Conceived Without Sin (21 page)

"Now I look back and wonder what would have happened to me if I died in the middle of all that darkness. Would I have gone to hell? Was I in a state of grace? My conscience was dead, and I didn't think about life–or death, in those terms. It gives me chills.

"But Kelly changed me. I looked
at the world differently after that. Before her, I was a child. My evil was a child's evil, the kind that comes from the outside; from doing things because the crowd does it. But I had chosen the evil with Kelly. It was adult evil. Sam, you think you're an agnostic because you can't see any evidence for God's existence. I respect that, as much as I disagree with you. But with Kelly, whether or not
God existed was beside the point. He wasn't even in the equation. It was just me and her and the darkness of the world.

"If God was up in heaven, and was leaving us alone, then screw Him for making the world that way.
I Don't Care
was her religion, and I made it mine.

"Of course, I'm painting everything with a dark brush now, but I'm describing a mood that permeated my life at the time. Eventually,
I pulled out of the depression, but lost a big part of that sense of wonder about the world that Mr. Snodgrass inflamed in me.

"I came home to Ohio at the end of junior year, and compared to Kelly, my father was a saint of optimism. All I did was work that summer. When I got back to school for my senior year, I joined the off-campus intramural football team, full pads and everything, and did pretty
well. Hell, I was a force. I made some fleeting, normal friends on the team, who were, by degree, less dark than Kelly. My nutty side came out then, or started to come out. Nothing seemed to matter. I could say or do anything. Along those same lines, I once took a psyche exam for an insurance company job, and I tested, quote, 'three degrees above the norm,' unquote, for sociopathic behavior.

"I started playing a lot of basketball, too. Did you know that Notre Dame has more courts per student than any college in the country? I played every day I could. I made myself a good player. The playing gave me something to look forward to, and I think more than anything else this helped me keep my sanity after Kelly. I never talked to the other players. I just played and played. It was my drug.

"My friends and I got drunk and fooled around, but I didn't really go out with anybody again until Sandi, the year after I graduated.

"I squeaked by in my classes. I got my degree in English, of course, but I didn't even interview for jobs my senior year. Dad came out for the first time to see me graduate. We skipped all the pep rallies and fancy–expensive–dinners, and drove home together. I was
kind of happy during that drive. My dad and I didn't talk much, but I know he was proud of me. I could tell by the way he didn't get drunk during the graduation, which was his odd kind of present for me. I knew that took a lot out of him.

"By that time, he had been transferred back to New Jersey. We left nothing in Lakewood. Nothing. And I had the feeling that we drunken Woodwards from New Jersey
had conquered Notre Dame together, on our own terms. Getting a job with IBM or some Big Ten accounting firm seemed a waste of time at that point.

"A lot of people think of Notre Dame as this great Catholic school, but I got nothing there–absolutely nothing–in terms of the faith I love so much today. My two theology courses were a joke, and there was a dark thread–similar to the black blood that
flowed through Kelly's veins–that wound its way through most of my English courses. Implicitly, Sartre and Sex and Nietzsche rule there. There are no absolutes, only treadmill illustrations of meaninglessness.

"It's like what Chesterton wrote about jazz; its only novelty is novelty. It's a treadmill. Rock is the same way–sex, drugs, and a pounding beat. It never really changes. The underlying
philosophy in most of my classes at Notre Dame had the same quality.

"Maybe I'm exaggerating. Everything I remember is seen through a depressed, darkened lens.

"After I graduated, Dad got me a lead on a job selling prefab chimneys, so I moved back to Cleveland. I met Sandi at the end of that summer. In a lot of ways, that summer was the last happy summer of my life until Dad died–until I met you
guys. He went pretty fast. Me and McSorley and a few others at the funeral. He received last rites and went to confession the day he died."

Buzz's voice had begun to crack. He took a moment and a drag on his cigarette.

"But I'm getting off track…Notre Dame, Notre Dame. I never framed my diploma. I don't get a happy feeling when I put Notre Dame down on job applications. Even though I see I was
self-absorbed, I'm glad I rejected their phony, glittery brand of Catholicism.

"So I don't root for the football team; I don't wear their sweatshirts. It was like they let that snake under Mary's feet loose, and it got to me under the covers with Kelly and poisoned me. I wonder how many other students get lost there? I mean, isn't it a parent's job to protect their children, and isn't a university
like a parent?

"Oh, I don't know. I've got to stop talking. I can feel the darkness coming back. You guys must think I'm nuts."

"No we don't," Donna said. "No we don't."

She put an arm over the seat and gave Buzz an awkward hug. "And you're a good storyteller. You should be a writer."

"Donna's right," Sam said.

"You think so?" Buzz asked, surprised at their reaction, wondering when the rejection
would come, then knowing it never would.

So this is friendship,
he thought, realizing that he had never truly had a real friend before in his whole life.

Now he had two.

PART THREE

Waltzing With Dragons

One, two, princes kneel before you. Princes, princes who adore you. One has diamonds in his pockets. This one, he wants to buy you rockets. Aw, marry him or marry me; I'm the one who loves you baby, can't you see.
Spin Doctors,
Two Princes

Be careful, or your hearts will be weighed down with dissipation, drunkenness and the anxieties of life, and that day will close
on you unexpectedly like a trap.
Jesus, on the End of the Age, Luke 21: 34

I read in a book that a man called Christ went about doing good. It is very disconcerting to me that I am so easily satisfied with just going about.
Toyohiko Kagawa

Friendship is a miracle which requires constant proofs. It is an exercise of the purest imagination and of the rarest truth.
Henry David Thoreau

Yours is only
a small love if you are not zealous for the salvation of all souls. Yours is only a poor love if you are not eager to inflame other apostles with your madness.
Blessed Josemaría Escrivá,
The Way

Chapter Ten

1

Mark Johnson was about to live with the Kemps for an entire Saturday, breakfast to bedtime. Bill White had filled in Joe and Mary on the purpose of the visit. They were eager to open their home to the two men. They agreed to treat Mark as a casual friend. He was a likeable man, so that was not a problem. There was one ground rule: if Mark had a question, they would try to answer it
for him, but otherwise they were to simply let him observe their family for a day.

It seemed like an awkward arrangement at first, but like a film crew, Mark faded quickly into the background. The presence of Uncle Bill legitimized Mark's presence for the children.

Despite his efforts to stay in the shadows, the Kemp's two preschool children sought him out for play. Once they got used to his size
and strength, they played like all children play: with their whole selves, quick to laugh if thrilled, quick to cry if injured. They tumbled and rumbled on the carpet in the living room, using the couch cushions for wrestling mats.

Mark feigned happiness, but every laugh caused a pithy anguish to rise in his heart. He was thinking of his three girls, and how he could no longer play with them.
This, more than anything, strengthened his resolve to learn what he could on this day. Suddenly, the mere thought of the possibility of life without daily contact with his daughters caused him to become angry…and, to become something else. What was it? What was it he felt besides anger?

Fear. Yes, fear. The tough guy was finally
afraid
of something. Life without his daughters. Being kicked out
by Maggie had not been a fearful thing in itself. He could live without her. Frankly, she had not been easy to live with during the last few years. No, he was not afraid of her. Angry with her, yes. Confused by her, yes. But he was not afraid of her. Mark feared no man, much less a woman.

But he was afraid of not being with his daughters. He knew that the world was a hard place on girls, filled
with traps; traps only a father could guide daughters around. He knew they needed him. He knew they would become twisted and deformed without him.

Presently, he asked the children to let him rest, and insisted despite their protests. He put the cushions back and sat on the not-very-fancy couch, then pulled out his wallet. There was a photograph of Sarah, Angela, and Meg.

His little tough guys.
His girls.

Right now, Maggie was not threatening divorce. She wanted time, undetermined, to get her head together, to adjust. "Call me once a week," she had told him. She also told him that she would let him come visit the girls after she "adjusted."

In the meantime, if he tried to push her, or charm her, or rush her, she would call the lawyer. She had the law on her side if she took that route.
How many separations survive those barracudas?

Not any that I know,
he answered himself, looking at the photo.
When was the last time a divorce lawyer saved a marriage?

His prayers for Maggie to change her mind had not been answered. His attendance at daily Mass since he got kicked out had not helped change her either, despite his requests after communion for help. Or so he thought.

His prayers
were dry, but he kept praying. Bill had prayed the Rosary with him after Mass this morning. More dryness, more silence from heaven. He would not admit it to himself, but the idea of going to the Kemps was humiliating, and didn't make sense. What would he possibly see?

He was trusting Bill on this one. Bill was a smart guy, a good guy, and in his own way, a tough guy.

Mark slipped the photo back
into the wallet. He closed his eyes.

For the girls. You
will
do
whatever
it takes to win Maggie back for their sakes!

He opened his eyes, his resolution clear in his mind.

Are you willing to do anything?
a little voice taunted him.
Swallow your pride? Hold your temper? Suffer humiliation? Lose an argument? Beg to go back? Quit your job

Swallow. Hold. Suffer. Lose. Beg. Quit.

Unfamiliar words to
Mark. Words that his father and brothers had taught him were anathema.

Shut up,
he told the voice, thinking of the three little girls in the photo.

He stood up.
Anything.

He was ready.

2

Eighty miles east of the Ohio border, Buzz's Festiva scooted over a hill, and its small, right front tire rolled over a block of wood with a rusty nail sticking out of it.

"What was that?!" Donna cried out, alarmed
by the blunt blowout sound.

Sam was silent as he felt the little car's weight become unbalanced, and he was instantly terrified by its trajectory toward the shoulder, and beyond that, the flimsy metal guardrail. Beyond the guardrail loomed a rocky cliff, and below it, perhaps one hundred yards down, stood a patch of low pine trees in a crazy-crag gully.

"Hail Mary!" Buzz called calmly, desperately
attempting to angle the car parallel to the rail, fearful of braking too hard and losing complete control.

Donna screamed.

"Full of grace," Buzz continued, in a loud whisper. His tongue came out now, covering his lower lip in concentration. Sam gracefully reached back and pressed his long forearm and hand onto Donna's chest, preparing to cushion the certain blow and tumble.

None were wearing seat
belts.

The car's front right bumper hit the rail first, at a thirty degree angle, slowing to forty miles an hour, sparks flying, metal screaming. The back fender smacked the rail, a wacky Hot Wheels toy along a Pennsylvania track. Donna held in a second scream when she saw the distance to the gully below them, distantly aware of Sam's silent strength on her chest.

Buzz gingerly tapped the brakes
and the car came to a herky halt.

The only sound was the hum of the Festiva's tiny engine.

Buzz looked at his passengers. "The Lord is with thee."

Donna's eyes widened; she shook her head slowly.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked her. She nodded.

"And you?" Buzz asked Sam, knowing the answer.

"I'm fine," Sam replied, finally taking his arm off Donna. "And too calm."

"Yeah," Buzz said, opening his door.
Sam quickly rolled his window down as he watched Buzz amble around to the front of the car to inspect the damage.

There was no one on the road. No one had seen them crash.

"How's it look?" Sam asked.

Buzz didn't answer. He got back in the car, and carefully inched it away from the rail. Then both he and Sam got out; they inspected the long, ugly dents and scratches on the right side of the car.
Buzz spit over the side of the cliff, and waited, as if there would be a noise from a landing.

He motioned for Sam to come close. Buzz pulled out a smoke, and facing away from the car, lit up.

"I think the car is okay," Buzz began. "We'll need to change the tire. It's not insured for bodywork, I think. Who cares? It's only a Festiva. I picked it up at a police auction in Newark."

"Change the tire?"
Sam asked, not really following Buzz.

"Yeah, get the jack. Turn the lug nuts. I'll do it. Donna looks pretty shaken up," he said, looking back briefly. "Best thing to do is get the tire fixed, and get back on the road."

"Shouldn't we wait for the cops?" Sam asked.

"What for?" Buzz asked back in a friendly tone.

Sam didn't answer.

"There's nothing to report," Buzz said plaintively, holding his
hands out. "Look, as soon as I heard the blowout, I knew we would be okay."

"You did?"

"Didn't you?"

Something in Sam's eyes told Buzz that the answer to his question was affirmative.

"I wasn't afraid after I put my hand on Donna."

Sam looked down at his feet. Behind them, they heard the creaky sound of the dented door as Donna climbed out from the back seat. She walked to them, her arms folded,
her hands on her shoulders, despite the warm temperature.

"Our Lady saved us," Buzz said, looking down the cliff.

Sam decided to let that slide. Maybe Buzz was in shock. He didn't look like it, though.

How would I know?
Sam thought.

Buzz was right. Despite Donna's scream, Sam had felt a peaceful calm in the car as it hit the rail.

A premonition?
Buzz asked himself.

He tossed his cigarette over
the cliff, and crossed himself. He walked to the back of the Festiva, and pulled open the hatch. He pulled the luggage out, lifted the fiberboard cover, and began to unscrew the little jack and tiny spare. He thanked God when the spare bounced as he dropped it to the stones on the shoulder. It had pressure.

Sam and Donna watched in silence as he adjusted the jack, and began to crack the lug nuts
loose by stepping up on the lug wrench with all his weight. He seemed expert at it, as if this was his fourth or fifth tire change of the day. He whistled as he worked, the theme to the
Odd Couple.

"He told me that he knew we wouldn't get hurt, even as we were crashing," Sam told her, shaking his head, looking at the crouching worker.

"I thought we were going to die," she said, squinting. "All
I could think of was: now I get to find out."

"Find out what?" Sam asked.

"If all that I believe is really true," she said.

Sam turned away.

They really believe. It's all they care about. God. What was I thinking as we were crashing?

He wasn't thinking about anything, he realized. He was just
observing.
He knew, during the crash part of the crash, that they would be just as fine as fiddles in
Finland.

"This might sound weird, Donna," he told her, still facing away. "But I knew we were going to be okay, too."

"What do you mean?"

"I just knew. Just like Buzz said. After I put my hand on you, I just knew. And here we are. Having a conversation, all sundry bones unbroken."

Why am I talking so lyrically? Maybe I'm the one in shock.

"Sam?" she asked. He turned.

"I–" she began. But something
held her back. She didn't know what it was.
I love you,
she finished in her head.

"I believe you," she said finally, firmly.

A few minutes later, Buzz was finished with the tire. He began to repack their luggage.

"Let's go," he said, smacking the grime off his hands. "Let's find a rest stop. I'm thirsty."

"Just like that?" Donna asked incredulously.

"Yeah, just like that. Let's just drive away.
It's not like we're taking an exam on how to have an accident. We're not being graded."

"You changed that tire pretty quickly," Sam observed.

"Yeah," Buzz said. "I worked at a few fill-up stations when I was at Notre Dame. Look, it's getting dark. This tire will hold 'til Cleveland. Do you want me to tell you the rest of the story of my life? I'll tell you about Sandi. Maybe Our Lady saved us
so you could hear it. And now you know why I call this part of Pennsylvania the Badlands."

"Are you sure you want to tell us," Donna said, remembering the gloom that had crept into Buzz's voice earlier.

"Sure," Buzz said. "Our brush with death somehow makes me feel pretty good."

Buzz held a cupped hand over his eyes, looking at the brilliant orange sun diving toward the tree line to the west.

They all slowly got into the car. They all put on their seat belts without a word. A truck whizzed by.

Buzz carefully pulled onto the road, and eased his way up to fifty-five.
Feels fine,
he thought, referring to the Festiva.
Feels the same. The spare is pulling me to the right, but not badly.

After ten miles, he muttered "Screw it" under his breath, unlatched his seat belt to an unseen horrified
look from Donna behind him, and sped up to sixty-four, his normal speed.

Buzz noticed their looks.

"What?" he asked his passengers.

"You're so, so–" Donna fumbled for the words.

"So weird, yeah, thanks," he finished for her. "Look, what are the chances of getting into two accidents in one day? I'm not going to change my driving habits because of a chance blowout. It's probably even safer to drive
normally than to be overcautious. Seat belts make me feel claustrophobic. They distract me."

Neither passenger could follow his logic, if that was what Buzz was using.

Ten minutes later, without any prompting, Buzz finished his story, as if there had been no interruption from the accident…

"There's not much to say about my marriage with Sandi. After Jennifer came, my drinking got worse. It started
with staying out late with the guys after work. One of them, Harry Thomason, was an alcoholic too, I guess. Of course, like most drunks, we could never admit it to ourselves. For me, that came after the divorce.

"I don't want to go into the details. It hurts too much. Filling out my annulment form was hard enough, and I guess that was good for me. Let's just say I did it all: adultery, abuse,
the whole nine yards. I never laid a hand on Jennifer, but I might as well have, considering how I treated her mother in front of her. Sandi was faithful, I guess. I became paranoid, and accused her of a bunch of things. I went to a shrink for a couple months after the divorce, but that didn't help much.

"Sandi was doing pretty well at her job, which helped in her decision to dump me. Her friends,
who knew me maybe better than I knew myself, encouraged her. Her parents must have supported her, too. I had no allies. My drinking buddies weren't really friends–they were doing the same thing I was to their own wives or girlfriends, differing only by degree. They weren't about to set me on the straight and narrow. My friends and I were holding hands as we jumped off the cliff.

"I came home one
day after a long weekend with one of my, uh, girlfriends, and the apartment was empty except for a few of my things. Sandi had moved in with her parents. They had been watching Jennifer while Sandi was at work since she was born. I sobered up for a few hours, and went to see Sandi there, and we all sat at their kitchen table.