Keeping Faith: A Novel (36 page)

“You got it.”

“Just don’t do anything that won’t be admissible in court. No dressing up like the plumber’s assistant and going to check the pipes, only to come out with evidence seized without a warrant.”

“I only did it once,” Lacey says,

chagrined. “Are you going to bring it up forever?”

“I might.” Metz claps her shoulder. “Go to work.” He watches the Honda weave down the street, and then walks toward the building that houses the law office. His eyes flicker toward his name, carved on the stone plaque outside. The glass-and-chrome doors swing open on sensor,

as if they have been waiting for him all along.

Mariah takes refuge in the basement workshop. With determination she picks up a thin block of maple, intent on turning it into a miniature kitchen table, but she is too distracted to do it well. Frustrated, she sits beside her half-finished dollhouse and rests her head in her hand.

She can see the tiny bathroom fixtures and the knotty-pine floors in the bedrooms and the kitchen cabinet that is still ajar. She can see into the most private parts of this house without even having to try.

This is what it’s like, she thinks, to be God.

She considers this for a moment, thinking of all the young girls who play so easily at being a divine being–able to put their dollhouse families through their paces. Mariah glances up at the ceiling and wonders if God is doing the same thing to her and Faith.

She remembers, suddenly, why as a child she never had people in her dollhouses. The family dog would butt up against the house and the miniature baby would tumble down the stairs before Mariah had a chance to grab him. Or the mother figurine would be facedown on the bed, and Mariah would think that the doll had been sobbing her heart out all night while she herself slept. It made her feel guilty–she couldn’t play with all of the dolls at once, couldn’t take care of all their needs.

It was no great bargain to be godlike, to have the power to help and soothe and comfort and know that she couldn’t save everyone all the time.

So she grew up to build houses without dolls, places where furniture was bolted down and glued into position, homes where nothing was left to chance. And yet, Mariah realizes that she still didn’t make a clean escape.

Manipulation, responsibility, watchfulness.

It is not so different, really, from being a mother.

From the Manchester Diocese of the Catholic Church Manchester, NH, October 29, 1999–

His Excellency the Bishop of Manchester has issued a notice in response to the queries by priests, religious, and laity regarding the activity of Faith White, resident of New Canaan, NH, who claims to be allegedly hearing and seeing heavenly revelations.

A serene and attentive examination of the matter was undertaken by the diocese, and Faith White’s visionary claims have been ruled false. It is our duty to underline one major doctrinal error:

erroneous language regarding Christ, who is not and should not be referred to as a woman or mother of any kind.

The MotherGod Society, which has been primarily responsible for transmitting the message of Faith White via pamphlet and preaching, is spreading teachings which are not regarded as Catholic dogma and which must be ignored.

That night, when the MotherGod Society first hears of Bishop Andrews’s official denunciation of Faith White, they hand out apples. They dispense more than three hundred Jonagolds from a local orchard and invite people to take a bite out of the myth of male religion.

“The Garden of Eden was just the beginning,” they shout.

“Eve didn’t cause the fall from grace.”

The woman who has become their leader, Mary Anne Knight, mills through the crowd shaking hands. She knows this is not as radical and new a movement as people might think. Twenty years ago,

she’d studied at Boston College with Mary Daly, who went on to leave the Catholic church after saying it was rooted in sexism. But Mary Anne loved Catholicism too much to renounce it. One day, she prayed, there will be room for me in the Church.

Then she heard about Faith White.

She stands on an overturned apple crate, her cohorts gathering around and waving half-eaten cores. Pulling her fleece jacket tighter, she covers a T-shirt provocatively printed MY GODDESS GAVE BIRTH TO YOUR GOD.

“Ladies,” she cries out, “we have the pastoral letter from Bishop Andrews here.” She extracts a Zippo lighter from her pocket. “And this is what we have to say in response.” With a flourish, she sets fire to the corner of the missive and lets it burn all the way to her fingertips.

As the crowd of enthusiastic women cheers,

Mary Anne smiles. Let the Manchester diocese think that a gaggle of women are just letting their petticoats hang out; let the stuffy old bishop write warnings till he’s blue in the face–there are some things His Excellency hasn’t taken into consideration. The MotherGod Society still has Faith White. And two representatives en route to the Vatican,

planning to launch a formal protest.

Mariah is brushing her teeth and flipping through the late-night channels on the television when she sees Petra Saganoff’s face, and the backdrop of her own house. “Hollywood Tonight! has uncovered a new development in the case of Faith White. In an unexpected move, the father of the child, Colin White, has reappeared in New Canaan to seek full custody of his daughter.”

Millie, wearing cream on her face and a flannel nightgown, comes rushing into the room.

“Are you watching this?”

The screen changes to shots of the courthouse,

where Colin and his attorney appear to speak into several microphones at once, their shoulders hunched against the bitter wind. “It’s a tragedy,” Colin says to the cameras. “No little girl should be raised like that–” His voice breaks,

seemingly unable to continue.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Millie says.

“Did he hire an attorney or an acting coach?”

Petra Saganoff’s face reappears.

“Malcolm Metz, the attorney for Mr.

White, alleges that being placed in Mariah White’s custody is physically and psychologically endangering Faith. Of course,

the pending custody case is now a matter of public record. We’ll have more on this story as it unfolds. This is Petra Saganoff, for Hollywood Tonight!”

Millie walks to the television set briskly and turns it off. “It’s drivel.

No one with a brain is going to believe anything Colin says.”

But Mariah shakes her head and spits toothpaste into the sink. “That’s not true. They’re going to see him crying over his daughter, and that’s what they’re going to remember.”

“The only person who you should worry about is the judge. And judges don’t watch garbage TV like that.” Mariah, rinsing out her mouth,

pretends not to hear. She wonders if Joan saw it, if Ian saw it, if Dr. Keller saw it. Her mother is wrong. You can reach a lot of people, without even trying–Faith is proof of that.

She keeps the water running, until she hears Millie walk out of the room.

He knows when to call her, because he has repositioned the Winnebago so that it faces Mariah’s bedroom. After the light goes out,

Ian closes his eyes, trying to imagine what she is wearing to bed, whether her legs scissor between the cool sheets. Then he picks up his cell phone and dials, his gaze on the small pair of windows. “Turn on the light,” he says.

“Ian?”

“Please.” He hears her shift, and then there is a golden glow to the room. He cannot see her,

but he pretends he can; he imagines her sitting up and gripping the phone and thinking of him. “I’ve been waiting on you.”

Mariah settles into her bedding–he can tell by the soft sigh of the fabrics. “How long?”

“Too long,” Ian answers, and there is more to the words than easy flirting. Watching her walk away from him in the grocery store without being able to follow took all his self-control. He pictures her hair, spread over the pillow like a spray of gold, the curve of her neck and shoulder a puzzle piece made to fit flush against him. Curling the phone closer, he whispers, “So, Miz White. You gonna tell me a bedtime story?”

He expects to hear a smile in her voice,

but instead it is thick with tears. “Oh,

Ian. I’m all out of happy endings.”

“Don’t say that. You have a long way to go between here and that custody battle.” He stands up,

willing her to come toward the window. “Don’t cry,

sugar, when I can’t be there.”

“I’m sorry. I– Oh, God, what you must think of me! It’s just this whole thing, Ian.

One nightmare after another.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to do a story on Faith, Mariah. I may even pull out of here entirely, make it look like I’m onto something else. At least until after the hearing.”

“It won’t make a difference. There are plenty of other people left around to turn Faith into some kind of martyour. Did you see Hollywood Tonight!?”

“No–why?”

“Colin was on, breaking down and saying that Faith can’t live like this.”

“He’s putting the media to work for him,

Mariah. His lawyer’s just savvy enough to get his client’s face out in front of the public for sympathy.” He hesitates for a moment. “It’s not such a bad idea, actually. You ought to turn right around to Hollywood Tonight! and invite them to hear the other side of the story. Give ol’

Petra an exclusive.”

Mariah goes absolutely silent. “I can’t do that, Ian.”

“Why, of course you can. I’ll coach you through it, just like the lawyer did for your ex.”

“It’s not that.” Her voice is small and suddenly distant. “I can’t have a reporter asking me all kinds of questions, because there are things that have happened to me that I don’t want spread around.

Things I haven’t even told you.”

He learned long ago that sometimes the wisest course is to keep quiet. Ian sits on the edge of the Winnebago’s couch and waits for Mariah to tell him what he learned weeks before.

“I was suicidal seven years ago, and Colin had me sent to an institution.”

“I know.” Ian thinks of The Boston Globe, and feels his gut twist.

“You … you do?”

“Well, of course,” he says, aiming for a light tone. “Before I was smitten by your considerable charms, I was doing a story on you and your daughter.”

“But–but you didn’t say anything.”

“Not in public, no. And not in private, because it didn’t make any difference to me. Mariah,

you’re the sanest person I know. And as for not having anything to live for anymore, well, I’m doing my damnedest to keep you from thinking that these days.”

He hears it then, the joy breaking over her.

“Thank you. Thank you so much for that.”

“I aim to please.”

“If memory serves, you hit the mark,”

Mariah says, and they both laugh.

Then there is a comfortable quiet between them,

punctuated by the distant calls of owls and barking dogs. “You should do it, though,” Ian adds after a moment. “Have Petra Saganoff over. It’s the best way to show a great number of people that your little girl is just a little girl. Tell Petra she can shoot B-roll and do a voice-over as she sees fit, but no interviews.” He smiles into the phone. “Fight back, Mariah.”

“Maybe I will,” she says.

“That’s my girl.” He sees a shape appear at the window of the bedroom. “Is that you?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

He watches her turn, scan the darkness for a face she cannot see. Ian flickers the lights in the Winnebago. “Here. See?” Her hands come up to press against the glass, and Ian remembers them against the flat of his chest, cool and curious.

“I wish I was with you now.”

“I know.”

“You know what I’d do if I were with you now?”

“What?” Mariah asks breathlessly.

Ian grins. “Go to sleep.”

“Oh. That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Maybe that, too, then. But I haven’t had a night’s rest like I did with you in … God,

well, years.”

“I think … I think I’d like to wake up with you,” Mariah says shyly.

“That would be a fine thing, too,” Ian agrees. “Now, get away from that window. I don’t want the whole crowd out here laying eyes on you.” He waits until he hears the covers rustle, Mariah pulling up the sheets to cover herself. “Good night.”

“Ian?”

“Hmm?”

“About what you said before–you won’t leave now, will you?”