Conceived Without Sin (34 page)

He had seen a connection, briefly, in her eyes
when he said that. He saw how much he had hurt her.

Back in Cleveland, Bill White prayed like a madman, fasted on bread and water on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and called a dozen priests to ask them to offer Masses for the Johnsons. He visited the Poor Clares and asked them to pray. It became Bill's personal mission to help save Mark's marriage through grace.

One evening, Maggie asked Mark
about his day at work during dinner. The girls shared happy looks, but the family finished their meal in silence.

That night, while Mark was reading on his bed, Maggie knocked once and boldly walked in, closing the door behind her. She was wearing a nightgown.

They met each other halfway across the room, standing in bare feet on a woolen coil rug. Mark looked at the black and white photograph
of Maggie's great grandparents on the back of the door, and wondered why the frames were always round and the faces humorless in olden times pictures.

She reached up, put her arms around his shoulders; she bent her head to the side, her eyes closed–Mark hesitated, then kissed her. He led her to the bed.

+  +  +

"Come downstairs," she said when they were done.

Mark stifled a smile.

After they got
under the covers, she told him, "I don't know where you put him, but please don't let the old Mark come back. I need to ask you to forgive me for treating you so poorly in front of the girls, and I will, but I'm still angry. I want to really mean it. I need time to heal."

He nodded.
Fair enough. I understand.

He put his arm under her pillow, so it rested beneath her neck as she turned on her side,
facing away from him. She formed a little
c
within his capital
C,
like a teaspoon resting inside a tablespoon. It was an old, familiar position.

He was amazed how much he missed this.

He waited for her to fall asleep, then turned to lie on his back. He put his hands behind his head, and chuckled softly.

"I'm back," he whispered.

The old Mark is not hiding somewhere. There is not a new Mark. The
old Mark simply figured out how to fight this particular war and win it.

For a man like Mark Johnson, it was a matter of tactics, not strategy. He had always tried his best to be a good husband and loving father.
And frankly, I was never that bad of a father.

But now he looked at being a husband through the lens of fatherhood. That's what the Kemps had taught him. He simply hadn't known better.
His father had taught him how to be a tough guy, but not how to be a father.

Go easy on the old man,
an inner voice of wisdom cautioned.
He tried his best, too. He gave you life itself.

It had taken Maggie almost as much discipline to avoid talking with him as it had taken Mark to avoid snapping at her. Maggie was a talker.

The next evening, she agreed to spend some Couch Time with him. He picked
up strong vibes of skepticism as he explained some, but not all the lessons he had learned at the Kemps, and in the Port at Steubenville.

As Mary Kemp had been with Joe during their first few couch times, Maggie began to pour out her most serious complaints to her husband, amazed that he was listening to her without defending himself, not taking her to the mat on every point.

He was willing to
concede that he had been a terrifically difficult person to live with. He agreed that he had been emotionally unavailable, but honestly did not know if he possessed emotions to share, even now. At least not the kind of emotions she was looking for. He promised to try his best and meant it.

One point he did not concede, however, was that an old Mark had ever existed.

"You don't have to worry about
him coming back, Maggie. He doesn't exist. I'm just the old Mark living my life differently. I'll never sacrifice the girls' well-being on the altar of my pride. You can't make me lose my temper. I control my will. With God's help, I can master it."

He tried not to stare her down, but she held his gaze anyway, shaking her head.

Three days later, on the couch, she complained about his long hours
on stake-outs. Unlike most cops' wives, she wasn't worried about him getting killed. She did detest not knowing when he was coming home. She was a person who, by nature, thrived on order, and her inability to plan around him drove her up the wall.

"You never complained about that before," he observed.

"I was afraid to bring it up, because I knew you would refuse to even discuss it," she replied,
dead serious. "Now I don't care what you think. Well, I do care what you think. But I'm ignoring my fears."

"Oh," he said, but recovered quickly. "There's not much I can do to change my hours…"

"You can quit the Bureau," she suggested, still serious.

He caught himself, shocked. "But–" he said, stopping himself, realizing that she was testing him.

"You would ask me to quit the FBI? Is this a test
of which I love more, you or the FBI?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I don't think it's a fair test, Mag. The real test is what's best for the whole family. But yes, I'll consider a new job. What should I do for a living instead?"

"You're not serious, are you?" she asked.

"I'm serious if you're serious," he told her evenly. "Are you serious?" He wasn't above calling her bluff.

He saw the shock in her eyes. She
caught her breath.

"You're so full of it! The old Mark would never quit the FBI. He wouldn't let his little wifey tell him what to do for a living."

"I am the old Mark. But I'm willing to really quit if I decide that it's best for the family. I'm not sure if it's the best thing. After ten years of stake-outs, missing the kids' birthdays, well, I'm not a big fan of my working hours either. We should
consider all the options. I'll talk to Howard. He might have a few ideas."

Howard Hall was Mark's immediate supervisor.

The next day, Mark talked to Hall about working more normal hours.

"The only guys who work normal hours besides desk jockeys are the white collar crime boys," Hall replied, a bit shocked by Mark's request. "But that's not your style, Mark. I thought you liked the action?"

"I
do. But my wife hates it. White collar unit, eh? Sounds pretty stinking dull…but, what the hell. Have you heard about any openings in New Jersey?"

Hall was aware that Mark had just reconciled with his wife.

"Nothing. Budget cutbacks. There might be a few openings in that new computer fraud unit in New York. But you have to be a minority, a computer jockey, or an accountant to get those slots.
Nothing can stop you from putting in. I'd hate to lose you, Mark. Another couple years, you'll be sitting in my seat."

"And I hate New York. Nothing's worse than the city," Mark mused.

Oh yes there is,
a little voice told him, reminding him of his dream at Steubenville.

"But I could put in."

"I'll make a few calls, Johnson. But you'll regret leaving the streets. Guys like you waste away riding
the desk."

"Thanks, Howie."

+  +  +

Howard Hall didn't have to make a call. Four minutes after Mark left the room, an old buddy called from the Cleveland office. It was Phillip Breen. They had been in the same class at the Academy. Breen was heading up a new white collar unit in Cleveland.

"They keep sending me accountants, Howie. They can't catch a dead butterfly with a fly strip! I need a guy
who's worn some leather off his shoes. Somebody good at getting into a bad guy's head. I'll pull whatever strings I need to pull to get around the quotas."

"You could lose your job talking like that," Hall suggested, smiling into the phone. "And good field agents don't like leaving the field."

"Come on, Howie, it's me, Phil. This white collar unit
is the field,
but with cushy hours, and smarter
bad guys. It's not as easy as you might think. Have you got anybody for me? Come on, Howie. I'm dying out here. I need an East Coast guy, too. These mid-west agents are dumber than chicken snot on a bungee stick."

"You know, Phil, you're starting to sound like a perverse Dan Rather," Hall teased. "Cushy hours, you say?"

"Yeah. Sorry I wasted your time," Phil said dejectedly.

Just as he felt Phil
was ready to hang up the phone, Howard said: "Don't be sorry. I'm riding you, Phil. I've got the perfect guy…"

+  +  +

Weeks later, Mark found himself sitting in a nondescript Ford that was obviously a cop car, in Cleveland, Ohio. His house was a few blocks away from his best friend, Bill White. After a few more interviews, he would go home.

He pulled out of the lot at Joe's Deli.

Four hours later,
after dinner, the phone rang.

"Is this Mark Johnson's residence?" a stranger asked.

"Yes," Maggie answered. "To whom am I speaking?"

A few moments later, she cupped the phone to her stomach and called into the living room, "Mark, there's someone on the phone for you saying something about finding you a daily Mass. Says his name is Buzz."

The next morning, in front of Saint Angela Merici, like
one immortal chess piece lining up next to another, Mark Johnson shook hands with Buzz Woodward.

Buzz was wearing his brown UPS uniform. Mark was wearing his blue FBI uniform.

Mark was pleasantly surprised to find his strength matched almost perfectly with Buzz's during the handshake.

They were fifteen minutes early, and exchanged terse biographies.

At one point Buzz said, "Oh yeah, I'm an alcoholic.
I always get that out of the way up front when I meet a friend."

Mark laughed, and resisted the urge to say,
"And for the last nine years, I've been a lousy husband."

They were amazed to discover that they had lived less than ten miles apart during long stretches of Buzz's childhood.

They sat in the same pew, knelt with the same straight-backed strength, responded with the same New Jersey accent,
and stayed a few minutes after the closing song to pray for help from the same Virgin Mary.

Outside after Mass, standing on the stone steps on the eastern side of Saint Angela Merici, in the light of the brightest sun in weeks, the two big guys agreed to meet for lunch.

"Oh, I forgot!" Buzz said, hitting his forehead with his palm.

"Forgot what?"

"I'm meeting a guy for lunch today. It's kind of
a tradition. Do you mind him sitting in? We meet every two weeks for lunch at Joe's Deli. He's a great guy; you'll like him, he's an advertising executive. Maybe you could make a few contacts for your investigations."

"That's a coincidence. I called you from Joe's yesterday."

Buzz buried his top lip into his lower, raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"I didn't catch your friend's name," Mark prodded,
curious, his agent's instincts prompting him.

"Sorry. His name is Bill White. He grew–"

"–grew up in New Jersey. Yes I know."

"Wow, you FBI guys are really sharp. How'd you guess that?" Buzz wondered.

"I didn't guess. I know Bill White. He's my best friend. You could say he's one of the reasons why I moved to Cleveland."

For one of the few times in his life, Buzz was speechless. His sleepy eyelids
opened wide. He shook his head. He inhaled deeply on his post-Mass cigarette.

"Mark, do you get the feeling the Big Guy is in on this?"

"This what?"

"This! Us getting together. The whole thing. Ya know what? Betcha Bill's a good athlete. Is he?"

"Yeah; all-state in football. Receiver. Starting guard for our basketball team three years," Mark shot in clipped New Jersey shorthand.

"I knew it!" Buzz
cried out, causing Mark to wonder briefly if Buzz was slightly unbalanced.
The guy's spiked with energy,
Mark thought.

Mark waited for Buzz to continue.

"I don't know the whole picture yet, Mark. But I will. One thing I do know for sure. Our Lady's gonna have one hell of a basketball team in Rocky River! Wait 'til the Man sees you and Sam standing next to each other in the paint! We'll dominate!
The Man will want to be our fifth man!"

Buzz was beside himself. The day had started out so drearily. It had been a chore to get out of bed.

"The man?" Mark asked.

"Oh. Sorry. You're gonna hafta get used to me, Mark. I speak in riddles. I'll explain all about the Man at lunch." Buzz glanced at his watch. "I can't be late again. I got a warning last week. I can't believe you know Bill White! Bye."

"Bye," Mark said, shaking his head as Buzz bounded off to his Festiva.

That guy is crazy,
he thought.

But Mark Johnson had formed a positive impression of Buzz Woodward.

Tough guys usually like each other. It was an exclusive corps.

Chapter Fourteen

1

The next two months were the happiest of Buzz Woodward's life. The depression that had been creeping up on him seemed to sift out of his soul, day by day, as the summer inched along.

This was because of basketball. Just as Buzz predicted, the Man took to the massive Mark Johnson three days later, when he and Bill White showed up to play with Buzz and Sam. The Man joined the team
on the first game of the day.

Buzz, reveling in the luxury of having two taller men on his team, moved to power forward. Bill, despite a sore back, had excellent range on his jumper and could shoot with a hand in his face. The Man was one of the best defensive guards around, and had a knack for driving through the paint for silky smooth lay-ups. Mark was not a polished player, but his strength,
quickness, and agility made up for his lack of fundamental skills. He could dunk from a standing position and rebounded with an aggression that intimidated the few other tall players.

Sam was the icing on the cake: a shot blocker with an array of moves in close and the ability to pop jumpers from the perimeter.

Like the sun in the July sky, the Rocky River courts were reaching a peak. The regulars
were now in shape, and their personal skills were honed by two months of constant play. The stands on the sidelines filled up with several teams waiting to get a chance on the losers court. Wives and girlfriends had begun to show up to watch. Competition became fierce because only the winners stayed on the court. Teams that lost on the losers court were forced to wait for up to an hour before
playing another game.

The weather was basketball-perfect: warm, low humidity, and no wind. Donna and Ellie, who had come to watch Sam and Buzz, met Mark's wife Maggie for the first time before she took her daughters to the nearby mega-playground.

Buzz's team won the first game, 9 to 2. Then they won, on the winners court, 9 to 3. They won a third time, and a fourth time, dispatching the other
teams with ease.

Ellie, wearing Jeans and an R.E.M. concert T-shirt, asked Donna if winning so easily and often was boring for the men.

"No way!" Donna told her. "If you think that, you don't understand men, or at least competitive ones like Buzz and this new guy, Mark. They'll whip you a thousand times, whipping you worse each time, and laugh. That's the name of the game: destroy the enemy."

"They do look serious, don't they," Ellie observed, watching the court to their right. The winners court.

"Notice how they don't start joking around until the game is put away, at say, five to nothing. Then they start having fun, toying with the bad guys."

"Yeah, you're right. Sam never jokes, though, does he?" Ellie asked, fascinated, and slightly jealous that Donna was a basketball player herself,
and could understand the ins and outs of the game they were watching.

"That's because he concentrates so hard; he plays with his whole self. Watch him. Oh, I guess you already do…" Donna blushed a teensy bit.

Ellie turned and lowered her sunglasses to give Donna a friendly smile. "You got that right, sister."

Donna noticed the faint sparkles from her diamond on the lenses as Ellie adjusted the
glasses back up.

After a moment, Ellie said: "I notice Buzz does a lot of talking. To his teammates, the other players. What's going on there? I know that Mark and what's his name–"

"–Bill White."

"Yes, Bill White. They're new. But is Buzz in charge?"

"Partly. I think the black guy, the one they call the Man, is the leader. He doesn't say much, but if you watch his eyes, you can see him telling
the other players what to do, and with hand gestures. There! See, he just waved his fingers, and Buzz ran by the baseline–oh that must hurt–and slammed the guy guarding him into Mark's pick…"

Both women watched as Buzz squared up for a jump shot on the baseline after receiving a pass from the Man.

He missed.

Sam stuffed the rebound into the basket. The players turned and raced in the other direction.
This latest team was putting up a good fight.

"I saw it!" Ellie cried out softly, taking Donna's arm. "There's more to this than I thought. I never played sports or watched them on television, except for Bucky's Super Bowl parties."

"There is a lot to it. For example, take Buzz's talking. He's not doing it to get laughs. I think he does it to rattle the opponent, or to set him up for something
later. Buzz plays with his head, even though he's a good athlete, too. He's big and very, very quick for a man his size. Few teams have a player who can match up with him.

"Look, he's so happy! He's bounding around like a puppy. I can tell he's totally psyched to be on a team with such good players. Bill White's no slouch, El, either. I've seen him light up the basket. They're all good."

Eventually,
Buzz's team won this game, too. During the brief intermission while the next set of victims warmed up, Buzz, Mark, and Bill trotted to the water fountain to cool off. The Man walked up to Sam, who was waiting with Ellie and Donna by the stands.

"What are those things around their necks?" he asked, referring to the scapulars which Buzz, Mark, and Bill were wearing. His team had been 'skins' during
the last game, and the scapulars stuck out.

"Scapulars," Sam responded. "Some kind of Catholic thing."

"Oh yeah, I got one of those when I was a kid. First Communion or something. I thought they went out with Vatican II. Sheesh. Those guys can play. Where'd you find the big guy, Mark?"

"Buzz found him. He's an FBI agent. They go to daily Mass together. And Bill White's an old friend of Mark's,
though Buzz knows him, too."

"Daily Mass, eh? Bill hasn't missed a shot. I missed a few lay-ups. Maybe I should go to Mass with 'em."

Sam laughed.

"You should call yourselves the Scaps," Ellie suggested wryly. "You can put a scapular on for the game, Sam. Like a uniform."

"After all," Donna added, "Buzz says the scapular used to be a shirt of some sort."

"What's going on?" Buzz asked, walking
up, his face still dripping with sweat mixed with water from the fountain.

"The ladies are planning to call our little one-day dynasty the Scaps, short for those scapulars you guys are wearing," the Man explained.

"You're a Catholic," Buzz addressed the Man. "You can wear one too."

The Man raised an eyebrow, and shook his head. He wasn't going to be caught dead wearing a scapular. He hadn't been
to Mass in years, and had fallen away from his faith during his playing days on the Notre Dame football team in the 1960s.

Bill and Mark walked up.

"You guys ready to run?" Bill asked pleasantly, still out of breath. He hadn't exercised all summer.

The others nodded. Buzz smiled broadly.

Maggie came to the stands with her three daughters fifteen minutes later. After the men won the final game
of the night, Mark pulled her aside and politely asked if he could invite the team and their two groupies over for a beer and snacks.

"Normally, you would have asked me in front of the crowd, putting me on the spot, or simply brought them over," she told him with feigned anger. "And normally, I would have a hundred reasons for them to not come over, including that we've got unpacked boxes all
over the house and it's going to take me longer to get the girls ready for bed."

She saw the disappointment, far away, in his eyes. But she knew her new Mark would abide by her wishes. She could see he really wanted to invite his new buddies over.

"But since you asked so sweetly, and because it will be months before we're unpacked, what the hey, let's have a party! We haven't entertained in ages!"

Mark lifted her off the ground with a hug.
Joe Kemp was right. I should call and see if he can come over.

It was eight-thirty, with more than an hour of sunlight left in the day.

Mark returned to the stands. "Party at my house!"

Everyone agreed to come except for the Man, who begged off politely, and walked to his car, a towel around his withered neck. He didn't want to set a precedent. He never
socialized with the guys on the court.

Bill White called the Kemps from a nearby pay phone.

"Can the whole family come?" he called over to Mark.

Mark looked to Maggie, who rolled her eyes, but nodded.

He gave Bill the thumbs up.

Bill hung up and announced, "They're coming. Everybody will be there."

"Who's coming?" Buzz asked for himself, echoing Donna, Ellie, and Sam's sentiments.

"Joe and Mary
Kemp and their kids. I told you about them, Buzz, over lunch the other day." Bill looked at Maggie and Mark. "They've got a bunch of kids."

"Can Joe play basketball?" Ellie asked, surprising everyone with her question.

"I don't know," Bill said with a shrug. "We can ask him."

"You could use a sixth man," Donna said.

"What for?" Sam asked. "We only play five on these courts. To fill in if we're
missing a guy?"

"No, silly," Donna said, a twinkle in her eye. "For the Revco Ten Thousand."

Buzz laughed hard at this. The Revco Ten Thousand was an annual charity tournament that featured hundreds of teams from all over the city. Rainbow Babies and Childrens Hospital got two hundred thousand dollars and the tournament champions got ten thousand. Revco got lots of publicity. A local cable station
always broadcast the final game, which was played at Cleveland State's arena.

Buzz explained this to the group.

"Then we'll have to find out if Joe can run," Mark said, quite seriously. "Or find a ringer."

"You are a ringer," Buzz offered.
Like Spearchucker Jones in the original M.A.S.H.

"Naw. I'm a hack. I mean a college guy. Somebody who can light it up."

"I might know somebody," Sam said hopefully,
unlacing his shoes, looking up. "One of my biggest customers played for North Carolina-Charlotte when they made that run in the NCAAs. His name is Elmer Phipps. He looks like he's still in shape, but he lives in Euclid."

"That doesn't matter for the tournament," Buzz said. "But we'd have to talk the Man into playing. He was an all-American on Notre Dame's football team, and has one of those big
gold rings with all the diamonds on it. He's another kind of ringer. He knows how to win. But the Man is kind of picky about who he hangs out with."

Mark and Bill nodded knowingly.
A ringer.

"You fellas are sounding awfully serious after only one day on the court," Maggie said, holding her youngest. "And I know that look when I see it, Agent Johnson. You're like a shark smelling blood."

Ellie
rolled her eyes.

Donna smiled. There was something special about the Scaps.
And I'm going to be their manager!

+  +  +

Grace triumphed with Bill White's simple announcement that "Everybody will be there."

The Father is a chess player, and the universe is His vast board. At the founding of America, deists worshiped at the altar of rugged individualism, assigning to God the role of clock maker;
making Him into an indifferent god who cared little to intervene in the world He wound and left ticking.

The Father rarely needs plagues and earthquakes to bring His children together in groups designed not only for their happiness, but also for their salvation.

Could Ellie have foreseen that her cocktail with Sam at the behest of Bucky would have led her to Mark Johnson's backyard on this warm
summer night, an engagement ring on her finger? Could Buzz have foreseen, even two minutes before he slammed into Sam during a basketball game, that Sam would become his best friend? Could Bill White have predicted that helping Mark Johnson's failing marriage would end up with them moving to Cleveland? Could Donna have foreseen that her decision to pick up a refrigerator on one day rather than the
next would bring her a close friend in Buzz?

One half hour after the last game on the Rocky River courts during an evening in July, a group was becoming a web of grace, intertwined so thoroughly that the slightest pressure on one thread would affect every other thread.

In the Johnson's backyard, little Meg Johnson began a friendship with Eileen Kemp that would last a lifetime. Joe Kemp discussed
computerizing his contracting business with Sam, and made an appointment to meet at Edwards & Associates. Maggie Johnson offered to help design and sew Ellie's wedding gown. Joe Kemp turned out to be a movie buff, and Buzz rented movies the following month because of suggestions from Joe. Bill gave Sam advice on how to advertise Edwards & Associates more effectively, and Sam would base decisions
worth tens of thousands of dollars on Bill's expertise. Donna invited Maggie, the new girl in town, to visit the Lourdes Shrine, and almost convinced Ellie to come along.

Over beers, Pepsi, diet ice tea, and pretzels hastily dumped into Maggie's Tupperware bowls, conversations began that would never end.

Mark Johnson's deep laughter caused his new senior citizen neighbor to peek through the curtains
of his window from his bed, awakened from his sleep.

Ellie found herself fighting against the temptation to become comfortable with these middle class westsiders, then gave in to the temptation, like a striking blue butterfly caught in a web. Without quite realizing it, she was reacting against the unarticulated certainty that there had to be a predator here, a spider waiting to inject her with
suburban poison.

Mary and Maggie were different, just as Buzz and Donna were different–in a way she couldn't put her finger upon. These were the first mothers she had ever met who didn't seem concerned about the size of their families.

They even showed signs of wanting
more
kids. There just had to be something unhinged, something let loose, about
that.

Ellie, like most people, didn't realize that
all the universe is a web, from the web of grassy roots beneath her stylish leather Keds, to the web of planets and stars which Einstein proved were related to each other by forces unseen and unheard. Whirling angels sang above her, touching and canting, also unseen and unheard.