The Ambition (12 page)

— Uh …

— Don’t answer that, Caroline.

—That’s right, I remember now: there
was
a window. A big window in his door.

— Really? Ms. Turner … [pause]
I made that up.

End of recording.

III

When the words finally came, they tumbled out — unedited, uncensored, uncontrollable, gushing like whitewater from a breached dam.

Tom O’Sullivan didn’t quite know how much he was going to reveal when he walked into Art Bullock’s office late on a blustery May afternoon.

Phillip Taylor had assured him he’d be safe here, whatever he needed to unload — to an “official clergyman” — and by the time Tom walked out ninety minutes later, he had spilled it all: the glory days in a golden family, the complex relationship with his larger–than–life dad, the humiliation of the scandal. The aftermath, being shunned by his peers and professors, scraping by as an attorney for thugs and dealers and thieves, and finally the gambling: the friendly games in college, and more recently, the heady nights in the smoky back room of Gardenia’s on West Taylor Street, the inevitable losses and the mounting debt, and being “persuaded” by Dominic Bugatti to carry out a certain errand.

Tom held back nothing.

Once they set up the ground rules — “I need a firewall,” Tom had told him, “I need total confidentiality” — the attorney seemed to surprise even himself with his candor and willingness to cleanse himself by purging the cancer that was metastasizing inside of him. Somehow, he felt like everything would be all right if he could finally just
say
it.

For years Tom had listened as his calculating clients pulled their punches with him — never really coming clean, always rationalizing and justifying their boorish and sociopathic behavior, spinning improbable excuses and just–so tales as they sought to convince him they were all right after all.

In the end they would think that they had fooled him, but they never had. Tom wanted none of that. Once and for all, he wanted to get all of this out of himself, everything, and for some reason it didn’t matter what this pastor thought of him.

And then Tom came to the punch line, revealing the exact nature of his message to Judge Reese McKelvie. Art flinched for the first time, almost imperceptibly, then shifted in his chair, re–crossing his legs, folding his hands in his lap, but saying nothing.

The cash–stuffed manila envelope, the cynical ease with which McKelvie slipped it into his desk drawer, the rigging of the arraignment of a mob hit man — all of it flowed out of Tom as if a wound had been lanced.

Tom came to the part about his epiphany at his kitchen table, his deli lunch with Phillip, his subsequent Friday nights at the gambling group, Phillip’s growing friendship, and the uncanny quote from King David that so fully captured Tom’s sense of dread as his deceit dragged him down.

He finally came to the end. Tom gave a deep sigh — a cleansing breath — and relaxed back on the couch. He searched Art’s face; he could detect no sign of judgment or condemnation. Finally, in a restrained tone with an understated sense of wonder, Art pronounced, “Tom, this is one amazing story.”

Tom shrugged and nodded slightly, taking in another deep breath and exhaling as if he’d just released a great weight. “I know,” he said. “I wish it weren’t all true.”

With that, he reached into the inside pocket of his brown herringbone sports coat, withdrew a micro–recorder, and leaned forward to give it to Art, who hesitantly took it in his hand and regarded it quizzically. He held down the rewind button for several seconds, the device emitting a garbled squeal until he pushed “Play.”

The volume was louder than either of them expected, startling them both:
You tell Bugatti this: I will make every effort to get the case to Sepulveda. If I succeed, I keep the money. But if I don’t succeed, I still keep the money. You got that? He’s not paying me for results; he’s paying me for the risk. You make that clear.

Art’s eyes widened as his mouth dropped open. He clicked off the recorder. “Are you kidding me? You
recorded
this?” Shaking his head in dismay, he placed the device on the glass–topped coffee table between them as if it were a live grenade.

“I’ve listened to it a dozen times,” Tom said. “It still makes me sick.”

“I’m not sure what to say about all this. I’m a pastor, not a cop. I’m not sure I can advise you on what to do with all of this McKelvie business.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m a lawyer; as best I can figure, there’s nothing I
can
do.”

“You can’t blow the whistle?”

“And spend my life being shuttled from safe house to safe house? Or end up like that guy on the floor of his brother’s garage? I don’t see a way I can make this right. The best I can do is get it off my chest, to try to get past it, to try to move on.” He paused a beat. “To try to do better.”

“Yeah,” said Art. “That’s a good place to start.”

The rain was beating hard on the windows now, the branches of a sugar maple scraping against the third–floor window as the wind whipped its freshly budding limbs.

For a few moments, neither of the men spoke — Tom relishing the first relief he’d experienced in weeks over his predicament. Art asked, “Did you ever read the rest of the 32
^nd
Psalm that Phillip quoted to you?”

“Uh, no.”

Art rose and took a few steps to his bookshelf. He started to remove a black leather Bible, but Tom reached out his hand toward him. “Please, you don’t need to read to me.”

Art turned and lowered himself back into his chair. “Then let me paraphrase. David says every time he tries to suppress or rationalize or flee from his guilt, he feels a pressure that squeezes him dry. But when he confesses, suddenly his guilt dissolves. God forgives him — providing refuge from the crushing weight that would destroy him.”

Tom considered the words for a moment. “I hope that’s true.”

Art leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and looked Tom directly in his eyes. “Tom, I’m more concerned about you than your circumstances.”

Instinctively, Tom shifted backwards. “I’m working through the steps. I believe in God — I get that, no problem. I’m not quite to the Jesus part yet. Too many questions.” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger and let a small grin inch onto his lips. “A lawyer’s mind, you know.”

Art smiled and sat back. “I think you’ve come further than you think. Confession opens the door for forgiveness. That’s the Jesus part. I don’t want to throw a lot of Bible verses at you, but — “

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” The words came out with an unintended edge.

“The truth is I like you, Tom. I want to help.”

Resistance crept onto Tom’s face. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be proselytized,” was the way he put it.

“You’ve already done the hard part,” said Art. “The easy part is forgiveness.”

For a minute Tom said nothing. His eyes drifted toward the window, where daylight was seeping away, and then returned to Art. “Maybe there’ll come a time, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll even learn how to forgive myself. But for now, I’ve got to figure out what to do next.”

“I’ll be honest: this is outside my experience. It’s probably outside
anybody’s
experience. I should get some counsel—”

“Hold on, Art. Remember our deal? You would never reveal any of this to anyone.
Ever,
under any circumstances. I’m counting on that.”

“Absolutely, no problem. But I’m committed to helping you figure this out.”

“Believe me, you’ve already done a lot, just by listening.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to beat rush hour,” he said, rising to his feet and retrieving his trench coat from where he’d folded it on the couch. Art stood and they shook hands.

“Really, I appreciate your time and concern,” Tom said. “Phillip was right — you’re a stand–up guy. This means a lot to me — I feel relieved. I won’t forget this.”

“Let’s not make this a one–time thing,” Art said. “I want you to know I’m here for you.”

Tom turned toward the door, but Art tugged his shoulder and gestured toward the recorder. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Tom thought for a moment. “If you’ve got a safe place for that thing, I’d rather leave it with you. I’d like to put it in my past. If that places you in an awkward position …”

Art didn’t hesitate — this was at least something he could actually do. “We’ve got a vault where we keep the weekend offering before it goes to the bank. I could put it in there for safekeeping.”

“That’s good for now. Yeah, keep it safe but keep it confidential. And if you ever feel like it’s putting you in any jeopardy, throw it in a dumpster.”

Before Tom could turn once again to leave, Art took a step toward his bookcase, slipped the Bible from the shelf, and tossed it to him. Tom bobbled it but then grabbed it tightly.

“At least,” Art said, “take this.”

IV

The crowd at that Friday evening’s Elders Prayer meeting was twice its usual size. Although Eric Snow had tried to squelch the news about the apparent healing of Hanna Kaarakka, word had passed from person to person that something extraordinary had happened to a little girl whose parents brought her for prayer.

And so they came, more than 150 of them, in wheelchairs and on crutches, tethered to guide dogs or leaning heavily on the arm of a loved one: the distraught mother toting her newborn with a cleft palate, the teenager facing a lifetime of diabetes, the frightened grandmother fighting breast cancer, the anxious father needing bypass surgery.

They filed into the dim, narrow chapel, sliding into the pews, their heads bowed in reverence and their spirits teased by anticipation. Many of them had been beaten down by bad news for so long that it was refreshing just to cling to the hope that something good might happen.

Having been coached by Eric Snow not to mention the incident with Hanna, and frankly still shaken by his experience with the child, Dick Urban was uncharacteristically nervous as he walked to the front. He gave his usual opening statement and offered a blanket prayer to cover the needs of most of those in attendance. Then he joined four of the other elders, vials of anointing oil in hand, as they assumed their stations around the periphery of the room.

As they awaited the first of the petitioners to approach them, the elders exchanged glances across the expanse of the chapel, as if to say,
Well, here we go.
Frankly, none of them knew what to expect anymore.

A frail–looking man in his fifties, using forearm crutches to support his unruly legs, worked his way over to where Dick was standing. He wore thick glasses and had strands of black hair combed over in a futile attempt to conceal an ever–expanding bald spot. At his side was a gray–haired woman clad in a thin, blue dress, her faced etched with sadness, her shoulders hunched in defeat.

The man was out of breath. “Post–polio,” was all he could manage to say.

Dick signaled for someone to bring over a folding chair, and the man gratefully lowered himself into it, stacking his crutches atop each other on the floor. Dick had seen this syndrome before, this mysterious and debilitating onset of exhaustion, pain, weakness, and muscle atrophy that can come decades after the initial viral infection of
poliomyelitis
ravaged the body’s nervous system.

“We’ve prayed and prayed; we’ve almost given up,” offered the woman in the most forlorn voice. “Our faith has sort of seeped away. After all Harold has been through — all the struggles since he got polio when he was nine — to have this happen now just seems so unfair.” She glanced down at her husband, now slumped in the gray metal chair. “We need help, that’s all I can say.”

Dick nodded and took a deep breath. “All that’s needed is faith the size of a mustard seed,” he said. It sounded like a cliché, to be sure — a biblical sentiment often tossed out to paper over pangs of doubt — but it didn’t come off that way when Dick said it. In fact, he wasn’t at all certain whether he was saying it for their benefit or his own.

He dipped two fingers into the vial of vegetable oil, and as Harold offered his face to him with his eyes tightly shut, Dick bent over and dabbed the clear substance on his forehead.

And then Dick prayed — not a rote prayer, not a formula prayer, not even a confident or “professional” prayer, but a prayer in which Dick all but lost himself. It was as if all of this man’s heartbreaks and disappointments and sadness somehow became intertwined and intermingled with Dick’s own spirit, and when he called out for God’s mercy he did it with every bit as much anguish as if the man’s pain were his own.

By the time he uttered, “Amen,” he wasn’t sure how long he had been speaking or exactly what he had asked God to do. Opening his eyes was like emerging from a trance.

What happened in the next few moments would ultimately become the topic of three separate articles in peer–reviewed medical journals and two doctoral dissertations — one in neurology from Johns Hopkins and the other in theology from the University of Aberdeen.

In the ensuing years, Harold Beamer would be subjected to everything from electrophysiological studies to spinal fluid analysis to neuroimaging. He would be poked and prodded, x–rayed and interrogated, and slid into more claustrophobia–inducing MRI chambers than he could possibly remember.

What would astonish the researchers the most would not be the spontaneous dissipation of his post–polio syndrome. Sure, that was extraordinary, but nevertheless it’s a rather nebulous and even transitory condition that’s hard to measure anyway.

No, what would astound — and confound — them was the way Harold Beamer instantaneously regained the full use of his legs, including the inexplicable return of the actual muscle tone and strength that had atrophied for years as he had languished with the effects of his polio.

The man could walk again.

From the moment he rubbed his legs to ward off the radiating heat and then stood confidently to his feet in front of his wide–eyed wife, sixth–grade math teacher and amateur chess champion Harold Beamer was healed — thoroughly, indisputably, mystifyingly healed.