Discretion (19 page)

Joanna is the oldest of three sisters and spent the better part of her teen years preparing to run a home and be a mom. We met at SCG when Joanna was working in research; I got to know Joanna well during the stint. She was in a unique position to help my work see the limelight, which turned into my first promotion at Seaton; they say the first is the hardest, as so many new employees are fighting to get noticed. As a result, I am in part, in debt to Joanna for my career. I introduced her to my best friend Jamal, to even the score.

Joanna worked for three years and for reasons I could not entirely understand—most of them relating to pettiness on Marisa’s part—Joanna and Marisa did not get along. Joanna has been pretending that she and Marisa will be good friends, knowing that she’s marrying me and the future families will be often together. Joanna always tried to be friends with Marisa, but the history between them stands like a firm, yet invisible barrier: both impenetrable and unseen by anyone but them. Joanna could only see the child who was aborted, deprived of life, and Marisa felt she was labeled a murderer. And the conflict between the two women has been a barrier since.

“I see what you’re saying,” Joanna says. “But still…we’d love your company on Sunday.”

We? Meaning her and Jamal. Oh, how I hope that is true. I nod in reply to Joanna and leave the subject where it is.

“Now, I’ve not heard anything, but when is the wedding?” Joanna says.

Wedding. That’s going to bring out the gloves with these two. No wonder the last dinner with Joanna and Marisa side by side was quiet.

“No date yet. Possibilities galore, but no date. We just talk about it and write nothing down. She doesn’t want to make any rash decisions,” I say.

She’s talking with me now since Marisa is not here. Some things never change.

“Has Marisa bought the dress?” Joanna says.

I nod. “First things first. Too early for me, but she rushed out and ordered it.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

I sigh. “I know you two don’t get…along the best. And I’m not sure that’s ever going to change.”

She nods slowly, and then shrugs her shoulders. “It takes two, Colin.”

“She feels judged by you.”

“She shouldn’t. I’m not perfect either.”

“I know you accept her and what she did doesn’t affect you, but she feels that she can’t measure up to your holiness,” I say, a little tension building within me at being so forthright, but I feel it’s called for.

“It’s complicated, Colin. She had an abortion, yes. It was many years ago and I’m sure she thinks about it. She probably visualizes what that child would look like today if he or she were alive. And that’s hard to live with. But I don’t judge her, Colin. We’re all sinners, saved by grace, and I accept her. She’s in the same boat as me.”

“You’re a saint,” I say, grinning at my friend.

She laughs at me. “And you’re a player. I know more than I should about you.”

I give an exaggerated sigh, as if I’m bothered by her comment. “So judgmental.” I shake my head. “How can anyone be worthy?”

She returns my verbal assault with a two-finger jab at my ribs. “I’m afraid that none are worthy. So I frequently extend grace.”

“Glad to know I’m in a privileged circle.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s that frequently,” she says, smiling.

She and I talk for the better part of an hour and it feels like old times. We discuss her vision for the wedding and life in general; her as a stay-at-home mom for the past ten months, since she had Delana. She loves motherhood and doesn’t miss her career, though she was good at it. She loves the nurturing moments, the coos, the burps, and all that comes with them. Spit-up and all. So good to connect with my old friend, at last.

Joanna diverts the topic back to Natalie, and I debate bringing up the email, only to remember the gravity of what Jackson said just hours ago. It suddenly bothers me that I’m keeping a secret from her—as if she’s entitled to know. And Christel remaining a secret…oddly, I’ve never felt a pull to tell anyone about her, but I want to in these moments of drama and I can’t explain why.

For years, I’ve accepted that Christel should remain a secret, for my own safety. For protection of my work. My credibility. But now, after all that has taken place in the past twelve hours, I wonder why.

J
oanna is not going to go home. Not with Jamal in this condition. Even though the news is improved, she won’t leave—that she’s decided on.

Then Natalie walks into view, and I swear I’m seeing a woman who doesn’t exist. She looks great, tired from a day at work and stressed about Jamal, but she’s here, unexpectedly, and I find I’m a little uncomfortable. I stand to give my friend a hug and linger longer than necessary, shorter than desired.

She loves you.

She can’t. Not after all this time.

Natalie falls into a chair hard and lets out an exhaustive sigh.

“Don’t have the coffee. Drink tea instead,” I say to Natalie, and Joanna grins, nods with me. This sparks a short conversation about the horrible coffee. Natalie gets a cup anyway and insists it tastes like a cheap brand and will work with enough cream and sugar.

“I thought you were coming tomorrow,” Joanna says, holding on to Natalie, beside each other on the seat. It’s a gross understatement to say that Joanna and Natalie are happy to be together now. They need each other.

“Well, I’m happy to see you,” I say to Natalie. “I’m not positive Joanna is, though.”

Both ladies laugh and Joanna brings Natalie up to speed on Jamal’s news. She nods constantly and holds back tears, fighting hard and fanning herself through the short monologue. They hug and linger awhile, faces to shoulders, to let tears flow and hold on tightly. They encourage each other with small words of affirmation, too quiet to understand, but loud enough to know it’s taking place. When the muted sobs stop, they lean on each other for support and just sit in silence, as nothing else needs to be said. All that can be done is wait for what’s next. The pain is lightened by Natalie’s company, but not removed.

The three of us banter about sports, as Natalie and I like to do, and Joanna chimes in where she can. Music and fashion filter into the conversation and Natalie talks about cutting her hair short. When my ability to remain safely awake wavers, I elect to head for home. Joanna gets a long hug from me and I kiss Natalie like a teenager—awkward at first, but then, after staring at me a moment with that hopeful look about her, she kisses me again and lingers, as if she’s found me and claiming her prize.

She loves you.

When I lean away from Natalie, my hand still on her shoulder, I notice Joanna, her mouth gaping, watching the two of us. I think to say something, but decide against it—there’s nothing I can say now that hasn’t already been said. I don’t need Christel to tell me Natalie loves me; I know it’s true. Now I have to decide what I am going to do about it. Natalie is too good for me—too good for anyone—which is why she remains single. And the weight of guilt I feel occupies my mind—Marisa will know something is up.

I will need to confess.

The drive home is distracting, with thoughts of Natalie and Christel and why I’ve kept the mysterious spirit from the people I’m closest to. Jamal has no knowledge. Natalie and Marisa, Joanna, are all in the dark too, as I’ve feared they wouldn’t understand. Or perhaps I felt they would think less of me. My trusted friends…my fiancée. Must I keep them in the dark? Of course, Christel’s aid to me must remain a secret at Seaton Capital Group—as wind of such a source of information would have dramatic, damaging effects.

Yes
.

But why?

How I help you does not apply to everyone. You are special to me.

Hmm. I should accept her answer. Christel is true to her word.

Beyond exhausted, to the point coffee sounds good, but will do little to keep my eyes open, I leave my things on the kitchen counter and Max just wags his tail, with no motivation to move either. It’s the lazy dog’s way of greeting his master.

I fall to the center of the leather sectional in the great room and turn on the plasma.
SportsCenter
comes to life and I catch the highlights. A bowl of popcorn keeps me company, as I can’t just watch TV, and I have far too much on my mind to go to bed, though I desperately need sleep.

Unable to focus, I fish out the iPad, and then return to Jackson’s email with no small measure of apprehension. I find it hard to rest, but better judgment says to delete it. Christel telling me to trash the email makes me curious. What am I missing that she doesn’t want me to see?

The articles, clippings, and reports are there as I remember: disturbing, with no answers, only a beautiful tattoo to connect at least a dozen homicides over a five-year period. I sift through the entire email, all the files, and no inspiration comes.

Why do you want me to delete this?

I wait a few moments, looking through pictures I’d rather forget, but can’t. Strangely, I’m attracted to these young, seemingly innocent victims. Several of them must be underage, not even sixteen.

I focus on a dark-haired beauty, photographed with her back to a wall, her hands bound behind her back, her body bruised and bloodied, her eyes staring off into space, making me wonder what her final thoughts were as she left this cruel world. What were her dreams in life? Who did she want to be?

She died like that. In that Godforsaken place. Helpless.

Delete it and move on.

Fine. I hit delete, and the message is gone from my life, and then I breathe in deeply, a newfound freedom in releasing the burden Jackson shared.

Jamal will live, under a different standard, but to beat impossible odds, that is good news to end the day. Or shall I say, begin the new one, given it’s Tuesday morning. Peculiar that Joanna would bring up going to church with her and Jamal…

My past in organized religion is grieving.

When my parents were still married, my mother had a religious experience and decided we should start going to church. Which house of worship—her words—she wasn’t real sure of, but the idea we needed some religion in our lives cemented. She chose a place based on the proximity to the house, and a short time commitment on Sundays—forty-five minutes to a Mass was all and most of the parish took the summer off. She was in love. My father and I couldn’t understand the excitement.

I was young, but old enough to think: why the hell are we going to this place if we don’t like it? If my father bothered to ask what she was on about, he neglected to mention it to me, even in later years when he had entirely too much to drink.

Religion turned out to be the perfect accompaniment to her life and gave her a new group of friends to associate with, to make herself feel important. It was at a time before all the social networking caught on. The Internet, as it was then, was new enough that people had to be looking for porn to find it, a sharp contrast from the modern-day Web with scantily clad girls in ads on just about any site a man might have the passing thought to visit.

Her need to feel important and satisfy her spiritual needs quickly became tiresome for me and my father, but we had little choice. It was tolerable at best, until she insisted I volunteer with the parish and become an altar boy. I was the perfect age of twelve. My father decided it was important enough to Sydney, my birth mother, so I followed orders under protest.

It lasted about two months. The experience was fine and the kids I served with were fine people. The staff were pleasant to be around, as were the two priests, Father Damien, a tall and lanky lad who looked a tad Irish, and Father Nelson, short and balding and considerably overweight, always blaming his love of Polish sausage causing the inner tube around his waist. Father Damien, I deduced, kept lean by working out in his spare time and smoking, which I thought didn’t mix well, but is apparently a good combination for keeping pounds off.

All was well until I learned that Father Damien had a taste for young boys.

I remember the day well. It was during a rehearsal for an upcoming event, which required a special incense and Father Nelson didn’t want those of us serving to feel uncomfortable. So a special practice session was going on with three altar boys, myself included, to ensure we knew where we were supposed to be and when. I had thought that Father Nelson was more worried about us dropping the gold metal contraption, a small fire within, and burning the carpet.

On going back to the rectory for a special errand, I walked in on Father Damien making contact with a young man, by my guess a teenager, as he was a year or two older than me. Nothing terrible happened, but the contact was enough to leave little doubt what the priest wanted and that was enough reason for me to leave.

But I didn’t. Curiosity took over. I stayed, with the door cracked to the office, and watched like the juvenile I was. Once the young man’s undergarments hit the tile floor and Father Damien started going down on him, I’d had enough. In my twelve years, I’d never seen oral sex or so much as read about it, so the experience put me in a state of complete shock.

I left without a sound, with the required materials Father Nelson had asked for and continued the rehearsal as if nothing were wrong.

I didn’t know what else to do. Who could I tell?

I thought about the boy and the priest and what was taking place quite awhile. It disturbed me, but intrigued me all the same. I concluded it must be pleasurable, though I knew myself to be quite naive about sexual activity and tried my best not to dwell on it. I would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wonder about it, imagine the event to my own horror. Like a virus, it found a way into my head and made itself at home, spreading and infecting.

After three weeks of worrying myself to death and being up at night, I gathered the courage to approach a member of the church who I knew from my mother. Mister Bruderer was his name. I confided to him in the lobby of the church after the last Mass of the weekend, which was at five
P.M.
on Sunday night. I had arrived at the church by myself, not with my parents as I would normally have come, but by bicycle, with the intention of approaching someone. When I saw a familiar face, I went to him, determined to get the story out before I ran scared with my tail between my legs. It worked. He listened intently to my whole story without interruption. Apparently, this was no surprise and he’d gotten word of such a problem with Father Damien before, but nothing concrete to go on.