Cross dressing, p.22
Cross Dressing, page 22
Sitting in his ratty chair, Dan took the opportunity to gather his thoughts. He knew he was doing important work. He also knew if he didn’t find a way to save the Care Center, he’d have no place to continue doing it. He knew that Alissa, the sweet little angel, faced a bleak future if she got sucked into the foster care system. He knew Captain Boone would die slowly among strangers at a grim state-run nursing facility, and he knew his mother deserved better than wandering the streets with her son the fraudulent priest.
Dan had always performed well under pressure. It was a point of pride for him and it had served him well over the years. But now he was afraid he had lost his touch. He had tried a thousand times to come up with ways to raise money for the Care Center, but the best he could come up with was bake sales and car washes, and neither of those would cut the financial mustard. Maybe if he closed his eyes he could conjure a brainstorm. Snapsnapsnapsnapsnap.
The problem is that revenues for the Catholic Church are slipping and thus the funds to the Care Center are being cut, right? So if I can find a way to increase Church revenues… A dark cloud began forming on his mind’s horizon. How to increase Church revenues? Then, suddenly, lightning!
Dan bolted from his chair and grabbed the phone. He called the archdiocese and asked for the biggest muckety-muck available. The receptionist told him the Bishop was out to dinner at Wolfgang Puck’s newest restaurant. Dan got in his old VW van and drove straight over.
The Bishop was halfway through his duck terrine with hazelnuts and green peppercorn appetizer when this priest arrived at his table, pulled up a chair, and announced that he was going to save the Catholic Church. This priest was so enthusiastic and sure of himself that the Bishop couldn’t ignore him. “We’ve got an image problem,” Dan said. “Too much blood and guilt, the whole medieval thing’s gotta go.”
The Bishop saw Dan’s point. He’d seen the fear in the faces of children as they peered up at the tortured body of Christ nailed to the cross. He’d seen them shrink away as they listened to terrifying descriptions of hell and eternal damnation. He’d seen their confused expressions as they tried to fathom the difference between cannibalism and eating the body of Christ. Maybe there was something to this idea of softening the image. “Okay, so, what’s your approach?”
Dan smiled. “Two things to focus on,” he said. “Market segmentation and branding.”
“Branding?” The Bishop wasn’t up on current marketing theory.
Dan waved his hands vaguely. “A brand is simply the promise of an experience,” he said. “One thing we have to do is understand and communicate what experience the Catholic brand is promising. You have to ask yourself, ‘What are the emotional drivers inherent in the church-going process’ and, most importantly, I think, we have to start offering a wider range of experiences in order to reach the different kinds of Catholics in the marketplace. In other words, we need different brands of Catholicism.”
The waiter set two plates in front of the Bishop. One was a filet of beef in puff pastry with béarnaise, the other was a lobster with tarragon butter. “What do you mean, different kinds of Catholics?” The Bishop cracked one of the lobster claws, baptizing Dan with a spritz of salty water.
Dan started counting on his fingers. “You got pro-life Catholics and you got pro-choice Catholics. There are Catholics who refuse to accept Vatican Two and others who want women free to become priests. There are gay Catholics and antigay Catholics and—”
“Okay, okay, I know, they’re all over the damn road,” the Bishop said. “How are we supposed to appeal to them all?”
“These days you’ll never get ’em all under one roof, so the answer is niche marketing, just like magazines and cable,” Dan said. “You have to design the product to meet the specific desire. It’s like cola. There used to be just one kind, right? Now you’ve got regular cola, diet cola, caffeine-free cola, sodium-and-caffeine-free diet cola, and so on. It’s all about choice. And people want a choice in their Catholicism just as sure as they want a choice in their soft drinks. Hey, you want it in Latin, we’ll give it to you in Latin!”
The Bishop couldn’t argue. He had to admit, he liked a good Latin mass every now and then himself. He picked up a roll and gestured. “Pass the butter, please.”
“Salted or unsalted?” Dan winked.
A drop of the béarnaise dribbled down the Bishop’s chin. “Go on.”
Dan passed the butter. “So we do some focus groups, then we design the products based on the research. Finally, we do a national TV ad campaign to spread the word.” Dan scooted his chair over next to the Bishop. He made a frame of his fingers. He held the frame out so the Bishop could look through it. “Picture this,” Dan said. The Bishop leaned over and looked through the frame. “The spot opens with a simple Gregorian chant over a long shot of Calvary … a terrific image that gives you some brand familiarity right from the start.”
The Bishop nodded thoughtfully as he chewed his roll.
“The three crosses are backlit by a redemptive sunset,” Dan said. “The camera pushes in on Christ’s head, which is lolled to one side, bleeding. He looks bad. The camera holds on his tortured face for a moment. Then, suddenly, Christ lifts his head and looks straight into the camera. He winks, then smiles.
“‘Hi!’ Christ says. ‘I just wanted to tell you about an exciting new product from your friends in Rome …’ ” Dan put one arm around the Bishop and gestured with his free hand as he continued. “Christ pops his hands and feet free from the cross and hops down. He begins walking down Calvary, speaking to the camera. ‘Over the past ten years or so, a lot of you have left the Catholic Church because, well, because we zigged when you wanted to zag.’
“Cut to Christ walking on a busy street in Galilee, okay? He stops to lay his hands on a cripple, but he keeps talking. ‘So the guys in Rome put their heads together and, well …’ Christ looks at one of his hands and pulls out a big nail, holding it up for inspection. ‘I think they hit the proverbial nail on the head.’
“In the background, the cripple stands and dances a jig as Christ walks out of frame,” Dan said. “Cut to a scene on a lakeshore. Christ walks through a throng of peasants, pulling unlimited loaves and fishes from his robe, handing them to the rabble as he walks. A small boy tugs on Christ’s robe. Christ slaps a large, wiggling mackerel in the kid’s grateful arms. The kid smiles deliriously. It’s a lightly funny but touching image,” Dan assured the Bishop, who was beginning to look doubtful.
“So,” Dan said, “Christ keeps talking as he approaches a big lake. ‘Hey times change. Believe me, I know. That’s why we came up with new Cath-o-Lite.’ When Christ reaches the lakeshore he just keeps on going. As he walks on the water, he continues his pitch. ‘We’ve cut ninety percent of the damnation to bring you the religion you want.’”
Dan paused and made eye contact with the Bishop. “That’s the key, you have to give them what they want.” Dan nearly knocked over the Bishop’s water glass as he gestured toward the far side of the restaurant. “Christ reaches the far shore of the lake and walks onto the beach, still pitching.
“‘We’re still doing things better than all the other major religions. And when it comes to what counts the most … we deliver.’ Christ walks past a line of four Hindus. He stops and looks at the camera. ‘So many religions are gimmicky or, worse, they’re just plain cults. But with us—at the end of the day—we offer you what they don’t … eternal happiness … not just constant recycling.’
“Christ watches the four Hindus. The first one morphs into a cat. The second one turns into a warthog. The third becomes a monkey. The fourth becomes Newt Gingrich. Christ turns back to the camera with an amused smile. ‘Need I say more?’
“Cut to Christ arriving at the Last Supper. He bumps fists with several of the Apostles before taking his place at the center of the table. ‘New Cath-o-Lite, give it a try’ Christ gives a big toothy smile. ‘You’ll be glad you did.’”
Dan stood slowly, raising his hands toward the ceiling. “Christ ascends offscreen giving the ‘okay’ sign as the Apostles watch in awe. We fade to black, then bring up a stylized logo for the new brand. We hear Christ’s voice with a slight echo. ‘New Cath-o-Lite, less guilt, more forgiveness.’”
The waiter brought two frozen Grand Marnier soufflés as Dan waited for the tag line to sink into the Bishop’s mind. It seemed to sink in quickly, for in one swift move the Bishop stood, pulled a large heavy crucifix from his robe, and smacked Dan across the head, waking him from his dream and spilling him from his chair onto the floor of his ascetic apartment. Dan lay there for a moment, gathering his wits. He hated to see a good idea go to waste, but at the same time, he damn sure didn’t want to be the one to pitch this in Rome.
Ruth reached for the drawer. She imagined the relief that would come when her brittle skin yielded to the razor’s rusty edge. She was sorry in advance for the trouble this would cause. Someone would have to clean it up. She hoped it wouldn’t be Dan. He didn’t deserve that. But what did “deserve” have to do with anything? she wondered. She didn’t deserve her life the way it was. There didn’t seem to be any logic to it. Her pointless existence was a random event. She was just a drain on a system she didn’t understand. She was a waste of space.
Ruth’s hand crept across the bedside table, closing in on her way out. She began to cry as a part of her prayed for intercession. Give me a reason to stop. But none came to her and a moment later she opened the drawer and touched the blade. The cold shock of death crept into Ruth’s heart and then a strong voice came from within her. We should pray to the angels who are given to us as guardians.
The terror that accompanied Ruth’s struggle toward self-sacrifice was as nothing compared to the moment she heard that voice. It was the voice of a stranger, yet it had come from within. It was the same thing that had happened to Zacharias when revelations were bestowed upon him. Ruth was conscious of an interior voice that was not her own. She knew the voice was not that of God but that of His messenger. This gave Ruth pause, and in that moment came the hope she had lacked.
She lifted her hand from the table and turned toward the door of her room as though she knew something was coming. There was a noise in the hall; then the door slowly opened. An amber light shone in Ruth’s eyes, but she never blinked. This must be my guardian angel. The angel’s golden hair shone despite the gloom. Ruth wanted to speak but didn’t know where to begin. Maybe she would ask why the angel had no wings.
The angel was young but could sense Ruth’s sadness from across the room. The depth of the matter escaped the sweet cherub, but there was something elemental about it and the angel was drawn to Ruth’s bedside. Her head tilted to one side and she looked at Ruth’s doomed eyes for a moment. “Are you an angel?” Ruth asked.
Alissa smiled. “I don’t think so.” Alissa climbed up into the bed and curled up next to Ruth and the gloom began to lift.
Butch Harnett was sitting at his computer terminal trying to gain access to some financial information that was supposed to be private, yet he was unburdened by ethical matters. His thinking was that a man in search of the truth should not be hindered by petty considerations, that plus it was Mutual of California policy.
After obtaining Dan’s medical records and discovering the truth about tetanus, Butch knew he was on the right track. He massaged his hairless scalp as he moused his way around a credit card database. After a few swift keystrokes he found what he was looking for. He compared the numbers on the screen with those on a piece of paper from the file at his side. He made a disapproving clucking sound by sucking some air through his teeth, then he clicked the print command.
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.”
Sister 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.
