Cross Dressing (39 page)

Peg ran to Dan and wrapped her arms around him. “Are you all right?” She squeezed him tightly.

“I’m fine.” He squeezed back.

Mr. Prescott pointed at the conquering hero. “Good Lord,” he said, “it’s that idiot Emmons! He’s probably coked out of his mind.”

“I hate to tell you this,” Dan said, “but Scott was the idiot behind the Fujioka campaign. I stole it, just like he said.”

Oren slapped a hand against his forehead. “Fuck! Oh, pardon me, Sister.” Oren waved at the guys who were parading Scott around on their shoulders. “Bring him over here!”

Scott was high above the crowd, waving his gun, yelling, “More Is More! More Is More!”

Prescott turned to Dan. “Are you sure it was his idea?” Dan nodded ruefully.

They put Scott down in front of Dan and Oren. Sister Peg snatched the gun from him, but he was too dazed to care. Scott eyed Dan suspiciously. “More Is More,” he said quietly.

Oren put his hands on Scott’s shoulders. “Scott, Dan tells me that was your idea.”

Scott turned to Oren and blinked once. “Fujioka,” he said.

“Yes, Fujioka. I need another slogan, another campaign,” Oren said. “You can have Dan’s old office and anything else you want. Whaddya say?”

Scott looked at Oren and smiled. “It’s Miller time!” he said.

“Dan, what about you?” Oren asked. “Will you come back?” He cast a sideways glance at Emmons. “He may need some supervision.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Dan said. “But do me a favor. I know a guy who’d make a great addition to the production studio.” He pointed at Ruben. “He’s got a gift. He’ll make a good art director someday.”

“Fine,” Oren said. “Have him at the office Monday morning.”

“Thanks,” Dan said, “you won’t regret it. And not only is he a talented artist, he’s also a handicapped minority. EEOC won’t ever bother you again.”

Oren put his arm over Scott’s shoulder and led him away. “Did I mention the time frame we’re looking at?”

Dan turned to Peg and smiled. “Well, that almost ruined a perfectly good day.”

“Almost.”

“Dan Steele?” The voice was serious.

Dan turned and saw two cops standing next to Butch Harnett. “Dan Steele, you’re under arrest for insurance fraud, credit card fraud, obstruction of justice, and filing a false death certificate.” The cops cuffed him. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law …”

D
an’s trial was one-sided to the extent that the evidence was undisputed and pointed directly to Dan. Given those impediments, Dan’s defense consisted primarily of heartfelt testimonials about all the good he had done, the lessons he had learned, how he was just trying to help his dying brother, and except for the credit card fraud, how he hadn’t done anything for his own profit.

It took just two days to hear all the testimony. The judge then instructed the jury as to the pertinent points of law and sent them off to deliberate.

An hour later, the jury filed back into the jury box. Dan
and his public defender took this as a good sign. Peg, Ruth, Ruben, Alissa, and the rest of the Care Center crowd were all in the gallery. Captain Boone gave Dan a vigorous thumbs-up in an attempt to boost his diminished spirit. Dan responded with a weak smile.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

The jury foreperson stood and smiled. “Yes, Your Honor,” she said. “We have.”

T
he truth had come out during the trial.
Fake Nun Fakes Coma!
was the headline. The newspaper articles said Sister Peg and Father Michael were frauds, albeit well-meaning ones. The reporters explained Dan’s insurance scam and pointed out that Peg had a record for prostitution. According to the papers, Dan and Peg had conned everybody who gave their time or money at the fund-raiser. But, to be balanced, they also explained why Michael had been excommunicated and didn’t have any insurance. They also talked about the fact that Peg had been helping the poor for several years and, as far as they could tell, had done none of it for personal gain.

When Ruben found out the truth he was surprised. A reporter asked if he knew all along that Peg wasn’t a nun. Ruben signed that he didn’t have a clue. “She seemed like a nun to me.” He judged her by what she did, not by whether she had taken part in a secret nun ceremony.

When the public heard the story, they reacted, almost without exception, by sending more money. They sympathized with Dan’s plight and were impressed by the ingenuity of the PR campaign. In an example of the same sort of pretzel logic that led the public to give Bill Clinton positive approval ratings in the face of the facts, the popular assessment of the “Save Sister Peg” campaign was that Peg and Dan had risked
their freedom in order to help those who couldn’t help themselves. They became folk heroes.

T
he bride wore off-white and said, “I do.”

The chapel was small, which was all right. It was an intimate wedding. Josie was the maid of honor. Ruben was best man. Ruth was there with Alissa. Mrs. Zamora and Mrs. Gerbracht were there too, representing the rest of the Care Center crowd, all of whom were helping out at the new facility, which was located in the city of San Fernando.

Monsignor Matthews held out his hands and pronounced them husband and wife. “You may now kiss the bride,” he said.

Dan lifted her veil and they kissed. The small audience cheered at the sight. None of the Care Center residents had been the least bit bothered when they found out Sister Peg and Father Michael were becoming civilians. They had promised to continue their good work and if the Church didn’t see fit to let them marry as a nun and a priest, it was their loss.

The reception was modest. It was held in a small rec room. Chips and dip and soft drinks were arranged on a Ping-Pong table with the net removed. There was no champagne or alcohol of any sort. Prison rules.

Despite the general public’s positive assessment of Dan’s actions, the jury of his peers convicted him on all counts.

And even though there was a conjugal room available, Dan and Peg agreed to wait until he’d served his year (eight months with good behavior) before consummating their vows. “I’m saving myself for an ex-con,” Peg said.

Ruth was still crying after the ceremony. She was so happy for both of them. “We’re going to the cemetery tomorrow to put a proper headstone on Michael’s grave,” she said.

Alissa tugged on Dan’s hand. When he crouched down
she kissed him on the cheek. Then she giggled and put her hands over her face. “Oooh,” Dan said. “Kissed by Cinderella.”

Ruben presented Dan and Peg with his wedding present. Dan opened the box. It was the final drawing he had done for Scott’s new Fujioka campaign, “Act Affluent!” He said early focus-group tests indicated a strong consumer response to the slogan. Dan signed “thank you” to Ruben. With all his free time, Dan had been studying ASL.

Someone put a tape in the boom box. It was time for the happy couple’s first dance. Dan offered his arm to Peg and escorted her to the middle of the room. Everyone clapped. Ruth began to cry again. They danced cheek to cheek for a moment before either of them spoke. “I don’t know if I mentioned this in the last five minutes,” Peg said. “But I love you.”

Dan pulled her closer. “I love you too.”

“You know, looking back, I’m amazed at all the stuff we did to keep things going.”

“Yeah,” Dan agreed. “I’m amazed we got away with most of it.”

Peg pulled her head back and looked at Dan. “Can I ask you a philosophical question?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think the end justifies the means?”

Dan thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s not
supposed
to.”

F
ATHER MICHAEL HAD THE STRANGEST SENSATION. HE HEARD
a sound that was best described as
poof!
and he suddenly found himself standing in front of a large podium, with no clear memory of where he had come from. He smelled smoke, and when he looked down he could see that he was the source of the smell. His clothes were charred and he was smoking like Wile E. Coyote after a botched attempt on the Roadrunner. What was left of his hair was singed and standing straight up.

“Ahem!” A tall bearded man wearing wire-rim glasses suddenly appeared behind the podium clearing his throat. Father Michael looked up and saw a nameplate on the podium. It said, “St. Peter.”

Gulp. Father Michael smiled weakly.

St. Peter peered sternly over the top of his glasses. “Dan Steele, I presume?”

Father Michael shook his head. “No, no, no, I’m Michael.”

St. Peter held up a copy of the admission form from St. Luke’s Hospital. “That’s not what it says here.”

Great
, Father Michael thought. If he had to face the music for Dan’s past, he was going to be on the next express to hell. What Dan wanted to do with that Beverly woman would be enough, by itself, to damn a guy for eternity, right? He closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.

St. Peter slammed his fist onto the podium and bellowed, “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!”

Father Michael cringed.
Hell yes, it’s fearful
, he thought. Hebrews 10:13 didn’t sound like an invitation to a picnic. He was about to face the Creator of the universe, Who would be under the impression that he was the morally challenged Dan Steele.

St. Peter suddenly started laughing. He pointed at Father Michael and slapped at the top of the podium. He stamped his foot on the ground as his laughter raced out of control. He removed his glasses and dabbed tears from his eyes using his sleeve. “I’m kidding!” he said between bursts of chuckles. “I’m just giving you a hard time,” he hooted. “We know who you are, for Christ’s sake. This is heaven. How disorganized do you think we are?” His face was red from laughing so hard.

Father Michael’s face was—as St. Peter would later describe it—priceless. His charred clothes disappeared and he suddenly found himself wearing a beautiful white sweatshirt and matching sweatpants made of 100 percent cotton.

“God, I love my job,” St. Peter said. He wrote something in his ledger, then put his pen down. “Welcome to the Kingdom and the Glory and all that other good stuff.” He leaned forward and looked at Father Michael. “How’s that sweatsuit fit, okay? Isn’t that soft?”

Father Michael was still reeling from the weirdness of it all. “Uh, it’s fine,” he said.

St. Peter pointed at the radiant golden halo that was embroidered on the sweatsuit. “You like the halo? It’s our trademark.” He buffed his fingernails on his chest. “My design.”

Father Michael looked absently at the halo, then back at St. Peter. “I don’t understand. I died with sin, didn’t I?”

St. Peter came out from behind the podium. “Not enough to worry about. Besides, you’ve been in purgatory for a while.
Your brother did a good deed in your name and he said a prayer for you too, so here you are.”

Father Michael looked surprised. “That really works?”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” St. Peter said with a wink. He put his arm over Father Michael’s shoulder. “Main reason you’re here is, you were a good guy.” He lowered his voice. “I especially liked it when you yanked that sanctimonious Cardinal Cooper out of the Popemobile. That was a classic!” St. Peter led Father Michael toward the gates of heaven.

The fact of the matter finally hit Father Michael.
I’m in heaven!
“Listen,” he said, “let me ask you, was St. Alphonsus right about the prayers of souls in purgatory?”

St. Peter smiled. “Yep.” He pulled some papers from out of nowhere. “Here’s a list of answers to frequently asked questions. Read it before you start bugging the Big Guy, okay?”

Father Michael glanced at the first page and came to a sudden halt. “Darwin was right?!” He looked at St. Peter. “How is that possible?”

St. Peter smirked. “Ironic, isn’t it?” They resumed walking. “I’m telling you, He works in mysterious ways.”

The gates to heaven opened automatically and Father Michael looked up. It was beautiful beyond words. Rolling hills of emerald green stretched as far as he could see; brightly colored birds soared overhead. And children, all fat, happy, healthy, and laughing, played in the soft grass.

“Okay,” St. Peter said, “stop me if you’ve heard this … A priest, a rabbi, and a lawyer die and go to heaven—”

Father Michael held up his hand. “Got a better one. Dolly Parton and Princess Di are at the Pearly Gates—”

St. Peter cut him off. “Royal flush beats a pair every time. Listen, we’ve heard ’em all.”

I rely on a great number of people to help me get things right. Where things are wrong, it’s my fault, not theirs. My thanks to the following:

Karen Vaughey Marble for telling me the story, way back in 1992, that turned into this one.

Matthew Scott Hansen for cowriting the original story whence this one came. Also for notes on this.

Sister Nicki Thomas of St. Mary’s School in Los Gatos, California, the best “nun consultant” a lapsed Catholic writer ever had.

The Very Reverend Jerry McBride of St. James Episcopal Church in Jackson, Mississippi, a busy man, doing good work.

Andrea Sinert and Elliot White for advertising insights and tidbits.

Dr. Bobby Robbins, Dr. Mary Mallette, and her sidekick, Dr. Bob Mallette, for various medical expertise. Dr. Judith Mitrani for helping with Ruth’s medication.

Geoff Young for coming up with the title in five minutes after someone stole my first one.

Tom Dupree, my editor, for making the whole thing work when I was unable to do so. And his able assistant, Kelly Notaras, for assisting so ably.
Jimmy “Ninth Life” Vines for getting me hooked up. Howie “I’ll send a messenger” Sanders and Richard “I believed in it from the beginning” Green for the big deal and for hanging in for so long. Avanti deMille for her patience.

Tom Shadyac, Jim Brubaker, Heather Leyton, Winston Stromberg, and everyone at Shady Acres. Holly Bario, Tony Grana, and Mar-cia Dripchak at Universal. And Tina Fortenberry too.