.

He also showed Kent a new, limited-use version of the logo: HICKORY GROVE, then the architectural graphic, UNDERGROUND RAILROAD.

Kent embraced him. "This is fantastic, baby, all you done. It's excellent."

"Thank you."

"But…" Kent grabbed his shoulders. "Havoc everywhere I go. Always is with you, ain't no stoppin'. Can't let you outta my sight." Jamie started laughing. "If we need groceries you ain't allowed in the store. No gas station, no post office, none of it. Don't even think about that bank. And no pickin' daisies by the side of the road. You ain't goin' nowhere long as this keeps up."

Then he swept him in his arms and carried him upstairs.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

56. Commandments

2011-06-11T02:03:00.023-05:00

It took a lot more digging, but Kent did eventually find the killer. He beat Michael in fury, because he couldn't look at his own sins. He beat Michael instead of beating himself.

Kent made his approach calm and businesslike. There are techniques involved in taking custody of someone; you don't just bust in snarling, that only escalates a dangerous situation. Good Cop went to the Christian church, hoping to make the arrest quietly. The whole thing was horribly sad, but it had to be done, so he did it.

The key piece of evidence turned out to be an overlooked photograph taken by Leland Timmons's little granddaughter the night of the murder. He found her in the living room playing with his camera, pushing buttons randomly. The pictures were all dark, out of focus, a waste of pixels, and he apologized to Kent for all the bad shots—but Kent noticed the date and time stamp, and asked him to magnify a few of them. High-resolution, a powerful lens: the little girl accidently took a picture of grandma's driveway, and Kent got enough of a license plate to identify a new witness.

He could prove Pastor Williams was there that night; Kent had an affidavit from his sex partner, who owned the car parked in the driveway. She witnessed the killing and identified the pastor, as well as two other eyewitnesses who agreed to testify. The minister didn't have an alibi; his wife was out of town leading a mercy mission in Guatemala.

So Kent just asked him about it there in his office. "Did you kill Michael Guzman the night of January 5th of this year?"

"Yes."

"What did you use to kill him?"

"There was a board nearby."

"What kind of board?"

"A two-by-four."

"What did you do with that two-by-four?"

"I beat him with it."

Kent's eyes narrowed. "How many times did you beat him with it? How many blows?"

"Uh, twenty or thirty."

"Was it twenty or was it thirty or was it more?"

"Well, I didn't count. Maybe thirty times."

"Thirty times you beat a defenseless boy, a member of your own Sunday School, with a two-by-four, until his brains splattered out. Where did this take place?"

"In the corner of the living room."

"Who else was there?"

He named them all.

"Turn around. Hands behind your back." Click!

Kent didn't even remind him of the Second Commandment, Thou shalt not kill; there was no need to. The pastor already knew the Second Commandment, he just couldn't obey it.

Meanwhile Kent had pieced together the rest of the story. Grandma couldn't have stopped that pastor; she was strung out on Oxy and barely realized what was happening. By the time she got off the couch, Michael was already dead. Big Eddie wasn't even in the room; it wasn't his fault either. The sheriff didn't do it and neither did the judge. The prosecutor's secretary tipped off the sheriff's secretary, which is why it took until the next day for the sheriff to notify grandma of the warrant.

The sheriff did supervise grandma in the crime scene wipedown; Big Eddie dumped the body in the cornfield, where he slid on a patch of ice and crashed his old green pickup. That piece of grille plastic Jamie found was a perfect match.

Kent got guilty pleas out of everyone, the pastor, grandma, Big Eddie and Sheriff Jack Dawson, who also pleaded to bigamy charges and operating a gambling establishment without a license in Kouts.

They were all going to jail for a million years, and Kent was glad about it. The pastor did it and no one else, which Kent further verified when Corporal Kwiatkowski got the two-by-four from West Virginia tested and came up with a fingerprint match on that cigarette butt Kent tweezed. She did great work; Kent praised her repeatedly. He also called that excellent woman sheriff in West Virginia, told her she solved the case.

Nothing could bring back Michael, though; Michael was in heaven, where he belonged.

After the arrest, it felt like time to get with Randy Weishaar, the ten-year-old boy who lost his friend.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed.

It was springtime in Mud Pine, Indiana, a partly sunny day; they walked along after school, noticing jonquils and tulips and the trees greening out. Randy was massively upset but oh-so-butch.

"I'm sorry, little man. Your buddy didn't deserve none of this."

"No, he didn't."

"The world is an unfair place. I hate telling you that as a kid, but dude, it's got criminals in it. Robbers, thieves, killers."

"And policemen," Randy said, misty-eyed.

"Dang!" Kent shut his eyes and punched both fists in front of his chest. "I'm so sorry."

Randy picked up a stick and held it next to a fence, a little kid's noisemaker, buh-da-buh-da-bud.

"Don't think that Jesus liked this, just because that so-called minister killed a kid."

"I don't."

"Jesus doesn't like this. Jesus hates this, in fact. But one of the reasons he came here was to save us from this stuff."

"I know." Randy tossed away his stick, and their eyes were drawn to one of the first robins of spring, who perched on a stump and didn't fly away as they approached. They stopped walking; she stayed right there, eyeing them.

"This is so cool," Randy whispered. "Pretty bird."

"She's prob'ly got a nest close by," Kent whispered too. "Wish we had us some robin food, so we could give her a snack."

"What do robins eat?"

"I dunno, grains or seeds or somethin'. Worms, right? Birds eat worms. You think I'm Google?"

Randy giggled and said no. The robin flew up to a good branch over their heads, but not far away.

She meant for them to pass by apparently, so they walked on. But Randy turned around and watched her, still with her eye on them but pretending not. "Why was Michael killed again?"

"Because he came downstairs and found the minister… uh, fooling around in grandma's living room with a woman who wasn't his wife. It was a Sunday night, which was, um, when they always got together for their little parties. But Kouts was on vacation and Danville was closed, so he went to the house and started fooling around with… whoever he could find."

Randy used the street term for it, and Kent said yes.

"Don't reject Jesus just because of that guy. I mean, I'm not saying this as a police officer, Randy. As a cop I have no religion, everyone's equal, and I believe that. I'm only saying this as Kent."

"It's kind of nice to have a police friend."

"Oh, little man, I'd have given anything to protect Michael from that preacher."

They walked along. "How's Jamie?"

"Worried about you. He's got your name and Michael's on this prayer list, plus all the kids at Mud Pine School. It's on the internet, other people pray for you guys too."

"What church do you go to?"

"I'm an Episcopalian." Kent had never said that before, never thought of it even, but it sounded like the right answer.

"I've never heard of them, I don't think."

"I know. Doesn't matter, find your own way. No one gets to tell you how to think."

They entered Randy's street. "I miss Michael so bad."

"I know. He misses you too. But he's in heaven, which is where we're all tryin' to get to. God snatched him up just like that." Kent snapped his fingers.

"God's pretty smart."

Kent just laughed. He loved children, they say the truest things.

They approached Randy's house, almost there, and he turned to the police officer, confronted him. "What am I supposed to think? Ministers in meth labs and crackhouses, the best boy who ever lived is dead! How'm I supposed to live now?"

Kent crouched down, put his hands on Randy's shoulders. "Son, I'm sorry. The Christian story is the story of a crime. For no good reason they put to death God's own son.

"But he rose above it, man; he went on to live forever, and that's what you've got to do too. He overcame their sins and proved them wrong, just like all those people at the meth house were wrong. Michael never deserved to die, but neither did Jesus.

"Then they both flew to heaven. They're at this giant pub up there right now, man, called Padre Mickey's Dance Party. With Mozart and Dizzy Gillespie, dueling mariachi bands and, I dunno, Judy Garland maybe. Then Ethel Merman comes on and tries to hog the whole stage. It's an all-star cast!"

Randy laughed, "You are a total nut."

Kent stood up, tossed back his head and said, "No. I'm an Episcopalian."

They walked arm on shoulder to the house, and on the front step they hugged and held on for dear life.

There, looking down at the little guy, Kent touched his thumb to his tongue and made the sign of the cross on Randy's forehead.

Then he shooed him inside to his parents with a little posterior encouragement.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

55. Lesbian Steak

2011-06-05T20:43:00.030-05:00

Good Friday was good, like it's supposed to be; Kent didn't say anything, but he didn't eat or drink between noon and three. He did start watching the clock at 2:24, though. He got thirsty. And hungry. Dang Episcopals anyway.

Jamie made a big dish for supper called "Lesbian Steak," an ancient and affectionate joke about women vegetarians. Kent had never heard of tofu, but when Jamie told him it was spun soybean milk, Kent ate it right up. Jamie said, "Maybe it came from here, buddy."

"Coulda been." The sauce was the key, of course; it always is with Amazon Steak. They went butch and femme for the whole meal—and not the way you might think.

Jamie took it to mean Kent was available—and he was, but every bit as macho as before.

On Saturday he asked if Jamie wanted to go watch Purdue baseball, a doubleheader against Minnesota. The Boilers were still in a tight race for the conference championship and the weekend series was big. Jamie was sorely tempted, but he ended up deciding to stay home. He thanked Kent for giving him the chance—Jamie'd only been to five games all season, always on the weekends, but he didn't feel right about breaking Holy Saturday, even for a crucial doubleheader. Christ was crucified; Jesus was dead.

But the Boilers swept the Gophers and Kent came home ecstatic.

That night he took him back to Lafayette for the Easter Vigil, with its first fire, a procession indoors and a brass quartet; Kent was filled with excitement, because all the decorations were back. The Celtic cross, the frontal, all of it—plus a brass band!

***

He went to Kessler Chapel on Easter Day; Jamie stayed home to roast a leg of lamb from a local farm that John Wesley'd turned him on to. Jamie told Kent to invite J.W., his girlfriend Sandy "and the next six people you meet after church." Kent did, and they ended up with a bunch of firefighters and cops, girlfriends, wives and a husband. It was a wonderful day; Jamie had never done a whole leg of lamb before, but the food was great and the visiting was better. They had a little wine; it was Easter, a celebration.

What most impressed Jamie was the mutual admiration between Kent and his officer-cousins. They may or may not have liked Gay people, but they liked Kent and they liked eating, so they liked Jamie too.

That night their sex life changed again. Kent stopped resenting Jamie as if he were some impossible angel on earth; he wasn't, Kent had met the real God—and though he couldn't describe him, he knew God wasn't a blondboy with a bubble butt and 59 starving needs.

Kent stopped being addicted and just fucked him, open and smiling, slap-ass and silly; they grooved on each other, shouting and free. There was lots of "Daddy" and "Chipper," and yes, that collar played a central role; Kent got Jamie to say how much he loved belonging to him, that he couldn't live without him, that he'd never want anyone else—and in truth he never did.

Afterwards, sweaty and wet, Kent said, "I shouldn'ta done what I did. I'm sorry. That attitude. I was wrong."

True. But Jamie said, "It doesn't matter, sir. I love you. Man oh man!"—Kent's favorite exclamation.

Maybe they started to talk like each other, an upgrade for Kent and a downgrade for Jamie. Maybe it was "The Americanization of Emily."

They'd been married a few months now; they weren't complete strangers, and the more they found out about each other the harder they fell. Jamie wanted a Centurion; the sergeant wanted a servant boy.

An outsider, a moralist, might have criticized them for their "dominant/submissive" sex, if that's what it was. Kent dominated, Jamie submitted, but a lot more was going on than that. It took place in a context of real love.

Further, Kent was raised to be a prince—but he'd never quite got there. Jamie showed him how, by loving and supporting him, serving him, obeying him—and noticing that sometimes the emperor was buck naked and making mistakes. The bank was an example; Kent let Robert ride roughshod over him for no better reason than "my Dad hired him."

Kent needed to go higher; Jamie needed to go lower. Looking like he did, talented as he was, acclaimed everywhere he went, constantly pulled toward show business but desperately running the other way, he didn't need elevation, he needed to know where the ceiling was, so he didn't bump his head and get hurt.

The same was true of Kent; looking like he did, talented, enormously popular, constantly pulled toward sports but desperately running toward his intellect, he needed elevation so he could stop putting a ceiling over his head.

Jamie needed limits; kids always do. Kent was right that Jamie was still a boy; half of what Kent did wasn't for his own egotistical self, but for his boy. Jamie brought out the ego in him, that he'd never publicly expressed before; it isn't considered polite or attractive—and Kent was conscious as a player that he was in the fulltime media eye. But he was born to be a Kessler man, even if he never managed it until they found each other. Maybe getting out of baseball and taking a low-class job that made him think—policing, when people look down on cops—was the role he was looking for.

Every firstborn prince is meant to be a king—and Jamie was the one who crowned him.

Jamie was more complicated—Gay and all, domestic violence, the weirdness of U-High (and Columbia's worse), most of all getting pawed all the time, as if anyone and everyone had a right to put a hand on his body—taught him how high he could go, and made him worry where the ceiling was. An Emmy award for taking off his shirt?

After Rick and the unrelieved tragedy of young illness and death, Jamie needed someone to take a little care of him, to put a hand on his neck, "Go here, go there," or otherwise he'd have gotten so grandiose he'd have melted like Icarus, thinking he could fly to the sun.

He couldn't. He was a Jamie, not the Dalai Lama. He was a Hoosier and a cocksucker, a battered child with an anxiety problem, who just woke up from a coma. He needed directions, "How do I get out of here?"

So he found a cop who gave him directions. And when he fell for that cop he went right down. Kent didn't teach him to go down on all fours, he did that on his own; Kent just added a puppy tail, don't leave him like you found him, show him something new.

There can't be any shame in going down on a man when you know that in the next moment he's probably going down on you.

Everyone needs to be lifted up with a giant ego stroke, and everyone needs some limits set.

There's no inherent shame in Gay life; that's just religion and politics. When you can stick it to him like he sticks it to you, you're equals—and the sticking isn't revenge, it's a gift.

Jamie and Kent fit together. They weren't always perfect, but the parts fit together just fine.

That's the aspect of Gayness that Straight people haven't quite figured out yet, because obviously their parts fit together perfectly—plus they can make babies, miraculous creatures like JJ and Cherisse and Little Kent.

But Jamie wasn't into babies at all. He worried about overpopulation. He'd get on his soapbox, "Ten billion people by 2050! The earth can't sustain it, we'll end up like Easter Island, where overpopulation caused human extinction. The one and only commandment of God that people have ever obeyed is 'Be fruitful and multiply.' Everything else God's ever said they ignore—but that one they always get right!"

Kent didn't mind that Jamie liked his wooden box. As they walked away from Hyde Park Square the boy muttered, "Half of Catholic theology's predicated on 'Be fruitful and multiply.' As if they need fucking instructions. They don't!"

Kent didn't mind at all; he knew he could shut him up with one good slap on the ass. Then he'd toddle behind like a good little boy because he was Just That Way.

Kent believed in intellect, but not in too much thinkin'.

Once Jamie found the ceiling he lived up there; the king looked up to his prime minister, who always offered his hand and a way up.

They were made for each other. They fit together like a man and a man.

Or like a macho boy with a macho man; there wasn't much unusual about them, once you've met a few Gay guys. Puppy loved his Papi; everyone loved his Papi. Kent had simply learned to be masculine without being a jerk, thanks to Kessler Manhood Training™, designed by a woman, Miss Evangeline.

James Earl was far the best teacher, though, and Kent was the best pupil. In spanking lessons, he and Joey used to practice on each other so they'd know what it felt like physically and mentally; how much was too much, and how much was "more more more."

Kent used to love beating Joey's ass. Joey didn't complain that much, so why not?

Jamie, though, was different, all boy from birth, so pristine that no one ever laid a hand on his butt or the Queen Herself would crack down.

Kent came into same-sex late—but he knew the minute Jamie walked into his state police post. For all his swagger and strut, the outward appearance of macho, those eyes said something else: not grown yet, innocent child, Indiana Nice. Kent knew it wouldn't take much to get a finger inside that mouth, and it's not far from there to sticking it up his butt.

But to do it without getting bit or calling out the Royal Air Force (all Anglicans think they command the RAF), he had to be the best possible Kent. The price of admission was excellence, the exact demand an ex-Major Leaguer most needed, because if you cater to a ballplayer he starts spitting sunflower seeds all over the dugout. He starts being a jerk, which is against the rules in Kesslerville.

So yes, it took three months, then Kent got a finger in his mouth. Then it was all Papi from there. And Jamie was willing to enter into Dom/sub, a Kessler man's secret craving, without pretense or hullaballoo, because he was honest like a child and because Kent had already come through for him. Trust is what led to Sir.

It wasn't an incest fantasy; more like JJ going gaga over Spider-Man.

***

In the days ahead they got looser than ever before, especially when Jamie told Kent that Easter lasts 50 Days and they'd need a ritual to commemorate every one of them. Kent grinned and said he knew just the thing.

As to their fantasies, fetishes and perversions, they were no one's business but their own. They always treated each other with high regard, and if somebody's butt turned red, or somebody's boots got shiny, or some chains and ropes came out, or someone got seriously wet, you didn't hear it from them.

They were married—even better, they were free, they were honest, they had each other.

They lived those 50 Days in joy. Besides, Jamie'd bought lots of new towels. Kent looked at the credit card bill and laughed. "We needed them," Jamie insisted in that imperial Anglican way.

Kent all but fell out of his chair; the Duke of Gloucester was dripping wet and needing towels. "Hey, who am I to say you can't?"

They came into their own and they did it together. The Centurion and the pais found their mates, and they went at it in every room in the house.

How many rooms? Fifty, perfect. They lived their Easter ritual and celebrated for fifty straight nights.

Kent loved God more and more. And every time he saw Jamie's ass he wanted to fuck it—so he did.

The boy said, "Jesus went to that wedding in Cana knowing just what would happen—and he danced."++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

54. Love Unknown

2011-06-02T00:55:00.039-05:00

Kent got back from his run and kissed Jamie good morning in the kitchen. "There's my pretty boy. I get bacon today?"

"Plus home fries and a whopping omelet." Jamie checked his spuds, which were looking brown and crispy.

"Ooh, baby."

"Would you slice those mushrooms?"

"Wash my hands first, I'm kinda sweaty. It's gettin' warmer out."

"Thank God." Jamie threw some chopped onions and bell peppers into a hot pan.

"You'll like it here when the warm weather comes."

"I know I will, Kent. I love Indiana, I don't mean to complain all the time." Jamie broke eggs into his big measuring cup, beat them and added a tiny bit of water.

"You ain't complained once. I mean, I can't do nothin' about the weather, baby, but once you get warmed up, it's gonna be good around here."

"I love your optimism. That's a nice thing to wake up to."

"Summer's comin', buddy. A coupla months, you won't be wearin' no shirt when I come home. I'll be lickin' your tits 'n' everything."

Jamie laughed. "We're not there yet, bud."

"I know. I'm lookin' forward."

"Let's talk about tonight. It's Maundy Thursday, Kent. We're to be at the church in Lafayette, not Crawfordsville, by seven o'clock. This means you must be home by six-thirty."

"Okay. I'll be on time. Ready for the mushrooms?"

"Yes." Kent dumped them in the frying pan and Jamie stirred. Toast popped up. "Will you get that?"

"Yeah." Jamie already had the margarine out. "What should I expect tonight? Do I have to dress up?"

"No, this will be different; it involves supper, and Episcopalians don't do a lot of church suppers. I think the fare is probably just bland Hoosier chili and an iceberg salad. This rector has the idea that we're all these rich privileged Americans, so we ought to eat as if we're in solidarity with people in poverty. He's right, and it's still Lent for a few more days, but he'd get more attendance if we had better food. Afterwards he'll wash some people's feet."

"What for?"

"Jesus washed the feet of his 12 disciples before the Last Supper. Then we'll go into the church for a regular mass, after which people can leave or stay to watch the stripping of the altar; the sacrament is reserved in the chapel and some people will keep a vigil. Then tomorrow is Good Friday, a strict fast; no meat all day, no food or drink between noon and 3 p.m."

"I could do without the fasting part."

"Well, Kent, it's voluntary; it's between you and God. No Friday night date, okay? I'll make something vegetarian with a lot of flavor." Soon they sat down to eat and held hands. "For eggs and bacon and cheddar cheese, may the Lord make us truly thankful."

"Amen," Kent grinned. Then he dug in. "Mmm, good stuff. Makes me feel like I'm alive."

Jamie closed his eyes and memorized that. His husband kissed his cheek. Jamie savored it all, perhaps because of Rick; death has so much to teach us. Jamie was glad to be alive too, with this man.

"Went to Danville yesterday," Kent began.

"What did you find?"

"Jack Dawson's known as Jack Meecham there. Another set of wife and kids—which makes three if you count his ex in The Mud. He's a truck driver supposedly, so he ain't in town that often. But guess what, Darnay Meecham holds private parties too, the second and fourth Sundays. Gets $40 a head there, I guess Kouts is the discount operation."

"Well, Kouts would be," Jamie laughed. "But what does this mean, Kent?"

"It's some kinda sex cult; wife-swappin' and bigamy. No wonder he needs all the money."

"What does Bertha's daughter say?"

"I'm meetin' her at nine this morning. She's the one who ain't into it."

"How does this relate to Michael?"

"Maybe he saw the preacher kissin' the church secretary. Suddenly maybe he understood the whole thing."

"That poor boy."

"They're swappin' wives in Mud Pine, Indiana. Can you believe that? And Kouts and Danville, too."

Jamie looked away. "Murder's so revolting."

"Tell me. Maybe the drugs weren't enough to kill him. Maybe the wife-swappin's what killed him."

"As if men have female possessions they can swap."

"Well, that too. Thanks for sayin' that, baby, I hadn't thought of it. We ain't talkin' baseball cards here, but people's families."

"Who did it, do you think?"

Kent finished the last of his eggs. "I ain't got proof so I ain't ready to say."

"It wasn't the Guzmans at all, maybe?"

"Maybe not."

"Not the sheriff either?"

"I ain't got proof, Jamie."

Jamie folded his hands, put his elbows on the table. "Get 'em, Commander."

"I'm going to."

"The judge, the prosecutor? Who killed Michael?"

"I don't know, baby. But the deeper I get the more I need my waders. Thanks for the grub, pretty man. I got to hit the shower."

***

Mrs. Shuey was off that day, so Jamie found Purdue's department of agricultural economics website, including an annual survey of Indiana land rents that astounded him. He was just starting to get into a video about the trends in land rents when the phone rang. Aunt Nora said, "Oh, Jamie, I'm so glad I reached you! I've got a real problem here, and it needs a man. Is there any way you could come? Please say you will. Micah's at a farm show in Illinois, Joey's in school and I'm half frantic."

"What is it, Aunt Nora?"

"I've got some kind of creature flying around in circles in my living room! I don't know whether it's a bird or a bat, but oh my goodness, it just terrifies me!"

"How did it get in?"

"I suppose through the chimney; we had an owl get stuck in there once, but that was years ago. And now there's this… thing, whatever it is, and I can't stand it."

"Well, I probably can't do much, but I could keep you company until we figure something out. But I don't know where you live."

"Moundgrove. With the Indian mound."

"Is that the place on the highway?"

"Yes, you've been past it every time you go to Lafayette. Come over on the county road about five miles, make a right turn heading north and there we are." Then her voice changed, "Oh! Oh! Get away from me, you vile thing!" And she screamed, the sound a person makes when she's panicking.

"Oh, Nora, I'm not sure how to get there. I'm not allowed to drive, and…"

"Augh! Augh! I have to hang up, Jamie, I'm going to run in the bathroom and bolt the door and not come out until that bat's out of here! Augh, you goddamn bat!"

Click.

Now it was a fact that Jamie Foster was not the first person you'd think to call if you were being terrorized by a critter. He was scared to death of insects and any other living thing that invaded his space. But the sound of Nora's voice he could identify with, so he knew he had to go.

But how could he get there? He didn't have a bicycle; the car was obviously out, and he didn't have a key for Kent's motorcycle. No golf cart; he wondered about starting up the lawnmower. But the U.S. highway Nora lived on was far too busy to try getting there on a John Deere. Maybe he could park it at her corner and walk the rest of the way.

He ventured out to the carriage house to see if he could get the mower started. But before he got there, he saw the horse barn.

He changed clothes, including boots and his white hat, and decided to reintroduce himself to the horses.

There were three saddles in the barn and two horses. He picked out the saddle that he thought would fit him best, got his animal tacked up, and took off for Moundgrove on Bust Yer Chops. The horse was definitely feisty, and they started enjoying each other. Jamie dug in his heels just a little and Buster took off like a shot.

***

Jamie found the house, another American Foursquare, but bigger and nicer than Joey's; he rang the bell. When Nora didn't come he tried the door, which was unlocked. He started calling for her while also watching out for bats. He finally found her in an upstairs bathroom having a complete meltdown. "Oh, my dear God. Oh, save us from bats. Oh, why did Micah have to pick today to go away to that darn farm show? Oh, save us from bats."

He spoke to her calmly and she seemed to relax a little. He asked where the broom was; the basement steps. He told her she didn't have to come with him if she didn't want to, but two heads are better than one and they could buck each other up. She came out and they went downstairs; Jamie got the broom. They didn't hear anything flying around. "It's daytime, maybe he's gone to sleep."

"Then he could be anywhere! Hanging from the walls or something."

They looked all around the first floor and didn't find him. They searched the rest of the house too; no bats. Jamie said, "I suppose he could be in the attic, if he found a way to get in."

"I keep that door closed."

"Well, bats are kind of little, aren't they? Who knows."

"I don't want him waking up when it gets dark and flying around my bedroom at night! I'd die of fright."

"When does Micah get home?"

"This evening about nine. But it gets dark way before that!"

"Well, I can't find this thing. If he does come out, we've got our trusty broom."

"Lord have mercy, bats in my house."

"Maybe we should call a pest control place."

"And then wait how many days?"

"Micah will know what to do."

"He likes bats, they eat up all the bugs. A farmer never minds bats in the barn."

"But the barn is not the house."

"Exactly. Goodness, what filthy things."

"Let's try calling around. Got a phone book?"

"I never use it anymore."

"The ads in a phone book are better than listings online."

"Should I make us some coffee?"

"Would you, please? That way we can both get hyped up."

"Jamie, dear, thank you for coming."

Before she could get started, they heard a noise, wha-wha-wha-wha-wha, wings beating at a furious rate.

"Oh, God," Nora shuddered. "That's it. I don't know where he is, but he's down here somewhere, and if he comes after me I'm going to have a nervous breakdown."

Jamie gripped his broom. "At certain times in life," he said for his own benefit as much as hers, "it all comes down to me and him. Since I'm not going to die, he doesn't get a choice about it."

They went to the living room and there was the bat flying around in circles, lickety split.

Jamie tried opening the front door and shooing the bat outside. He swung his broom overhead like he was hitting a baseball, but the bat was faster than he was and the damn thing wouldn't leave.

Jamie realized he was the picture of ridiculous, swinging wildly at some poor frightened animal, with only a broom between the humans and total Armageddon.

Then all of a sudden it folded its wings close and disappeared through a ventilation grate near the ceiling.

Jamie stared up at the grate; original equipment on a house built before air conditioning. "Those openings are only an inch square," he said in amazement.

"He looked a lot bigger than that when he was flying around."

"Where does this grate go?"

"The attic, I expect. It's so heat can escape in the summertime."

"Cover the grate with wire mesh and he can't get back again."

"Then I'd have a stinky bat in my attic."

"Well, it's either the attic or the living room. Put up a screen, you'll cut off his escape route."

"Let's go the hardware store!"

***

They bought some wire mesh, cut to order by a helpful clerk at Schultz's, but when they got home they heard that noise again. Nora cowered while Jamie frowned and picked up his broom.

It was flying around the living room again. He opened the front door and hoped to steer the stupid thing outside. He swung and swung and swung, "I thought they had bat radar! Why won't he leave?"

Nora ran around trying to protect the table lamps; Jamie with the broom was more dangerous than the bat was. He could do some damage with that thing.

Then at last he kind of grazed it a little and the bat fell down dead.

Nora raised her hands to heaven and said, "Thank you, Jesus Christ."

Jamie poked at it with the bristles, but it was lifeless. "I barely touched it," he said.

"Just get it out of here. I don't care if he's got a broken leg, that's his problem."

"I don't want to pick it up."

"No, I don't think I would."

"A shovel maybe? With a nice long handle?"

"Micah keeps them in the shop a mile away."

"Well, I brought the horse."

"I don't want a shovel for all the time it takes to go there and back. What else could we get?"

"I'm not picking it up. Some tongs? That's all I can think of. And the dustpan."

"Ew. But honey, have I got tongs." Nora went to the kitchen and brought back a pair; they were only ten inches long, which meant he'd have to get close to the bat. What if it came back to life, bit him and turned him into a vampire?

But Nora had a dustpan too, and so with fear and trembling, he got the little bat by a wing—it was clearly dead—deposited it into the dustpan and promptly ran it outside. Where to put it? He threw it behind the garage so he wouldn't have to look at it and scurried back to the house before it could revive and give him rabies.

He handed the tongs back to Nora. She threw them in the trash. They laughed about it finally, a crazed Gay bull in a china shop while Nora tried to save the lamps.

***

Kiera Kessler, age 16, got home from school in time to find Cowboy Jamie on a stepladder in the living room, armed with a staple gun; the broom was still nearby, just in case. They'd never met, but she'd heard from her brother Joey about the Gay guy who'd taken up with Kent. She said, "What are you doing?"

"Saving us from flying rodents," he chuckled, stapling away.

"What is it, a squirrel?"

"No, it was a bat. We're hoping we don't have more of them."

"Oh, bats are so nice. I love bats."

"Good. You get to handle the next one."

"You didn't kill it, did you?"

"I guess I did. It was either me or him."

"Indiana bats are on the endangered species list! It's illegal to kill a bat."

"I barely tapped him. He probably died of nervous exhaustion. One of us was bound to."

"Wait till my Dad hears about this. Killing an endangered bat!"

"You don't know that it was an Indiana bat; it's not something you can determine by ZIP Code. Most Indiana bats live in the southern part of the state. And I highly doubt, if your father cares to save his marriage, that he approves of bats in the house."

"This is terrible. Is that all you men ever think about, killing things?"

Jamie thought about defending his gender, then he didn't bother; Micah's woman was the one he defended. "Yup, we're all wanton killers. Comes with the testosterone. It was either that or take your mother to Logansport."

(That's the state mental hospital. If Jamie ever had to live with bats at Hickory Grove, he and Nora could share a treatment plan.)

Finally he was done; Kiera's mother thanked him and he put his tools in the kitchen. "I bet the horse is getting bored."

Buster did look at him crossly when he finally got back, but they rode home with a lot less stress. Buster wasn't one to walk sedately, he liked to run and was great at a light gallop.

Jamie found a couple of apples and a carrot for him and tossed them in the stall. He wasn't going to hand-feed a horse that barely met him that morning. Horses don't know your fingers from a turnip, and he'd had all the wild animals he could deal with that day.

When Kent got home he said, "You rode Buster to Aunt Nora's? Man, Buster's a terror on four legs. You've got to control him, he's a maniac!" Then, "Where'd you learn to ride?"

"A horse farm in Virginia, for a modeling assignment. Ralph Lauren, his Polo line. I like horses; all they want to know is that you're not mean, and you've got food."

Kent smiled, took him in his arms; "Brave little man, saving Aunt Nora. I will keep you safe and warm."

Jamie fell for it just like always. He needed that hug, because he wasn't brave at all.

***

Kent and Jamie found a place to sit in the Commons at church, where paper-covered tables were set up for chili, bread and iceberg lettuce. Kent tried the soup; no kick at all. People started to eat and the priest gave a little speech, which only the pious tried listening to. Jamie said, "It really doesn't help the poor just because you eat like them; you have to couple that with donations to the food pantry."

"Well, we donated four grocery bags last week. How much are we payin' for this?"

"It's free, part of the holyday observance. If we all brought our own food we'd eat better than this. Or if there were a charge for it and we wanted to keep the cost as low as possible, it would make sense to eat cheap food. But this is so middle of the road it's got white stripes down the center."

"I didn't think you liked spicy food."

"I don't; I'm a Hoosier. The chili would taste better if we had a decent salad. Episcopalians can't afford some romaine?"

Kent laughed, "You guys are such snobs."

"I know; we don't mean to be. It's because of The Hymnal, the Book of Common Prayer, the King James Bible. We've gotten used to having the best of everything; it's because of the language, Kent, this art form called English, the language of Shakespeare and Cranmer and Austen, an expressive tool like a painter's oils or a sculptor's chisel. When you grow up with the Prayer Book you can't stand ill-composed utterance. It's like watching someone run the bases the wrong direction; have they no respect?"

Kent had to hand it to Jamie; who else could work in a baseball reference while discussing the Book of Common Prayer? "Whatever communicates to the peasants."

"The peasants of England know good writing when they hear it; they helped invent it. Shakespeare wasn't the Duke of Stratford, he was nothing but a bloody actor."

Kent suppressed a chuckle. He thought he married Jamie Foster, not the Archbishop of Cranmer.

Chairs began to be set up as people cleared their places. A silver basin was brought in, with a gleaming antique cruet and a bunch of pure white towels. In a few minutes those who agreed to submit to the ritual moved into position; the air turned solemn.

The rector returned, dressed in a white alb, with two other priests, a white-haired fellow of retirement age and a much younger woman.

Someone read a brief passage of Scripture:

"So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them."

And with that Father Ed, Dean Carroll and Mother Anna knelt and began their preparations, as the 12 disciples removed a shoe and stocking.

They were a diverse group; White, Black and Asian, elderly, of middle years and a 14-year-old boy. Kent was suddenly glad he wasn't asked; what if his feet were stinky?

He decided it was a very good idea to arrange the participants in advance.

The rector knelt and placed his bowl, took a foot, poured warm water over it, massaged a little, then took a towel from his shoulder and dried an old lady's foot. She looked grave and couldn't watch, while Kent was riveted.

He'd never seen a thing so humiliating.

It was abasing to perform; it was awful to have to sit there and let some guy do it. It was even painful to watch. But Father Ed had a little smile on his face as if he enjoyed it. He spoke a few quiet words to the older lady to put her at ease, then dried that foot as thoroughly as any foot's ever been cared for.

When he was done he moved down the line to the teenage boy. The old woman carefully replaced her sock and shoe—new shoes, Kent noticed; she knew everyone would look at her shoes.

The boy stuck out his bare foot with that familiar pretense of cool-no-matter-what, but when the water hit his foot and it was all between him and Ed, his face changed. He took it so seriously; anyone could tell that boy was going to seminary someday. He was thrilled to get chosen for this job, though he tried to hide his excitement.

Kent started to worry about the older priest in the middle, having to kneel down and show the congregation he wasn't repulsed by his task; as an athlete Kent knew the knees are the first joints to go, and he hoped the old man wasn't in pain. Why was a 70-year-old man down on the floor washing someone's foot? He should be the one to sit back and get his foot splashed. But he wasn't.

Kent couldn't see the woman priest at the end of the row that well, but there she was laving a Black man's foot. The sexual symbolism, if you wanted to take it that way, was incredible; but Anna looked calm and knew what she was doing.

Kent wondered which was worse, having to get your foot washed or having to do it. It was embarrassing no matter what.

Kent could have washed Jamie's feet without great emotion, but these people were doing it without an intimate relation.

With three priests on duty and only 12 pedals to deal with, the ritual was over in ten minutes; it wasn't that bad. Kent whispered to Jamie, "Why did they do this again?"

"Because the Savior of the world washed his disciples, including the one who betrayed him an hour later. It was a lesson in love, in humility and service. Those folks wore sandals, Kent; their feet were caked. But he took away their dirt, and loved them, and gave us an example."

"Gee whiz."

The priests finished up, the altar guild took away the materials, and Fr. Ed invited everyone to mass in the church, which Jamie called the "nave."

Kent rubbed his face. "That was hard to watch."

"Yes, it was."

They went to the church, found a pew and looked at their programs, custom-printed and letter-perfect. The organist offered a quiet prelude, mostly to get people settled in and give the ministers time to assemble.

They walked in behind the choir and processional cross in silence. The older priest sang, which Jamie called chanting. "He has a better voice and he likes doing it. It's a pleasure for him." He wasn't the full-time guy, just a retiree, formerly dean of a cathedral.

The congregation chanted psalms, which Kent found was easier than he thought; they only had a refrain to keep up with. Luckily he could read music, though the notation was very weird. But he listened to what the sound should be and picked up the scheme soon enough; pause at the comma, that is, the asterisk. E-pis-co-pa-lians.

Then it happened.

Somewhere in the Bible readings it was time for a hymn; Jamie recognized the number of it immediately and started cooing before he found the page. Kent had never heard the tune before, but it sounded both beautiful and tragic; so they began to sing.

My song is love unknown,
My Savior's love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

Kent felt a tear rolling down his face. It was something about that exclamation point, that capitalization; he felt that English like a sucker-punch. He reread the last two lines.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

Then it only got worse.

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then "Crucify!" is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they saved,
The Prince of life they slay,
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes,
That He His foes from thence might free.

He couldn't listen anymore about the murderer they saved when he was investigating the murder of Michael Guzman. He broke into sobs, which he tried to suppress. But then came another damn verse. Episcopalians sang them all apparently; they think their hymns are poetry, and it's disloyal to the poet to cut his work of art.

Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my Friend,
in Whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.

Kent worried that he was making a scene and told Jamie, "I gotta get out of here." Jamie took one look at him, guided his arm to the aisle and walked him into the parish hall. They headed toward Sixth Street and the old part, called the Bishop's Parlor with its portraits of the ancients—which reminded Kent of Hickory Grove. Jamie pulled him to an antique sofa and Kent sat there crying his eyes out.

Why? He didn't know why.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed.

That was why. He thought of Randy Weishaar, ten years old and lost his friend. It was wrong. It was cruel. Kent cried.

Jamie just sat there and held him, whispering, "Don't be afraid. I will help you."

Kent had cried before; it wasn't like he didn't know how. But it didn't usually last very long; now here he was weeping like a flushed-out fire hydrant. And he didn't know why; just all the grief of all the years. His Dad, losing baseball, Michael, Jamie and the Incident; he sat there like a fool and bawled. And there didn't seem to be an end to it, so all he could do was go where his body took him.

He really loved that Jamie sat with him. Jamie didn't try to make it better; he didn't tease him or try to argue him out of it. They just sat together, touching, in Jamie's parish church, a stop on the Underground Railroad.

In the Bishop's Parlor. With the ancients. Jamie'd had Confirmation class there years ago. He gazed at a portrait of the beloved bishop who confirmed him.

In a few minutes the older priest slipped out of the sanctuary to the sacristy, and from there to the Bishop's Parlor. He approached the weeping man and his friend. Old knees and all, he crouched low and asked if they were all right.

"I think so," Kent groaned. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mess up what you were doing in church." Then he had to cry a little more for the shame of that.

"Thank you, Father," Jamie said softly. "He's just been kind of slain by Love Unknown."

Dean Carroll touched Kent's shoulder, "That can happen to anyone. It's a sign of real faith."

"It's so beautiful," Kent said.

"Yes, it is. Be glad that you feel it so deeply. Let the Spirit move within you."

"I didn't mean to mess things up."

"You didn't. It's an emotional night."

"Footwashing," Kent said, "what was that?"

The Dean asked after Jamie, who assured him he was all right. "He's a police officer, investigating a child's murder. And this is a night that remembers someone else's murder."

Kent said, "I've never thought of Jesus as my Friend before." He still couldn't stop crying, though he was getting really disgusted with himself.

The old priest looked at them, gave a silent blessing and the sign of the Cross, and said, "Take all the time you need. If you can't come to the Communion, we'll bring the Communion to you."

"Thank you, Dean," Jamie said, lifting up a couple of fingers to make a blessing back. In some quarters that's a controversial gesture from a layman, but he knew he had the power to bless, and he dispensed it often.

The Dean withdrew; Kent and Jamie sat together a few minutes more, then Kent finally felt ready to show his face again, so they went back to their pew and tried to pick up where they left off.

***

He was calm for the rest of mass, pleased and grateful to make his Communion, and sang the final hymn in good voice.

At the end Jamie said, "We can leave now if you want; you've been through a lot tonight. But you might like to see the stripping of the altar at least once. It doesn't have to be this year; but I do think everyone should see it if they have the chance."

Kent shrugged, "Okay," and from there they watched as the altar guild came, wearing their blue work smocks, and started tearing the altar down—no frontal, bare wood, no candles, and the Celtic cross wrapped in black. To Kent it was almost the most shocking thing yet.

When you strip an Episcopal church of its ornamentation, its beauty, its pride, its riches, its humble and tearful faith, it's like you're declaring the end of the world.

That was exactly what those ladies declared. Kent got sniffly again. "I don't want those things to go!"

Jamie held him again there in the pew; only a fourth of the congregation was left, and everyone knew and understood that Kent had gone through something important, so no one paid any mind. The bareness of the church was the sight to behold.

When the altar guild ladies were done, Father Ed came back in his street clothes, white Anglican collar, black shirt, and said, "The work is done. The betrayal has happened. It is proper for us to mourn our Savior. But now the thing to do is keep vigil in the Garden of Gethsemane. So we invite those of you who can stay to walk with us to the chapel where the sacrament is reserved, and just sit quietly for as long as you like. The church will be open till midnight—we'll close the front doors, but leave the chapel exit open—then tomorrow morning we'll come together again at 8 a.m. to watch and wait; just a few of us, whoever's able, until the Good Friday service begins at 12 noon."

"Maybe a few minutes?" Jamie told Kent. "Not till midnight. You have a job, centurion, and you deserve your rest."

They walked to the chapel with the other people, and waited there a few minutes with the flowers and candlelight. Jamie didn't attempt any instructions about the reserved sacrament; they just sat with their Lord in his garden.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

53. Bank Ballet

2011-05-25T14:33:00.014-05:00

Jamie always began his mornings by reading the newspapers online, and he didn't feel the least bit guilty for charging the Trust for his reading time; he did the same thing when he was a reporter, it was part of his job then and it stayed so now.

Two items in the Indianapolis paper caught his eye; one was a statewide top-ten "endangered places" list put out by a landmarks organization; the other was an annual AIDS fundraising concert to be held soon at Clowes Hall, the big concert venue on the Butler University campus. He knew the name of the man who was heading the lineup, a dancer/choreographer formerly with the Martha Graham Company in New York, who moved to the city 20 years ago after losing ten of his fellow dancers to HIV. The performance would be held the following Monday, so maybe the volunteer baseball coach could go.

Jamie ordered ten VIP tickets, then wondered who else he could get; Martha, Aunt Penn, Joey and Cher, the Judge perhaps. He offered the others to the Rector of Crawfordsville and his partner, who would surely know someone in the parish who would be interested in a night of music and dance. Besides, Ma could wear one of her new dresses.

Among the endangered landmarks was something called the Farmers' Institute near Lafayette, the first rural school in that county, built by Quakers in the 1830s and listed on the National Register. If Josiah wasn't involved in it, he had to have known the people who were; Jamie asked Mrs. Shuey to research the project and gave her his laptop. Jamie had seen a historical marker for the place once; he couldn't remember the name of the little town it was located in. The squib said the Farmers' Institute attracted students from all over the Great Lakes, prior to the 1860s founding of Purdue University, which promptly put it out of business. If he decided to help out with the fundraising, it sounded like it ought to be a Kessler Trust undertaking.

Mrs. Shuey quickly came back and said, "I found one interesting fact already. The community where the Farmers' Institute is located was originally named Quaker Grove."

"Then it must be connected to this place somehow. Phone Aunt Penn and find out if she knows."

The two notices raised an issue he hadn't dealt with yet, his own charitable contributions. So far all he'd done was tell other people how much they ought to give, instead of giving away any money himself. Jesus talked about that in the Gospel of Matthew—in the hypocrite section.

The InFashion deal wouldn't close until September 30, but in the meantime Jamie needed to put a charitable mechanism in place. He'd assumed he would set up a foundation of some kind, but the more he learned about how regulated nonprofits were, the more disenchanted he grew. The tax laws were pretty strict. He supported the principle—if you want a tax deduction, you'd better give away the money and be able to prove it—but there was a lot of paperwork, which meant expensive overhead, boards of trustees, accountants and lawyers. A foundation would be its own legal "person" with a tax ID and all; what was the benefit of it? Did he want other people advising him on his own charity? Did he want to go through meetings all the time, or did he just want to give to organizations he liked?

He was inclined to just keep a separate bank account and call it the Jamie Foster Fund, rather than create an entity with a life of its own. He'd have to talk to Judge Schneider and his lawyer at B&T about it. He didn't want a monument to himself after he was dead; most foundations were set up by much older philanthropists, people doing estate planning, providing for children he didn't have. He decided for the present to maximize his freedom, keep his options open, be an independent operator. If there were advantages to a foundation he could set one up later.

So allowing $450 million straight off the top for capital gains tax—the actual amount would be less, because the $3 billion proceeds didn't account for the $8 opening price of the initial public offering, but $450 million was a good ballpark figure to start with—and another $300 million as his personal tithe, that left him $2.25 billion that was actually his. He blinked; the amount was staggering.

He had to give away $300 million so he could look St. Peter in the eye; how would he do it? He did a little math, gave himself 20 years to finish the job, which came to giving away $15 million a year. He wondered how much that was per day; about $42,000, every day of his life for two decades. Per week, $288,000, every week. But taking ten people to the AIDS fundraising concert only cost $1200, plus they'd get entertainment, a reception and an afterparty out of it. That dancer/choreographer would doubtless want to know who the Tall Handsome Cop was.

Twelve hundred down, only $40,800 to go—for one day! He made up a sign for his office wall with the daily, weekly and annual goals and a slogan, "Don't Think Small." Of course he could give the rest of the 40 grand to the beneficiary organization, an outfit called the Indiana AIDS Fund, but the only thing he knew about them was that Mr. Choreographer thought they were worthwhile; he'd been running the benefit for over a decade, and it did supposedly fund services all over the state.

Jamie sighed. Being really responsible with his contributions would mean another full-time job like the Kessler Trust; they were about equal in assets. He'd have to educate himself, meet people and listen, read reports and weigh each possible donation against all others. That was probably the real reason rich people create foundations and hire a staff, so all they have to do is show up at the dance concert. He laughed to keep from crying; maybe he'd need a full-time chauffeur just to take him back and forth to Clowes Hall.

He really didn't want to live in that world; he wanted to get naked and fuck—if not literally and if not that very second, then figuratively, yes, that's what he wanted, cooking and lounging around the pool in his skivvies with Tall Dark and Handsome. Maybe they could be playboys—but he knew that would bore them both, and there's nothing worse than a fuck when you were bored to start with.

Still, he wanted to live in the Virgin Islands in his swimming trunks, not in Bumfuck, Indiana where the winters last half the year. He called out to Mrs. Shuey, "Is it ever going to warm up around here?" She took this question as rhetorical and kept hunting for how to contact those surviving Quakers; the Institute was still used as a meetinghouse, but the congregation was tiny and getting old fast. She found an e-mail address and wrote for more information.

Then he said, "I think it's time I saw the Bank of Friends."

***

The bank building was a small old Italianate storefront with an apartment or two above it, right on the principal corner downtown where Kessler Chapel Road met Main Street. Mrs. Shuey had no problem parking; the streets were empty. The glass front door had an FDIC sticker and a sign that gave the hours, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. Monday through Thursday, till 5 p.m. Friday, closed on Saturday. There was a one-lane drive-thru off the alley.

She waited while he went inside. The furnishings were modest; there were three antique teller cages, but only one was open. He walked up to it and waited for a woman to appear. When she did he said, "I'd like to open an account."

"For yourself?"

He wondered who else it would be for. "Yes."

"Please have a seat."

So he sat and waited five minutes, until another woman in a business suit came and invited him to her office. She introduced herself as Mrs. Padgett and did not offer her hand. He gave her his name. She sat at a banker's desk from which to look down at him. "You'd like to open an account?"

"Yes."

"Personal or business?"

"Personal."

"Fine. How did you come to choose us?"

"I live nearby."

She got out her paperwork. "Name?"

"I just told you my name. The account's to be called The Jamie Foster Fund."

"Oh, then you want a business account." She opened her drawer again.

"No, it's personal. Maybe it sounds like a business, but it's not."

"Then why don't you just put your name on it? If I may ask."

"I am putting my name on it. The Jamie Foster Fund."

"You can't use a name like that for a personal account."

"Why not?"

"Your name goes on a personal account."

He rubbed his forehead. "It's The Jamie Foster Fund to distinguish from my regular personal account."

"Is it a non-profit?"

"Yes, but it's not an organization. It's my personal funds."

"Can I ask what it's for, then?"

"Charitable contributions."

"As a separate account?"

"That's correct."

"Why do you need a separate account for contributions?"

"Because that's all I'll use it for, and I want to keep track of them."

"This is highly irregular."

"Do you want my money or not?"

"Well, certainly, but why do you need a separate account?"

"Why are you asking me these questions? Just write down The Jamie Foster Fund."

"But you said it's not a non-profit."

"I said it is a non-profit, it's just not organized. Gee, I thought this was the Bank of Friends. You don't act very friendly."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way."

"If I called it my household account would you give me such trouble?"

"No, then it would plainly be your personal funds."

"Look, I choose not to set up a non-profit organization. I merely want to segregate these funds from my other accounts."

"I ask because of government regulations. We have to establish the personal identity of all account holders. It helps prevent money laundering."

Did she think he was a drug lord? "My name is James Rees Foster." Then he suddenly remembered that Kent had his driver's license.

"Different regulations govern personal and business accounts. This is so there's no deception involved, which could lead to identity theft and other kinds of problems. You understand. We're required under the Patriot Act to know who all our customers are."

"I understand. If you'll permit me to make a phone call, I may be able to prove my identity to you right away. If not, we may not be able to finish this today. I do not have my driver's license with me, it's being held for safekeeping. In the meantime, please ask your boss who I am. Jamie Foster."

"My boss?"

"Is it not Robert Kessler?"

"Oh, the president of the bank. He's acquainted with you?"

Jamie all but laughed, remembering that stiff introduction on New Year's. "Believe it or not. It's his nephew Sgt. Kessler who has my license. He may or may not be able to provide it today."

"Well, we will need it."

"I know. May I use your phone?"

"I can dial it for you." He gave her the number, she dialed and handed over the receiver, then got up to check with her boss, the president.

Kent answered. "Mister, I'm at the bank, trying to open an account, which they don't seem to want to open. I need my driver's license."

"Uncle Bob knows you, dude."

"Well, Mrs. Padgett thinks I'm Osama bin Laden."

"Nah," Kent said, "he ain't blond. You ain't got no whiskers for that beard."

"Are you at all close by that you could bring it?"

"Not till later. Bank's closed by then, old-time banker's hours. They close at three, bud."

"Well, I'm sorry to take your time."

"I'll give it to you tonight. If you remind me."

"That's fine. Sorry, Kent."

"No problem, Chipper." They rang off.

Robert Kessler stuck his head in the door of Mrs. Padgett's office, then ducked back out again. He said something to her and walked away. She came back and sat. "He says he does know you slightly."

"It must be my lucky day."

"We'll need your driver's license, though."

"I know. I'm sorry not to have it." He gave her his Social Security card. She wrote the number down, then left to make a copy of it—which made him wonder why she wrote it down.

Soon she said, "I'm to accept your application, receive your deposit and give you a receipt. We'll hold your deposit in the bank safe and not process it until we have your proof of identity. It's just a formality, but we absolutely do need it. Then once we have all that taken care of, we'll process your deposit and issue your checks. Is that agreeable?"

"Yes. I do apologize."

"That's all right, we just have to follow our proper procedures with any new customer. Now if you'll fill out this application, we'll get this started." She handed him fourteen papers. The top said "Business Checking."

"I'll sign where you tell me to, of course, but I don't fill out paperwork. I'm proposing to give you money. I'm not here to apply for the privilege of giving you a hundred thousand dollars."

She stared at him. "You want to open an account, but you don't want to fill out the forms?"

"I never have before at any other bank; it ought to be your job, don't you think? Make things easy for a new customer, who proposes to begin a relationship with you, and meanwhile is evaluating your every move."

She looked offended, but took the papers back. "Name?" she asked.

"Thomason Q. Edison Brown," he said. "The Jamie Foster Fund. A personal account."

"We can only accept your deposit for a business account."

He had to find a way around this. "What's the difference in charges?"

"A business account is $12 a month, and each check you write is 25¢. With a minimum balance of $300, we waive the monthly fee but not the charge per check. A personal account costs the same $12, but the rules are different; we give you six free checks per month, then after that each one you write is 35¢. There's no minimum balance required on a personal account, nor do we give you a break if you maintain a certain balance—but we do offer an interest-bearing money market account if that would interest you. If you want an ATM card, that's an additional $25 per year. We don't allow bank cards on business accounts."

"No ATM card. I'll accept a business account, then."

"The Jamie Foster Fund," she said. "Address?"

"Hickory Grove, Town of Friends."

"That's the Kessler place."

"How do you suppose I know your boss?"

"Do you work there?"

"I live there."

"Come again?"

"Why?"

"You live at Hickory Grove?"

"That's correct."

"But that's Mrs. Kessler's place."

"It's her son's, actually."

"Well, yes, but how do you come to be living there?"

"Do you really ask such personal questions of your customers? Does everyone have to justify their place of residence to you?"

"You live there," she repeated. "Okay. What's the street address?"

"Hickory Grove."

"Well, yes, but we have to have a street address. Our computer won't accept an account without a street address. The post office can't deliver your monthly statements without a street address. The government won't allow an account without a street address."

"It's the only house on Hickory Grove Road. All the mail arrives addressed that way. The post office has no problem finding us."

"But what's the street address?"

"You have accounts for all the Kesslers, do you not?"

"Well, I couldn't comment on any of our other customers. It's a matter of privacy. The government is highly sensitive to matters of privacy."

"Look up Kent Kessler in your computer. See what street address he uses."

"I'm sure it's a street address."

"Look it up, please. I don't ask for his personal information; simply look up his address and copy it."

Mrs. Padgett fiddled with her computer, an ancient Dell. Finally she said, "Hickory Grove."

"Imagine that."

"Employer?"

"The Josiah Kessler Irrevocable Trust."

"Oh my. So you don't live at Hickory Grove, you work there."

"I live there, lady."

"But it's the Kesslers' place."

"I'll be sure to inform them. They'll be pleased to know they still own it."

She sighed. "Your position?"

"CEO."

"But that would make you…" Her eyes widened.

"Robert's boss."

She swallowed. "Robert doesn't have a boss. He's the president of this bank."

"The Trust owns this bank, lady, and that makes me his boss. If you ask me one more stupid question I'll have your head on a stick."

"Maybe you should deal with him, then. I'm sure it would be more pleasant for you that way."

"Oh, no, if I had him to deal with, I'd need another stick. Please, just take my money so I can get out of here." He wrote a check to open the account.

She stared at it. "Just a moment, please." She left a third time.

He waited for his receipt. Then Robert showed up again with the check in his hand. "Where did you get all this money?"

Jamie gave him a look of incredulity. "I stole it—from a dumb hick baseball player up on Hickory Grove Road. Then I came here to the bank he owns to give it right back again. Could I have my receipt, please?"

"We can't accept this deposit. We don't know where this money came from."

"Ask Warren Buffett, you idiot. He'll tell you to go fuck yourself." Jamie grabbed the check, tore it up and walked out. He wondered if steam was rolling out his ears.

Mrs. Shuey drove him home; when they arrived the phone was ringing. "That's Kent," he said.

She answered, then said, "He's right here."

Jamie took the phone. "Hi, Commander! How's tricks?"

"Man, what the hell did you do to that bank?"

Jamie laughed. "I made the awful mistake of trying to give them a hundred thousand dollars. They didn't want it unless I could document my entire life story."

Kent laughed too. "I got Uncle Bob yellin' at me on the other line."

"It wasn't because of the driver's license; they were willing to hold the deposit until I could show them my ID. Bush's so-called Patriot Act, you know, everyone's bin Laden now. You'd think I walked in with a towel on my head from the Holiday Inn."

"Bob said somethin' about stolen money."

"Well, you said you'd pay my bills. Maybe Aunt Penn was right about me."

"He locked the place down, Jamie."

"Yes!" Jamie chortled, pumping his fist. "You call it a bank but it's really a comedy club."

"What am I s'posed to tell him?"

"Just hang up. That will tell him all he needs to know."

"He's talkin' about auditing all the family accounts to find out who you stole it from."

"He's the one who ought to be audited, Kent. He treats customers like dirt."

"Man, I can't let you go nowhere. Can't let you outta my sight. Havoc everywhere I turn."

Jamie giggled. "You always said I was dangerous. So now you know."

"What happened exactly?"

"I just went to open an account, a separate one for my charitable contributions. It will make the accounting easier, run a simple report every quarter. I'm trying to give $5000 every day for the rest of Lent; that's my discipline, because I can't get anywhere close to a tithe yet."

"Well, hang on." Kent put him on hold and punched another button. "Uncle Bob, you're fired. So's Jill Padgett, that secretary of yours you been bangin'. I want your desks cleared out by the time I get there."

He cut the call and got back to Jamie. "Well, that's took care of, at least for a half hour."

"What happened?"

"I fired his ass."

"Well, I'm sorry to say I can't disagree with that."

"He knows exactly who you are, Jamie—and he told Jill Padgett, too. Man, he sat right there and listened to Aunt Penn tell everyone your company's traded on the Nasdaq. I bet he's been plannin' this for months. They shoulda ushered you in like a VIP. Handed you a cocktail and a chocolate chip cookie."

"I'm sorry if I caused you a problem, Kent."

"Hell, Jamie, he's been screwin' me over too. Got all my CDs tied up just 'cause I get $15 overdrawn sometimes, you wouldn't believe what a mess it is. I shoulda fired him a long time ago. Man, that's my Baseball Money! Don't no one mess with my Baseball Money."

"Well, I am sorry, Kent."

"Nah, it's my own fault. Put if off, like I do everything. Don't know who I can get to run the bank, though." Kent thought a second. "You interested?"

"Lord, Kent, I don't know the first thing about banking!"

"That makes two of us. What am I gonna do now?"

"Notify the FDIC. Put up a sign, Closed for Audit, Reopen Tomorrow at 9 a.m."

"I'll swing by to get ya."

"Well, do be prepared to tell them the street address of Hickory Grove."

"Shoot, that'd confuse the post office; I don't think we've even got a street address. I know that mailman, though, he's dumb as rocks. Lester can find the big house just fine, but if he had to locate a certain number on Hickory Grove Road we'd have to drag the creek for him, he'd be lost for months. Don't let 'em fool ya, this is all 'cause you're Gay."

"Mrs. Padgett said her computer wouldn't accept anything but a street address. When that didn't work she tried to hide behind the Patriot Act."

"Twenty minutes, dude. But I do warn you, there's a real bad spankin' comin' tonight."

"Oh Daddy, you're so good to me."

"Later, gator. Meanwhile don't go nowhere. If we need groceries you ain't allowed in the store. No post office, no gas station, got that? Don't even be pickin' no daisies by the side of the road. You ain't goin' nowhere long as this keeps up."

So that's how Jamie ended up with the bank. He walked in and told the terrified tellers, "We're doing everything exactly as before—except we're not."

Good Cop gave Robert a police escort home—but Bad Cop was just itching to feed him a concrete sandwich.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

52. Palms & Perps

2011-05-23T23:09:00.012-05:00

Saturday morning Kent stopped by the chapel to drop off some donations to the thrift shop—Hickory Grove linens and towels Jamie didn't want, including some nice ones, and lots of Kent's old T-shirts, socks, sweaters and dress clothes someone could still get some wear out of—plus four bags of non-perishable foods, mostly new but a couple of clear-outs. It would make a pretty good pile in the vestibule, to maybe encourage other people to donate.

He swept off an inch or two of snow that had fallen overnight, then went inside to deposit his stuff and make sure everything was secure. The sanctuary was fine, so he headed downstairs and soon heard footsteps behind him. He turned to find Yvonne, Old Lady McClain's daughter, who was the Sunday School principal. They greeted each other and told their errands; she had a couple of cartons of hard-boiled eggs, dye packets and wax sticks for making Easter eggs.

"Uh, great, but ain't you a week early?" he asked. "Tomorrow's Palm Sunday."

"This is our activity tomorrow," she explained. "The older kids'll show the younger ones how to decorate their Easter eggs. The little ones have a lot of fun."

"Well, okay, but if Easter's a week away, what are you doin' Easter eggs now for?"

"It's the same thing, right? Dyein' Easter eggs can be kind of messy, and we don't want kids to mess up their Easter clothes."

He found himself frowning, "I'm sure it is fun, that's great. But no, Palm Sunday and Easter ain't the same thing; it's Palm Sunday. It's a day for doin' palms, not Easter stuff; that's why it's called Palm Sunday. We should be doin' somethin' with palms."

"Well, we never have before. We do Easter eggs the Sunday before."

"But it ain't Easter yet. It'd be like shootin' off fireworks a week before the Fourth of July. Yeah, you can do it, but why?"

"So they don't mess up their clothes."

"They won't mess up their clothes with a bunch of palm leaves."

"Palm leaves?" she asked. "What would we do with 'em? You know of any palm trees in Indiana?"

"Look, I ain't no expert. You're the Sunday School principal and you do a good job. But you're jumpin' the gun here, Yvonne; it ain't Easter yet. Christmas comes on December 25th, not the 18th. You wouldn't do Santa Claus on December 18th, not in a church; you gotta wait for the day."

"Well, we never have before." She wondered why he was suddenly interesting himself in her curriculum plans, even if he was the Sunday School superintendent.

He scratched his head. "Do you know what Palm Sunday is? Do you know why it's called that?"

"It's the Sunday before Easter."

"Well, yeah, but so what?"

Perplexity showed on her face. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to do somethin' with palms, not Easter eggs. Wait on the Easter eggs, Yvonne. Let the day get here when it gets here, like all the other churches do."

"You're sayin' I'm not doin' it right?" She was starting to get a little offended.

"Maybe it's time the superintendent did a little more superintendin' around here. Easter's a week from now, not tomorrow. If dyein' a bunch of eggs is messy, then maybe it's time to rethink when we do the eggs."

"If we don't dye eggs, then I've wasted a couple of cartons as well as $14 worth of supplies."

"Why's it called Palm Sunday, Yvonne?"

"I don't know."

"Well," Kent looked away and gathered himself, "it has to do with this Gospel lesson about Jesus comin' to town and people wavin' palm leaves to welcome him to the city. I don't know all the ins and outs, I ain't no Bible expert, but I know enough as the Sunday School superintendent that if kids have got palm leaves to wave, you can teach 'em about it; why people did that, what it meant. There's Good Friday comin' up, when he was crucified, but here you're doin' Easter eggs already. It ain't time yet, Yvonne. He ain't even dead yet, and here you got him resurrected already."

"We been doin' it this way for I don't know how long. And you suddenly decide we're not doin' it right?"

"Look," he said, "I won't be here tomorrow, you do what you want. Keep on with your lesson plan, do what you've always done, I ain't askin' you to change it at the last minute. But I'm goin' to church in Crawfordsville, where they're gonna have somethin' to do with palm leaves, welcomin' Jesus to town, before he got crucified, not after he rose from the dead."

"You won't be here for Palm Sunday?"

"No, I won't. I'm takin' Jamie to St. John's in Crawfordsville. I'm gonna see for myself what they do, how this stuff is s'posedta be done. Jesus comes ridin' in on a donkey and everybody's all excited, but then the whole thing turns dark. Instead of the hero all of a sudden he's the goat. He has his Last Supper, then he gets crucified and he's dead. He ain't rose up yet, Yvonne, he's executed like a common criminal. Then on Easter mornin', that's when God finally makes it right."

"We been doin' it this way for as long as I can remember, and as long as I'm teachin' Sunday School here, this is how we're gonna do it."

"Oh really," he said, boring into her. "Not in my Sunday School, you ain't."

She was shocked and speechless. When had Kent Kessler ever paid the least attention to all the hard work she did for Sunday School?

He was taking a page out of Jamie's playbook, throwing his weight around a little, supplying better information. "You go ahead and do it this time. But you're a week ahead, and once I know more about it I'll be able to set things straight.

"But I do not want to hear from you, ever again, that it's always been this way, so it's always gonna be this way, as if you get to decide all by yourself. You don't. Easter's a week from now, Yvonne. I appreciate your service; you and your mom have done a lot for this church, and I thank you both for everything you've done. But as long as the name on that sign is Kessler Chapel, other people help decide what we teach our kids. It ain't McClain Chapel, Yvonne; you remember whose name it is."

She stared at him. Her heart pounded.

"When I get back next week I'll tell you how other churches do this, 'cause they ain't dyein' no eggs a week early, I guarantee. With a year to work it out, I bet you're gonna be happy with the new things I find out. It's about palm trees, not Easter eggs, you're jumpin' the gun. We'll find a way to dye the eggs when the time comes, just like you always been doin'. But they don't belong on Palm Sunday, I know that for a fact.

"So let's talk again next week. I'll try and bring you good ideas. I know your heart's in the right place, but since the day's called Palm Sunday that's your first clue. Let's both keep an open mind, and when I know more I'll tell ya, we'll find out how to have a new lesson after all this time. The kids'll like those palm leaves once I see how other churches do it. Any kinda visual aid, I know it's a help with kids. You'll like it, we all will. Kids'll learn and the adults will too.

"Now it's gettin' late so I'll leave you to your duties." He turned and left her, knowing she was seething—and knowing that he was being so accommodating because he didn't know Palm Sunday that well himself, and because he didn't want her mother quitting right at Easter after 56 years of devoted service. It may have been just an old country church, but he wasn't stupid enough to try to put on Easter without Old Lady McClain. He loved her like everyone else did, even if they did run her down behind her back every chance they got.

She'd served faithfully, a symbol of something great; one woman in one place for 56 years. You don't put an old gal like that out to pasture without a big church supper, gifts and a public thanks, "ESTHER MCCLAIN DAY" and Flowers by Miriam.

In fact, since he had the idea, they ought to go ahead and do it this summer, before it was time to talk about retiring.

She played the piano just fine. The only reason anyone mocked her was because she was old. He heard it in high school, "Old Lady McClain," and here he was keeping it going when he was supposed to be grown.

She was old; it isn't a crime. He felt ashamed of himself. If anybody ever tried starting "Old Lady Penn Kessler," he'd have knocked their block off. So why was he doing it to Mrs. McClain?

He walked out hearing "Faith of Our Fathers" in his head, and Jamie's suggestion to change some of the verses to "mothers."

Kent got the idea that if the men of the church ever got over the shock of losing their privileged status, they'd sing their hearts out for their moms. For all he knew, he'd probably sing the loudest.

***

The Episcopal church in Crawfordsville was smaller than the one in Lafayette, but it drew a decent-sized crowd considering that most people probably mistook them for Presbyterians. It was about the same size as Kessler Chapel, not fancy exactly, just decorated with stained glass, candlesticks and crosses. The altar was what you looked at; the priest would stand behind it when the time came.

For Palm Sunday about 80 people gathered in the attached educational building, called the parish hall, named for the city founder who also started the church. Teenagers started passing out palm fronds to everyone, green and three feet long with lots of leaves, as the priest explained that they were going to march outside singing a song, so take your hymnal. They'd go out a certain door, through the parking lot and out to the street, around the block and back in the front door. A girl in a white robe was carrying a tall cross on a pole and they'd all follow her, with the 12-member choir next, wearing their robes, and the priest the last in line, wearing a bright red cape. Three kids from the high school band would accompany them so they wouldn't lose the key as they sang; then at the front door they'd finish the verse they were on, and the organist would take it from there.

It was a sunny day in the low 50s, so they had good weather to enjoy their walk. Jamie was relaxed and smiling, and straightened Kent's tie for him.

"Why are we goin' outside?" Kent whispered.

"To participate in the procession that greeted Jesus."

"Oh." Kent would have known that if he'd thought about it, but it was easier to ask.

Then they took off. "All glory, laud and honor…" Little kids started waving their palm fronds around, and old people watched their step.

On the street a few people noticed them, while the rest of the world went on about its business. Two young men carried a big analog TV from a house to a pickup truck. A lady was out walking her spaniel.

The singing felt a little strange to Kent, walking and trying to keep up with a song he didn't know; he was glad those band members were accompanying them. Jamie sang easily, and tapped his palm branch on every building they passed.

They got to the front of the church and stopped, finished their verse, then the priest gave a prayer, which Kent figured was probably the Collect of the Day. They said Amen, the church doors were opened, and the organ started booming the last stanza to lead them in: "Thou didst accept their praises; accept the prayers we bring."

They made their glorious entrance and Jamie found them a pew.

***

Afterwards, still holding his palm frond, Kent said, "That was real nice, baby. If we were to do somethin' like that at the Chapel next year, how should we go about it, you think? We ain't got no city streets to march on."

Jamie thought a second. "I think I'd gather on the front steps, then proceed around the left side to the back, and as you come up on the right, I'd deliberately surround the cemetery."

"To include the departed in what we're doin'?"

"Yes. They shouldn't be the focus, that's for another day, but I'd touch base with them before proceeding inside. Walk the streets of their resting place so they can sing with you."

"Cool."

"Or I can think of another way; do it on horseback, make a circuit through the Town of Friends and back again."

"Wow. Jesus rode a donkey, why not?"

"Sorry, ideas just pop into my head unannounced."

"Everybody in town knows us for our horses, Jamie; why not let 'em all know this is an important day?"

"I'll leave the logistics to you, but people do like a parade."

"If we gathered up some kids in town we could put 'em on ponies, let 'em ride back to church with us."

"Well, mister, that's called evangelism."

***

Monday morning Kent set out for Kouts, Indiana to find out what attraction it held for Jack Dawson. The bank records went back a year, and throughout that time Dawson bought gas, pizza, groceries, alcohol, hardware and sundries in Kouts. Kent took photos with him to show to the merchants; he decided to hit the hardware store first. The shop was empty when he came in; he showed his badge to the proprietor. "Ever seen this guy?"

"Sure," the man shrugged, "Jack Farrell."

"He live around here?"

"Over on Maple, a block east."

"You know what kind of work he does?"

"Drives a truck. Ain't home that much."

"Married man, single? Kids?"

"Yeah, he's married to Gena Corsetti. Two kids, I think. Middle school and high school if I remember right."

"And what does Gena do?"

"Well, now, I wouldn't like to say."

Kent just stared at him. "You think I'm here for my health?"

"Well," the merchant said nervously, straightening up a counter display, "is Jack in some kind of trouble?"

"If he is, better him than you. What's your name, sir?"

"Cory Plunkett."

"Born and raised here, Cory?"

"Yes. Lived here all my life."

"So you pretty much know everybody in town."

"You could say that, I guess."

"The only hardware store and all."

"Well, yeah."

Kent leaned toward him. "This is a murder investigation, Mr. Plunkett. I do suggest strongly that you answer my questions. What is it that Gena does exactly?"

"She hosts these parties every now and then," Plunkett asserted, his jaw out like he wasn't afraid. "Completely legal far as I know."

"Charges people to come to her house?"

"Well, I don't actually know what they do there. But they're very well-behaved, I'll tell you that." Kent stayed silent. "No noise, no parking problems, no complaints. Just a group of friends who get together, from what I'm told."

"How many friends?"

"I dunno, a couple dozen maybe? I ain't never been. I ain't on the list."

"Where do they park, these friends?"

"Across the street in the town lot. I happen to know she pays to rent it out for her parties. The town's glad to get the income, always prompt payment. Everyone says it's a legitimate business, on the up and up. And if you haven't noticed, we could use more businesses around here."

"Does she serve alcohol to her friends?"

"I don't believe she does. That was asked when she requested to use the parking lot. See, she was wantin' to spare the neighbors any inconvenience."

"How long's this been goin' on, that you know of?"

"Oh, quite some time, I expect. A few years."

"You attend meetings of the town board, do you?"

Plunkett smiled, "Well, yes sir, I'm a member of that board. Have been since 2002."

"So you were one of those who looked over her application and approved it."

"Yes, I was. The town ain't never had a problem with Mr. and Mrs. Farrell's private parties."

"Who are these friends exactly? I'm sure the town board asked."

"Members of a social club. You know how it is; they want to keep expenses down, so they don't have a building of their own, they meet in private homes."

"And they pay Gena for the privilege."

"Well, to have that many people in your house a couple of times a month, I'm sure there'd be expenses."

"What do they do there, play canasta?"

"I wouldn't know," Plunkett sniffed.

"You didn't ask, did you. Could be wife-swappin'. Could be worshippin' Satan."

"All's I know if they're Satan-worshippers, they're the nicest group of folks you'd want to meet."

"Oh, so you know 'em."

"Well, a few. Here and there."

Kent scratched his ear, then said, "Cory Plunkett, you're a lying sack of shit." Plunkett's eyes bugged out. "If they were the canasta club, you'd want to rent 'em the community center for their meetings, wouldn'tcha. But they're not the canasta club, are they, Mr. Plunkett. Not the canasta club at all."

"I really wouldn't know. They're quiet and she's worked with the town board every step of the way."

"What if I was to show you photographs of your personal vehicle parked in the town lot at the same time Gina and Jack's parties were going on? What would you say to that, Mr. Plunkett?"

He got all fluttery, turned his back and pretended to rearrange his blank fishing licenses. Then he turned back to face him. "It was a coincidence, that's all. I was parked there on town business, not because of those parties. I don't know anything about those parties, I've never been to one. I'm a happily married man."

Kent smiled; even when jerkoffs lied through their teeth they gave him information. This was suddenly about Mr. Plunkett's marriage. "And what if I was to show Mrs. Plunkett those same photographs? Your personal vehicle, at the town lot late at night. What would Mrs. Plunkett say?"

"I can explain it, I tell you! I was working late here at the store. I'm awful busy, you know, I can't get my books done in the daytime, I have to work late at night."

Kent glanced around the empty store, then studied his fingernails. "Mrs. Plunkett isn't into it, is she."

"No. I mean, well, no. She's not into anything. I mean, she's a happily married woman—at least I hope she is; she says she is. She doesn't deserve to be upset by… such a thing as you're discussing."

"Upstanding citizen, huh? Good wife and mother."

"Yes, she is. Yes, sir. Very good wife and mother."

"Well, I might be able to avoid showing her any photos, if you and me could talk a little more about this off the record. The whole truth this time, Mr. Plunkett, off the record."

"Sure, officer, of course, whatever you want to know."

"I mean, if she's not into it, why upset her?"

"That's right! You're right there. Yes sir."

"How much does Gena charge?"

"Thirty dollars per person."

"Male or female?"

"Thirty dollars a head."

"How often are the parties?"

"First and third Sunday nights. Not that… a person attends all the time, you realize."

"And no complaints; don't upset the neighbors."

"Oh, no, never."

"Quiet operation."

"Yes, sir."

Kent took another photo from his folder. "Ever see this gentleman there?"

Plunkett glanced at it briefly. "I believe I may have, yes."

And another. "What about this guy?"

"He's there every time."

"This fellow?" Kent showed Big Eddie.

"I don't believe so, no. Looks kind of… Mexican or something. There aren't any Mexicans in the club."

"Just clean people."

"Oh yes, nothing but. No foreign people that I can recall. Although there may have been some, I'm not sure."

"Her?"

Plunkett turned away, "Ooh, no."

That was grandma; Kent chuckled at the response, then showed another picture. "How about her?"

Plunkett studied. "Once, maybe, a long time ago. I don't think she cares for the club."

Kent had one last mug shot to show. "Ever seen this guy?"

"Oh yes, he's a regular. He never misses—from what I'm told."

Kent gathered up his photographs, put them back in his folder. "Tell ya what, sir. If you won't tell the Farrells I was askin', I won't show my motor vehicle photos to Mrs. Plunkett. A good wife and mother, no reason she should know."

"That seems like a fair deal. Yes, sir, that's a very fair deal."

Kent breathed deeply and studied Plunkett's live mug. "Pleasure doin' business with you, sir."

"Well, you have a nice day, now. Have a real nice day, yes sir."

Kent left before he burst into laughter.

But as he climbed back into his unit, he vowed he would personally serve a subpoena to that pastor.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

51. Family Hymn

2011-04-28T14:06:00.019-05:00

The first thing that changed when Jamie became CEO caught Kent by surprise because it changed their morning routine; they were both going to work, so they needed the bathroom at the same time, and whoever was running late had to use the kid's room across the hall. It wasn't nearly as good a bathroom, cramped and out of date, and he didn't like getting beat, having to turn back the clock like he was still in high school. So of course he competed from then on—and Jamie would have no trouble talking him into remodeling the bathrooms.

Besides, Kent liked watching Jamie run around naked in the morning.

Jamie wore a suit and tie every day, and Kent began to notice the difference between Jamie's bespoke and his own ready-to-wear. Jamie had much nicer shoes, too, and a lot more of them; stylish footwear, colorful sometimes, two-tone, blue, red, gold—shoes that would have gotten Kent laughed out of his state police post, if not the uniformed service itself. But on Jamie those shoes really set off his whole look.

Kent mused about this as he assiduously applied his daily moisturizing after-shave, and even began conditioning his hair. Then he would wait in the kitchen, affecting a leisurely demeanor, for the Aha moment when Jamie would appear downstairs, ready to begin his day. Kent was dazzled by him every morning, wanting to get all mushy, which Jamie gently brushed off by talking business.

But Kent's lunch case was always packed and ready to go, with stoneware dishes and decent flatware, a well-planned meal down to the olives, cookies and Dijon mustard, plus a moist towelette. He cherished those lunches, and one day he realized he hadn't been to Burger Bootie in weeks.

For Jamie, the first task seemed to be organizing information. He started out studying the Cheat Sheet, trying to ignore that ridiculous entail. The thought of Joey inheriting Hickory Grove—not the house so much as the position—was too ludicrous to contemplate.

He ended up with a hundred questions. Why were there unused livings? What were they doing with 5000 acres of wilderness? How did they know their Philadelphia lawyers weren't robbing them blind?

And as before, why did they give so little in charity and pay so much in taxes?

But there were other questions too, below the surface, which took him several days to identify. Why were there only 200 relatives? The du Ponts have over a thousand heirs. Were the Kesslers vulnerable to a lawsuit from people they didn't know, like John in California?

Did the enrolled members who occupied the livings pay taxes on their free housing? Did those envelopes Kent passed out also contain 1099s?

Judge Schneider would know; he was a key player, but how long would he be around?

What would the enrolled members do if the stock market crashed? They might think they were protected since their income derived from land rents, but what if office vacancies soared in Philadelphia? He doubted they'd like it much if their paychecks suddenly declined; they'd probably blame the Gay guy.

He did some quick math; it appeared they were paying out all of their profits in dividends, with no mention of any cash reserves. What would they do if commodity prices sank, and with them the income from farming? The government could decide tomorrow to ban high fructose corn syrup, or start making ethanol from switchgrass. Corn prices were rising fast, but it might not take much of a recession to cure that; prices depend on the weather, yields per acre, the cost of fertilizer, weed control and other inputs, drought in Australia, blizzards in Russia, the price of rice in Vietnam. If Indiana farmers couldn't make a profit, demand for farmland would drop—and with it, those precious checks. The Annual Meeting shouldn't be allowed to set the dividend rate, that ought to be an executive decision; of course they'd max out their checks and drain the company dry.

The inmates were running the asylum. Where did they keep their money, anyway? How sound was that bank Robert ran? James Earl didn't trust him—but he did.

Jamie reminded himself, and even wrote a note, "If Robert's a prudent banker, it doesn't matter that he's homophobic. If he's not a good banker, it doesn't matter that he's a Kessler."

What were they doing with a golf course in the Town of Friends? Eight hundred souls lived there; it was out of the way for both Lafayette and Crawfordsville. What were the greens like, who ran the place? Why wasn't it cornfields instead?

Of course, Kent grew up playing golf with his Dad; Friendly Links was the home course of the Kessler Classic, which Jamie'd also agreed to run. Did it have a date yet? Would Kent be in town for it, or off playing Interpol in Brussels?

Jamie could imagine the uproar he'd cause if he tried taking away their golf course. But he also knew there are few places sadder than a down-at-the-mouth country club; the swimming pool leaking, the tennis courts cracked and empty, the locker rooms full of jock itch, the food service forlorn. He'd have to inspect the place, play some rounds with Kent when the weather got warmer. Maybe it was a little gem hidden out in the county; maybe it'd cost $10 million just to keep it from being derelict. Why would anyone put a golf course in such an obscure place?

Why did they own all this stuff if they weren't going to take care of it? He looked around at his makeshift office, which seemed to answer the question.

He wondered where in the hell to start with all this. But an answer soon came to him, Aunt Nora's bannister.

He spent a week holed up in his little office, while Mrs. Shuey labeled and sorted his photos, recommended the best shots for the website, advertised for a housekeeper and meanwhile took care of the house, made his lunches and drove while he went shopping. Sometimes he needed to talk and she would listen, trying to follow what he was saying, though she came to realize that he was careful not to discuss money matters with her. Sometimes he would be silent all day, reading online, writing on flipcharts, muttering to himself.

The Judge faxed over the confidentiality agreements for her and Harold; they took them home, talked to a lawyer friend, and signed. Jamie began to open up a little so she could understand the scope of the company to some extent; the bank, the farmlands, the golf course, Philadelphia, all those houses they owned. Harold asked her, "Do any of them mow their own yards, or am I going to be stuck doing that all day? Twenty-four yards, honey, that's five a day, a full-time landscaping business."—Not that he wasn't glad to get the work.

Finally Jamie emerged with an outline to present to Kent; it was a Wednesday, Jamie made Shrimp Shao Mai and Yu Shin Pork.

Kessler Trust Management Priorities: Five Years

I. Strengthen what we're doing now.

A. Develop website, internal communication and participation, especially with distant relatives.

1. Add photos, member galleries.
2. Start podcasts with Aunt Penn.
3. Add blog; site should be interactive, with social networking.

B. Maintain and enhance the livings; all occupied, rented or sold.

1. Hire architect for Hickory Grove.
2. Site visits, photos, incumbent input.
3. Develop budgets, timetables.
4. Hire contractors.

C. Review financial soundness of current operations; reserves, payouts, charitable contributions, taxes.

1. Freeze dividends at current levels; build up cash reserves.
2. Consult Judge Schneider and tax lawyer.

D. Verify valuations, rents and professional services in Philadelphia.

1. Meet lawyers, appraisers.
2. Site visits, photos, maps.

E. Verify valuations, rents and professional services of Indiana farmlands.

1. Develop contacts at Purdue College of Agriculture.
2. Survey comparable rents.
3. Meet appraiser (Richmond).

F. Thorough examination of bank operations.

1. Who controls the board of directors?
2. Review reports, including FDIC/Federal Reserve, for last 5 years.
3. Evaluate loan portfolio, risk and reserve levels, profit and loss.

II. Plan for future growth.

A. Review financial investments and providers.

1. Evaluate risk/reward of current investments.
2. Consider new investment opportunities.
3. Consider providing investment services to members.

B. Develop wilderness plan.

1. Why do we own/pay taxes on this if we're not doing anything with it?
2. Review history with Aunt Penn.
3. Appraise timber, minerals, watershed.
4. Contact state of Indiana, timber companies, environmentalists.

C. Review golf operations vs. other uses.

1. Visit, play golf, eat.
2. Examine budget, profit and loss, business plan.
3. Appraise property for alternate use.

D. Groom young leaders; evaluate/revise/affirm entail.

1. Increase incentives for higher education. No more blue collar workers.
2. Increase service opportunities, internships.
3. Empower youth advisory board.
4. Increase social opportunities.
5. Consider alternative leadership selection process; election vs. entail.

E. Create master plan for Hickory Grove:

1. Home, grounds.
2. Farm.
3. Museum, historic site.

---

It was a lot to think about over Shrimp Shao Mai. "Whew, baby," Kent said. "Boy gets paid for thinkin'."

"Speaking of getting paid, we need to set up a household account for our own expenses. Both of us put in some money."

"How much, ya think?"

"Let's start with a hundred grand apiece and see how far it goes."

"Okay," Kent shrugged. "Don't think small, do ya."

"I'm trying not to, when we're paying $3000 a month to heat this place. I can't believe you've been doing all this with two bank accounts."

"One for me, one for the Trust. That's how Daddy did it."

"We need better bookkeeping, Kent. We don't even have any software, we're just jotting things down on the back of an envelope."

"Mom always did the bookkeeping."

"Mom's not around anymore."

"Kinda left us in the lurch, didn't she."

"It all started with where you sit at the dining room table."

"Well, can you blame me for not wantin' to sit in the big chair?"

"No; so you gave it to me instead." They laughed. "The more I know, the more complicated it gets."

"You thinkin' of selling the empty livings? And the golf course?"

"Only as a last resort perhaps; but that option should be on the table. They're expenses. I want to see some income from them, not just outgo."

"And the forest too?"

"I haven't even been to any of these places. I'm just listing questions to be asked."

"Big headache, huh? Now you know what I been goin' through."

"It reminds me of my mother and her pharmacy service. When she was first hired at the Veterans' Home, 400 members were living in dilapidated cottages; medicine got handed out by a hundred different hands from 10,000-pill jars. The place hadn't changed since it was built for Civil War veterans. She took the pharmacy service from the 19th century to the 21st. By the time she was done she could account for every pill in that place; who gave it out, to whom, and when, along with every other prescription and treatment that patient received."

"I know you're real proud of her."

"If she was as good a mother as she was a pharmacist, she'd be on a Mother's Day postage stamp." Jamie chuckled, "Oh well, she couldn't cook either, and we still survived."

"This here's good grub, baby."

"Thank you, Kent. The ultimate compliment, I make good grub."

Kent kissed him, "I liked my lunch, too. Pasta salad with salami and cukes."

"It's going to take me years to get this place in shape."

"It's gonna cost money, too, looks like."

"I want to make sure our income and expenses are aligned. I'd like to keep the golf course if we can; I'm hoping the bank's in good shape."

"Your list is real thorough, baby. I approve of what you've done. All this in a week is awful damn good."

"I won't make decisions without you, Kent. Only recommendations."

"Well, I like that. You really hirin' an architect for this place?"

"The kitchen has to be gutted. The third floor needs a use. We need professional help so that we preserve everything wonderful about this house, without ending up like your Mom did, crushed by the weight of it. It can't just be one guy's house anymore; it's too big for that. We need to redefine its function, open it up to the rest of the family, and also make it livable for the two of us."

"Okay, babe. Go for it. This is an excellent start, Jamie. Man, am I glad I found you." Kent sighed. "If it gets to be too much for ya, put Warren Buffett on your Clearness Committee."

"He'd take one look and try peddling it to the Chinese."

"But we can't do that, baby."

"Even the Chinese would say it's too complicated to govern."

***

The next day Jamie appended an item to his outline.

III. Keep It Simple, Stupid.

***

Finally one afternoon, Jamie and Mrs. Shuey had only one room left to go to finish their photography project, Josiah's office in the back of the third floor, what Kent called the attic. The heavy door was kept locked, but Kent had given Jamie a big black skeleton key for it. He was a little afraid of what he'd find on the other side—dust and bugs probably—so he and Mrs. Shuey put on white surgical masks, plus she was armed with a flyswatter and bug spray, and her legal pad. He tried the lock; the key still worked. He pushed open the door and found a light switch.

It was a big room, not scary at all, fairly clean, full of old furniture, boxes and personal goods, lamps, pictures and, of all things, an antique bicycle collection from 1890 to 1960. The oldest bike had a giant wheel in front and a little bitty one behind, the sort you only see in the movies. There were also two tandem bikes and several tricycles, mostly for kids but one for an adult. The walls were lined with more bookshelves, built around windows on either side; on the far end stood more shelves and Josiah's old work desk, probably handmade of hickory from the backyard, just a plain box with drawers, very unlike the impressive piece of furniture Mr. Abner made for the library downstairs. Jamie said, "Look at all this stuff."

Mrs. Shuey was amazed too. "Considering how long the Kesslers have been here, this place is a museum by itself."

Jamie took off his mask and started shooting; the bicycles interested him first. Then chairs, lamps, stacks of old clothes; toys, a little set of building blocks, four children's study desks piled on top of each other, Raggedy Ann and Andy, a whole dusty doll collection on a shelf; old baseball gloves and other sports equipment, a broken sled, a clothes rack covered in heavy plastic. He tried lifting it up, "What do you suppose this is?"

They stared, then looked at each other; Mrs. Shuey said, "Miss Evangeline's old dresses?"

"Could be." He lifted one off the rack and hung it on an old lampstand. The dress was a floor-length burgundy, with lots of frills and, perhaps, a bit of a neckline plunge. He moved a trike out of the way so he could get a good shot. "I wonder if there's anyone in the family this thing would still fit."

"Can you imagine the fashion show, if you got these things cleaned?"

"It's a treasure trove. When I asked Kent about it he said, 'just a bunch of old junk.' Man, we could sell this stuff to Hollywood."

She found another rack behind the first one, "Gentlemen's clothes here." She lifted off a suit and hung it on a hook. "Some kind of formal wear maybe. It's gigantic."

"Maybe it belonged to Judge Evan. And they just left it all up here."

"How would you clean it, though?"

"It would take a specialist in restoration work, I'd think. If we could find such a company, I start to visualize a whole gallery at the state museum just for these clothes."

She opened a box marked Pins. "Costume jewelry. At least I assume it's costume; maybe it's valuable." She brought him a couple. "Imagine."

"I'd think they'd be glass, wouldn't you? Who would throw actual jewels in a cardboard box?"

"Maybe someone very accustomed to jewels."

"Wouldn't you keep the real things in a jewelry box?"

"Well, I would, unless I had so many jewels I ran out of space to put them in."

Jamie stopped shooting for a minute. "This isn't the room to display these things in, and I don't want to disturb all these items. I'm trying to show, this is what the house looked like when I moved in. Not look at all the weird stuff we found." He stepped back to get some wider shots.

He backed up toward Josiah's desk, focusing and clicking, then a strange feeling started up in his gut.

He took a few more shots of the room as a whole, then turned and faced the back wall, which was just shelves and the desk. He stared for a minute, then walked back into the center of the room to look again at the back of the house. Slowly he said, "Something isn't right here."

"What are you thinking?"

"I don't know. The proportions are wrong."

He went back to the entry and stood by the heavy door, taking in the whole view from that direction. "I wonder that Aunt Penn never mentioned this."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm not sure. But something's missing here. Where are the rest of the windows?"

Mrs. Shuey looked at the ones on either side, but didn't understand. He said, "There are windows all across the back wall."

"All I see are those bookshelves."

"And the space isn't right. It's too short, by 20 or 30 feet. Don't you think? There should be more house back here."

"Well, it's an awfully big room as it is."

"This room isn't right at all. Let's get our coats, I'll show you outside."

"Okay." They started to leave, then he stopped again. "Let's count the windows on the sides. The whole length of this floor, every room, just count. You take the right, I've got the left. Count every side window on this floor."

So they did, going from room to room. He announced, "Ten, twenty, thirty," while she made checkmarks on her pad.

They got to the front and she said, "Forty-four windows."

He agreed. "Now let's go outside and count. Take the same sides, count them twice."

They got their coats, went outside and walked the perimeter. They met back in the front and he said, "Forty-eight."

She nodded, "Forty-eight."

"So we're missing four per side. Let's go to the back and count the windows across."

They did and agreed, ten across, plus double doors to exit onto the observation balcony. She said, "But what does it mean?"

He looked at her, said nothing and hurried back inside. She followed right away. He took the main staircase two at a time. She joined him shortly back in the attic. He walked slowly in front of the back shelves, then asked if she'd get a couple of flashlights downstairs in the Man Drawer. "There's at least one big lantern, and a couple of smaller ones maybe."

She went down and found two good lanterns with bright lights; when she returned upstairs she found he'd removed half a dozen books from a particular shelf and set them on the desk. "Come and look at this," he said. She handed him a lantern, then shone her own close by.

They scrutinized that shelf for a few minutes, then he took the one above and she took the one below, moving books and setting them on the floor. He lifted off one book, "The Journal of George Fox," he said. "This whole section is Fox and other early leaders of the Quaker movement."

"I've got various religious writings, too," she replied.

He picked up another book and sucked in his breath. "Josiah, did you read Hebrew?" He looked some more, "And Greek right next to it. He kept these things up here next to him; I wonder if he didn't work downstairs that much."

"Sermons by John Wesley," she announced. She opened the book, "With lots of margin notes. 'No, this is wrong! Not the nature of grace.'" She flipped some more, then read, "Well, perhaps. But still too much of the Established Church."

Jamie chuckled, "He didn't think too much of the Church of England." Then he said, "But what's this?" He shone his light on top of a book, then pulled it out. "Look at this."

She did. Some of the pages were crushed and had been for decades. Then he took out his skeleton key, sucked in his breath and fit the head of it right into one of the two depressions. "Oh my God. Look!" But before she could grasp the meaning of it, he started pulling everything off that shelf. He bent, shone his light and cried, "Right here!"

"What is it?"

He felt behind on the wall—and found it. He tried turning his key, but it didn't want to go left so he tried right. Maybe it stuck a little, but he jiggled—and then they heard a sound, Tock!

"Mrs. Shuey," he said solemnly, "get the camera, please. I'm going to take a photograph of this little lock, which has a latch of some kind under it, and then I want you to take pictures of what I might find."

She handed him the camera. He took four photos, then gave it back to her. He tugged a little; the wall of shelves moved but he lost hold of his little latch. He reached back for it, got it and pulled.

A door opened. Light streamed in through the back windows.

She took pictures of Jamie and the door from several angles. His mouth was open and she watched him breathe.

Then he walked into the rest of the house and disappeared.

She followed, taking more shots with each step.

There were a dozen cots lined up, ready for the next refugees. Each cot had a brown blanket and a faded pillow. The side walls had four windows apiece. Along the back, ten, plus double doors.

Various textiles and other objects were piled neatly in a corner. Sunshine flooded through the double doors to the balcony. He stepped over to them and opened them up.

He tested the grillework with a light step, then held on and gave it more weight. When he felt safe he stepped out on the balcony, looked over the treetops, saw the hickory grove and beyond it Sugar Creek.

No one had stood there for a hundred years or more. The view was spectacular. He turned back to her, leaned against the railing and she took his photograph.

He asked for the camera and took shots of what he saw, a nice sunny day, a bit cold still but not too bad.

When he was done he re-entered the room, found a closet extending in from the side wall, and opened it up. "Look at this," he said, handing back the camera.

She took pictures of him and what was in the closet. He shook his head back and forth a little in astonishment. He said, "How will we get it open?" He crouched down to examine it, and another sensation started up in his body.

He raised back up and said softly, "Stand a little bit over my right shoulder, so you can get some of me and some of this. Use your viewfinder, make sure you've got the auto-focus and steady-view on, and pick out your best spot."

She moved a little, and then again, before saying, "Ready."

He gave the handle a shove, pulled open the door, and there on a shelf in the old safe sat only one object.

Mrs. Shuey snapped and snapped. Finally Jamie moved from the closet to let her have a good view.

He said, "I have plastic food-prep gloves in the kitchen. I'm going to get them. Don't touch it yet."

"No, I won't."

In a few minutes he lifted it out, posed with it in his plastic kitchen gloves, then decided that there was only one place to put it. "Let's go downstairs, shall we? We need to get dinner started."

"Of course."

***

When Kent got home that night after baseball practice, Jamie called Cher, then told his husband, "Soup and salad here in the kitchen, then dinner will be served in the dining room, after you've had a chance to see what I found today."

"What's that?"

"If you would, let me reveal it for you in the way I think is best. This is kind of like the Phos hilaron and candle-lighting on the night we got married, Kent. I'm just making this up as we go along."

"That turned out pretty good, baby, we got married 'n' all. So I'm here, do your thing. Trust your gut."

"Thank you; oh, what a good husband I have. Please wash your hands but don't change out of your suit. This is going to be memorable, Kent, it's an important night. In fact, I've called some family members. They know a little of what's happening, we've simply been waiting for you to get home. So let's sit down for our first course and in 20 minutes or so they'll start arriving."

"You're sure bein' mysterious. But I love it, this is the little guy I fell for. He just does stuff like this."

"I don't mean to hide anything, but history will be made here tonight, so all I know is to run a little liturgy."

Kent kissed him. "Married me a little E-pis-co-pal boy."

***

Jamie asked Kent to sit in his head chair in the dining room. The close family members then took their seats in rank order, Jamie on the left, Martha on the right, then on through Aunt Penn, Judge Schneider, Uncle Micah and Aunt Nora, Uncle Wes and Aunt Sylvia, Joey and Cher but not the kids, John Wesley and Sandy. Jamie brought out his box of kitchen gloves and passed them out. Aunt Penn's eyes got big, but she kept quiet, carefully putting on her gloves. Mrs. Shuey was also present to be the photographer.

Kent wondered what this was all about, but put on his gloves and waited to do what he was told.

Jamie went to one of the china cabinets, opened a drawer and took out the object. He carried it ceremonially, displaying it as if it were a Gospel book, and placed it on the table in front of his husband.

Kent looked down at it. Carefully Jamie opened the book, of which the first page was blank. He turned over a leaf—and there, in careful 19th century cursive, was written all across the top of two pages,

The Cairo, Crawfordsville and Detroit Line
on the Underground Railroad.

Josiah accounted for every penny, starting in 1835 and lasting till 1864.

He spent $842.36 rescuing 381 big hams and 242 little hams. He even recorded their names, approximate ages, male or female, where they came from and the destination he sent them to; several to Mr. and Mrs. Coffin in Richmond, or later on, Cincinnati; some to Jamie's home parish, St. John's, Lafayette, or other churches in the area; some to Toledo, Detroit and Ontario. A few stayed in Montgomery County and joined the Bethel AME church.

Best of all, about 10% of the hams could sign their own names.

The largest, most fluid signature of all read, "Miss Evangeline Marie Guillory of New Orleans, Louisiana, United States of America. June 29 in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand, Eight Hundred Fifty-Four."

This was followed by smaller, printed letters, "Abner G—."

A scrawl below that, with the same date, was hard to make out. Everyone peered at it and tried to guess; the Guillory was fairly plain, but the first name was very muddled. Aunt Penn knew what it ought to say, but she kept in her seat and wouldn't look, until finally Jamie said, "Antoine?"

Aunt Penn clapped, "Antoine! Thank heaven, thank heaven. Thank the Almighty God!"

***

After dinner, a scrumptious vegetable lasagne in one of Ma's big trays, everyone trooped upstairs to the little oratory, where Jamie led Compline. When it was done Kent whispered to him, Jamie nodded, then gave a little instruction; sat at his digital piano bench with Kent standing next to him facing the People, as everyone sang the Family Hymn.

Faith of our Mothers,
holy faith!
We will be true
to thee till death!++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

50. Interpol

2011-04-28T13:20:00.008-05:00

A few days later Kent wrote Aunt Penn an e-mail.

"That social climbing Episcopalian you were so worried about is richer than I am. Turns out he's worth ten times all of us put together—and that pre-nup we got favors me, at his insistence. Do you realize what that could mean for us?

"I love you, Aunt Penn, you're almost always right, but when you're wrong you really pull a boner."

Then he re-read it and laughed, editing out that last word.

***

It was a Tuesday, and Purdue baseball was hosting the Valparaiso Crusaders at 4 p.m. Jamie didn't get to go; Jamie wasn't allowed to drive.

Midway through the Big Ten season, the Boilermakers were tied for first with two other teams, 7-5 in the conference, 27-13 overall, a great record, but they weren't nationally ranked; no Big Ten teams were. He listened to a few innings on internet radio while he worked on Wednesday's Daily Office. Kent wouldn't get home until after 8 p.m. for Pappy's Home Cooking, which was nothing but a chicken and rice casserole with herb biscuits.

Valpo took a 2-0 lead in the top of the second on a single, a walk and a triple off the wall. Jamie looked in the Psalms for some ethnocentric curses, but the Germans were spared that Fifth Week in Lent.

Mrs. Shuey came to the kitchen. "Laundry's all done. Is there anything else you need?"

Jamie glanced at the clock. "No, go on home. Next time I thought we'd start our photo project." He wanted to record the house as it was, before he started making any more changes. "I'll ask you to come with me and take notes of what I'm shooting, with all the rooms numbered so we know what we're looking at later. Clerical work, really, but it's pretty important."

"I'll get into secretarial mode," she smiled.

"I used to take photo notes for Rick when we were covering a story. Spot news, a big parade; he'd shoot, I was his confederate. Once he got sick, sometimes I'd take the pictures and he'd jot things down, but he was always our Number 1 photographer. On a newspaper you have to get the details right. That's Lady GaGa, not GooGoo, spell it right or you'll hear about it for months."

"It was exciting work for you."

"We were a good team. I'd say, 'Get that, get that!', and he'd always try. He was better at composition than I am. He was visual, I did the words."

She could tell he was missing his old job, and the man he loved then. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

"Thank you, Mrs. Shuey."

"Good night, sir."

He did miss Rick; and just as much, he missed that job.

***

Kent got home. "Hey, cuteness, what's for supper?"

Jamie checked his biscuits in the oven and took the casserole out. "Well, it would have been gruel, till Jared poked that homer in the bottom of the ninth."

Kent chuckled, "He was due."

"Casserole and a vegetable slaw I've just learned to make. Comfort food; I was sure I was going to have to cheer you up after Valpo batted around in the fifth."

"I am not in charge of the pitchers. We still won the game, despite that lousy bullpen tonight."

"They're Lutherans, Kent; you must never show any mercy to Lutherans." Jamie laughed; his best friend went to Valpo, and once taught him theology all summer.

"Anything new here?"

"We're doing the house photos tomorrow for the website. I hope people like them."

"Seein' the old portraits? I bet they do."

"I thought we'd set up the dining room too; Miriam's shop is sending some flowers. And the Jesus window."

"People will like it. Is the site gettin' any hits?"

"There's a John from California, says he's Aunt Penn's cousin, once removed."

"Don't know him. Didja call her?"

"Not when he already knew her name, no. Last name is Schneider, which makes me think of your uncle Lincoln. But he didn't mention him, just Aunt Penn. Kind of odd, really, but okay. He knows Aunt Penn."

"So the site's startin' to reach some people."

"A few."

"I never thought about a family website. But it's a great idea, baby."

"Talk it up to the locals. We're still missing a lot of their e-mail addresses."

"People will come when they know there's pictures of this place."

"You're right, the more content the better."

"I'll set the table." Kent went to the scullery. "Kitchen or dining room?"

"In here, I think." Jamie set out his casserole and slaw, a pitcher of ice water, some margarine. "I'll be glad when Lent is over and we can buy real butter again. Half-and-half for my coffee."

"It ain't much sacrifice."

"No, it's practically nil. But by this time we're supposed to be sick of it, and I am."

"E-pis-co-pa-lians," Kent grinned. "Any dessert tonight?"

"Well, here's a hint, they come from a Nabisco bag." The timer went off; the biscuits were golden brown. Jamie threw them in a basket.

"Ooh, Oreos!"

"Now I really know it's Lent." They sat, held hands. "For this gruel, O Lord, and for home runs that beat Lutherans, make us truly thankful."

"Amen," Kent chuckled. "You're about as pious as I am sometimes."

"Thank you. I'm glad you noticed."

"Both goin' to hell prob'ly."

"Nah," Jamie scoffed, "there isn't one for Episcopalians."

They ate. The casserole was nothing to apologize for, and the slaw was pretty good. "Got the bank records finally," Kent said.

"Anything in there?"

"I ain't put the raw data together yet, but Dawson's been spendin' some regular money in a place called Kouts, Indiana, plus Danville, Illinois."

"I don't know Danville, but I do know Kouts. Southeast edge of the Region, below Valpo, not far from the Kankakee. There's not much there, though."

"They got a convenience store, groceries and hardware. A pizza joint."

"Kouts," Jamie repeated. "That's got to be a girlfriend or family member. There's no other reason to go to Kouts. It's like Kentland without the stoplight."

"Now that's bad. I been to Kentland, I seen that stoplight."

"The one with the little man in the booth?"

Kent laughed, "Soon as he sees me comin' he changes it to red."

"You're not supposed to drive through town; you're supposed to stop."

"Does the gas station pay him?"

"And McDonald's. If you ask him nicely he'll give you 20¢ off a Big Mac."

"I don't eat fast food no more. Ain't no comfort in it like my baby's got." Kent stroked Jamie's hair. "Good casserole, bud."

"Made with a roux; I'll show you next time."

"I'm sorry for all the disruptions lately, baby. I miss not cookin' together."

"We'll cook this summer."

"Oh, shoot, that reminds me. I got somethin' major to tell ya."

"Okay."

"I been asked to go for three weeks of intensive training with Interpol."

"Interpol; that sounds important. When will this be held?"

"A week at Quantico, a week in New York, a week in London, mid-June to July the 1st. I ain't said yes yet. The major put me in for it months ago, I didn't think a thing about it. Today I got an envelope from Homeland Security."

"What's the topic?"

"Terrorism, international law; computers, databases, financial crimes."

"That's wonderful, Kent."

"Now I really feel guilty."

"But why?"

"I gave you such a hard time for bein' in New York for a week, comin' back with three billion dollars. There ain't gonna be no money in this, I'll tell ya. End of baseball season, the playoffs'll be done; no Omaha, a big case hangin' over my head. Jamie's first summer, tannin' in your Speedos every night by the pool for me, and I don't get to see you for most of a month."

"It's a pretty prestigious assignment, I'd think."

"Yeah, NYPD, the FBI, Scotland Yard, a side trip to Brussels. Won't do Michael no good, though."

"Do the Guzmans have a trial date?"

"November at the earliest. I'd like to get it wrapped up well before then."

Jamie rubbed Kent's arm. "You have so much on your mind, when I just want things easy for you."

"I'd like the international experience, man. I'd also like to schedule it better."

"At least you'd be home for July the 4th."

"Know what I want?"

"No, what do you want?"

"I want you to start managing my money for me."

Jamie frowned, "What do you mean?"

"And the Trust too. You've been good with your mom's money, so why not? I can't do all this stuff, man. I can't be goin' to D.C. and Europe and be Xeroxin' agendas for the annual meetin', lickin' a bunch of stamps. I did that when I was a kid; it's too much now. You'd be better at it, a degree in econ and all. Traded on the Nasdaq, deals with Warren Buffett."

"The Trust requires full-time management, Kent. Whether I did it or someone else, it's too much money to leave to chance. There isn't one $400 million business that's run part-time by a farmer in the back parlor. An entrepreneur can handle a quarter-million in sales by himself, but then it's time to hire a manager."

"So be that guy, Jamie. I can't do it the way it oughta be done; Aunt Nora asked me for an upstairs laundry two years ago and I still ain't got around to it. Two dozen livings, real estate in Pennsylvania; I'm a cop, a blue-collar man."

"I don't have the background for it, Kent. A degree in economics isn't management or finance. It was macro-economics, so I could write about GDP and the Group of Seven; not business. I never wanted to go into business."

"But you did."

"That was different. InFashion started out as a nonprofit royalties clearinghouse, to give the models a cut of the revenue and make sure the men were paid as much as the women. It was a sex discrimination case."

"Who made it into that e-commerce thing for profit, then?"

"Well, Phillip."

"Who hired Phillip? Who had the idea the company ought to get into that?"

Jamie's eyes narrowed. "If it's a full-time job it would cost you money."

"How much?"

"I am not a manager."

"What's managing, exactly? Settin' goals, following through? Creating projects, pulling together a team to get 'em done? Don't tell me you can't coach, 'cause I won't believe you. I'll ask Phillip."

"I've never done it, though. I don't know anything about farming or real estate."

"There are experts for that stuff, Jamie. A good reporter can always find some experts."

"This is crazed."

"No, it ain't. You're already gettin' us organized, with that website and Aunt Penn's podcasts. Takin' pictures tomorrow so you can show what this house looks like. Some guy named John in California's already wantin' to sign up."

"Your family's far-flung."

"I know it. And just 'cause they don't live in Indiana, don't ride horses and raise beans like the rest of us, they ain't part of us no more?"

"It's actually the forced divestment provision that does it. By preventing the Trust shares from being inheritable, you end up jettisoning half your relatives."

"So put a stop to it, Jamie. Without subdividing this estate, which is why that provision's in there."

"Critique this slaw for me. And the biscuits."

"The slaw's healthy stuff, raw vegetables, good vinegrette. I like it, make it again sometime. The biscuits are unusual, brown with little green things in 'em."

"Whole wheat flour, thyme and basil. The chicken has some of my tarragon, too."

"That stuff's sweet almost. But not sugary sweet."

"You could say that. No sugar, you're right."

"So the biscuits and the casserole go together. I like 'em. Nothin' wrong with whole wheat every now and then."

They looked at each other. Jamie said, "Chief Executive Officer. Under the President, executing his orders."

Kent touched himself. "How much, baby?"

"A hundred thousand dollars. If I can't make you that much in a year I'm not worth it."

"You're already managin' money, Jamie. This is just a bigger estate, that's all."

"Maybe Mrs. Shuey can help with the administrative tasks."

"Great. You're hired."

"Good grief, Kent."

"You been wantin' a real job; now you've got one. Aunt Nora needs a washin' machine upstairs."

"I don't know a thing about property management. I can't even fix a leaky faucet."

"I bet Mr. Shuey can."

"I don't know the contractors."

"But you can find the experts."

"You'll have to sell this idea to the family. They'll all say the Gay guy's taking over."

"I have the power to appoint you on my own. It's enumerated right there in the Trust, the President has the power and obligation to appoint any and all advisers to carry out his duties, there ain't a word anyone can say about it. I may not be that good a President, but by gosh I know my own governing document."

"It would be better to be seen as consulting them."

"I'll convene my Clearness Committee, let 'em ask me all the questions they got. Then I'll announce your appointment. Is that satisfactory?"

"Just for one year to see how it goes. If I get in over my head, and I surely will, I'll recommend you hire a professional."

"Will you manage my own money too, Jamie?"

"Sure."

"Attaboy. Thank you. It'll be a huge relief not to have to worry about all this stuff, when I know I don't got time to pay attention to it. Talk about a guy bein' over his head, that's me."

"You should think about cutting back some of your time commitments. And take plenty of vacations."

"Buy us a little getaway in the USVI."

"But Kent, I wouldn't see you all winter."

Kent laughed; that was an exact quote from the last time. "Yes, you would, I'd make ya. I kinda like the idea of you bein' under the President full-time. Executin' my orders. Doin' what you're told."

Jamie stood. "I think it's time for some Oreo cookies."

"That's me, baby. Black on the outside, white 'n' creamy on the in."

"Do stop before your ego starts cracking all four walls."

Kent got up and pulled Jamie to him. "I need you, no jokin' around. I need a partner, Jamie, and you're the one. I admire you so much, and you do need a role to play around here. Let's both do what we're good at. Let me be the figurehead, you be the real power. In our relationship, the Trust, everything."

"It may not work."

"I bet it does. I thought about somethin' else today."

"What's that?"

"You know my suggestion that you go to the state police academy so you can be my partner? I take it all back. You'd be great at it but I don't want you doin' it. You could learn how to fire a weapon, I could teach you, but I don't want you even close to any kind of danger. If I love you, I'm not puttin' you by the side of the road. You were right, one cop in the family's plenty. If anything ever happened to you, I'd fling myself off the nearest mountain. You are not allowed to die before I do."

"Well, it wasn't really a practical idea anyway. The state won't hire someone who can't drive."

"Said I'll keep you safe and warm, then try to talk you into bein' not safe. It ain't right. I'm sorry, Jamie. Maybe we can find another way sometimes so you can keep helpin' me with my cases, but no, I don't want you goin' to cop school. That was a stupid thing to say."

"You don't think I can do it?"

"I know you can. But if there's anything dumber than a billionaire cop I don't know what it is."

"A millionaire cop isn't far behind, Kent."

"I know, but I'm already into it now. So let me be the dumb one, okay? You be the active administrator. You be the one who gets paid to think. I'll be the one who gets paid to move."

They held each other. "Don't you get in trouble either."

"Aw, Jamie, I'm so dumb a bullet'd bounce off my head."

***

The next day Jamie and Mrs. Shuey spent all morning taking pictures and discovering things about the house; Jamie'd never noticed the details of Mr. Abner's amazing woodwork, with a signature fleur-de-lis on every piece, and sometimes a little half-hidden putto expressing shock or delight. The mantel in the master bedroom had silhouettes of Josiah and his lady carved into the corners, and in between were scenes of childrearing, an old rocking cradle, a boy in a straw hat swinging on a branch, a little girl with a barking dog and a stick. The parlor had a figure that might have been Miss Hannah, the forgotten first wife, an incredibly sweet gesture—while the drawing room fireplace was surmounted with a portrait in wood of his daughter Evangeline, big bosom and all.

If Mr. Abner let his wood do the talking for him, he must have been chattering all over the house.

After lunch Jamie asked the ad agency to send him a template for his business cards, and told his new, full-time executive assistant to hire a housekeeper.

"You're in business!" Mrs. Shuey cried.

"Let's roll up our sleeves and get cracking—'cause you're darn right, honey. Jamie's back in business."++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

49. Pudding

2011-04-23T15:37:00.015-05:00

The next morning when Kent came back from his run down by the creek, he found a billionaire in the kitchen, making his breakfast. Jamie said, "What do you like on your French toast?"

Kent kissed him, then sat down. "What are my choices?"

"Pancake syrup; my mother liked hers warmed up. Jam or jelly; some people like syrup and jelly both."

"We got any Welch's grape jelly?"

"Am I ever without it?"

"Better not be. It's a rule."

Jamie brought a plate of six pieces, cut diagonally and lined up in a row, sprinkled with confectioners' sugar, plus sausage links, an orange slice and some green grapes. "I'll get the jelly."

"What's this stuff?" Kent eyed some pink goop in a custard cup.

"Breakfast pudding." Jamie spooned jelly into a little bowl. "Strawberry-banana."

"It looks like yogurt."

Jamie brought jelly. "Try it."

Kent picked up the cup and smelled it. "It smells like yogurt."

Jamie sighed and prepared his own plate.

Kent took his spoon and got a one-gram dab of the pink goop, tasting and clicking his tongue rapidly. "It is yogurt!"

"Just eat it, okay?"

"I hate yogurt! And tryin' to pass it off as breakfast pudding, jeez."

"It's good for you." Jamie poured himself a cup of coffee at the counter. "Calcium. Vitamins, potassium. High in protein, low in fat."

He brought his plate and sat; Kent's custard cup was empty. Their eyes met and Kent said, "I lied, baby. I love yogurt. But that breakfast pudding you tried to pass off on me, ew!"

Jamie smiled, "Shut up and eat."

"You're so easy. You believe everything I say."

"Not any more."

"Next I'll find out your cheese and bacon pie's really a quiche or somethin'."

"That after-shave I've got you using is actually a moisturizer."

"Can't be. Says right on it, after shave," Kent sniffed. "Mild Balm, sea minerals 'n' plankton."

"Ah, the wonders of marketing. Put an athlete on the box and guys will buy anything."

"Yogurt's good for me. But I eat it 'cause it tastes good."

"No more breakfast pudding for you, then."

"You're a gay deceiver, buddy."

"Just keep moisturizing, pal."

"Your French toast's pretty good, baby."

"I'm glad, the secret is using good bread. Do you have plans today?"

"Not till 3 p.m., I get to drive grandma and Big Eddie to their preliminary hearing in Fowler. Last item on the docket."

"Have they been extradited, then?"

"Yeah. Holdin' em in Tippecanoe, even though it's a Benton County case. The judge isn't taking any chances with that sheriff's department."

"Speaking of him, where's Dawson these days?"

"Tippecanoe. The judge accepted my argument, we can't have him commandin' his own police force, so no bail. I'm hopin' for the same thing today, given that the Guzmans already fled out of state."

"Is that judge still a suspect?"

"Haven't ruled him out, but he's not my big priority, either. I want to know who killed that boy."

"Did you get a chance to talk to Randy?"

"Him and Debbie both. They both say it was always grandma with the board, although that isn't proof."

"What will you do?"

"I'm thinkin' of goin' back to the Region. Find out if grandma and Dawson knew each other before all this."

"It seems logical."

"It sure does. But I want his bank records, and I don't got 'em yet."

"Track down those drug profits."

"He doesn't own that much from what I can tell; a little fishin' boat on Lake Shafer, which ain't unusual. His house is modest; nice enough furniture, but nothin' out of the ordinary. Ain't found no fancy cars or diamond rings."

"Trips to Vegas, the Bahamas?"

"Could be a Swiss bank account, the Cayman Islands. A condo in Acapulco."

"Why did she move to Mud Pine from Kankakee? Who got there first?"

"He did. He had to establish residency so he could run for sheriff. The old lady, Mrs. Shreve, says grandma rented the house that August, enrolled Michael in school."

"That means grandma came down because Dawson was already here; at least it suggests that."

"Yes. I want to know how they met up there in Lake County; who's been shakin' down whom? Or were they partners?"

"What about bank records on her?"

"I've subpoenaed all the banks in Lafayette. Nobody knows her, none of her aliases either."

"No credit cards in her purse?"

"Yup, she does have one; a bank up in the Region. Same one he uses."

"Which one?"

"It's called Premier."

"They have an ATM in Lafayette."

"They do? How do you know?"

"They have a loan office here. No retail banking, just that ATM."

"That's helpful to know. Banks usually put a camera on the ATM machine."

"Machines will take a deposit for any bank, though. Charge you an extra two bucks to handle it."

"Still, it's worth checkin' out."

"You're doing a lot of footwork, mister."

"That's what it's all about. That and talkin' to people."

"Who in the Region is going to tell you what you need?"

"Well, I know who won't; Dawson's old pals on the Drug Task Force."

"Does that impugn your guy in Hammond?"

"No, they're separate agencies. Hammond does Hammond, the county gets the unincorporated areas."

"Old neighbors in Robertsdale."

"Takin' Dawson's picture with me."

"It sounds complicated. How do you attack a criminal enterprise?"

"I want to find out from Tom Rankowski in Hammond who might have been convicted since they lived up there. Anybody awaitin' sentencing? Anybody needin' to get in good with a judge?"

"So there are ways to crack the code?"

"It won't be easy. But the jails are full of Latin Kings, Jamie, just like the streets. Somebody knows something and I'm gonna pry it out of 'em. Tom may have some snitches I don't know about."

"What else does the evidence you already have tell you?"

"Well, it was an act of rage. Whoever beat the kid, they kept goin' long after he quit movin'. So which one's the angry one? Dawson? It wouldn't be his pattern, far as I know."

"He allegedly beat his wife."

"Ah, I forgot that. I better talk to her. Thanks, baby."

"It seemed like you were starting to answer your own question, though."

"I need to stop us right here. From this point on, all we're doing is speculatin', okay? Brainstorming." Jamie nodded. "I say that because most detection doesn't unfold in a linear progression, where one thing leads to another like Sherlock Holmes. I mean, Jamie, that's fiction, it's TV land. Every now and then I've had a case like that, but most of 'em aren't. Most of the time I'm like a lab rat on a treadmill, spinnin' round and round, goin' over everything in my mind, looking for all the possibilities. With this case I got half a dozen suspects and no obvious way to differentiate among 'em. This ain't 'Murder on the Orient Express,' where the only ones who coulda done it are the people on the train, so all you gotta do is run a process of elimination. I read a coupla Agatha Christie books; both of 'em were formulas, closed societies, figure out who didn't do it and bust the last one left. This case ain't like that, it's open. It's a hamster wheel."

"I don't mean to keep you spinning, Commander."

"You ain't. It's the case itself, man. Eddie, grandma, the sheriff, the prosecutor, the judge? I don't think it was the Gypsies and I know it wasn't the coloreds. It was someone inside that house." Kent sighed. "So if you're gonna help me—and I sure the fuck wish you would—the best way's to get me off the treadmill if you can."

Jamie exhaled deeply, looked off. "Damn, you're smart."

Kent closed his eyes, hoped he was. He liked hearing it but he wasn't feeling smart, he was feeling like a hamster.

Jamie asked, "What does your gut say?"

Kent breathed deeply. "Grandma and Eddie are the most obvious. The sheriff is deeply implicated. But there's a whole 'nother level here, which is why this case is so hard to penetrate."

Jamie was quiet for a time, looking off, trying to think and feel. "There's a secret passageway going down. The visible staircases don't lead anywhere."

"Right."

"Grandma, Eddie and the sheriff know who killed Michael. But they're stonewalling, hoping you don't find that hidden stairway."

"I don't have evidence on any of them, even though I know they're all involved. And until I come up with evidence, I don't got jack shit."

"So the place to look is the stone wall, not the stairs. A crack somewhere, an indentation."

"A weak spot. There always is one; I ain't found it yet."

"Who are your secondary suspects? The county prosecutor, the judge; who else? If you stood back 30 feet and just looked at your cast of characters, the whole group, who are the weak ones?"

Kent stared at him. "Man. I know exactly who the weak ones are."

Jamie raised his shoulders to his neck, lifted his palms up, "Probe there?"

Kent stood, bent and kissed him, staring, boring, trying to articulate but he couldn't yet. He looked away, set his jaw, put his hands in motion but words wouldn't come. Finally he said, "I'm on it. Thank you, Jamie, just that little bit's what I needed! Don't keep walkin' up and down these same old stairs, find the hidden passageway."

Jamie didn't know that he'd added anything. But he said, "Go get 'em, Commander."

"Man oh man. Dang, baby, you should be a state trooper. I oughta send you to the police academy, get you suited up."

"Right. Me, a state trooper. Can't drive and scared of guns."

Kent chuckled and said, "Maybe we can get you in under the disabilities act. Employers must make reasonable accomodations."

"For phobias?"

"I'd love to have you as a state trooper, man."

"Oh, please. I'd look so wrong in one of those hats. And the haircut, good grief."

Kent grabbed him and smooched him. "You're so butch you'd scare the criminals into confessin'."

"I'd walk into a crackhouse and start redecorating."

Kent laughed, "We need a diverse police force, Jamie."

"I'd have you all wearing designer uniforms."

"Think about it."

"No."

"We got civilian employees, you know."

"One cop in the house is enough."

"You'd be great at it."

"You're talking loco, buddy. That breakfast pudding must be tainted."

"Make it yogurt next time. I gotta take a shower." Kent got ready to leave, then said, "Is my after-shave really moisturizer?"

Jamie nodded, "The forehead's a problem area for everyone, Kent, so use the lotion all over your face."

"I just like it 'cause it don't sting."

"Alcohol's an astringent. You don't need that."

"Don't tell the guys, okay? It'd mess with my rep."

"I've already posted it on the Kessler family blog."

Kent frowned at him, and Jamie laughed.

But Kent went upstairs knowing who the weak ones were.

***

Later that morning Sgt. Kessler got a call, listened solemnly, thanked the man, then thought about his lover. He didn't know how to give him the news except to give it to him. So he called home. "I just got a report of some remains over in Illinois."

"Michael?"

"Could be. Don't know. Remnants of what could be a child's blue and red parka, though."

Jamie crossed himself. "Lab tests, I suppose."

"Yeah, dental records maybe. We don't know that it's a human being yet."

"How were they discovered?"

"A farmer out inspecting his fields, gettin' ready for planting. Saw some damage to his fence, got out of his truck, the dog started barkin'."

"Where exactly?"

"Edge of the field, an old tree by the side of the road, about a mile from the state line. Southeast corner of Iroquois County, Illinois. Due west of Mud Pine, right off 352."

"How did you hear?"

"He called his county sheriff to come take a look. Fortunately they remembered I was lookin' for somebody."

Jamie sighed. "So what can I do for you?"

"Don't have to do nothin' if you don't want to. I just thought I should call."

"If I were covering the story I'd go to the location, take pictures. Talk to the farmer."

"That's what I'm plannin' on. You feel like comin', doin' a little field work?"

Jamie shrugged, "Sure."

"You don't have to, baby."

"I doubt I contribute much, but if it's Michael, he deserves respectful treatment."

"Always. Could be a little gory, though, I don't know. The bones have been pretty well picked over, they said. Wolves, whatever."

"I've seen gore before, Kent. I don't like it, but you don't have to go by yourself."

"When did you see gore?"

"Remember Steve Helmreich, the criminology professor?"

"Sure, I remember Doc. Serial murder case."

"He gave me a book once, forensic photos. Said if I was ever going to be a real investigator, I had to get used to examining a crime scene. Those photos were brutal. Stabbings. Dismemberments. Blood everywhere."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"I don't want you doing it by yourself if you don't have to. I mean, what's the point? Sparing my tender feelings? Those are for Randy. Those are for Michael's mom."

"I hear ya, little man. Or big one, whichever."

"Do you want to pick me up? I could make some hot tea to take with us."

"Yeah, give me 45 minutes. Dress warm, baby. Hikin' boots, a good warm hat. Shouldn't have to be there too awful long."

"What are the custody issues with the bones?"

"They belong to that sheriff. But he wouldn't mind if we pay to have 'em tested."

"It always comes down to the budget, doesn't it. A child is killed and… Is Indiana willing?"

"Yeah, I got a call in to my forensic gal, Corporal Kwiatkowski. She's on her way."

"I'll bring my good camera. Maybe some coffee too, if she wants some. A few snacks. How cold is it?"

"Right at freezing. Wind ain't too bad. Don't forget your gloves."

"I'll be ready."

"Thank you, baby."

"I'm glad you called me."

"Didn't really want to. But I didn't know what else to do."

"It's okay, Kent. Part of the job."

"Could be a coyote, baby. Might not be him at all."

"Then why is it straight out 352?"

Kent sighed too. "I love you, James."

"See you soon, Commander."

***

The best way to get there from Crawfordsville turned out to be the same road Jamie grew up on four counties north; up through Attica, then over. The scenery was pleasant, a bit hilly and forested because of the rivers, but the day was gray. Kent ate a couple of cookies but they didn't talk much. They were going to look at bones and didn't know any comedy routines; they couldn't even listen to music, it was a cop car, a "unit."

Finally they arrived at the site; a big old maple tree, somewhat mangled by trimmers from the electric company. The farmer and a sheriff's deputy were waiting. Kent introduced Jamie as his partner; Jamie started taking photos, careful not to step where he shouldn't, covering it as a reporter, not a crime scene investigator; cops talking, the farmer pointing, the German shepherd. Jamie felt useless but glad to be doing something; Louise Kwiatkowski soon arrived from Indianapolis, so they had more handshakes, then the real cameras came out.

The bones were scattered over a 50-foot area; as promised, there wasn't much tissue left. Maybe the biggest bone was a child's femur, or maybe not. Jamie focused on the bits of clothing, white insulation scattered around. One patch of cloth was five inches long, faded in the sun. He found a couple of fingers from a child's glove.

But if the child was killed at home, why was he wearing gloves and a parka? Abducted by Gypsies and coloreds when he was supposed to go on a camping trip. Someone dressed him in that stuff to support grandma's alibi. That made her guilty, all right, whether she killed the kid or not.

Jamie tried not to let himself get too depressed; if these were Michael's remains, they were evidence that might help convict his killers. Jamie watched and listened to Kent as he worked; professional, businesslike, analytical, lightening the mood occasionally when he could. Ms. Kwiatkowski was almost enthusiastic about the job, which Jamie could have done without, but anything that got her through the task was doubtless all right.

If anything he competed to show his toughness to these people. He wasn't going to be intimidated by the bastards who killed a child to save themselves. He let himself feel angry, which sharpened his mind.

He also had absolutely nothing to contribute to the investigation. Kent and Louise began to gather, catalogue and preserve everything they could find, so Jamie stepped back to document their techniques. Maybe someday, years from now, he'd put one or two of these photos on the Kessler family website to show his detective at work.

He decided the best descriptor of what he was seeing was "methodical." The troopers measured out and divided up a grid, then worked their way through it inch by inch as the county mountie observed them and made a few notes. His role apparently was securing the overall site and recording the number and type of articles recovered. Jamie began to be grateful that the Iroquois sheriff was willing to trust Indiana with the evidence. If these fragments did not belong to Michael, they would revert to Illinois and have to be accounted for.

In an hour or so the sheriff drove up to observe the scene and supervise his deputy. Kent greeted the newcomer and thanked him for his cooperation, then they walked over toward the fence to figure out how and when it got damaged. In a few minutes Kent called out, "Well, looky here."

"What have you got?" Kwiatkowski asked.

"Tire tracks. Yeah, baby. Careful, everyone, where you step by this fence."

Jamie strode over and crouched down a few feet away to look as Kent inspected the ground. "Whaddaya think, sheriff? Coulda been froze this whole time."

"Whenever they got made, it's some good tracks. Got some tread on 'em. Older tires, I s'pect."

Kent said, "Kinda wish I had a magnifying glass. Like Sherlock Holmes or somethin'."

Jamie said, "How about my telephoto lens?"

"Yeah, baby, bring it here." The sheriff stared at Kent briefly, but didn't say anything.

Jamie showed Kent how to work the lens, then stood back. "Yeah," Kent muttered, taking several shots. "This is great, man. I bet he hit a patcha ice and just slid right on through."

Kwiatkowski came over to see. "Could be your vehicle, huh."

"Could be."

"Ground's wet, though. It's going to be hard to dig it out in one piece."

"Just spade it up. Take off a little slice, then dry out that baby."

"I've got a special tool for that," she declared. "My MJ-200."

"Sing me that song! Yo mama."

"Stick her in the oven for eight hours, a coat of my custom shellack, she'll be good to go."

For the first time Jamie began to smile and appreciate the officers' camaraderie.

As Louise started her dig, Kent stood aside peering at the mangled barbed wire for awhile, eyeballing a steel fencepost with a big dent. "Hit it with some force, didn't he," the sheriff said.

Kent pointed, "Is that some paint?"

The sheriff squinted, "I ain't sure."

"Telephoto," Jamie called.

Kent aimed and jiggled the button, "Yeah. Come to papa, you little green flecks."

The farmer was curious. "You gonna take my fence?"

"Yes, sir," Kent replied. "No more than we need, though."

"A coupla feet's all, Hank," the sheriff told the farmer. "Plus the post."

"The county gonna pay for it?"

Kent said, "Fifty dollars, cash money right now. Got it in my pocket for just such an occasion."

"Well, that'll do," the farmer agreed.

The sheriff chuckled, "You'da taken twenty, Hank."

"If that'n was all he had," Hank shrugged. "Think I'll git along now, afore he changes his mind."

"It's worth it," Kent told him, snapping some more, then handing him a bill.

"There," Louise said, holding up her spade of dirt.

Kent inspected it, "Slick as a whistle. Good job, corporal."

"Any chips off the bumper or anything?"

Kent looked at the ground nearby, then pointed and clicked again. "What's that metallic plastic called? Like the grille off a cheap old pickup?"

Everyone combed over the ground. Jamie said, "Is this one?"

Kent came and looked. "That's a nice big piece."

"What if he got his truck repaired?"

"There'd be body shop records," Kent told him.

"More over here, looks like," the sheriff said.

"You guys can do the picking," Louise said. "I got my eye on another track here, so watch your feet."

If there was anything Kent was good at, it was reconstructing a car accident. He wasn't a sergeant of traffic for nothing.

Finally it was done, Kent and the sheriff signed some paperwork transferring custody of the evidence, and Kent suggested Jamie get warmed up in his unit. "I've got half a dozen sandwiches," Jamie called. "Coffee, tea, Diet Coke. Apples and grapes, come and eat your fill."

"Reservation for one," Louise grinned. Soon everyone was piled into Kent's vehicle as Jamie passed out food.

***

On the way home Kent said, "Glad you came, baby."

"Didn't do much. Just the catering."

"That camera lens helped."

"What's your next step?"

"Impound garage. See if those plastic fragments match Eddie's pickup."

"How do you feel about today?"

"Well, it's hard; if those remains do belong to that young guy, then we have to stop and say a prayer or somethin'." Kent was silent a minute. "If not, you could say we wasted our time. But I feel good about what we did, even if it doesn't pan out. A process of elimination, you know. You ain't gonna get lucky all the time, but as long as you've checked everything you've done your job."

"Well, that's an area I'm confident in; your commitment."

"And to think, this started in the Virgin Islands. A smart boy readin' the paper online."

"You'll get 'em, Commander. You already have."

"I want guilty pleas," Kent said coldly. "For murder."

"Today may be proof."

"Part of it, by God."

"I loved watching you work, Kent."

"I loved havin' you here. It took some guts. Man, I love that."

"It's what you do every day."

"I'm sworn; you're a civilian."

"It wasn't horribly gory."

"No, but it ain't easy seein' what the wolves left behind."

Jamie suppressed a shudder. "The minute it gets down to forensic entomology, I quit."

Kent laughed. "Baby don't like no bugs."

Jamie cast about for something else to think of. Kent rubbed his shoulder across the seat.

They drove down the highway, a little older than they were that morning.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

48. Card Tables

2011-04-17T17:02:00.015-05:00

Kent was subdued that afternoon when he picked Jamie up at the airport, and he could tell his boyfriend was tired. But Jamie was back, they kissed there on the concourse and no one said anything. "Let me get you home, babe, you can take a nap."

"That might be good."

"It's chilly outside, mid-40s, so I'll get the car while you get your bag."

"You don't have to do that, Kent."

"The fuck I don't, boy. My job's to keep you safe and warm."

***

Jamie slept, spoke to Mrs. Shuey before she left, then thought about dinner. He could tell by looking in the refrigerator that Kent hadn't done any cooking; no leftovers, everything was still frozen. He started some celery soup and found makings for a salad, but then what? He decided on a potato frittata. When in doubt, feed him bacon and eggs.

It turned out fine. They ate quietly, pleasantly, catching each other up on what they'd missed in the past week, including what Calvin's new boyfriend was like ("Cute, very charming, even spontaneous in a controlled way. He's a poser, and quite good at it. He always hits his mark and knows which eyes are on him. I'm sure he makes Calvin feel young, although there's also something creepy about seeing grandpa and his boytoy in coordinated outfits. But what the kid's actually like, I'll never know.")

Then Kent's curiosity got the best of him. "How did you pull this thing off, man? I mean, selling your company to Warren Buffett."

"I tried, but he didn't buy it. I offered it to him and he was very helpful, with a wonderful evaluation I was thrilled to get, it says such good things about the company. But it didn't meet all his criteria, so all he provided was financing. Louis Vuitton bought it along with the others you read about. It's kind of my last laugh at The New York Times since they wouldn't hire me to write for them. They didn't like my showbiz background, no matter how well educated I am. So let them go into debt to buy me out. Mr. Buffett will end up with their shares for free if they default. And considering the state of the newspaper business, they just might."

"I didn't know you even knew the man."

"I didn't; we've talked on the phone now a time or two. I wrote him a letter, introduced myself. He was very kind, as well as incredibly smart. I'll show you the letters, they're in my computer."

"You pulled off a $3 billion deal by writing Warren Buffett a 40-cent letter?"

"He's someone you can do that with; a letter was the most efficient way to communicate. It doesn't waste his time, it's all right there, he can reread it if he feels like it. He often says he makes most of his acquisitions just by answering the phone; sellers approach him. But I didn't feel I should call him, he wouldn't know who I am. I thought I should take a humbler approach than a phone call; I'm 26 years old and he's Warren Buffett. So I wrote him instead. I figured a man who answers his own phone probably reads his own mail, and it worked. He loves our company. He was glad to get the chance to help with it."

"Why didn't he just buy it himself, then?"

"I was only offering a third of it, and he likes to buy the whole company. When he looked at our financials, he was afraid he'd get into a bidding war for the other two-thirds, and that's not how he does things. Ordinarily he solves that problem by paying a premium so his offer's attractive, but this was an industry he didn't know.

"It's a young company, and he likes old ones, market leaders, where the current CEO started out in the mail room and worked his way up. He likes industrial companies and consumer goods, things like railroads and Frey boots; he owns the leading brickmaker in the United States. He owns Dairy Queen; I guess he likes their sundaes. And insurance companies, those are his favorites, because he knows how to profit from the float. You buy your insurance first, pay the premium, then if you have a claim they pay you later; in the meantime he's investing the money you gave him. Berkshire Hathaway's like a giant bank, Kent; you deposit $25 in your passbook savings, he pays you 1% interest so you're making out, and meanwhile he's getting 20% on all those accumulated passbooks people give him.

"But he thinks techs are different; I'm not sure he really understands tech companies. He said to me, 'I don't know whether I'm buying Google on the way up or AOL on the way down.' So right then and there I knew he wouldn't buy. He's not anti-technology, far from it, but it seems volatile to him and therefore risky. A pair of boots, he can try them on. An ice cream cake, he can eat the merchandise. He can feel the bricks, and he's got a railroad to haul them around on. But e-commerce technology isn't something he can pack in a suitcase and show people. What if a competitor comes up with a better version of it, or the Twitter crowd all runs somewhere else next week?

"So he didn't buy; I can't say I'm surprised but it would have been great. I always knew approaching him was a long shot. But he's who I wanted; he's honest, I trust him and he never interferes with the management. That's the crucial piece; yes, I wanted out, but only if I could protect our top personnel. They're the ones who make the money, who understand the business and employ all those creative folks we've got. Phillip Chang, our Chief Tech Officer, is the most important person at InFashion. He's made me rich, and I've made him rich too. If it came down to Phillip or an outside buyer, I'd stick with Phillip."

Jamie smiled. "And fortunately I know something about him that outsiders don't; he loves the fashion business. His dream job is hanging out with models all day. He'll never leave as long as we let him do his thing. He doesn't need to go off and join some startup; he's already rolling in dough. What he needs is an outlet for his wizardry while he's surrounded by beautiful flesh."

"Guys or girls?"

"Both. He's a true Bisexual as well as a genius. That's how I hired him away from Silicon Valley in the first place. Why hang out with the nerds all day when he could be with the pretty people?

"So once I knew Phillip was taken care of, we finally got a deal made with Louis Vuitton's syndicate. I could go to our top people and say this isn't going to change a thing, I still have controlling interest in the Class B shares, and that's where the power lies. LVMH doesn't get any board members out of the deal, they just get to bet on the stock price—which they know is going up. They don't care about those Class B shares, but I do, Mr. Buffett does—and our employees do.

"So it should be a win-win, even though it's not the arrangement I most wanted. It gets me out of Wall Street in one clean break so I can come home and be with you. Plus now I have a new friend, an honest man who's the best investor in the history of the world. He didn't invest in me, but that's okay."

"I just admire you for bein' in the same league, baby. Steppin' up to the plate, takin' some swings. Gee whiz, my hubby's playin' ball with Warren Buffett."

"He's a Midwesterner, Kent. We understood each other. I told him exactly why I wanted out, a new husband and all, a new life, and what I would and would not put up with to get out. I offered him the Class B shares, and he almost took them; they're more valuable than the Class A's. But when he didn't, he helped me find a way to get what I wanted so I could come back here and stop worrying about the madness on Wall Street. It was both a business deal and an incredible personal favor, and afterwards he thanked me."

"I think I understand this, but now that it's over with, why couldn't you tell me this the first time?"

"To protect you from any suspicion of breaking insider trading laws, the same thing that landed Martha Stewart in jail."

"Oh. Well, good, I wouldn't look that great in a jailhouse uni."

Jamie laughed. "After all, I went to New York to sell the company. Once it was sold, the shares opened $8 higher. An unscrupulous spouse, knowing what might happen, could have taken, say, $100 million from the Josiah Trust and bought InFashion at $60 a pop, then sold it a week later at $68. So the less you knew the better, even if it did cost us an argument."

"It wasn't really an argument, do you think?"

"No. We seem not to argue, and I love that in you. We just have spirited discussions."

"E-pis-co-pa-lian," Kent recited.

"And don't you forget it."

***

Later after dinner, Kent looked bewildered again. "Why didn't you tell me you had all this money?"

Jamie hesitated, unsure what to say, till finally he stood up and began to pace. "I'm not entirely sure. It just seems like everything's happened so fast around here. I gain my weight back, I sell my mother's house, I'm returning to Ohio for my job, then we get married instead and we're home for a week, then it's off to Gary, then dodging falling trees through an ice storm on Christmas Eve, and the next day I get handed this brochure about the Kessler Trust; hundreds of millions of dollars and it even includes an entail from George the Fucking Third.

"Then it's New Year's, a big party, and Miriam's leaving town so Ma's moving to Crawfordsville, leaving us with this gigantic brick cavern; I just got caught up somehow in this Kessler Mania you all have going. When was I supposed to tell you? When was the right time? If I'd told you at once it might have seemed to diminish everything your family has achieved in this place. 'Oh, $400 million, I've got you all beat.' What sort of snot-nosed brat would say such a thing?

"There's so much I have to learn here. I want to be part of your family, Kent, these people who are so important to you. They've welcomed me and I'm honored by that. I need to be integrated into this huge family of yours; the time's never come to take you into my tiny world.

"When my mother died I didn't have a need to hang onto her house, like you need to hang onto this one. No one ever named a township after my grandfather; his home wasn't a stop on the Underground Railroad. We don't have any old family secrets, no forbidden loves or hidden passageways, or much history at all. Two of my ancestors fought in the Civil War, okay? The World Wars, Vietnam, that's it, end of glory. We didn't sell hams in New Orleans or own department stores in Philadelphia, or play Major League Baseball or do anything outstanding; we're just ordinary people. I have two brothers and no cousins; there's nothing for you to learn about my family. But I have everything to learn about yours.

"Besides, you knew I had money; I bought you a Honda Gold Wing for Christmas. Those things cost ten grand to start, and more for the options. You knew I had the company; you've never asked about it, and up to now I guess you've never realized what it's worth. My money wasn't important to you; your money's what's important to you—and I don't blame you a bit, that's how it should be. That trust and this house are how you know what your ancestors did, and how you know who you are.

"What's my family ever done? Danny's the best sportswriter in Denver, but if it weren't for ESPN no one would have ever heard of him outside Colorado. You've met Stone, general manager of a little electric co-op in southern Indiana; when he gets his name in the paper it's the North Vernon Telegraph, right next to the school lunches for next week. They're having Tuna Surprise again next Friday.

"I have no one else to introduce you to. You met my mother on her deathbed; I wish we'd had more time with her, because she and I are two sides of the same coin—and there's a lot to be said about that; but she's gone now, my grandmothers are gone, everyone's gone." Jamie slowed down for a second, missing his grandmas. "You've met Unca Deed; who else is there?

"Meanwhile here's this big old house. It's been running on auto-pilot and your Mom couldn't wait to get out of it. You have a full-time job and I sit around playing solitaire. What ought I to be doing, but helping you to bring Old Josiah into the 21st century?

"I didn't want to keep the money from you, Kent; I'm sorry, but until I sold the stock it was only on paper anyway, and there was never any reason to discuss it. I've got all the money I'll ever want now; so do you. Should we sit around plotting how to get more? I don't want more! I don't want what I have, it's going to be an incredible burden.

"But I do want this house preserved and updated so we can live here; so we can honor those noble ancestors, so we can learn to live our lives in a way that's halfway responsible. We have to follow in their footsteps but we also have to make our own—and I'm only beginning to learn how to walk the Kessler way. Should I be obsessing about Wall Street or remodeling the damn kitchen?

"Meanwhile you have your work; saving lives, bringing peace, catching criminals. Here is a worthy successor to Josiah. What ought to be my job, Kent, since I don't have one anymore, but to help you with yours?

"So that's what I'm trying to do. I don't claim I'm right but it just seems the obvious place to begin; redo the kitchen, get those heating bills down. I'm not useful to much of anyone right now, so I try to be useful to you."

Kent reached for him. "You've done great work on your job, Jamie. Davey and all."

"But I don't have that job anymore. All of my circumstances have changed. I'm married now to a wonderful man; I live here, not Ohio, not New York. It's time to reevaluate all the things I've done—including my money. I was sitting on a huge pile of cash from the fashion business. I've never liked fashion that much, I never will, so why am I still involved with it? All of that money comes from people bidding up the price on Wall Street—and I can't stand Wall Street, they're all a bunch of crooks. Why am I involved with Wall Street? I don't want those people in my house!

"And while I have no doubt that InFashion will continue to grow and produce more profits, I don't want more profits. I can't deal with the profits I have, so don't give me more of them. By talking Mr. Buffett into helping me get the company off my hands I did us both a favor. He can't get off the merry-go-round, but by God I can. He's responsible to shareholders, and those people matter; my only responsibility to shareholders is to get out of the way so they can all live happily ever after.

"I'm recovering from a coma but InFashion didn't miss me for a second. I need to put my energy into something else now. And oh by the way, with the stash the buyers paid me, profits will keep coming no matter what I do. It's almost frightening. And it's immoral to sit on a hoard like that when there's work to be done; people to feed, history to tell, a crimefighter to honor and obey."

Kent was quiet, absorbing it all; another Jamie onslaught, better than "Designing Women."

"Three billion dollars," he shrugged. "Nice chunka change."

"Even cashing out Mom's estate, a pittance by comparison, every time I turned around another dump truck just arrived with a load of cash, sitting in my front yard, waiting for me to do something about it. Now with this…" Jamie waved his hand vaguely in the air, "it's either start giving it away or build a countinghouse like Scrooge McDuck.

"I don't want a countinghouse, Kent; I am not Scrooge McDuck. I grew up in a two-room garage in Crestline, Ohio, a few miles east of downtown Bucyrus."

They laughed, and Kent rubbed Jamie's shoulder. "Poor little rich boy."

"I couldn't help it," Jamie wailed. "Sure, I wanted a little bit of money, enough to live a halfway gracious life. But I had no idea when I started InFashion it would grow to all this. It's Phillip's doing, Kent, and Larry and Laura's; all I did was hire those people, but look at what they've done. They're the biz-whizzes, not me. At the most I helped to set a tone; the original settlement from the suit I filed helped establish who we are and what we do. We're young and smart and anti-bureaucratic. We don't have such a thing as middle management. There aren't any barriers when someone has an idea. And man, do they all have ideas.

"So we gained the support of the industry for the radical notion of treating the talent like human beings with something to offer, and now we're the toast of the town. I'm glad; the talent deserves it and we've laid down a collaborative model which has worked really well. The corporate types are the losers in all this, and believe me they deserve it; they're the ones who exploited the talent in the first place. So now they've had to accommodate us, and find where they can profit from the new paradigm. They can, we've made it possible—but we've also caused some shakeups that are good for the industry. And the end users, the consumers, couldn't be happier with us. We've given their obsession respectability. I mean, the world does not turn on whether hemlines are up or down this season, whether next season's color is lime or chartreuse; we've abolished the old dictatorship and given people a chance to support the art and the craft of fashion—Seventh Avenue, not just Madison Avenue. The factories, not just the marketers."

Jamie breathed deeply. "So now I'm rich, and my lover's pissed off about it. Why didn't I tell you? Because it doesn't fit anything you're doing, that's why. It's New York and London and Milan and Paris, not Crawfordsville or that Mud place up north. I'm having to learn how to live in the country again, without a car, without a job, just married to a big hunk of a man in uniform. He rides horses, he goes hunting, he catches bad guys and drinks iced tea. His idea of fun is hanging out at the Boys' and Girls' Club—and I have to adjust to all this. I'm glad to, Kent, I'm happy here, but it does remind me that when I'm in the Midwest too long I can't wait to get back to New York; and when I'm in New York too long I can't wait to get back to the Midwest.

"I'm a hybrid, okay? Ever since I was 14 I've lived in two worlds. Now I'm here in this one and I'm staying. Now I've made a choice about it—this is home. Your place is home, my place is with you. So I've given up the other place, made a clean break and settled down. It's not my fault if you don't like my baggage; if you want me you get my baggage too. I didn't force you to marry me, you wanted to."

"I still do." Kent came, went down on one knee, picked up Jamie's hand. "Will you marry me, and be my darling? In a nice E-pis-co-pal church somewhere on the East Coast?"

Slowly Jamie smiled. "Can we have a string quartet?"

"And organ music, baby. And priests runnin' around 'n' everything."

Jamie smiled, then got solemn. "I will. I do, I have, I will."

Thus ended the crisis; between them they had three and a half billion dollars and somehow, some way, they'd just have to try to cope.

Meanwhile New Century Financial, Alan Greenspan (of Friedman & Greed), Goldman Sachs, AIG, Countrywide, Lehman Brothers and all the vultures on Wall Street were about to wipe out 45% of the world economy. What would happen to Cher's beauty shop or Aunt Nora's bannister?

Jamie visualized people having to live in tents in the woods, with everyone carrying a shotgun to protect themselves from scavengers.

So he called John Wesley to ask about his vegetable farm, how the turkeys were getting along; J.W. said the first lettuces would be ready next week, so they'd have food anyway.

It was the only business Jamie could think of with a definite future. If the CSA shares didn't sell, they could always set up card tables in the parlor and give the produce away.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

47. New Century

2011-04-15T19:41:00.014-05:00

Jamie Foster never watched television. He grew up glued to it, but couldn't afford a receiver when he went to college, and was soon too busy to watch it in the dorm. Then through graduate school in New York, modeling, even being on the soap opera, he never had time for it; he went to the theater, museums, restaurants, galleries, even baseball games instead (the Mets, because he hated the Yankees and couldn't bring himself to give George Steinbrenner money).

As a young reporter in Columbus he got to know his new city, then he met Ricky, who soon got sick. Jamie was working so hard, with a full-time job and a very sick husband, he never had time for the tube; and he gradually found that once he dropped out of pop culture, he couldn't drop back in again. He didn't know the stars, he'd seen all the plots, he didn't find the sitcoms funny, he was too busy trying to keep Rick alive. If they were in a place with the TV on, Jamie found the moving images as mesmerizing as ever, but he didn't like the noise or the intrusion. The only thing he ever watched was college basketball and football, and even then he had to put up with the constant visual assault of violent commercials for new movies and shows, explosions and fires and dead bodies, images that bombarded him so some greedy jerk could make money. Jamie hated television. His spiritual director Eileen compared him to Orthodox monks who can't tolerate icons into hell.

Nevertheless when he met Kent he got exposed to TV again. Kent was one of those people who grew up with the constant noise and felt uncomfortable if the TV wasn't on. They quickly had to negotiate rules about it, and Kent proved sensitive and flexible. He learned that TV made Jamie anxious, nervous, upset, so when Kent felt like watching something, he watched by himself in the back parlor, or upstairs in the teens' playroom. Jamie never bothered him there, not once. Kent began to see TV through Jamie's eyes; it really isn't good for people.

But then that March Jamie started turning it on every day, tuned to the business channel. An article in The New York Times sounded the alarm about subprime mortgages, collateralized debt obligations, credit default swaps and government sponsored enterprises. He later told Kent, "Fannie Mae made me turn on the tube," but really it was New Century Financial. Within days its entire market cap, $1.75 billion, simply vanished.

Jamie didn't own any New Century, but he couldn't stop thinking of his old nemesis Milton Friedman, the laissez-faire ideologue who tried to turn the entire world economy into a giant Monopoly board. Jamie grew up with a ruthless Monopoly player, his brother Stony; homophobia wasn't the only reason they didn't get along.

He began to wonder, if the market stalled, what Joey would do with his newfound $17.5 million? What would Josiah do with his $400 million in real estate, plus a bank? What would happen to farmland values and cash rents?

Worst of all, what would Jamie do with InFashion?

His whole past was tied up in Wall Street; his whole soul was at the mercy of Friedman's gang of highway robbers.

What should his future be? He was married to a cop now, and purported to take Jesus Christ seriously.

Jamie thought about this hard for a couple of weeks, then wrote a letter to a friend, made a phone call, and announced one night to Kent at dinner, "I have to go to New York."

"What for, baby?"

"Company business. Routine, a quarterly board meeting."

Kent ate his chicken cashew. "When?"

"Next week."

"How long?"

"I'm not sure yet. A few days."

"They don't got an agenda, this board?"

"Yes, but it might be over quickly, or it might take a little longer."

"So I'm s'posedta let you go to New York for like, some period of time."

"Yes. I'll keep in touch every day."

"Lotsa Gay guys in New York, Jamie."

Jamie smiled, "You'll always know where I am, what I'm doing. I'll call you all the time."

"How 'bout you tele-commute instead? Board meeting, it'll be just like you're there."

"Some things have to be done in person. I may have to sign papers, that sort of thing."

"They can fax you the paperwork."

"Kent, I have to go."

"Where would you stay, your apartment?"

"Oh, I should call them. If not there, a hotel."

"What hotel?"

"I don't know. I'd rather be downtown, I think. Not Midtown, it's so noisy there. Chelsea, maybe. Or Gramercy Park. Do you know, I've never stayed at a hotel in New York."

"I don't like this."

"Kent, it's business. I already said I have to go."

"Not without me you don't."

"Oh, don't start this jealous number. There's no need, Kent."

"I'm just s'posedta let you go off by yourself. To some big Gay playground. Without me."

Jamie sighed. "Do you think I'll be less obedient there than I am here?"

"You ain't got no car here."

"You're not allowed to do this, Kent. You have to trust the one you love. I don't ask you where you spend your time all day."

"Why is this some open-ended thing? You ain't sayin', I'll be gone from Tuesday to Thursday, here's my airline times. Just, you gotta go."

"That's right. I have to go."

"If I didn't know no better I'd say you're keepin' somethin' from me."

"Oh please, not the cop thing again."

"I want to know when you're leaving, when you're coming back, where you're staying, who you'll be with. That don't seem unreasonable to me, Jamie. But you ain't said nothin', just you gotta go."

"It's a board meeting, Kent."

"To talk about what?"

"I'm not allowed to say."

"Oh goody. Now we're really gettin' somewhere."

Jamie drummed his fingers on the table. "It's the law. You don't want me breaking the law."

"What do you mean it's the law? I'm a state trooper, Jamie, I pretty much know the laws. And they ain't that different from one state to another."

"Federal law, not state."

"How you figure?"

"Be reasonable, Kent."

"Look, if you're gonna claim it's the law to me, you better cite what law you're talkin' about. That's bein' reasonable, Jamie. Show me some proof of this so-called law."

Jamie sighed again. He was afraid that if he cited the law, that might be enough by itself to be breaking the law. "It's a public company, traded on the Nasdaq. Directors are governed by Federal laws on non-disclosure of company affairs. Kent, I'm trying to protect you."

"Oh, I feel real protected, all right. My cute blond boyfriend wants to go to New York, have a Gay ol' time and just… stay awhile. Won't do nothin' Gay while he's there; I should just trust him. Can't tell me nothin' about it, but he'll call me every now and then. Not to worry, he's just off on business. Hangin' around a buncha businessmen, and fashion people; models, designers, who could be Straighter than them guys? Three martini lunches, fancy dinners, a buncha rich people, and the next thing I know you're goin' to nightclubs and paintin' the town. Which, I admit, might be better than what you did the last time you were out with that fashion crowd."

"Which is what?"

"Showin' your ass to a bunch of Europeans!"

All Jamie could do was laugh; he wasn't the only Julia Sugarbaker in this relationship, Kent could peel off a rant too. "Stop catastrophizing."

"Look, I want to trust you; I do. You ain't given me no reason not to up to now."

"Thank you."

"But you better believe I'm real interested in the details; and you ain't goin' nowhere till you start fillin' in the blanks."

"You don't have a right to restrict my movements."

"No, you're right; that's the law. But I have a husband's right to know what's goin' on here."

"It's exactly as I've told you. But you're right too, several things are still up in the air, I have details to fill in. I want you to know where I am at all times."

Kent liked hearing that. "Even if you're night-clubbin'."

"Even then. Why would I not tell you? I want you to know. This will be the first time we're not together since last summer; I'll miss you."

"You better; who's gonna cook for me?" A pause, "I know, don't even say it. Gotta cook for myself, you won't always be here."

"I'll help you plan some easy meals. You can visit your Mom, take her out to a restaurant. I'll want to know where you are, too."

"Is it really the law, man?"

"Yes. Let's check with Judge Schneider in a bit. I'll tell him enough to confirm what I'm saying."

"If it was two or three days, Jamie, I wouldn't be like this."

"I hope it's over that fast, I want it to be. But it's a big company and I haven't been there since last July. I want to look over things and talk to our employees. I won't stretch it out, Commander."

"I could even join you on the weekend, if Purdue don't got a home game."

"I would love to be with you in New York. Just remember, I don't grill you about that cute young shortstop."

"Good. Kevin ain't even cute."

"Maybe I could stay at the seminary! The Desmond Tutu Center. Tenth Avenue and 21st."

"That some kinda E-pis-co-pa-lian place?"

"Since 1817."

"Then it's bound to have Gay guys."

"Well, yes," Jamie laughed. "But no orgies till after Evensong."

"Don't be jokin' about this, okay? I still don't like it."

"Thank you for understanding."

"I don't understand, though."

"Then do what you do whenever you don't understand something."

"What's that?"

"Act like you've got a big dick! It's always gotten you through before."

"Oh," Kent smiled. "Yeah, it has." They laughed.

"I'll come back the minute I possibly can."

"I don't mean to be such a jerk, baby."

"And I don't mean to be vague."

"We'll see what the Judge says. But you do realize, you've been actin' suspicious this whole time."

"I'll explain every bit of it when I get home."

"I love this food, baby. The chicken's real good."

"I'm glad."

"It was great to come home and see you with all your little bowls lined up. Then once we started cookin' it was done so fast."

"Mr. Wok gets the credit for that. God bless China."

"You really gotta go, babe?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then call me every hour on the hour. Call me late, wake me up, it don't matter. I'd rather know than sleep through somethin'. Plus I been meanin' to say this for awhile now, Jamie: if you ever get in trouble, just call me. Doesn't matter where you are, I'll come and get ya. No questions asked, just call."

Jamie grasped Kent's hand. "I will. Thank you very much."

"Promise me you'll call."

"Yup."

"Deal."

A few minutes later Judge Schneider confirmed, in a general way, that directors of public companies are restricted in what they can say even to family members, if there's any chance the information could harm other shareholders.

None of which did the owners of New Century Financial one bit of good. A billion and a half of their dollars simply went up in smoke.

***

Jamie did get a room at the Tutu Center, and did call every hour on the hour more or less, "We're still in meetings, I'm going to lunch now with the sales department, tickets tonight for the hot new musical with a Straight married couple, don't worry; there's a noonday mass at St. Bart's, I ran into Calvin and his cute new boyfriend, there's a fundraiser tonight I want to go to, hello from the Staten Island Ferry!" But the meeting dragged on for eight days, and yes, Purdue was hosting Illinois in baseball that weekend.

Kent didn't tell Jamie, but he ended up sneaking most of his meals at Burger Bootie again. It was right next to the state police post, open 24/7 and besides, he had a right to make himself miserable if he felt like it—and he did. His Mom gave him some leftover casserole and he ate it cold for breakfast a couple of times; once he grilled a fish and tossed a spud in the microwave, but it exploded on him, so he fed the remains to Gypsy the next morning.

Finally, early on a Thursday as he was coming back from his run, he got a Google e-mail alert:

Buffett Finances Big Stake in Fashion Tech Firm

NEW YORK—The French luxury conglomerate LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton will announce this morning a plan with four high-end retailers to take a one-third stake in U.S.-based InFashion Corp. (FASH), sources said. The deal, valued at $3 billion, will be financed by Warren Buffett's Berkshire Hathaway and is expected to lift spirits on Wall Street, battered lately by worries over subprime mortgages.

LVMH will be the lead investor in the Class A shares with partners Neiman-Marcus, Macy's/Bloomingdale's, Nordstrom's and The New York Times Co., sources said. The private transaction was initiated by James R. Foster, founder of InFashion, who will retain his one-third controlling interest in the Class B stock.

Berkshire officials at Buffett's office in Omaha did not immediately return calls for comment.

InFashion supplies e-commerce technology and social networking sites for over 75 gilt-edged retailers, designers and media companies in North and South America, Western Europe and Asia, according to… See more.

Kent exhaled heavily, then his phone rang, so he minimized, punched and said, "Mom?"

"Quick, Jamie's on the 'Today' show with a whole bunch of fashion models!"

"Huh?"

"NBC, go, Channel 13! Oh, they're heading to a commercial, but they're coming back for another segment. Turn on the TV, son."

Kent stumbled into the back parlor, found the remote. "What happened?"

"He sold his company to Warren Buffett for a billion dollars! Or something like that, I can't quite follow the ins and outs. I was just drinking my coffee, getting ready for school, and all of a sudden I hear Jamie's voice in my kitchen. I look around, there he is on TV with all these beautiful girls. Matt Lauer's asking him questions, I don't know what all. But it's pretty big, I'll tell you that. Wait till you see him. My God, is that boy gorgeous! I mean, this is my son-in-law, he eats crawfish and greasy boudin, he's scared of bugs, he can't remember anything, but he's married to my son and there he is on TV!"

The commercials ended and yes, that was Jamie all right, with a whole bunch of leggy babes and Matt Lauer trying not to slobber on them. Kent said bye to his Mom, punched his phone off and stood there in the back parlor at Hickory Grove, his jaw agape and his eyes glazing over.

A billion dollars? No wonder Jamie didn't care about his Baseball Money.

It was much later before Kent asked himself, If he's worth all this cash, how come he traded himself for Daveyboy?++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

46. Contract

2011-04-15T19:20:00.006-05:00

Jamie received a letter from the Law Office of Lincoln Schneider. It was a thick envelope so he could guess what it was. The cover letter said:

Dear Mr. Foster:

Congratulations and best wishes on your betrothal to my client Kent Tanquery Kessler. Love is a wonderful thing, and the opportunity to join two persons in the state of marriage is always an occasion of joy to their friends and family. It has been my personal pleasure to get to know you these past few weeks and to imagine the future life you and Kent will enjoy together.

Thank you also for initiating discussion of your Pre-Nuptial Agreement, as marriage is in part a joining and commingling of a couple's financial estates. Enclosed you will find a copy of our proposal on behalf of Mr. Kessler to guide the two of you as you face your future life together. I am also sending a copy to your attorney, Maria Estevez-Walker of the firm Batton and Tompkins, Indianapolis.

Our proposal is a fairly standard version of the agreements that have worked well for Kessler family members in the past, modified to account for the unique status you will enjoy as the future spouse of the President of the Josiah A. Kessler Trust. The Trust contains generous provisions for you, including 10,000 shares of stock in the governing corporation and an independent income in the form of dividends on those shares, paid semi-annually. At current prices that income amounts to $1,400,000 annually or $700,000 every six months.

In the event of divorce or dissolution, after your marriage is legally constituted, the Trust and this Agreement provide for the sale of your 10,000 shares back to the Trust, at a current price of $150 per share, for a total settlement of $1,500,000.

In addition, in the event of divorce, my client proposes that you receive a lump settlement of $100,000 for each full year of the marriage. If you were married for ten full years prior to the divorce or dissolution, this would amount to an additional $1,000,000, due at the final decree. (This provision in particular is a common feature of Pre-Nuptial Agreements among Kessler family members; the amount varies but the incentive of annual accrual remains.)

Of course, as the spouse of the incumbent President, you have a right to occupy Hickory Grove, the family estate, throughout the marriage. This right would terminate upon divorce.

If you remain in the marriage and Mr. Kessler should pre-decease you, you have additional rights under the Trust: namely to occupy the home and grounds known as Judge's House on Kessler Avenue in the City of Crawfordsville, Indiana, without payment of rent; plus one-fourth the annual income of Hickory Grove Farm. Currently this amounts to $375,000, in addition to your annual dividend income of $1,400,000 as noted above.

If you remarry, you retain one-eighth interest in the income from Hickory Grove as long as you live, and may continue to be incumbent at the Judge's House at the discretion of the current President.

Maintenance and structural improvement of the homes are funded by the Trust.

As you can see these are outstandingly generous provisions for your safety, welfare and comfort. The Spouse of the President is a position of honor in the Kessler family, and as you prepare to take it on, my client your beloved Kent is eager for you to occupy it as a token of his love and commitment.

One final note must be addressed. We live in a time when the legal status of marriage is changing. In several states same-sex marriages are recognized as equal by law to opposite-sex marriages; in other states this status is currently denied by statute or Constitutional amendment. At this time the United States Government refuses to recognize same-sex marriage under the Defense of Marriage Act. It is likely that these conflicting statutes will be resolved by the U.S. Supreme Court at some future time. This Pre-Nuptial Agreement is written with the assumption that the ultimate resolution of the question will favor those in same-sex marriages. But regardless of that final outcome, the financial provisions herein will be treated as a separate, valid contract between the parties. By signing this Agreement, you and my client certify all terms of this private contract between you, no matter what legal status the Court deems your relationship to have. It shall be as if you are married, no matter what men shall say.

I look forward to resolving this matter as soon as convenient. Welcome to the family, Jamie.

Sincerely yours,
etc.

---

Jamie telephoned Ms. Estevez-Walker, asked her to prepare his will and powers-of-attorney, endorsed Kent's pre-nup framework but proposed a few changes; that in the event of divorce, Jamie would be entitled to a greatly reduced settlement, while Kent would receive nothing at all of Jamie's property.

But he also proposed that as long as they stayed married, With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.

Kent was astonished when he heard about it, and argued with him for days. "You're gonna need that money, baby. I want you to have that money. It's an incentive. I want you to stick with me, even if you don't feel like it. Even if you're mad as hell at me, even if I hurt you bad, I want you thinkin' twice, and three times, and ten times."

"And so I shall; money is nothing to sneeze at. Why should I give up all my benefits just because I'm mad as hell at you?"

In time Kent would learn; his husband was no one to argue with. "By accepting my amendments, what you grant me is freedom from your resentment if we divorce. I don't want you saying for the rest of your life, 'Plus he cost me a hundred grand for every year!'

"That's the way heterosexuals act in a divorce, Kent. I don't want that for us, it's not how Gay guys do this. Afterwards when we meet on the street, we introduce our ex to our friends and say, 'Here's the sweet, sexy man I spent all those years with.' That's how Gay guys do it; we part as friends."

Finally Kent accepted, with reluctance and complaints, a reduction in his proposed incentive package from $100,000 per year of marriage to $10,000. Receiving the entirety of Jamie's estate in the event of his death was at most an afterthought.

So they signed the agreement in front of Ma and Jamie's brother Danny, who flew in to Indianapolis from Denver to cover the Midwest Regional as part of March Madness. Jamie got all excited; not only was Purdue seeded #8, the #1 seed was defending champion Florida, and who was their sacrificial lamb? He shouted, "Fairly Dickherson!"++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

45. Bertha

2011-04-03T19:46:00.005-05:00

The arrest of Jenny Ferguson and Eddie Guzman did not solve all Kent's problems, it only started a new phase. Michael was still missing, and there was considerable question about what the special prosecutor would do once Illinois extradited the suspects. As Rankowski in Hammond had suggested, the crime specified on the warrant mattered a lot; SSERT would still have gone after them, but courts handle drug cases a lot differently from murders. Corporal Kwiatkowski's affidavit, that the victim could not have survived the beating he took in Mud Pine, was crucial when Kent talked the Benton County judge into signing those murder warrants—but it wouldn't be definitive at trial. From the moment of the arrests, Kent's influence diminished and the prosecutor's rose; "Law and Order" is a two-part drama.

Kent wanted murder charges and no less. But he heard through the grapevine that the special prosecutor might be having second thoughts. It would be easy enough to convict Eddie and Grandma on the meth charges; he may have done the cooking, but she was the householder and it probably wouldn't take much to convict them both of selling the stuff. The drug felonies alone were worth 30 years, on paper anyway. Maybe the retired prosecutor wanted to leave it at that.

Meanwhile the issue was Michael. Kent wasn't assigned to a drug investigation, his orders from Major Slaughter were to find that boy. Kent hadn't worked at all on who actually administered the beating; he figured Jenny would blame Eddie, her own son, and he'd turn around and say it was her.

They both had motive, means and opportunity, living in the same house with the victim. Kent halfway favored charging them both with the killing and letting the judge and jury sort it out. But that was because he didn't have evidence.

He was inclined to think Eddie might have done the beating, just because he was younger and male. Michael's mother Debbie had said Eddie was "capable of anything," and Mrs. Timmons saw him take a board to that girl in the front yard.

But Kent didn't believe that was how it happened. Grandma was the evil one, he thought; Randy was an eyewitness that day on the porch when Michael had to stand on the board, holding heavy books while his grandmother mocked him. Kent would have to check with Randy again, which he didn't look forward to, to find out whether Michael ever blamed Eddie for what he went through.

To Kent, Grandma was the leader; Eddie was just a lazy slob with an ice cream sandwich.

But there were other possibilities, namely Jack Dawson. Maybe they'd both blame him; maybe he did it, Kent didn't know. At the moment he saw Dawson as the accomplice who supervised wiping up the blood, and maybe transported the body. The most outstanding thing about him was the public lies that Jamie'd exposed; his talk about Gypsies and coloreds and license plates, then calling off the search parties, "Jack Dawson's found that boy, in West Virginia with his mother."

Besides, how did the news about that first search warrant get from the prosecutor and judge to the sheriff?

This was a big case, with at least four perps, and Kent knew a lot less than he needed to. All he had so far was Grandma and Eddie in jail temporarily and the sheriff bonded out.

Kent called Plant City, Florida and located one Bertha Shreve; for all he knew she was a Latin King too. Her daughter married that corrupt sheriff who continued to manage Bertha's properties. "Ma'am, Sgt. Kent Kessler of the Indiana State Police. How are you doing today?"

"I'm fine. Good weather here. This is about my car, I suppose."

"Your car and that house you rented with the meth lab. Your general property here in Mud Pine, Indiana, ma'am. I'm calling to find out if you intend to cooperate on the stolen car case against your former son-in-law."

She was quiet for a second. "I sure do."

"It won't help us at all if you back out. Tell me, why did Jack Dawson have a set of keys to your white Buick?"

"He didn't have keys as such. He had keys for my house, for all my properties. I left my car keys hanging on a hook in the kitchen."

"So you never authorized him to use your vehicle."

"No, sir, I did not. Only in an emergency, if my house was on fire or something. Not to just be driving around town or lend it to that woman. I never saw her in my life, why should he give her my car?"

"Did Jack ever give you other reasons to be concerned about how he managed your affairs? Either when you're at home, or down there in Florida? Is this the first time something like this has happened?"

"Well, I'm not necessarily happy with him, but the only real complaint I've had is that he's been slow sometimes to fix things in the rentals. If the tenants can't reach him they call me; my name's the one on the rent checks, as if I'd know what to do when the furnace goes out. So I'd have to get after him about it."

"Has he been honest with your rent monies?"

"Yes."

"Did he collect in person or do the tenants mail your checks?"

"Mrs. Ferguson's the only one he collects in person. Everybody else mails their check."

"Would Mrs. Ferguson write a check to you, then?"

"Oh no, she always paid cash. He'd give me a stack of twenties from her."

"What was her rent again?"

"Four hundred and fifty dollars."

"Was she prompt?"

"Oh yeah, never any trouble. Some of the others would use up the five-day grace period, but I don't mind that so much."

"So he collected cash every month from Mrs. Ferguson."

"That's right."

"And you'll cooperate when I charge him with stealing your vehicle?"

"Cooperate? I'll have you over for dinner. So will my daughter, she can't stand that man."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'd really like this not to come out."

"I'll do my best not to say anything, Mrs. Shreve. But I need to know about that guy."

"He used to beat her. Put her in the hospital once. He'd be out with another woman, then come home drunk and light into her when she asked him where he'd been."

"He put your daughter in a real bad spot. Him being the sheriff and all."

"He sure did."

"Then why did you have him work for you once they split up?"

She sighed heavily. "I suppose I was wrong. Maybe it was stupid. But I always tried, whenever they had problems, to not take sides. I mean, I know some parents, they get in the middle every time their married kids have an argument. They end up making it worse 'cause they're always on their daughter's side, she can do no wrong and all that. Christie's my daughter, but let me tell you, she's no saint, and I always tried to stay out of it. When they split up I supported her. But as long as there was any chance they'd get back together, I wasn't going to tell him off; divorce is a sin, you know, the Church always teaches that. Then after the divorce was final, what could I do? He was never bad to me, he was only bad to her. I needed someone to look after those properties and he'd always done it before; if I needed him to collect the rent, who better than the county sheriff?"

"I understand. It doesn't sound like your daughter's relevant to this case, and I won't say a word about it without telling you first. No reason I can see that she ought to be dragged into this."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd leave her out of it. I know, I should have fired his behind. My house, a place I own for my retirement, turned into some kind of a drug place! And he's the county sheriff."

She didn't sound much like a Latin King, so he thanked her and asked the special prosecutor for two more warrants on Jack Dawson.

"What for?" the retired judge asked.

"Stolen car and conspiracy to distribute methamphetamine. This time, let's ask for a nice high bail. That sheriff's a danger, connected to the drug trade. We don't want someone like that walking around with a badge and a gun, a whole police force at his disposal." The prosecutor agreed, so that helped.

Once all three defendants got back to Tippecanoe County, Kent could do jailhouse interviews to find out what their latest stories were. Maybe Dawson would blame that impounded Buick on coloreds and Gypsies.

Kent called Cpl. Kwiatkowski and asked her to plan on examining the trunk of that car for bloodstains, fibers and human hair. She'd be going up against another lawman in the sheriff, but it's very difficult to vacuum up every trace of a dead body stuffed into a car trunk, with all the odd angles and cubbyholes for tools and a spare tire. He also inquired about the two-by-four. She said, "I should be able to get to it in a couple of weeks. I'm sorry for the delay, but this dang governor thinks spending money is evil and the tests all run themselves."

He told her he understood, and started wondering why he'd voted for this governor. Because he had an R behind his name and I didn't know no better.

Jamie, I ain't gonna vote for 'em just 'cause they got a D either. But I'll give 'em a better look than I used to. Sorry, baby, I just never thought about this stuff before.

Then he drove to The Mud, looking for discarded carpet from that trunk. He didn't find it at Ferguson's or Mrs. Shreve's either. It was probably in a landfill by now; he'd be curious if it was still in the Buick.

From there he got back in his unit and played FTO with his rookies all afternoon. It was fun, he enjoyed them, all full of questions and half-dying of envy, that their training officer got to ride in that armored personnel carrier up in Cal City and take down a couple of killers. When they made it sound like he did it all by himself, he didn't strictly correct the record; one time, yes, but after that he saved his breath.++

44. S'mores

2011-04-03T15:57:00.008-05:00

The next day Kent got two calls; one from Corporal Louise Kwiatkowski, the forensic specialist. "DNA matches on Michael Guzman."

"Shit." Kent closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

"It was easy. Place Chart B on top of Chart A and it's all one chart."

Kent thought of Jamie. "Thanks for gettin' back to me. Good job, Louise. Enjoyed workin' with ya."

She could tell he took it hard. "Go catch 'em, detective."

"Plannin' to. You got an affadvit ready?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Fax it for me. I need it for the judge."

She did so, and Kent phoned the judge's secretary in Benton County. "He'll be free in 30 minutes, maybe 45."

"I'll be there."

Kent drove to Fowler, the county seat, learned the name of the special prosecutor, a retired judge in Howard County, and left a message for that guy; within an hour Kent walked out of the courthouse with what he wanted, signed murder warrants for Grandma and Fat Eddie.

***

An hour later Sgt. Rankowski of Hammond P.D. phoned. "Spotted Fat Eddie. He showed up at a stakeout we were doin' at a capo's house. Drivin' that white Buick you mentioned."

"Did you record him?" A listening device in the unmarked police car allowed Hammond P.D. to hear what was said indoors. They had a warrant on their own suspects, so what they heard would be admissible in court; it wasn't Hammond's fault that Eddie Guzman happened to show up and start giving evidence on additional crimes.

"Yeah, it's gonna be usable far as your meth lab goes. He's up here braggin', man. Outsmarted the cops again."

"No doubt. Did he say anything at all about the boy?"

"Not that we heard. And we couldn't leave our stakeout, so we had to let him go. I'm sorry, man."

"I understand, you were on your own mission. What's a good plan, now that you know this place he frequents? Can you add a car to tail him? If you need any help there's our post in Lowell, I can get somebody on it right away."

"Yeah, we're gonna need your personnel. The capo's part of a big bust we got in mind. I don't really have anyone to spare."

"Let me call my captain. Your department's our leader."

"We've got to be, man. We want to help you with Eddie and that kid, but we've got our own investigation and he's just walking into it."

"DNA at Eddie's house down here matched the boy. This is a murder case now. When we get Eddie's location, does your department want to help? We'd be happy to share the credit. But if you're too thin, that's okay too."

"Let me find out what my lieutenant wants. It'll probably depend on the day and time."

"You know your streets. We're not gonna barge in there. We'd love to have you but if you can't, you can't. I'm really grateful for your work, Tom. Give you credit either way."

"Just make sure Lowell doesn't interfere with this one we've got going, we'll be fine."

"Wear your vest, man."

"Always."

Kent called his captain of detectives, arranged for assignments in Lowell, then stopped in to see his post commander. "I want to be there."

"They can do it without you."

"I want to be there."

"It will probably come down at night."

"I'm free at night."

"I'm not paying overtime for an open-ended stakeout."

"How about the shift where we get him?"

"Okay. The rest of the time you're on your own."

"Deal. I'm bringin' him back here with me. The old lady too."

"Might as well."

"I want 'em in Lafayette. I want 'em in our district. I want the courthouse jammed for their preliminary appearance."

"So you can get the glory?"

"No," Kent spat. "So they start to be accountable to Mud Pine, Indiana and a coupla kids I know."

The commander dismissed him, and Kent started thinking about Randy Weishaar, Michael's next of kin.

The mother, too, Debbie in West Virginia, but most of all Michael's next of kin.

***

The next night—Date Night, in Jamie's world—Kent got to watch Eddie Guzman drive that white Buick up to a bungalow in Hammond, park and head up the side stairs to the capo's apartment.

Kent put on the headphones to listen. The other officers on the stakeout were quiet in the dark old van, listening to the conversation in Puerto Rican Spanish. Kent thought of Carlita back in Poncé, how she helped him that winter learn the differences between textbook Castilian and Caribbean dialect and vocabulary.

After some ritual chit-chat, Eddie and his supplier got down to business, trading money for reefer, crack, heroin and pills. Nothing was said about Michael, but Eddie did mention his mother waiting for him, impatient about something. When it sounded like Eddie was getting ready to leave, Kent took off his headphones, handed them to someone else and quietly exited the van for the unmarked state police car a little way up the street. "Here's our man," he told the Lowell troopers, then phoned their backup car around the corner.

Eddie got into his vehicle and started north towards Lake Michigan. His destination would be critical to their operation. If he crossed into Illinois, the state troopers would lose their police powers. If they tried to arrest Eddie before he got there, they risked losing Grandma again, when they wanted him to lead them to her. Kent didn't want to have to rely on Calumet City or one of the other Illinois towns if he could help it. He had the Illinois cities' cooperation but an arrest there would involve the Illinois legal system, then waiting for a judge and extradition. He told himself that if it happened that way it would be all right, the important thing was getting them both behind bars; but he really hoped Eddie didn't cross into Illinois.

As soon as Kent saw Eddie turn west on 165th Street his heart sank. Hammond had erected a traffic barrier down the middle of State Line Road south of 165th, supposedly to protect its residential streets from unwanted cross-state traffic; 165th was unimpeded.

Eddie cruised on into Calumet City and quickly parked, one block from the state of Indiana.

All Kent could do was take down the address; Cal City P.D. would have to make the arrests, and they'd do it on their own schedule. He called his contact on the interagency task force, an officer named Sherwood, but couldn't reach him. He called Tom Rankowski of Hammond P.D., who asked, "Have you got a murder warrant or is it just the meth lab?"

"Two murder warrants. High risk, armed and dangerous."

"Damn, I'd like to be there. But it's better if we're not. That other case, man."

"I understand. Just get me Cal City."

"You need SSERT, the south suburban emergency response team. They've got an armored vehicle, lots of firepower. Looks like something you'd see in Iraq. Perfect for high-risk warrants."

"Sounds great, get me to 'em."

"Meet you there at the Cal City headquarters, Pulaski Road. I've got Sherwood's home number, maybe we can all have a party."

From there events moved quickly; SSERT squad members were ready at a moment's notice, even though they came from several different departments. They were the responders in hostage situations, snipers, anything dangerous where deadly force might be needed. The four Indiana troopers could only back them up, but the SSERT commander was glad to have them and their weapons. Kent was assigned a forward position, part of the perimeter team, with the other three Hoosiers on backup. He strapped on his protective gear and checked his weapon.

He didn't bring a shield, and the other guys made fun of him for that, then found him a spare.

They arrived at the house and deployed quietly and quickly. There was only one exit from the upstairs apartment, an exterior staircase. Kent was assigned to secure those stairs.

The SSERT commander gave a signal, then it started: "Police, search warrant! Police, search warrant!" Pound-pound-pound on the door.

Upstairs, dark curtains parted, and Kent locked eyes with Jenny Ferguson. Instantly he raised his rifle and aimed it at her face.

Ten seconds later she opened the front door and put her hands up. Police burst in and went looking for Eddie as other officers secured her.

They found Eddie in the kitchen, unwrapping an ice cream sandwich. He managed to take one big chomp before his hands were cuffed behind his back. He dropped his ice cream and they left it lay.

No one else was present in the home.

In less than a minute Ms. Ferguson was escorted down the stairs. She eyed Kent as she descended. He didn't relax.

She looked at the armored personnel carrier, then said, "I never thought about that signed permission slip from the Scouts."

He answered, "Don't worry. Where you're goin' they won't be makin' no s'mores."

***

Ten minutes later, after thanking everyone from Lowell to Hammond to Cal City, he started driving home. He thought about Jamie and suddenly remembered he forgot to tell him he was working overtime that night. He felt really guilty but dug out his phone and called.

"Hey, mister," Jamie said.

"Hey, baby. We got 'em."

"Oh, Kent. Fantastic! How did it go?"

"Clockwork really. Over in 52 seconds."

"That's all it takes."

"Tell you about it when I get there. I'm a couple hours away."

"You didn't get brave on me, did you?"

"Well, just a little," Kent laughed. "But it didn't amount to nothin'. Eddie was in the kitchen eatin'."

"That's what he's good at. Congratulations, Kent. I'm very proud of you."

"I toldja I'd get 'em, baby."

"Yes. Did you eat dinner?"

"Just a bag of Fritos and a Diet Sprite."

Jamie groaned. "Do you want to stop and get something, or wait till you get home?"

"I want to be with you right now."

"I can make some decent food."

"It's Friday night, baby, the kitchen's closed."

"The chef makes an exception for conquering heroes."

"Know what I feel? I kinda want to party a little. Almost wish we were goin' out like we're s'posed to."

Jamie glanced at the clock. "I could call Joey and Cher. Maybe your Mom could come by."

"This'd be a time to open up that cocktail place you had in Dublin. I wish we had somethin' like that."

"Do you want to go out? We still could."

"Nah, if we went to some bar in Crawfordsville everybody'd come up and want to talk. I don't feel like no crowds tonight. One or two family members'd be nice, though."

"Maybe Cher and Joey could put the kids to bed upstairs."

"Yeah, they could. Give 'em a call, see if they feel like comin' over."

"I'm glad you want to celebrate."

"It's more a relief than anything."

"But you did what you said you would do." Kent teared up momentarily. Jamie said, "Leave it to me, buddy."

"Don't be goin' to no trouble."

"Oh, it's not much trouble to get naked. One way or another, we're having a party tonight."

Kent grinned, told him he loved him, and drove home.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

43. Centering

2011-02-19T15:01:00.019-06:00

Kent stayed in touch with all his contacts in the Region, looking for Fat Eddie and Grandma, but he wasn't allowed to spend the time up there he wanted to, taking their mugshots around to all the landlords in the area; he had to stay in his own district and play FTO, Field Training Officer, for his latest batch of newly graduated probationary troopers. It was an aspect of the job he enjoyed, building camaraderie and loyalty with the young officers, helping them learn good judgment in various situations, but not when a ten-year-old kid was missing. So he made phone calls and sent e-mails, and tried to remind himself to trust other departments to do their jobs.

But ten days went by, college baseball season started in Florida, where Purdue upset the #9 Huskies in the Big East/Big Ten Challenge, and Kent grew frustrated, missing all the action; he wanted to be in Hammond or, failing that, Tampa sure would have been nice.

Finally one night he said to Jamie, "Y'know, a month's come and gone on Michael. I wanted it done by now, but it ain't."

"You're doing everything you can."

"Let me ask you somethin'. I know you say you don't got an 'in' with God." Jamie looked at him seriously. "But I figure God's as interested as anyone in seein' Michael found, and anyone who tried to hurt him brought to justice."

"Yes."

"So why don't you try askin' God where he's at. See what happens. I ain't gettin' nowhere on this, Jamie, and here my boyfriend is good buddies with God. At the very least we can agree about that, you're pretty good buddies. Since God sees everything and knows everything, why don't you just try askin' him?"

Jamie frowned. "This is highly problematical, Kent."

"Why's that?"

"Well, let me get this right. You can't find Michael, despite your best efforts, so you pressure me to pressure God. Is that it?"

"I ain't askin' you to pressure nobody. I'm sayin' why don't you ask?"

"I really have to think about this. The one thing I will not do is put God to the test."

"What's that mean?"

"It's where a person goes to God and says, 'Okay, big guy, if you're so great, do me a miracle.' It's insulting to God, Kent, and it's faithless."

"There's some kinda crime in askin'? Is that what you're sayin'?"

"No; but you're looking for a shortcut."

"I'm lookin' to solve a crime here."

"Why don't you find a genie in a bottle somewhere?"

"Jamie, don't take that attitude."

"That's the way I hear it, Kent. Put the onus on God."

"Well, that ain't what I mean." They were silent a minute. "Work with me, baby."

Jamie thought awhile. "You could start with some humility."

"I got the ego goin', you're sayin'?" Jamie nodded. "Well, Lord, I don't mean that."

"The essential thing is realizing it's up to God, not us."

"Why wouldn't he cooperate?"

Jamie chuckled. "This is God you're dealing with, not an informant you can muscle around."

Kent smiled despite himself. "I ain't never prayed for a home run."

"Good. God doesn't care about your game. If there's anything that drives me nuts it's a basketball player crossing himself before he shoots a free throw. There was this one guy at NYU who used to do that every time. It made me furious—and it made me rebound."

"Help us get back on track here."

"There's nothing wrong with praying about this case. God does want Michael home. He does want the criminals caught. But we have to take the right approach. We have to ask, not demand. We have to open our hearts and tell God how much this hurts. A ten-year-old boy who never did anything wrong, who never missed school or church; but even if he was a terrible kid he doesn't deserve any of this."

"True."

"So we ask God for help, as we've been doing. We ask God to open our minds, to think of anything we've missed, any approach you haven't tried. We ask God to help us be active in solving this. We don't ask God to wave a magic wand because he doesn't have one; he wouldn't use it if he did. If we want something done we're the ones who have to do it; someone said, 'God has no other hands but ours.'

"And when we're done pouring out what's on our hearts, we shut up and listen."

Kent thought about that, then said, "I don't know how."

"Will you learn something called centering prayer? It's a kind of technique, Kent, and it's easy, anyone can do it. But we have to be taught how, they don't talk about it in church very much. Half the churches don't even know what prayer is. I didn't either when I was younger, but I'm learning. It starts this way: sit down and shut up. Forgive me for being blunt about it, but prayer does not consist of giving God marching orders, telling God what to do and whom to bless. You know what it starts with? It's painted right on top of Kessler Chapel. All they have to do is read, but they don't even bother."

Kent blinked, then said, "Let all the earth keep silence before him."

"Exactly. Want to try?"

"Yeah. Can't hurt nothin'."

"Let's go upstairs." They held hands and went to the new oratory. Kent looked around briefly; he'd only seen this room once since Jamie redid it, with the icons and altar and crucifix overhead. It looked sort of like the one in Dublin, except it was at Hickory Grove. Jamie said, "Have a seat." Kent sat, Jamie lit two candles on the altar, then turned out the overhead light. "We need a dimmer switch in here."

"Okay."

"I don't do electrical, Kent."

"Have Mr. Shuey do it, he prob'ly knows how."

Jamie sat too; they were silent for a minute, then he said, "Lord, you heard everything we said downstairs. We're worried about Michael; we're worried about the additional crimes being committed even today by Eddie and his mother. We know they're up to no good, and we know it's up to Kent and his colleagues to stop them. But we can't find them, Lord, and we need your help. So we come to you, admitting how powerless we are, and asking you to expand our minds and deepen our commitment. Help Kent and the other officers to do the work they need to do, to look in unexpected places, to think in new ways, so they can be your helpers. Remind us that your justice is what matters here, not our need for revenge or punishment; this isn't a game we're trying to win. Help these officers to keep your people safe. Make these officers instruments of your peace."

"Yes," Kent murmured.

"We know we're not worthy to ask, Lord. We know you're the one in charge of this world and not us. But if you can use this officer, Lord, please do. He wants to help. He wants to find Michael and the people who hurt him. He wants to protect the people being harmed today by these drug dealers, with all their violence and greed. If you can use some extra hands, Lord, Kent's got two.

"Now, we have confidence in your help. We know the love you have for all that you have made. You will be the one to solve this case. We know you'll do it, so we can be calm and quiet as you work.

"Help us to be centered and silent, and to listen to you. We live in a noisy world, but we're going to shut all that out now. We're going to let go of all our thoughts and empty ourselves so we can hear you. Help us to focus our spirits on your sacrificial love, as we behold your Son's gift of forgiveness and peace.

"Let 'peace' be the word we center ourselves on, Lord, in our silence. Every time a stray thought comes into our minds, thinking about food or hearing a noise outside, or whatever other thought comes to us, we'll let it come in one ear and out the other. We'll visualize those words coming in the left ear and going out the right one, and we'll silently repeat the word 'peace.'

"And though it may feel strange at first, just to sit here with you, not saying anything, listening to you, we'll let go of the strangeness too. We want to be with you, Lord. We're glad to be in your presence. And for once, we don't have to talk to you or tell you what to do. We want to listen instead. We ask you to guide us and show us the way.

"I'm going to set my timer, Lord, for 20 minutes, where we'll just be quiet with you. We thank you for being with us here. Help us let go of our thoughts, in one ear and out the other, as we become passive before you, with 'peace' as our silent watchword whenever we start to stray."

"Peace," Kent said softly.

"We'll let ourselves breathe deeply, so your Spirit can breathe in us. We'll let our bodies relax and our minds go blank, so we can hear you."

Kent realized that centering prayer was a little like hypnosis, which he believed in; a spiritual hypnosis with God as the guide.

Jamie set his timer and they were silent for 20 minutes. Candles flickered, saints prayed with them, and they listened for the word of God.

***

When the bell sounded, Kent opened his eyes and said, "I kinda liked that."

Jamie held his hand and stood up; Kent followed. Jamie moved his hand to Kent's back and they bowed together to the altar, which Kent had never done before. Jamie opened the door, then put out the candles, and they left the room, walking in silence back downstairs.

"Something to drink?"

"Iced tea?" Jamie got them some, then led the way to the front parlor. They sat in comfortable seats there, a novelty to Kent; Jamie's nice leather loveseat. Kent breathed. "Start a fire for ya, baby?"

"That would be nice."

They sat and watched the flames quietly. Kent put his arm around Jamie's shoulder.

"It's gonna happen," Kent said softly.

"I think so too."

"I don't got to worry about it so hard. Maybe that's where I was screwin' up."

"Just cooperate. Allow yourself to be led."

"This was kinda different from how Aunt Penn does it. But I liked it."

"It starts with the silence. And not having to fill it up."

"Cop Squad 101: If you're talkin', you ain't listenin'."

Jamie smiled, "Pretty basic."

"The 20 minutes was nothin'."

"I'm glad. You did very well."

"God'll take care of it."

"Every time I do this I think, the main message is, God is God and I am not."

"I don't gotta be the cleanup hitter." Kent looked at his lover. "Does that sound crazy?"

"No. That sounds right."

"Just stick with your teammates. Move the runners along. You don't gotta win it all by yourself." Kent snorted. "How many times have I said that to young kids? You'd think I'd never heard it myself."

"We're all nuts here," Jamie smiled. "I sure am. I get to thinking everything depends on me. But it doesn't."

"Let God be your manager." Kent grinned. "Sounds like the name of a book for minor leaguers."

"He still needs us to swing the bat."

"Me, I'm lookin' to make the catch."

"You will. Weren't you a Golden Glover with the Braves?"

"Two years."

"You'll catch them."

"Yup."

***

It was Wednesday, February 25. Jamie was aware of it all day; he'd told Kent about it well in advance, and again last night. Kent agreed and everything was set.

But he didn't get home until 7:22 p.m. As soon as he put down the garage door he saw Jamie hurrying toward him, bundled up in a suit, scarf, gloves, hat and overcoat. "Where have you been?"

"Baseball practice."

"You promised to be here at 6:30!"

"I did?" Kent blinked; he'd not only forgotten, he'd had a beer afterwards with the guys.

"You did. I told you about it two weeks ago, and again on Monday."

"Oh. What was I comin' home early for again?"

"To take me to church!"

"In the middle of the week?"

Daggers shot out of those eyes. "Kent, it's Ash Wednesday!"

Kent raised the garage door again. "Get in, then." But Jamie ducked under the door and got in the car before Kent could get the words out. He hustled back in too.

Jamie looked at the dashboard clock. "Seven twenty-four," he said through clenched teeth. "We'll never make it to Crawfordsville in time. They'll be done by now."

"When did it start?"

"Seven o'clock!"

"We can't get there a little late?" Kent backed the car out again.

"The imposition comes early, right after the Liturgy of the Word."

"I'm sorry, baby. What are you talking about?"

"Ash Wednesday! Even Methodists have heard of it. It's a holy day of obligation."

"Oh. Well, then, no problem. The Chapel's got Wednesday services, let's just go there. They don't start till 7:30." Kent headed west, not south.

"Will they have ashes? I'm sure mass is too much to hope for, but the least they could do is the ashes."

"It's Wednesday, Methodists know all about it, I'm sure they'll have what you're lookin' for."

Jamie sighed, "Well, okay. Are you sure?"

Kent wasn't, but he didn't say so. Two minutes later he pulled up at the Chapel. There were maybe eight other cars in the lot, but the lights were on inside. "Seven twenty-eight," he said, "two minutes early even."

"Well, that's good. I wonder what they'll sing."

"Does this mean I don't get no supper till after this is over?"

"The sweet and sour meatballs were done at 6:30!"

"Gee." Kent could use a few meatballs about now.

They got inside. The building was cold, of course. People were scattered among the pews, hallooing back and forth, louder than usual, calling across the room. Kent hustled Jamie up to the front with a hand on his back. Aunt Penn was there, but not Martha. They all whispered hello, then sat. Jamie began thumbing through a foreign book, trying to find Psalm 40.

In a couple of minutes Rev. Kirk appeared, dressed in a navy blue college sweatshirt and a pair of jeans; Jamie's heart sank. "Good evening, good evening!" Kirk cried. "Good to see everyone here again." He kept up his enthusiastic patter for a minute, then declared, "I thought we'd start out tonight with a good old-fashioned hymn sing! Just call out your favorite hymn number, Mrs. McClain is sure to know it, and we'll all sing it together! Just two verses so we can get to everybody, whatever you want to hear! Who's first! What's your all-time favorite hymn, just shout it out!"

Jamie's jaw dropped. He looked at Kent, and someone called out, "How 'bout 145?"

"One forty-five, everybody!" Kirk grinned, flashing 68 teeth like a TV pitchman. "One forty-five, let's see what we got!"

Number 145 turned out to be "Morning Has Broken," a pop song from 1971. Jamie told Kent, "This is about dawn. It's only been dark now for three hours."

"It's a hymn sing, Jamie." Mrs. McClain started beating out the chords on the piano up front. "We're liable to get anything tonight."

So they sang; old Kirk was mighty enthusiastic. He at least could carry a tune, unlike a screeching woman behind them. "Mor-ning Has Bro-ken, Like the First Mor-or-or-or-Ning…"

Next came "Jesus, Keep Me Near the Cross," which Jamie had never heard before, and "O Little Town of Bethlehem," the Christmas carol—Christmas, no kidding. The schmaltzy tune was the only one offered—the British one is halfway tolerable—so Jamie drew the line and would not sing a Christmas song on Ash Wednesday.

When somebody asked for "How Great Thou Art," he slapped his book shut, shoved it back in the rack, sat quietly and seethed.

He knew there would be no ashes tonight, certainly no Communion; probably no mention of Lent at all.

He could have exploded—especially if he'd known his husband was out drinking beer when he should have been home getting ready for a worldwide fast.

Jamie could only guess how many times Oprah and Dr. Phil would be mentioned in tonight's sermon, and hope he didn't hear from Dr. Laura instead.

But slowly, as he looked at the simple architecture and the slogan above the sanctuary, "Let all the earth keep silence before him," he also considered where he was, and who he was with.

There he sat, fit to be tied and mortified on top of it. But he was a guest in these people's house, so he managed at last to calm himself and not storm screaming out the door. This was Kent's family church, and he wouldn't embarrass him. He might try to educate him someday, or perhaps not. What would be the point?

Good ol' Kirk used his sermon to quote Dr. James Dobson instead, one of the leading homophobic bigots in the United States—though mercifully he didn't go off about Gay people tonight.

Kirk tippy-toed around a bit before finally endorsing Dobson, endorsing corporal punishment for children, with a quote from Leviticus about spared rods and spoiled butts.

Jamie ventured to glance at Kent, who sat next to him listening, or appearing to.

If Jamie and his brothers had been physically abused, he'd have gone ahead and caused a screaming shoutfest right there and then. But they weren't, it was only psychological terrorism, so he sighed and let it go, until he flashed on that minister in Mud Pine quoting the Ten Commandments at Michael.

Kent looked at Jamie and shook his head slightly; he didn't seem to agree with Kirk and James Dobson. Jamie was sorry he'd made Kent come to this.

At the prayer time, the usual potlucks, nursing home stinkers and dogs with liver spots got mentioned. Then after a listless version of "God Be With Us Till We Never Meet in This Fucking Place Again," it was finally over, the longest 52 minutes in Christianity.

Jamie took Aunt Penn's hand and kissed her cheek. She told him how glad she was that they came to Wednesday service. He smiled and did not reply.

Kent kindly warmed up the car, while Jamie stood around in the old, cold, filthy, empty church, so his husband could fulfill his guilty promise to keep him safe and warm with that vaunted door to door service to a bunch of Christmas-singing Methodists in God-fucking-February. Jamie almost had to laugh, they were so bad.

He did remember, though, what Josiah etched on that arch.

He started thinking ahead. Maybe he could zap the meatballs if they weren't too dried out.

He never did complain about Ash Wednesday once they got home, but only because he made a decision not to be passive-aggressive. Left to his own devices, he knew for sure he'd have picked a fight. He tried to be gentle with Kent's feelings. "Let the whole earth keep silence" is good advice.

The meatballs weren't too awful, but they'd have been a lot better two hours earlier. Then Kent asked, "What's Ash Wednesday, anyway?" Like taking a match to a stick of dynamite.

Jamie just stared at him in disbelief. "Do I know you? Have we met before?"

"Look, I know I fucked up. But tell me anyway, what's Ash Wednesday?"

"The beginning of Lent."

"What's Lent?"

"A season of penitence and fasting."

Kent's lip curled up, "Why?"

"Because we're sinners, that's why!"

"It don't sound like much fun."

"Fun was last night. Mardi Gras, Carnival. When Ash Wednesday comes, the party's over."

"What does a season mean?"

"Forty days. The same amount of time Jesus spent praying in the wilderness before he started his public ministry. He was tempted by the devil, but did not sin."

Kent was silent for a time, then said, "Important day, huh?"

"Very. It's not grim, though; the soul learns to enjoy the period of reflection."

"Why's it called that? About ashes and all."

"The priest puts her thumb in a little pot of ashes, then makes the sign of the cross on your forehead. She says, 'Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.' It's a reminder of mortality, so let's use this time to live right."

"Ashes? From a cigarette, a fireplace?"

"No," Jamie smiled. "Specially prepared ashes, black as coal, from burning the fronds saved from Palm Sunday last year."

"I never knew what Palm Sunday meant either."

"The Chapel doesn't give out palm fronds a week before Easter?"

"I don't think so."

He'd only been going there for 27 years, you'd think he'd know by now. "Those poor kids. How can they learn if they don't get palm fronds?"

"It's a kid's thing, then?"

"No, the palms mean as much to adults as to children; but kids learn and remember the story when you hand out palm fronds to everyone."

"What story? I'm sorry, Jamie, I don't know."

Jamie was floored, unable to speak for a minute.

He reconstituted and said, "I understand; you've never been taught. When Jesus was done with his ministry, and the political pressure on him reached a fever pitch, he made a triumphant entrance into Jerusalem for Passover, riding a donkey. His followers gathered, waving leaves they pulled off the palm trees, and laying down blankets for his donkey to walk on. It turned into quite a procession, which only scared the authorities that much more. On Maundy Thursday, he held his Last Supper at the Passover meal with his 12 disciples; he washed their feet and instituted Holy Communion."

"Oh."

"Then later that night he was betrayed to the cops by Judas Iscariot. The next morning at noon, Christ was crucified."

"Pretty important events, huh."

"Yes. And the season that leads up to them is called Lent, which starts on Ash Wednesday."

"I'm real sorry, babe."

"You're my guy, Kent. It's not your fault, it's Kirk's. Who hired that ignorant, unqualified jerk?"

"Uh, my Dad."

"Your father had the power to hire the minister by himself?"

"The Trust owns the Chapel, Jamie."

"Oh my." Jamie swallowed. "Not the bishop? Methodist bishops have the power to hire and fire, move people around. It's a vestige of Wesley's circuit riding that Methodists are… stuck on." Episcopalians would burn down cathedrals if their bishops tried that.

"Well, all I know is the President of the Trust has the power to hire and fire."

"Whatever did your father see in Kirk?"

"Well, we're tryin' to grow the church by startin' a sports ministry. We figure that's how to get more kids from the Town of Friends, by offerin' sports."

"Smart idea; but why him?"

"He played football at Hanover, a pretty good athlete."

"Is the strategy working?"

"Well, it's been kinda slow up to now. We do offer soccer teams in the summer, that brings some kids out. Everyone gets to play regardless of their skill level. But there's more we could be doin', I don't know why some of it hasn't happened. I don't go to the deacon's meetings, I guess I figure bein' Sunday School superintendent is enough."

"Is Kirk ordained? Did he go to seminary?"

"Well, Dad would know."

"How long has Kirk been here?"

"Five years. I know you don't like him."

"It's not that I don't like him; I don't consider him competent. If he was hired to set up a sports ministry, and all you've got after five years is a soccer league, no wonder there isn't any growth." Jamie rubbed his face. "Listen, it's not up to me to tell you how to run your church. But I don't want to go there. I've sat through two sermons now and that's plenty."

"Well, I didn't think too much of tonight myself."

"O Little Town of Bethlehem." Jamie burst out laughing.

"It's February, Christmas is over."

"A hymn sing is a great filler when you don't have anything to say. Kirk doesn't even sound like a Christian, much less a seminary graduate. He could have read Evening Prayer if he was that desperate, but he probably doesn't know what it is."

"Well, we disappointed you again, huh."

"He never mentions God in his sermons. He should be out on his ass."

"Well, that'd be sayin' Dad made a mistake."

Cardinal sin. "No; let's say Dad did good, because a sports ministry could be a real strategy. But if it's barely been implemented after five years, maybe you're the one starting to make the mistake, if you keep Kirk on. I'm sorry, Kent, that's how I feel. Why does the family own the Chapel?"

"It's our land. Josiah built the structure. We're buried there, it's our place."

"I can't believe a Methodist bishop would put up with it."

"Well, Aunt Penn could tell ya. I just know I can hire and fire."

"Does Kirk have a contract?"

"Runs out June 30th."

"Then examine him. I hate to say it; this is a man's job here. But he doesn't seem equipped, Kent, he never mentions Jesus; maybe you have to move him out. He isn't performing, Kent. In any other church there'd be massive complaints about him."

"Well, I don't know. Nobody's complained to me. Most people like him pretty good."

Jamie sighed, "Okay. I've made my views known. From here on it's up to you." He stood, started clearing the table. "But from now on it's fish on Fridays, buddyboy. And Evening Prayer every freaking night."

"I like fish."

"Good. You're getting it for seven straight weeks."

"We pray before supper or after?"

"It depends on when you get home."

"Well, that won't be bad at all."

Jamie looked at his lover and considered. "Then we'll have to find a way to make it less easy. No meat on Friday; not breakfast, not lunch, not dinner."

"Why not? Jamie, you're gettin' mean."

For the first time Jamie realized Kent always started whining when he knew he was getting beat. "To remind us that Christ was executed on Good Friday!"

Kent frowned but didn't say anything more. Soon he jumped up to help clear the table, before Jamie asked him why he came home with beer on his breath.

Jamie didn't want his Facebook friends finding out he spent Ash Wednesday listening to "O Little Town of Bethlehem."

As for the rest of the music, the fastest way to get Episcopalians hopping mad is to make them sit through "How Great Thou Art." Sometimes they turn violent; they'll lock your ass up in the Tower of London and you'll never be heard from again—at least till the BBC miniseries.

Kent was just glad he escaped.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

42. Things Unsaid

2011-02-15T14:06:00.015-06:00

But the fact was, it was easier for Americans to believe in the fantasy of Superman, a comic book hero, than the alleged reality of Jesus Christ. Superman had the marketing advantage of being make-believe, start to finish, so that the willful suspension of disbelief was just that, willful; while Jesus was marketed as demanding belief from the very beginning.

Mis-marketed, Jamie thought, but then he was an Episcopalian, which most people recognize is nothing but a niche product anymore, about as popular as Smith Bros. Cough Drops and far more expensive to produce. The Harvard Business School, once teeming with Episcopalians, probably had a famous case study now in the historic mismanagement of the Episcopal brand. The only thing the company was known for anymore was queers—Blacks and queers, women and queers, queer women, queer Bishops and queer women Bishops. Having Jamie Foster among the customers was hardly a mark of distinction. It wasn't like the old days when the only queers were organists; the good old boys of Harvard didn't mind the occasional organist, and besides, it was tradition. Who else but a queer would bother learning to play the organ? There isn't any money in playing the organ; no one ever closed a deal during intermission at an organ concert, what with all the queers running around.

So there was one aspect of Jamie's personal life that he did not share with Kent, and that was what happened as Jamie posted the services of Daily Morning and Evening Prayer online. For one thing, Kent never saw him working on this website, except that one time on vacation, so it was easy to forget about it. For another, Jamie didn't choose to talk about it. He remained concerned that Kent would think he was too religious.

True, they went to church every Sunday, twice now, first to the chapel and then to St. John's, Crawfordsville, so Jamie could go to mass; plus they said grace out of habit at dinnertime. To an outsider maybe they both seemed religious. But Kent didn't think of himself that way, and Jamie didn't either. Yes, he had his website and his little prayer room, and a crucifix in a few judicious places, but he wasn't going through the motions according to someone else's dictates; he was trying to learn to take God seriously, especially after finding out he was alive "because I want you here."

"Religion" is something you do because someone else said to; "faith" is what you learn to have when God puts a whammy on you.

Since Jamie no longer had any doubt that God exists, he was in a different situation than Kent, who once said, "I want to believe that Jesus is Lord; but I ain't always sure, that's all." They were in two different places. And though there was nothing Jamie wouldn't tell him, he did have that one important area of his life that he didn't open up about—at least not all the time.

He wondered if holding something back was all right for their marriage; he rather thought it was, that whatever the "spoon and moon in June" songs might say, people in a relationship retain their own boundaries, their own selfhood, out of which they come together sometimes. And there's nothing wrong with that; maybe it even helps them stay sane. Kent would probably never ask him along on a hunting trip, knowing Jamie wouldn't want to go; it wasn't that Kent wanted to hide that hobby from him, it was more that Kent had a right to it and Jamie wasn't interested. They didn't have to merge their total personalities, and it wouldn't work to try. They were pretty compatible most of the time.

So Kent remained ignorant about what actually happened when Jamie did his Daily Office work. The mechanics of maintaining the website were not very difficult; a lot of typing at first, but then Jamie found more resources online to copy and paste, so the only hard thing was doing the formatting that allowed him to keep it up every day. At first he worked ahead, a week in advance, keeping the fixed elements of the service and plugging in files of Bible readings, psalms and prayers according to the schedule in the Book of Common Prayer. This involved a few hours of work once a week, and then he was done.

But he began to find that this didn't satisfy him, and was even a little dangerous for his soul. For one thing, he wasn't actually saying the prayers, he was doing computer work—so his own prayer life began to suffer, which was the opposite of why he started doing the work in the first place. The idea of the Office, based on ancient Jewish and Christian practice, is that a person needs to stop normal life twice a day, in the morning and evening, and spend a few minutes with God; Muslim men do it five times a day, and monks and nuns seven or eight times. But for the ordinary Anglican, twice a day works just fine. The written service provides a structure, with its cycle of readings, to get a person started. It's objective, so it doesn't depend on whether you feel like doing it or not; whether you like the priest or even have one present to lead; a layperson can do it just as well, and thousands of people do it by themselves if they can't get to church for it. And it's effective in surprising ways, because whatever your emotions when you start the service, you feel better by the end of it. That's why the Church recommends it for everyday use.

Jamie knew all that when he started, but he didn't know until he got into it how rich a spiritual resource it actually was, taking place on two levels: the mechanical one, with the canned lessons and prayers out of a book, and a spiritual one, where the simple act of turning to God drew Jamie closer whether he planned it or even felt like it. The "turning-to" became more important than the content (and the content was impeccable, time-tested, beautifully written, elegantly structured). By working in advance he was screwing up the turning-to, so he quit working weekly and did it every day instead, after Kent had left for work, and in odd snippets of alone-time on the weekends. The two of them were big on togetherness, always working or playing or sitting together, but let a Bruce Willis (or Susan Hayward) movie come on and one or the other would make for the exit.

So Jamie turned to God every day, and that turned out to be very rewarding.

Two other things surprised him; first, the computer work became his prayer. Once he had the Magnificat copied correctly, he stopped reading it every time, or even reading it at all; but putting it where it was supposed to go in the text became his way of saying it. He imagined that filling in his website correctly was like working on the Altar Guild—that group of ladies (almost always) who polish the pews and haul the heavy frontals back and forth on their long sticks, and arrange the flowers and set them out, and wash and starch and iron the fair white linens, and polish the silver and brass, and wash the dirty dishes like scullery maids, and take care of all the other details the priest needs done to conduct the next service decently and in order, without having to think about it or make some last-minute adjustment because the colors were wrong or somebody forgot the proper-sized napkins. At their best, and Altar Guilds are almost always superb, no one even realizes they did anything, though in fact it took a group of them hours of physical labor to make the whole thing come off perfectly. An Altar Guild that gets noticed is one that screwed up, while a Guild that's completely ignored prompts hosannas in heaven. The work became the prayer, whether Jamie's lips moved or not. So he loved that.

Second, he took to reading the non-recurring texts out loud, as he typed or copied and pasted. The main prayer, called a Collect, changed every week, sometimes every day, so he'd read and pray that one; but the Bible texts, three of them a day, were much longer and changed all the time. In a way he got to do "Bible study" without its being the typical jail sentence. Over a two-year cycle, he'd essentially read the entire Bible, or at least those parts that (unlike the "begats") are worth reading. Sometimes the passages were delightful, and he'd yabble to God and tell him all about it. Sometimes they were confusing, and he'd say, "What the hell is that?" Sometimes they were difficult—the Sacrifice of Isaac is the classic example, but the Scriptures are full of hard sayings, and he had no trouble telling God, "This doesn't make a bit of sense. Why would you say such a thing?" He knew enough to trust God with his honest reactions, while bearing in mind that what he understood at 26 would be different at 46, and welcoming the enlightenment those extra years would bring. When a passage was so garbled it was beyond comprehension, he'd look it up in his New Oxford Annotated and find that the great scholars couldn't make heads or tails of it either.

He didn't realize it at first, but he was having daily conversations with God—and that's what prayer is.

What made it even better was that God often reacted—not in words, but most commonly by sending a shiver down his spine, touching him physically somehow. Jamie learned to hear God talk without words. And what God said was, of course, ineffable. So they both had a great time.

It didn't make the drudgery involved any less, but it made it meaningful, so it wasn't drudgery at all. And Jamie was enough of a theologian, or maybe intact enough as a personality, to be himself with God, foul mouth and all; God has heard it all before. God even knew it would happen at the moment of creation; men and dogs are more or less the same when it comes to sniffing every tree and fire hydrant, and "fuck" sounds even more obscene in Hebrew than it does in Anglo-Saxon. The Bible is full of dirty jokes.

So Jamie had some grounding about his levitation, while Kent's thoughts went flying through the air. He didn't understand it, and just like Teresa's nuns, he didn't like it. He was glad, very extremely glad, for the little boy at the side of the road, who could have caused a 50-car pileup as drivers struggled not to hit him; Kent was glad for the bizarre miracle of it all. But he didn't like that his boyfriend was involved, because he didn't like being expected to live with some kind of angel. Kent never signed on for that; it wasn't fair. Before he met Jamie he went to Kessler Chapel every week and was Sunday School superintendent, which was better than 98% of the guys he knew, plus the Boys and Girls Club; wasn't that enough for God? Now he had to live with a prettyboy saint who tempted him with food and sex every day?

Jamie knew he was right to hide the Office from Kent because their sex life changed, a little of their connection started to get lost. It was almost as if Kent stopped loving him and became addicted to him instead. The better Jamie became at making love, the more Kent turned him into a mouth and an ass.

The only redeeming feature of it came when they slept together afterward; Kent loved him once he was satisfied and the walls came down again. Then the next morning nothing had changed, Kent halfway resented him again.

For richer for poorer, for better for worse… Jamie didn't know what to do but give the guy his space.

Kent knew they weren't quite as happy as before; he even asked for a chaplain once, but the State Police sent him a Catholic priest, who listened for two minutes, then dispensed Cliché #27 and slapped him on the back. "Hang in there" didn't tell him how; it didn't tell him anything except how stupid he was for thinking a chaplain could help. Half the troopers said the chaplains always blabbed everything to the higher-ups anyway, not to trust them.

Kent just wanted to be listened to for more than two minutes; how did that baby get in his unit?

***

Jamie asked his new priest, the rector at Crawfordsville, to refer him to a spiritual director. Eileen turned out to be, of course, a Presbyterian. He'd never really met one before.

He wondered if she was halfway flaky at first—her hair was kind of frizzy, which is seldom a good sign—and perhaps unorthodox. But she was clearly supportive and very bright, and he liked her anyway, so he kept going—and she turned out to be entirely orthodox, a humble believer, full of joy and grace and truth. Naturally he told her about Kent, because the Gay Issue is always a deal-breaker, and she celebrated the love in their lives, which made him very grateful. He told her about the Incident, the coma and afterward, how Kent was there every minute, and she praised Kent with glory to God.

So Jamie's worry about Presbyterians (especially those with frizzy hair) turned out to be nothing but prejudice, ignorance, stupidity. Eileen was one of the best things that ever happened to him, and here he was doubtful about her hair.

He told her about the episode at the oratory in Dublin; and though she was astounded like anyone would be, she took him seriously, without a need to prove or disprove that it happened the way he said. She dealt with the soul in front of her, and she didn't mind if he cried; indeed, her Kleenex box appeared like magic. But they spent much of their time laughing and being a bit enthralled with each other; he worried that maybe he was performing for her, but everything he said was true and honest and self-disclosive, and it didn't all make him look good. She knew just what he meant that Kent was getting addicted, and she didn't disrespect Jamie for putting up with it anyway so he could get some dick.

The best thing that happened was when she actually directed him spiritually, instead of just letting him spout off entertainingly. She asked, "What is the vocation God seems to be calling you to when these amazing experiences occur?" He had of course told her about hearing God's voice that time when he was playing solitaire, "You're here because I want you to be."

He said slowly, "I do think it's significant that these times occur in front of Kent. Whatever God means to say, this vocation is for both of us. It's not about my own private ecstasy; I experience that often enough just posting the Office."

She rejoiced over that but didn't lose focus. He went on, "What strikes me about these two times—and it's only two, so let's not get ahead of ourselves—is how they replicate the coma."

She was quiet, all eyes and ears and prayer.

"I have a big sleep. Then I finally wake up and I'm starving for food. I lost 40 pounds during the actual coma, so of course I was hungry when I woke up; and once I got past the Jell-o stage and could handle solid food, they let me have anything I wanted. Towards the end the hospital would send up two trays for every meal. And though it was only hospital food, I ate it like a madman. Then I got home and Kent saw that I ate every night, plus protein shakes whenever I wanted. The day we finally got together, our first date, was the day I'd finally gained all my weight back. I couldn't wait to tell him; he helped me do it, and I wanted to show him, this is me like I used to be."

"Then that night you got married."

"Yes. As for this so-called levitation, it's not just a reminder of the coma, but a reminder of death. They say sleep is like a little death, which I've never really understood before, but it seems to be true. Here I'm walking the face of the earth like everyone else right now; people look at me and they have no idea. Not only am I mortal, I've sort of experienced what death is like, and also had a bit of a resurrection from it. Now I'm here 'because God wants me to be.' And surely there is some vocation connected to that, some mission God wants me to accomplish. I can't go back to business as usual; I don't want to, this isn't usual. Kent and I both know it isn't. But what the work is, I don't know.

"Some, I think, involves the Office, putting it online, making it available to people. The site's had 3000 hits already, and sometimes I tell myself that's like 3000 prayers that I'm responsible for, that I enabled, at least. Potentially the website is the greatest thing I've ever done."

"If you keep it up, it could go to 10,000 someday, or even more."

"The numbers are amazing, considering it's nothing but prayers in this post-Christian era. People just find the site, it helps meet their needs when I've barely promoted it. It's nothing but the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer, not Pat Robertson or Rick Warren or the Pope; it's some obscure guy in Indiana no one's ever heard of. But that's fine, they don't care who I am, it's the Prayer Book and the Bible they come for; it's the meeting with God. So I love my obscurity; this isn't a personality cult here, it's just Jesus."

"A blessing."

"But the odd thing about the vocation is, the website's just a prelim somehow. There's another chapter coming but I don't know what it says."

That was the opening she was looking for. "If you did know, what would that next chapter say?"

He sighed deeply. "It's something to do with Gay people, I think." He had to concentrate, while staring at a basket of seashells she'd collected, sitting on her coffee table. "God doesn't take Saul and make him Paul by eliminating his zeal, but reworking his zeal into something God can use."

"True."

"When you look at my career, at least these first 26 years, my sexual orientation is…" —he frowned, trying to puzzle this out and articulate it—"at the center of the work I've done up to now. The Ohio Gay Times, Ricky, Kent; the serial murder investigation. Even InFashion, maybe. I've got all the money in the world to do whatever this work is I need to do."

"Gay men were the serial murder victims, you said."

"Yes."

"And investigating those killings is how you met Kent." He nodded. "So, if the Saul-to-Paul example is the right one here… I mean, Jamie, you're married to a cop now."

"So the vocation would be…"

"Don't decide it; listen for it. Listen to God first, then complete your sentence."

"So the vocation would be…" He shut his eyes, centered himself; she did too. They were silent for several minutes.

He finally said simply, "Michael."

"Gay crime victims?"

"If that's my vocation, great, but what about the baby?"

They looked at each other, and suddenly he got up and began walking; pacing, really, moving about. He said, "We can't know about the baby."

She said, "What we know is God wants him alive—to an extraordinary extent."

"Is he supposed to cure cancer? Be the next Elton John?"

She had a crazy thought, and went with it. "Did you ever get saved as a child from some horrible danger?"

"There was one time on my bike, when I should have gotten run over by a car, but I didn't get a scratch. Right opposite my grandparents' drugstore when I was a kid." Jamie hadn't thought of that in years. "But it doesn't make sense that God would save me when millions of children suffer in this world, starve and die or are killed in wars that no one pays attention to. I'm not more valuable than they are. One of me and millions of them? Come on."

"At the grave risk," she said, "of sounding like a Presbyterian, we do have to consider the incredible undeserved grace of the elect."

"This is crazy. One of me, millions of others, no. That's as bad as Kent's asking if I feel special."

"This isn't theology, Jamie. It's a question of vocation. Finding it. Following it."

"One session doesn't make it my vocation."

"No. One session can only introduce you to it, possibly, with lots of ifs and doubts and denials. To find your vocation you have to test it, over time, as part of a community of faith. God doesn't call us one by one in the absence of others, but out of community."

"A clearness committee," he told her.

"Unless you're Paul," she smiled. "And I'm sorry, no matter how gifted you are, the road to Damascus does not run through my living room."

They laughed, then he said, "I need to go to Confession."

"Very smart idea."

"Let me start it with you."

"Should I put on my stole?"

"Yes. I'll still want…"

"That's fine, Jamie. You should have a priest give you absolution. I understand completely. You should use the liturgy you were born into, that God gave you. That's absolutely fine by me."

"I honor your ordination, though."

"I'm glad. Between that and your own tradition, God will forgive and take care of you."

He sat back down and recounted his sins as best he knew them; some were grave indeed, and others were pure stupidity. When he was done she pronounced God's blessing and forgiveness, and sent him on his way.

He left her house feeling fantastic.

***

As time went on all this would become incredibly important, though not directly, with the events to unfold that spring. Nothing Jamie would do stemmed from a religious cause; God wasn't responsible for any of the choices he made. But the consequences would be wide-reaching, with implications for how Jamie should live the rest of his life. God had to be the one he relied on to figure things out; God and Eileen. No one else could help him, because no one else had the perspective he needed to understand the course he embarked on. In that sense perhaps Jamie became truly religious and faithful for the first time.

For the rest of that year and on into the next, one event after another perplexed him, made him thoughtful, worried him, and propelled him into more decisions, none of which he had planned. He was 26 years old, and while he hoped he was reasonably mature for his age, it still was true that the number one thing on his mind most of the time was dick.

He loved Kent, he truly did, they got along spectacularly, and they weren't selfish people down deep. They had every advantage in life, once they got through the deaths and the comas, but they were young, barely adults, newly liberated, and no way ready for what was to come. They'd spend most of that spring, summer and fall naked; but when they weren't, Jamie had a lot on his mind.

It all started when New Century Financial went belly up. By the time it ended, their lives were completely changed. What was more, Jamie was entirely on his own except for Eileen; he could explain things to Kent, and indeed when the main event happened they talked a great deal. But the only advisor Jamie had besides his spiritual director was the One who made him. Everyone else was either a specialist or a friend.

Fucking, making love, became communion that summer; Jamie praised God without ceasing, and over time Kent started to loosen up again, angel or no. He really liked it when Jamie talked dirty; Kent would spank him for it but the boy was completely incorrigible.

Kent decided that if he had to get stuck with an angel, at least God was considerate enough to give him a blond one with a hot little ass.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.

41. Flight Plan

2011-02-12T11:50:00.019-06:00

Monday Jamie set Mrs. Shuey to work, then he and Kent got to eat lunch together before heading to Indianapolis for George's meeting.

As Jamie got in the car he said, "Wow, it's my lucky day. I get to ride up front in a police car." There wasn't much room, though, with all the equipment.

"Isn't a police car," Kent replied. "This here's my unit. Number 1477, baby."

"Why do you call it a unit?"

"You expectin' state troopers not to have a special name for everything we do?"

"I guess not."

"This here police car, as you civilians like to call it, is in fact a traveling office. I've got video, WiFi, satellite, mobile phone, a combination printer and fax. I can send out a tweet if you like. I can post your face on Facebook."

"Very impressive. Where's your radio?"

"See how you are? We don't have radios anymore, Jamie. Radios are so 20th century." Kent pushed a button. "Your radios, back in Thomas Edison's day, broadcast things. Every car within distance of the tower got every message that was sent out, this constant squawkin' goin' on, 99% of which was irrelevant to the individual officer. When I'm in Benton County it doesn't do me any good to tell me what's goin' on in Clinton, does it."

"I suppose not."

"Sometimes a trooper'd get so sick of the noise he'd turn off the sound, which meant he might miss somethin' important, a direct order to his location. Now, we got pinpoint accuracy. My post knows automatically when I'm behind the wheel and when I'm outta my unit talkin' to someone. I got a radio on my shoulder for backup if I need it. But still I only get the messages that are meant for me.

"With the GPS they always know where I am. I don't gotta tell dispatch, 'I'm leavin' my unit now, I'm goin' on break.' They already know. Plus if I should leave my district, like I had to do the other day when I went up to Hammond to meet with those other departments, I don't lose my signal 'cause I'm outta range. I'm automatically switched to the Lowell post, I don't gotta do nothin'. Lafayette can still reach me if there's an important message, while the nearest post can message me if there's an emergency developing close to where I am. It's all handled by the computer. This is much more efficient. And it doesn't depend on whether the individual officer's havin' a good day or a bad one. In the old days a guy could turn his radio off while he was dealin' with somethin', and forget to turn it back on. Then he'd spend the next week gettin' yelled at, why didn't he respond to that very important message? This takes the guesswork out of it, it minimizes human error.

"So, while you poor ignorant civilians keep talkin' about cops drivin' police cars, us professional LEO's know that what we're really doin' is commanding a mobile office. Every one of these vehicles is a miniature state police post.

"And that is why, young man, this here's my unit."

Jamie chuckled. "Do forgive me."

"It's okay; I simply remind myself that you're blond."

Jamie gave him an offended look and Kent cackled down the highway. "You're so easy! You fall for that every time."

A few minutes later he said, "Now here we're crossin' into Boone County, and seven miles from here we'll be in Hendricks. We're now in the Indianapolis District. This is Area 5, District 52, not Area 1, District 14. If for some reason I should need assistance, should I be callin' back to Lafayette? Or should I call Indy? I don't have to think about it, I don't even have to know where I am, my call goes to the nearest post. I could be waitin' a long time if I slid off into a snowdrift and my help had to come from Tippecanoe County. Or if I had to depend on Tippecanoe sayin', Wait, he's closer to Indy, call dispatch in Indy. This is a better system all the way around."

"I can see that."

"Suppose there's a car crash up ahead and traffic gets tied up. Lafayette ain't gonna tell me but Indy will. If the road gets closed I can take the nearest exit and get to where I'm goin'. Suppose they need help with traffic control right where I am, I can take action, put on my lights, park my unit and get that lane closed off so fire or EMTs or whoever is needed's got room to work. Could be haz-mat. It helps the other drivers and us both."

Jamie stared ahead, trying to visualize all the situations Kent encountered. "You guys think of everything."

"I like workin' traffic, Jamie. I know you don't think much of it but I'm glad to do it most of the time."

"I don't like it because it's dangerous. It's the worst kind of duty you can have."

"Well, I know, baby, but I'm good at it. I got no reason to hang my head for bein' a sergeant of traffic."

"I just don't want you on the side of the road in all kinds of weather and drunks everywhere. With guns, waiting to take out a cop."

"Look, I promise, if I ever get a chance to move full-time to the detective bureau, I'll take it."

"Great."

"The problem is those guys never move, they just retire. Nobody transfers out of the detective bureau so the spots never open up."

"They should make sure they've got their best detectives in that bureau, though. Every one of you is trained in traffic."

"Well, there are other considerations too. You gotta treat your personnel decent. Somebody's put in 15 years, worked their way up to detective, you don't just kick 'em out 'cause they can't win a footrace no more. Hopefully they've got smarts that make up for the loss of footspeed. There's no substitute for experience in police work, whether it's traffic or detection."

"I just don't want you in danger. I don't want you being brave."

"I know, baby."

"I will keep my anxiety under control, though. I've never been the worrying type."

"I'm hopin', if this current investigation with Michael ends with the arrests I'm tryin' to make, that sooner or later I'll get rewarded for it. Plus the Incident 'n' all, oughta count for somethin'. Keep 'em from movin' me in the direction they're wantin'."

"Which is what?"

"Administration. I mean, I wouldn't mind it if that's what gets offered, but I sure don't want District 21."

"Which one's that?"

"Toll Road, that's all they do. Or my worst scenario, they send me to clean up the most derelict post in the state."

"What tells you that this is the career path they're steering you on?"

"George keeps tellin' me to take the lieutenant's test. I used to study for it every night, but I ain't done it since I met you. Even when I was studyin', I wasn't committed to it."

"Am I holding you back in some way?"

"No, no. I just got better things to do with my life. Like sit with my baby and watch chick flicks." They laughed; Kent had recently sat through "Lady Jane," one of Jamie's favorite costume dramas, and halfway enjoyed it, since Jamie was right there to translate the English into American.

Kent went on, "See, they think I'm a natural leader 'cause I played baseball."

"I wouldn't say that's why, but you are a natural leader."

"So they're wantin' some guy who can pull together all the people at a state police post. It's a compliment, really, but the system itself pulls people together, it's called a command structure; and I don't want to spend my career sittin' behind a desk. That's not what I got into this for. They try that stuff, I'll quit and run for sheriff. They make me detective full-time by the time I'm 30 or 35, I'll finish out my career. Then run for sheriff, I s'pose, if I still feel like it."

"What do you most want?"

"I want to be a well-rounded officer. I don't want to get shoved into a specialty track unless it's detection. Y'know, Jamie, any well-trained officer can work the Toll Road. I respect 'em for it, I know how hard it is, how important it is. But when you solve a crime, where it ain't obvious what happened and who to bust, it's different than just cleanin' up a car wreck. Whether it's a property crime, a corrupt politician or a crime of violence, and you work to uncover the truth, you're usin' all the skills you got, startin' with your brain. I ain't always gonna be fastest in a footrace or the strongest guy around. I love bein' physical—but now that I met you, I wanna be as smart as you think I am, as Mom and Dad always said I was."

Jamie reached for him and they held hands over the equipment. "So, will you mind a lot if I don't make lieutenant and run my own post?"

"Why would I mind about that, if you're doing what you want?"

"I dunno. Most people'd rather be married to a lieutenant."

Jamie threw Kent's hand back at him, "Why would I care what title Indiana calls you? Eight hours a day, less than a fourth of your life. I'm not married to a sergeant, I'm married to a prince!"

In a minute they found each other's hands again, but that phrase burned itself into Kent's mind.

***

As he merged into traffic on the Indianapolis beltway, a voice came clearly through the air, "Units near I-465 at Mile 12 southbound, report of a toddler walking on or near the highway. Mile 12.2 southbound, inside lane, between the pavement and the guardrail, no adults, child may have wandered off. Nearest units report. Nearest units to Mile 12.2 south, report."

"Holy shit!" Kent cried. He jammed a button, flipped on his lights and siren, "Unit 1477 on 465 South, approaching Mile 15.4, towards that kid. 1477 at Mile 15.4."

"1477, you're on it. Others, report. Toddler, Mile 12, southbound near the Airport Expressway."

"Oh, dear God," Jamie whispered. He covered his face with both hands.

"Any description of this child?" Kent asked.

"Male white. Red shirt. Little guy, nothing more."

Kent sped, scanned ahead, listened and made drivers move for him. Outta my fucking way…

They could both visualize toddler brains, arms and legs scattered all over the highway.

Jamie kept his eyes shut, hands up in front of his face. Kent said, "1477 at Mile 14.4. Traffic ahead of me looking normal, no signs of sudden braking, can't see that far ahead yet. Mile 14.2. No sign of the child." His eyes darted back and forth. Lookin' eerie…

Another officer reported, "Unit 5292, northbound, that's northbound 465, Mile 8.0."

"Copy, 5292, you're on it. What congestion southbound?"

"Nothing. Wait, somebody's pulling over, maybe making a call."

"911's flooding now with reports, 5292. 1477, I show you at 13.6, correct, 1477?"

"Correct," Kent said.

Another unit reported, "This is 5250, Mile 14.6. Unit 1477's ahead of me, inside lane, making his approach."

"Copy, 5250."

And then all of a sudden…

Jamie felt something, a big bump. Did Kent run over something? Jamie opened his eyes—and found himself holding a little kid. With brown eyes, looking at him. In a red shirt.

Kent glanced over and sucked in his breath.

By instinct he let off the accelerator, started braking and headed for the emergency lane. It took awhile before he could speak, though. It took a year.

"This is 1477. I think I've got him."

"1477, repeat?"

Kent glanced at the mile marker, "1477, mile 12.4."

"I show your unit still moving, 1477."

"Not no more." Kent stopped the car, got out, glanced around wildly and got back in.

Jamie said softly, "Hey, little guy." The baby smiled at him.

Kent reached across to feel; he didn't believe his eyes, but his skin said otherwise. He was touching a living child. "1477, I've got your toddler. Unless there's another one out here."

"1477, please repeat."

"Subject in my unit. Mile 12.2. Re-entering highway now. Closest hospital, please." Kent looked in his rearviews and pulled back onto the pavement. He had a straight shot to the Airport Expressway.

Soon Unit 5250 was tailing him, and Kent was never so glad to see a cop in his life.

Dispatch said, "Methodist Hospital. Locking in map on your console, 1477. Airport to I-70 East, to I-65 North, Exit 114, West 16th Street."

"Copy," Kent said. "Thanks for the map."

"Lead him in, 5250. Got us a cornfield cop here from out of the district, doesn't know his way around the big city." She chuckled. "You're the leader, 5250, let's wind this up here. Good job, guys." Two Metro Police cars pulled up behind them.

Jamie whispered, "You're okay, little man. Daddy's got you in his unit. Gonna be safe and sound, Daddy's got you. Let's get you warm, 'cause Daddy's got you."

As the other officer passed to lead him in, Kent flipped up the heat, then helped Jamie pull off his jacket so he could wrap the boy up in it. "Ooh, that's better, little man," Jamie cooed. "Boys don't like being cold. Daddy's warming you up now, boys get cranky when they're cold. Ooh, yes, good boy. Snuggle up, baby, Daddy's got you." They rocked back and forth.

A few minutes later Kent followed 5250 to a stop under the canopy at Methodist Hospital and got out. Jamie handed him the baby wrapped in the coat and Kent took him inside; Jamie followed.

Someone in the ER shot a video on their cell phone as others took photos, one of which landed the next morning on the front page of The Indianapolis Sun.

***

Once the nurses got the baby, Trooper Tomasso grabbed Kent's arm, "How the hell'd you do that? I didn't even see you stop."

"It only took a second." That was true. "Maybe you got distracted."

"That's the fastest grab I ever saw!"

"Civilian partner made it easier. I stopped, he got the kid, I drove on. He got him wrapped up, and by then you were right behind me."

"That's amazing. I don't fucking believe it."

"Gotta check on my partner." Kent hurried away and found Jamie leaning on a wall, out of the way. Kent got in front of him, and of all the things that could be said, what came out was, "What the fuck was that?"

Jamie looked at him, moved his arm wordlessly, and started sliding down the wall. Kent caught him, lifted him up, "Are you all right, baby?"

Jamie's mouth sagged open, "I'm sorry. I'm getting awfully tired…"

"Oh, jeez!" Kent pulled him up again, got his arm around him, "Can I get a wheelchair here? This one's losing it."

Someone wheeled over a chair, Kent maneuvered Jamie into it. His eyes opened briefly, "I'm sorry."

And with that he fell dead asleep. Kent checked his pulse, ka-thump, ka-thump. Skin was warm, breathing normal, head on his chest. "We need a seat belt for this damn thing," Kent muttered, wheeling him towards the control center.

***

A long time later Jamie finally stirred and started to awaken. Kent checked his watch; Jamie slept for an hour and 42 minutes. He opened his eyes and didn't recognize where he was. He turned over and saw Kent. "Well, that's a relief."

"What's that, baby?"

"Seeing you here. Am I in the hospital?"

"Not as a patient. Just a sleepy boy needin' an empty bed."

"Oh. Thank you for being here with me."

"You're welcome. How do you feel?"

"Hungry as hell."

Kent smiled. "Par for the course."

Jamie lifted the blanket off and looked down at his clothes. "Do I have shoes nearby?"

"Right under the bed."

Jamie slid to the floor and found his shoes. "How is the baby?"

"Fine."

"Can we see him?"

"I'm not sure he's still here. DCFS was comin' to get him."

"Ohh," Jamie groaned. "Still, I suppose it's better than where he came from."

"Emergency foster care's where he needs to be, Jamie."

"I suppose. I hope he gets a good place."

"Well, he's been real lucky so far, maybe that'll continue."

"Poor little guy. Let's try to find him. Maybe he hasn't been picked up yet."

"We should stop at the nurses' station, let 'em know you're done with your nap."

"I'm sorry about that, Kent. I don't know what came over me."

They walked out, Kent's hand cupped around his neck. Kent leaned over the nurses' counter. "Sleepin' Beauty's done with his nap."

She looked up at Jamie. "I see. So what's that make you, Prince Charming?"

"On my good days," Kent smiled. "Thanks a lot."

"Get that sleeping sickness looked at," she called to Jamie.

"Okay," he answered. To Kent, "I have sleeping sickness?"

"Seems like it to me. At least that's what I told 'em. One of my better snowjobs of the week."

"Where's the elevator?"

"Hang a left." They turned, the elevator was right there, Kent pushed a button. "Listen, we have to talk." The car came, they entered, he punched 1. They went down. Jamie looked up at him. "I think you can pretty much expect not to be drivin' for the forseeable future."

"Why is that? The doctor said I can take the test again in three months."

"I've seen enough to tell you, you ain't drivin'. Maybe never, Jamie, long as this keeps up."

"Are you upset with me?"

"Not in the least. Well…" Kent corrected that. "Not exactly. I'm pretty calm, actually. You didn't do nothin' wrong."

"I'm sorry for disrupting your meeting."

"That's okay, I called George. But we really, really, really need to talk."

"After the baby?"

"If he's still here." They arrived at the first floor. "This way, emergency room." They walked down a corridor, entered through automatic double doors. Kent spoke to another nurse, "Is the baby still here?"

"I'm not sure, DCFS just got here."

"Where would they be?"

"Room 4."

"Report?"

"The kid's perfect."

"Thanks." They found Room 4. A worker from Children's Protective Service was talking to a nurse.

"Oh," Jamie said, "there's my guy."

The nurse told the social worker, "This is the cop."

"Afternoon, officer." She introduced herself. "How did this happen?"

Kent started making up another song and dance. Jamie picked up the baby, "Oh, there's my good boy." They gazed at each other. Jamie held him close.

Kent finished up quickly, "So there he was and we got him here. That's the sum total of what I know."

"IMPD's out searching for the mother."

"Check the crackhouses and the bingo joints. Not that I know, I'm just guessin'."

"He's normal weight, anyway. This kid's lucky."

"Yes," Kent sighed. He gave her his card. "I've honestly told you everything, but if you've got questions, call me."

"Thanks, I will."

"Where will you take him?"

"I've got excellent emergency foster parents waiting. Retired couple, they're God's gift to babies."

"Well, that would fit, wouldn't it. I'm glad to hear it, thank you. My partner will be too."

"What's his name?"

"Jamie Foster." She wrote it down. "Same phone, reach us both at that number."

"Somebody said he kinda conked out there afterwards."

"Sleeping sickness," Kent told her. "Especially after he's stressed. His neurologist's got tests scheduled."

"That's good. Young man," she called to the baby. "It's time we got you out of here."

"Ohh," Jamie said, kissing the boy's cheek, "bye, sweetpea." He licked his thumb, then made a cross on the child's forehead, whispering inaudibly. "Be safe for me, always, forever." He handed him over to the social worker. The baby started crying, like he didn't want to go.

That was hard on Jamie, which made it hard on Kent. But soon the baby was out the door.

"This way," Kent said, guiding like usual, back into the hospital's unknown precincts.

Jamie followed, "Where are you taking me?"

"What do you need most right now?"

"Food!"

Kent leaned over and whispered, "Cafeteria, baby."

"Oh, thank God." Jamie ordered a ham croissant, a banana, mashed potatoes and gravy, pasta salad, a drink and chocolate cake, and started eating his banana while they were still waiting in line.

Soon they climbed into the unit. Kent called Slaughter, "Be there in 15 minutes."

Jamie stared out the window sadly as Kent started driving. He said, "Suppose you tell me what's going on."

"I don't know, Kent."

"This is twice now that I know about."

Jamie just listened to that. He didn't know what to say, until he did; "Don't be afraid."

Kent mulled that over; where had he heard it before? Don't be afraid. "Are there any other times?"

"No."

"None before the Incident?"

"No."

"What's going on?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"We do agree that this is two times now?"

"Yes."

"When was the other one?"

"The oratory."

"Right. But these are the only two times?"

"Kent," Jamie got slightly frustrated. "Am I talking to my lover or a cop?"

"Both right now. I love you, baby, but I want to know what's going on."

"So do I."

"So let me use my cop skills and see if they get us anywhere."

"Okay." Jamie stared out the window. He hurt for that boy.

"Why don't you try tellin' me, in real simple language, about you and the baby. See if we understand that part the same way."

"Well, you got a call from the dispatcher, and we were close to the scene, so you started driving fast. I think you put on your lights."

"And my siren."

"So we're approaching a certain mile marker, but we're still a few miles away. And we're both feeling just sick about it. Sick to death."

"Yeah."

"There was nothing I could do except pray. But it wasn't a time to use words. God doesn't need words at a time like that."

"Okay."

"So I went… deep into myself, to the innermost place, as fast as I could. But it's not something one can will like that, more a matter of total passivity. I probably closed my eyes. That's what I'd typically do."

"Deep into yourself?"

"I don't know any other words to describe it. Withdrawing from the world, no outside stimuli; centering, hoping for contact with the infinite. Darkness and depth, the most interior place."

Something abstract, anyway. "Okay. What then?"

"Well, in a minute, from that groaning place below the words, I became aware of God somehow, and then I felt this bump. I thought you ran over something, so I opened my eyes, and there was this baby. Kind of in my lap."

Kent nodded slightly. "In my unit. Baby's in my unit all of a sudden."

"I held him so he wouldn't be frightened. I didn't know what else to do."

"What next?"

"In a minute or two you stopped the car. And got out."

Kent sighed, "On the off-chance that there just might be another baby in the road. In case I didn't happen to get the right one." He had never felt crazier in his life than that moment.

"Then somebody else came up. Another trooper."

"IMPD too. Real good response."

"Then we took off again. We got to the hospital, the nurses took over and you started talking to other officers."

"Then what?"

"Somebody asked me some questions and I told her what I knew. Which wasn't much, just that you'd got the baby that was reported in the road and drove him there as fast as you could."

"Anything else?"

"Well, I stood by myself for awhile, while everybody else did their work, and… I really tried to stay awake. I think I paced a little, trying to stay alert. But I got very, very sleepy for some reason."

"You were the last time too. In your little chapel in Dublin."

"Sleeping sickness?"

"I ain't no doctor. But this is twice now."

"Thank you for getting me a bed. I really did need to sleep; I don't know why."

Kent snorted a little. "I was just glad we were able to move you this time. Last time I couldn't even lift you up. But this time your weight was normal, it was no problem for us to get you from the chair onto a gurney."

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble."

Kent chuckled, then laughed loud. "Tell it to that little boy, all the trouble you caused."

"I hope he's going to be all right."

"They're puttin' him with the best emergency parents they got. Retired couple, baby experts, nice and loving. Boy's gonna be okay."

"Oh, that's great. Thank God for foster parents."

"The first time," Kent observed, "you went flyin'. Remember that?"

"Of course."

"Well, a person might not necessarily, but you do. Okay, that's good. This time, someone else went flyin'."

Jamie glanced at him. "Don't ask me how. I don't know."

"Is it somethin' you control?"

"Not in the least."

"So it's a surprise when it happens?"

"Completely."

"If you don't do it, who does it?"

Jamie looked around a bit. "Well, I suppose God's my best guess. How about you?"

"Hell if I know. God's makin' Jamie and his friends fly around." Kent looked across the car at him.

"You'll have to take it up with him or her."

"Well, I think I'd ask God why."

"You'd better, because I certainly don't know. But please, Kent, do not be afraid."

There it was again, and Kent couldn't remember the first time. "What am I supposed to make of this, Jamie?"

"How would I know? But we'd better make something of it together."

"I don't know how."

"Neither do I."

"I don't got any other friends who go flyin', I don't think."

"Listen, I don't blame you for wanting to know what's going on."

"Seems natural enough under the circumstances."

"I wish I could explain what it is; but I don't know. I have no idea."

"Does it make you feel special?"

Jamie frowned, considering this odd question. "No; why would it? I don't feel the least bit special. Why does that even occur to you?"

"I mean, you're kinda the chosen one, ain'tcha?"

"Chosen for what? These were very different experiences."

"How were they different?"

"This one involved a third person."

"Yeah, that's a big difference, I guess. Still, people are goin' flyin' every which way around here."

"I'm not sure this is really helpful. I love you, Kent, but I don't think it is."

"I gotta understand, Jamie. You got any more flight plans filed?"

Jamie scowled, didn't even bother to answer that one.

"It don't make you feel special at all?"

"Why would I even think of it? There was a baby to worry about."

"He's all took care of now; you can feel special if you want."

"I'm not at all sure this had to do with me, Kent. It's much more likely it had to do with you. It seems like God's trying to tell you something."

"Me? How you figure?"

"You were on the scene, the closest one. God could hardly have flown a baby into your lap while you were speeding down I-465. Maybe I was just the passenger, you know? Maybe the same thing would have happened if you'd had your mother with you."

"Oh, I don't think so. She ain't never flown, far as I know. Matter of fact, I don't know a single solitary person that's ever gone flyin' through the air except for you."

Jamie shrugged, "I can't explain it. We've established that already."

"Well, I know this much. Long as this keeps up you ain't never gettin' behind the wheel of a car." Jamie drummed his thumb on his thigh over and over. "Next thing you know I'd be gettin' a report, 'Driverless car headed down the highway. Registered to one James R. Foster.' I don't need the fuckin' excitement, okay?"

Jamie chuckled.

"You really ain't got no control over any of this?"

"No. None."

"Can you feel it when… I don't know, somethin's about to happen?"

"No. I was as surprised as you are."

"You don't get no advance warning?"

"I opened my eyes and there's a baby in my arms."

"In a little red shirt."

"Yes. Cutest little guy in a nice red shirt."

"Did you know he was the one I was lookin' for?"

"Somehow yes."

"So did I. But I couldn't believe it."

"I don't blame you there."

"What about the other time, in your little chapel?"

"Ah," Jamie smiled. "That was fantastic."

"You felt special?"

"No; but I did feel greatly loved."

"What about feelin' both?"

"Jesus loves everyone, Kent."

"He don't show it like that to most people!"

Jamie half-thought for a second. "Yes, he does."

Kent suddenly felt those icons' eyes boring into him. Jamie was scary at times. "How you figure?"

"There are millions of people who have felt the near presence and love of God, uniquely for themselves. It isn't something most people talk about, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. It would be an interesting survey question at church; I bet you'd find that most people…"

"God don't give most people airplane rides, Jamie." Jamie burst out laughing. "Least of all without no airplane."

"Well, that would be unusual."

"Didja ever even hear about anything like this before?"

Jamie sighed. "Teresa of Avila maybe?"

"Who's she?"

"This 16th century Spanish saint who was said to levitate at times."

"Man, this just gets weirder and weirder."

"I doubt most people believe it ever happened. But at least one other nun supposedly witnessed it. She even wrote it down."

"It's always good to have a little paperwork. Do you believe she flew?"

"I never have before; I mean, that's Catholic superstition to me, they promote that sort of thing. Half the Reformation was about priests running phony miracles so they could get donations. Still, I might be a bit more likely to believe Teresa now."

"What did she do her flyin' for? I mean, was there a purpose to it?"

"I've never studied her, I don't know whether she's on our calendar or not. The only thing I remember was that it was an ecstatic experience for her."

"Like you the first time maybe."

"Gosh. That would be a terrific experience for her. Or for anyone."

"Anything else you remember about her story?"

"I seem to recall the other nuns getting rather annoyed with it all. 'Come down now, Teresa, enough of this foolishness. Stop interrupting Mass, you big showoff.' I'd have to look it up. She was good friends with St. John of the Cross, who wrote The Dark Night of the Soul. He used to have strange experiences too.

"Then there was Julian of Norwich, but she didn't levitate. She saw visions instead, wrote them all down, then spent thirty years trying to figure them out. That at least makes sense to me; what else would a person do after strange experiences but spend the rest of her life trying to comprehend them? I've read her book, Fr. JJ's translation; he's an Episcopal monk, and her I do believe. Even if her visions were just hallucinations, they were a grand revelation of God. We know God can use our dreams; Joseph the son of Jacob was a dream interpreter, that's right in the Hebrew Bible."

"This is the most bizarre stuff I ever heard of. Levitatin'. People havin' visions. Flyin' through the air without no steerin' wheel."

Jamie turned to him. "If all God were doing was showing favor to Teresa, the other people need not have been present. God could lift her up at any time, right? But it didn't happen that way. She was the vehicle, perhaps, but the revelation was to the other nuns. It's their own fault if they interpreted it only as a selfish act—even if Teresa did have some ego going on. God showed those other nuns wondrous power, while they sat around criticizing their sister. They should have fallen on their faces at the sight.

"When Jesus did his mighty acts, healing people, it was nearly always in public; why?"

Kent thought. "So everybody else could see?"

"I think so. One thing you learn when you study the Bible, every single detail is there for a reason; to start to get at the bottom of the story, study the details. Jesus was perfectly capable of private healings; he did a few of those. Remember the Samaritan woman at the well? The apostles were there, criticizing her for daring to speak to a Jew, much less their beloved rabbi. But that was exactly why Jesus spoke to her, to show them they were wrong, salvation's intended for everyone, women and Samaritans too. That's why the story's included in the Scriptures; Jesus was constantly trying to teach his guys how thick-headed they were. They didn't understand until after the Resurrection, when suddenly all the miracles started to make sense.

"So Kent, I'm not the one who should feel special; you are. These showings are somehow for you. I'm just along for the ride."

"Why did Jesus heal people?"

"You're asking me to speak as if I know the answers. I'm not theologically trained, I have no authority; I'm a layman, Kent."

Kent sighed. "You know more than I do, baby. I know you ain't a preacher; just tell me how you understand this stuff."

Jamie knocked his fist against his head a couple of times. "I've forgotten the question already."

"Why did Jesus go around healin' people? Doin' all this miraculous stuff."

"It's what they needed. He didn't want them to suffer when he had the power to make them well. But there was more to it, he knew something profound about human nature, the limitations of our brains. We're mortals; it's very hard for us to believe in a God we cannot see. Jesus went about healing and performing miracles to reveal the nature of this God right before our eyes.

"God loves us, he wants us alive, like he wants that little boy alive. He enjoys us, he wants to relate to us, and know who he is. The supernatural things are all designed to show us that there's Someone Out There who cares for us deeply, who responds to our needs with healing and help, who wants to be known to us and be in relationship with us.

"In human life, that kind of relationship comes in two forms: lifelong friendship and marriage. Both are a spiritual thing, a uniting, like you and I hug and kiss and fuck, and think of each other before anything else. Your body in my body; your heart in my heart. That's how I know God exists, because I have you."

"Oh, baby."

"When Jesus healed and Jesus saved, he was putting his spirit in our spirit; what we understand best as friendship. You and I get to love each other and make a marriage as a tiny, human example of the ecstasy to come, as God unites our souls to himself and each other.

"God gave me Kent Kessler. Do you not think, every moment of my life, I don't see God in you? I'm ecstatic over the ordinariness of it, more than any flying through the air. I get to see God's face by looking at yours.

"God knew what he was doing when he sent me to you. He knew all my turn-ons, my little requirements, Masculine Intelligent Sensitive Et Cetera; he doesn't mind what I'm into, he uses those things to reach me, to show me himself. He knew exactly who I belonged with, and gave me the grace of love at this time in my life, with the greatest guy I've ever known. When you ask if I feel special you're damn right I do. It isn't flying through the air that does that; it's sleeping with you. It's making food together, being your puppy, ironing your damn shirts. It's having a fight over the difference between an Episcopalian and a freaking Prebyterian."

Kent smiled.

"So while you're being a police officer, protecting me and the public so that I can't drive, please, I ask you, don't ever feel bad that I went to church that next morning, drove myself and everything. I had to go, Kent, I had to; mass that day was a highlight of my life."

"Kinda like Christmas Eve a little?"

"Oh, and you got us to St. John's through freezing rain. I loved that night! I didn't have to worry; my guy would get us home. He always does; believe in him."

"Oh, buddy." Kent felt proud.

"I can't explain what happened today, except that God wasn't going to let that baby die. I'm incidental to it, man, but it may be that you need to pay more attention to what God's trying to tell you. Today you were in the right place at the right time, for God to accomplish what he needed to. It wasn't about me; it was about you and that boy.

"So maybe instead of worrying about people flying around, or anything else we don't understand, we should simply thank God for saving the baby." Kent nodded. "Um, you drive while I say this. Let's be quiet for a minute."

So they were.

"God, we thank you for what we've been through; what you've shown us of yourself, and especially for your saving that little boy, entrusting us with him. We're honored, Lord, and we ask you to bless him his whole life long; we know you will, but we ask it anyway, as a way to praise you and thank you for all the love you give. Bless that child, Lord; let us meet him again someday if you feel like it.

"And God bless Davey; this isn't the first time you've given someone back to us. So please God, bless our Davey."

"Oh wow," Kent breathed. Davey was the Gay guy whose life Jamie saved during the Incident.

"We ask all this in the Name of your Son Jesus, who saved the whole world, even us; and your Holy Spirit, who saves us here and now and everywhere. Amen."

Kent whispered, "Amen."

They breathed. "So, are we done talking?"

"I'd just repeat myself if we talked anymore. You don't have no control over these experiences?"

"No."

"You ain't drivin', then."

Jamie shrugged, "Okay."

"Guess I married me some kinda superhero."

"I hardly think so."

"Didn't get shot here in a rocket from the planet Krypton; does what he does by faith in Jesus."

Jamie eyed him. "What it actually feels like is that scene from 'Home Alone.'"

"Which one?"

"Where Macaulay Culkin puts his hands on his face and shouts, 'Augh!'"

They laughed; that was exactly how they felt.

Meanwhile the baby was okay, and they'd just have to sort out the details later.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.