Cross Dressing (29 page)

A minute later he was standing in front of his boss, expressionless. He opened his folder and gently pinched the sheet of paper that was still warm from the printer. He held it aloft for his boss to see. “Seek and ye shall find,” Butch said, momentarily forsaking Paul for Matthew.

“Our deceased Mr. Steele?” his boss asked.

Butch nearly smiled. “He that seeketh findeth.” Although he was not a true devotee of St. Matthew, Butch had adopted as one of his aphorisms this excerpt from the Gospel according to the former tax collector. It was a fine credo for an insurance investigator. “Odd though it may seem,” Butch said, “Dan Steele apparently did some shopping in the days after he was laid to rest.”

“I’m shocked,” the boss said with little expression. “What sort of tastes does he have?”

Butch looked at the printout of charges. “El Rey del Mundos, Brooks Brothers, and Fujioka electronic equipment.”

His boss suddenly slapped his hand down onto his desk. “More is more!” he shouted, showing more emotion than Butch had ever seen him reveal. “I love the Zen guy in those ads!”

“Yes, sir,” Butch said, apparently put off by the ungodly emotional outburst. “Me too.”

S
ister Peg had started to tell the older residents about the Care Center’s financial trouble. She assured them that she would find them new homes and she apologized for letting them down. She felt like she had lied to them all. Mrs. Gerbracht tried to comfort her, saying Sister Peg had done her best and that no one would hold it against her; times were just tough. “We’re all used to that,” she said.

Dan had just returned from the food bank. He was in the kitchen unpacking a box when Sister Peg walked in. “Father, I forgot to tell you. You’ve got to do Reconciliation this week.” She looked in the box to see if there was anything to snack on.

Dan had no idea what Peg was talking about. Wasn’t
reconciliation
an accounting term? Was he supposed to help everyone balance their checkbooks? As far as he knew, nobody at the Care Center even had a checking account. “Say again?”

“The residents are waiting for you to hear their confessions.” Sister Peg pointed toward the television room.

Dan looked as though she had said the residents were waiting for him to set himself on fire.
When did they start calling it Reconciliation?
Dan wondered. “Don’t they usually go to Holy Family for that?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Sister Peg said. “Father James is ill and can’t do it this week.”

Dan wondered if they had changed anything besides the
name. He hoped the script was the same. He wondered how upset the Lord would be when Dan started offering forgiveness without a license. He imagined the assortment of sins the residents might have committed. He figured them for a venial crowd, but you never knew who might confess something mortal.
This might actually be interesting
, he thought. Dan straightened his collar and prepared to dish out some absolution.

Ruben had fashioned a makeshift confessional out of a couple of cardboard refrigerator boxes and a roll of duct tape. Ruben made it the best he could and he dedicated his labors to the Virgin Mary. It sat off to one side of the television room. While Mrs. Zamora and some of the other residents waited in line to confess, they watched game shows with the sound turned off. When Mr. Avery saw the pretty girl pointing at the new sports car, he was forced to add a couple of sins of a covetous nature to his list. Inside the box, Ruben taped a thin dish towel over the “window” through which the supplicant and priest would speak.

Dan was nervous at first but relaxed after the first couple of confessions. In fact, he began to enjoy it. His approach was unorthodox, certainly, but the sinners seemed to appreciate his style. Mr. Avery confessed that he had cursed the Lord when Sister Peg told him the Care Center was going under. “Can’t say as I blame you,” Dan replied.

“But the Second Commandment says—”

“Trust me,” Dan said, “I’m familiar with the rules, and until you start violating five through ten, I don’t see a real problem. But I tell you what, if you really feel bad about it, say a couple of Hail Marys and watch your damn mouth. Now, get outta here, you knucklehead.” Mr. Avery thanked Dan and left the confessional feeling relieved. Mrs. Ciocchetti was next. She shuffled in to bare her soul.

Sister Peg stood in the corner watching. She was thinking
about making an honest confession herself. One thing in particular was bothering her, though she hated to think of it as a sin. Sister Peg had considered waiting until Father James returned to Holy Family, but she knew all he could offer was forgiveness—and she wasn’t sure that was what she really wanted. In any event, she decided to confess to Father Michael.
Just tell the truth
, she thought.
Get it out in the open.
But how would she say it? “Forgive me, Father, I’ve been having impure thoughts about you”? A bit too direct, perhaps, but true. She’d had more than one dream about Dan that left her itchy and feeling human and wondering why nuns had to take a vow of celibacy.
I mean if a bunch of nuns jumped off a bridge, would I do it too?

Sister Peg had finished first in her nun class, but that was only because she was a self-taught nun. Class of one. As such, her thoughts on celibacy were uninformed by traditional Church teachings about self-denial. She knew nothing about canon xxxiii as enacted by the Spanish Council of Elvira, nor could she debate the pros and cons of Bishop Osius’s attempts at the Council of Nicaea to impose a law similar to that passed in the Spanish Council. All Sister Peg was sure of was that—unlike the Fathers of Nicaea, who were content with the prohibition expressed in the third canon, which forbade
mulieres subintroductas
—she sometimes wanted to be held and kissed by a man.

Had she a better grasp of the history of Church-imposed celibacy, Sister Peg in her dreams might have screamed, “Forget canon x from the Council of Ancyra in Galatia. Damn the Apostolic Constitutions. And double damn the stricter views of the Council of Trullo, in 692, I’m horny as Old Scratch!” But Sister Peg lacked such historical grasp, so she’d never utter such words in her dreams or elsewhere. Still, on the rare occasion she let herself think of such things, she wondered about the supposed virtues of celibacy. It certainly
wasn’t natural, and wearing a habit did nothing to diminish her human nature. She had the same urges and desires that any woman would, but still, with the exception of that night with Monsignor Matthews, she had for years been sublimating those urges into her work at the Care Center. What she was discovering was that a girl could sublimate only so much before the dreams began to surface.

Sister Peg knew she ought to be ashamed for even thinking about it. Her head was filled with those reiterated evil interior suggestions, though they didn’t seem evil to her. They seemed natural.
Oh God
, she thought,
it’s a Monsignor Matthews scenario all over again.
Working side by side with a man dedicated to the same cause she was had led to … feelings. Was it infatuation? She had caught herself coveting his butt more than once, but it was more than that. She had come to care about him; in fact, she was afraid she had fallen in love. But should she tell him? What good would that do? He’d also taken a vow of celibacy, right? No, telling Father Michael would just make things awkward and, worse, it might force him to leave so as not to tempt fate. And then where would she be? No, she’d just have to sublimate a little harder.

After hearing her confession, Dan told Mrs. Ciocchetti that she was the least sinful person he’d ever met. “You not only don’t get any penance now,” Dan said, “but I’m giving you credit toward your next confession. Now go in peace.” Mrs. Ciocchetti thanked him and left feeling much better about herself.

A moment later the next sinner entered the confessional and knelt. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Dan blanched. “Mom?” He had failed to anticipate this eventuality. “What are you doing in here?”

“I’ve come to confess my sins,” she said. “It’s been a long time since my last confession.”

“But … but …” Dan sputtered. “I think there’s a conflict-of-interest
clause somewhere that doesn’t allow this sort of thing.” What if she wanted to tell him things he didn’t want to hear? There are certain things boys might assume their mothers do—if they ever stopped to think about those sorts of things, which they don’t—but the last thing a boy wants is to hear his mother talk about them.

“Don’t worry,” Ruth said. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry I was such a terrible mother. I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time. Can you forgive me?”

Dan didn’t know what to say. It broke his heart to know his mother had been carrying that with her for all these years, that she’d been blaming herself. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It was Dad’s.” Dan was suddenly battered by a storm of emotions. His love and empathy for his mother were as powerful as his hatred and contempt of his father. “You did fine, Mom,” Dan said. “You loved us. You don’t owe me an apology.” He tried to blink back the tears, but there was more to it than that.

Ruth paused a moment to let Dan collect himself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t come in here to make you cry.” It was true. She had come to get answers to her questions. She also thought she could have some fun teaching Dan a lesson about lying to his mother. She wasn’t really mad about the lie he’d been living, but since he seemed unwilling to volunteer information about what had happened to Michael, she was going to make him confess. And what better place than a confessional? It was just dumb luck that Father James was sick this week.

“You know, I was angry at you for going to Africa. I wanted to figure out what made men abandon me, but I couldn’t. Dan was the only one who never left. He was always there for me. But he hasn’t visited in so long I’m beginning to think I’ve lost him.”

Dan’s mind reeled. He never knew she felt that way
about him. He had always figured Ruth had been angry with him for shuffling her off to nursing homes instead of taking care of her himself. Sure, he had put up the money to have her taken care of, but he had done it for his own convenience and never with a smile. And the only time he saw her was when she caused trouble.
Maybe it’s time I start telling the truth. But how will she react to the news about Michael? What if she goes goofy and blows my cover? Maybe I’ll start off with the truth about the Care Center and work my way up to the really bad news.

“You know, I just had the best idea. I think we should go visit him. Wouldn’t that be fun? Just show up at his office one day and yell, ‘Surprise!’ Wouldn’t that be a shocker?”

“Uhhh. We can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Uh … well …”

“Is something wrong?”

“Listen, I think I need to hear the rest of the confessions. We’ll talk about this later.”

“Do you remember the Fourth Commandment?”

Dammit, why is she quizzing me on catechism all of a sudden?
“Uh, give me a second to think. Did you say the Fourth?”

“Take your time.”

Dan counted on his fingers.
No other Gods, name in vain, keep Sabbath holy …
“Uh, honor thy mother and thy father.”

“Good. Now, you know what that means, right? That means lying to me would be a sin.”

“Right,” Dan said. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Okay, with that in mind, it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To confess,” Ruth said.

“Confess?” Dan said in a little voice.

“What happened to Michael?”

“Uhhhhh, the saint or the archangel?”

“Your brother,” Ruth said like an exasperated mom. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“You know?” Dan was struck. “How could you know?”

“Your mother knows everything.”

“When did you know?”

“I could tell Michael was sick when he brought me out here. Then he disappeared and two weeks later, you showed up in a priest outfit and started avoiding me. So I called your office and they said you were dead. Well, I knew you weren’t dead, so I figured it had to be Michael.” She could hear Dan hyperventilating. “Would you relax? I’m not going to blow the whistle. You’re all I’ve got left. I just want to know what happened.”

Dan told Ruth the whole story, from the insurance scam to the burial. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” he asked.

“I figured you had enough on your mind, regardless of what had happened. I assumed you’d tell me sooner or later. When it got obvious you were avoiding me, you sort of forced my hand.”

“I’m sorry,” Dan said. “I should have told you.”

“Forget about it,” Ruth said. “What’s done is done. I’ve cried and said my prayers for Michael and now we’ve got other problems to deal with. Rumor has it we’re about to get kicked out of here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m working on it.”

T
o millions of people, Los Angeles was the promised land. Much to Scott Emmons’s dismay, he was not one of those people. Instead of the land of milk and honey, Scott found little more than jealousy and mayhem. The poor were lost in the barrio while the children of the wealthy schemed and ran wild and made movies of themselves. But at least he had a job.

Thanks to Ted Tibblett’s glowing reference, Scott was currently doing ten-hour days at Stereo Central, one of the few stores in Southern California that didn’t sell Fujioka products. Scott was glad to be away from all the “More Is More” displays.

Ever since being fired from The Prescott Agency, Scott had been subjected to a steady stream of ridicule by his father. “I guess they throw back the little ones,” he would say. The derision simply fueled Scott’s determination to find Dan Steele—the man who had robbed him of the only opportunity he would ever have to show his old man he wasn’t a loser. That was the sin for which Dan had to atone.

Ironically, Scott was the one going to confession. In fact, he had gone sixteen times in the past three weeks. With each reconciliation Scott found himself lingering in the confessional, revealing the unmatched pieces of his emotional baggage to the priests he determined weren’t Dan. Not all of them were patient and comforting. One particularly testy priest cut Scott off after about two minutes. “A,” the priest said. “You haven’t mentioned a single thing that qualifies as a sin. And B, if you want some goddamn psychotherapy, you ought to go see a goddamn three-hundred-dollar-an-hour shrink and stop eating into my time!”