Cross Dressing (26 page)

F
iltered moonlight cast a milky glow on the field of marble markers, allowing Dan to find Michael’s plot. “Sorry I haven’t been out to visit,” he said. “We’ve been kinda busy.” Dan looked around the cemetery. It was more peaceful than spooky. It seemed like a decent place to spend eternity, the chittering crickets masking the freeway sounds that drifted in from all sides.

Dan sat down next to Michael’s headstone. “Listen, I suppose
this might fall into the category of too-little-too-late, but I hope I didn’t keep you from getting into heaven. It’s hard to imagine a guy like you getting sent to hell, but all that doctrine about how failing to do penance for sins in this life results in punishment in the next and how you have to be perfectly pure and free from even venial sins to come into God’s presence, well, it seems like you could have been sentenced to some time in purgatory, and if you did, that’s my fault and I’m sorry.”

Dan knew that Church dogma allowed him to offer to God all of his works at the Care Center as a means of freeing Michael from purgatory, sort of like paying a fine in lieu of doing time. There was no way for Dan to know if there was truth to any of that, but given Pope Gregory I’s words about how those dying with sin will expiate their faults by purgatorial fire and how the pain would be more intolerable than anyone could suffer in this life, Dan thought—on the chance that it was true—that he should do whatever he could to get Michael out of the trouble Dan had gotten him into.

While the Church spoke with great assurance that the prayers of the living could benefit the souls in purgatory, Dan knew it was less certain about whether the prayers of the souls in purgatory could benefit the living. St. Thomas argued against the notion, saying such souls weren’t in a position to pray for us. On the other hand, Bellarmine in
De Purgatorio
said the reasons alleged by St. Thomas weren’t all that convincing, and St. Alphonsus, in his work
Great Means of Salvation
, argued forcefully that the souls in purgatory, being beloved by God and confirmed in grace, had absolutely no impediment to prevent them from praying for us. So it was a toss-up. No one knew the answer to that any more than they knew how many angels could stand on the point of a pin.

Dan rubbed his eyes. It was late and he was getting cold. “I tell you what,” he said. “I’m putting my money on St. Alphonsus.” Dan ran his hand over the tips of the blades of
grass, then dabbed the dew onto his face like holy water. “I’ll pray for you if you’ll pray for me.”

T
hat Father Michael never considered what General Garang would do if he failed to repay the loan was indicative of his deteriorating mental capacity. Father Michael never intended to buy or sell human organs. He simply took Garang’s money and bought rice and hydration packs on the thriving black market. He just wanted to feed the hungry, and thanks to the borrowed money, he does so for three days. Then it is all gone. A week later, when Father Michael fails to repay the loan, General Garang sends his gorilla to do his dirty work.

He is a rude-looking Third World Man with fat Mobutu-like features, dark as baker’s chocolate. He is from the swampland of the White Nile and he wears filthy fatigues with pride. He doesn’t care if he kills Christians or Muslims as long as he gets paid.

The Third World Man finds Father Michael in a hole in the ground next to a mound of dead bodies four feet high. He is digging a large grave. The Third World Man gets into the hole with Father Michael and pulls his knife. It is covered with dirt and dried blood. “General Garang would like his money.”

“I don’t have it,” Father Michael says, pointing to a shovel. “Help me dig.”

“That’s too bad.” The Third World Man grabs Father Michael and slashes his flank with his filthy knife. “If you don’t have it in two days, I will be back to take your kidneys.”

After the Third World Man leaves, Father Michael sews his own wound, then flees the refugee camp, unaware that the tetanus is incubating.

M
onsignor Matthews was terrified. Unable to divert any new funds for the Care Center, he was afraid of how Sister
Peg would react to his news. He knew she was willing and able to employ some frightening tactics in pursuit of her goals. Ironically, that was one of the things that attracted him to her in the first place. Her willingness to think and act outside the box combined with her refusal to be passive in the face of her struggle were powerful pheromones drawing the cleric in, even against his will.

A couple of years earlier, Sister Peg first approached Monsignor Matthews for help. It was her initial effort to raise funds for the Care Center, which, at that point, had been struggling for six or eight years. She came to his office, nervous and unsure of how to proceed. But he could sense that she was committed to the task and he offered to help. Over the next several months they spent a great deal of time together, working on plans, writing proposals, and making pitches. They frequently worked late into the night and, as often happens when two like-minded people spend so many hours in such close proximity, an attraction began.

Monsignor Matthews reacted swiftly. He told Sister Peg about his feelings and she confessed to hers. They acknowledged that to succumb to their urges would violate their vows and, they feared, it might also undermine their quest. They shook hands and agreed to exercise self-control so as not to endanger either their cause or their friendship.

For the next two months they worked side by side organizing a fund-raiser that ended up raising four thousand dollars for the Care Center. It was an enormous sum of money relative to their annual budget and it left Sister Peg and Monsignor Matthews ecstatic and grateful.

The fund-raiser was held at a community center in Van Nuys with members of local civic groups providing the food, drink, and entertainment. The party finally ended around midnight. Sister Peg and Monsignor Matthews stayed to clean up; both were exhausted and euphoric. As they swept
up, they shared a bottle of champagne. When they finished cleaning, they sat at the edge of the stage and polished off their bottle. Then they opened another. As they drank, they talked about when and why they had dedicated themselves to the Church, about their disappointments, and their dreams. The champagne and the fellowship were an irresistible aphrodisiac and before they knew what had happened, they had broken their vows. Several times.

The incident nearly crippled Monsignor Matthews—from a guilt standpoint more than from tender testicles, though there was that too. No amount of penance would assuage his remorse. Sister Peg was less troubled by it and she did what she could to get the Monsignor to forgive himself, to admit to his humanity and to his frailties, but he would have none of it. The more she pressed the issue, the more he resisted, and an argument ensued. They didn’t speak for six months, but when the finances at the Care Center got tight again, Sister Peg knew what she had to do. She had to break the silence. She didn’t want to do it, but it seemed better than letting the Care Center residents become homeless. So she called Monsignor Matthews and made it clear that if he didn’t find some way to provide regular funding to the Care Center, she might have to make her confession to a certain Archbishop.

Thus motivated, Monsignor Matthews began skimming funds and diverting them to the Care Center. He realized immediately that his subversive accounting activities eased his mind about his tryst with Sister Peg despite the fact that it seemed almost like making a late payment for sex. His system worked beautifully and he was planning to expand it until the recent meeting in Century City.

Now he was carrying all that baggage down the hall toward Sister Peg’s office to tell her that the gravy train had been derailed. Thus was he terrified as he knocked on the door. “Good morning, Sister,” he said.

Sister Peg looked up from her desk. “Good morning, Monsignor,” she said. “What brings you to our little corner of paradise?”

Matthews pulled up a chair. “I have a rather delicate situation to discuss, Sister.”

She slapped a hand against the side of her face. “My God, you’ve gotten someone pregnant, haven’t you?”

Monsignor Matthews closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “Worse, I’m afraid.”

Sister Peg sensed his anxiety. This wasn’t a joking matter. “What is it?”

“The meeting I told you about was worse than expected.” He looked her in the eyes. “I’m sorry, I can’t fund you anymore.”

Sister Peg leaned back in her chair and let out a long deep breath. She didn’t think she had the heart to lose another fight.

“What are you going to do?” Monsignor Matthews asked.

“You mean am I going to go all Judas and turn you in?” She let the question hang for a moment before shaking her head. “I’d never do that, Matty. That would be blackmail.”

“Did you ever intend to?”

“I’m not that kind of girl,” Sister Peg said. “I just wanted to give you some inspiration.”

Monsignor Matthews reached across the desk and put his hand on hers. “So, what are you going to do about the Center?” He saw the tears welling in her eyes.

“I don’t know, Monsignor. I honestly don’t know.”

M
rs. Zamora was sitting in her wheelchair in the sunlight just the way Ruben had posed her. The window was to her right. The sun was coming in at an angle hitting her from the front. “Is this dress all right? I think the colors look nice.” It was a floral
pattern, faded and rural-looking. Mrs. Zamora smoothed the fabric in her lap and felt closer to worthwhile than she had in fifty years. She stared straight ahead at the bare, cracked wall of her room, happy to be the artist’s subject.

Ruben studied Mrs. Zamora’s profile and the way the light worked on her face. Something about her reminded Ruben of his grandmother on his mother’s side. The gray hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head, her small fragile frame, her light brown skin, the way her ears kept to her head. That’s why he asked Mrs. Zamora to sit for him. She would be the stand-in for his dear, departed
abuelita.

Mrs. Zamora could walk, but her balance wasn’t good and her eighty-year-old bones were brittle, so the wheelchair was precautionary, but it hurt her pride. She took a breath and sat up straight and proper. “I was born on a ship in 1919,” she said. “That’s the year they signed the Treaty of Versailles, you know. I was always good with history.” Her voice was clear and sure of itself.

Not that Ruben could tell. He was born deaf. He had never heard sounds and he made them only when extremely agitated, like when a referee made a bad call against his beloved Raiders. He would stand and bellow at the television while using sign language that even the hearing could understand. He hated to see the Raiders return to Oakland, but he knew that’s where they belonged. L.A. was too soft a place for the silver and black. They belonged in a dirtier, industrial spot. The day they announced the move, Ruben had the team’s logo, the eye-patched pirate, tattooed on his right arm.

Mrs. Zamora knew Ruben was deaf, but she didn’t think he’d mind if she talked while he drew her. She enjoyed the reminiscing. “My parents were from Spain originally. I believe we moved to Bakersfield in 1921. My father was a farmer. He grew olives mostly, but it was hard for him. The local people didn’t welcome outsiders back then.” Mrs. Zamora hadn’t
been back to Bakersfield in sixty years, but her memories of the place were vivid. She could remember exactly how the air smelled in the summer and how good her father’s olives tasted. She wondered what it was like now. She wondered if any of her childhood friends were still alive, what their lives had been like, if any of their dreams had come true. She kept wondering about things, but only in her head. Otherwise she just sat in the warm sunlight, staring at the bare cracked wall of her room.

Ruben tilted his head and squinted. He made a mental note to go to the store later to get the results from last night’s Lotto drawing, since he had missed it on the television. Then he made a few deft strokes with his pencil and shaded in around Mrs. Zamora’s jawline.

R
uth was still in bed, curled into the fetal position. She was confused and deeply depressed. Sister Peg had brought food sometime in the last day or two, but Ruth couldn’t remember if she had taken her medicine. Maybe she had, only this time the chemicals were inadequate to the task. Maybe this time the depression would finally claim her. Ruth prayed it would. She had been waiting so long.

Ruth thought about the razor blade she kept hidden in the drawer of her bedside table. Her doomed eyes stared at nothing as she thought about how the rusty edge would feel when she used it. If only she could muster the strength or the courage or whatever it was she lacked. How long had she been in here? she wondered. What had happened to Michael? Was he in trouble? No, she remembered now. He was dead. But how? Why? She knew something bad had happened. She could feel it. They said Dan was dead, but she knew otherwise. Dan was pretending he was a priest. Mothers can just tell these things. Had Dan killed his brother? Cain and Abel
came to mind. No, Dan wouldn’t do that. But knowing that didn’t explain what had happened to Michael. Whatever the explanation, it had to be bad. Didn’t it?

Just like the rest of her life. All the bad things had happened to Ruth and she never had control of any of it. Why did these things happen? Her churchgoing friends said it was God’s will. What kind of God would do that? Maybe the Old Testament God. What was the point of such a terrible and empty life? Was she just a lesson for other people to learn? She had been sentenced to a life term without the possibility of anything. Without at least potential, there was no reason to struggle. Without promise, there was no hope. Why wasn’t her life more like the happy people in the television commercials her son made?
I was meant to suffer.
Where was her other son and why weren’t the pills working?
It doesn’t matter.
Where was her guardian angel?
I must not deserve one.
Her eyes hurt. She wanted to die. Maybe then she’d find her son or maybe the Son of God. She could ask Him for forgiveness in person.