Time Off for Good Behavior (12 page)

I had thought about calling and telling them about the divorce, but it would have just led to painful silences and unanswered questions like,
“
If you love me so much, why did you abandon me to an abus
ive shit?
”
And who needed crap like that around Thanksgiving?

I hobbled out of the shower and managed to get dressed, pausing whenever the crying became too overpowering. I tried to busy myself with housework, but there wasn
’
t much left to do. As time pass
ed and I couldn
’
t stop crying, I started to panic. What if I never stopped crying? What if I died of dehydration and became nothing more than an annotation in a bathroom reader, wedged between the guy who hiccuped himself to death and the chick who bungee
jumped off an eighty-foot bridge with a ninety-five-foot bungee cord?

I had to get out. I had to go somewhere. I had to talk to someone. But there was nowhere for me to go and no one for me to talk to. I could have called Walter, but the idea of being the
object of his pity again only made the sobbing worse.

So I went to St. Benedict
’
s and weaseled my way into the confessional.

“
You
’
re not Catholic?
”
The priest
’
s voice was cracked and warm. I couldn
’
t see much of his face through the grate between us, but h
e sounded old and wise. I hoped he
’
d live up to that impression.

“
No,
”
I said. My sobbing had quieted, but the tears were still flowing.
“
If you want me to leave...
”

“
No,
”
he said.
“
That
’
s okay. Is anyone waiting out there?
”

“
I didn
’
t see anyone else.
”

He
released a soft sigh, sounding slightly disappointed. I briefly considered pulling a Debbie Manney and trying to convince him that the lack of penitents was because he was such a good priest and no one was sinning, but he sounded like the kind of guy who
c
ould tell horseshit when he heard it. Besides, it was my understanding that God frowned on blowing smoke at priests.

“
Would you like to tell me what
’
s bothering you?
”
he asked.

“
I
’
m alone.
”
My voice was quivering. I cleared my throat and tried to continue
with a stronger tone.
“
I married a real bad guy a few years ago, and he drove my family and friends away.
”

There was a pause. Then,
“
No, he didn
’
t.
”

“
Huh?
”
I wasn
’
t expecting to catch interference from the father.

“
He didn
’
t drive your family and friends
away. You did.
”

I leaned closer to the grate.
“
Do I know you?
”

“
No,
”
he said. His tone was strong
—
not accusatory, but not terribly tolerant, either. I got the feeling this wasn
’
t the kind of priest who
’
d be cutting me a whole lot of slack.
“
If you chose h
im, you chose him for a reason. On some level, you wanted to drive your family and friends away, and this guy was probably the most expedient route to that goal. If you want to get over this, you have to take responsibility for those choices.
”

I felt a fla
sh of fury fly through my gut.
“
Oh, yeah? I
wanted
to be completely alone and have no one other than a hard-ass priest to talk to?
”

He chuckled.
“
In a nutshell.
”

I thunked my head on the back of the booth. Now I knew why no one was there. Wednesday was the
Day of His Holy Hard-Ass.
“
Okay,
”
I said through clenched teeth.
“
Fine.
”

“
Are you angry?
”
he asked.

“
Hell, yeah, I
’
m angry.
”

“
Good,
”
he said.
“
We
’
re getting somewhere, then.
”

I mimicked him silently. Friggin
’
priests.

After a moment, his voice poked at me
through the grate.
“
Can I tell you what
’
s bothering me?
”

This was an unexpected turn of events. I shrugged.
“
Sure. Why not?
”

“
I sit here, day in and day out, and listen to people confess. Most of it is small-time stuff.
‘
I lied about my weight, Father.
’
‘
I had impure thoughts, Father.
’
‘
I wished horrible things would happen to my ex, Father.
’
”

I shot up.
“
Is that bad? Is that like a get-into-heaven deal breaker? Because I do that a lot.
”

He went on, ignoring me.
“
They have a tally of sins they check off. T
hey come in here and read the list to me. I give them a few Hail Marys and I see them again the next week and it
’
s all the same stuff.
”

There was a pause. I leaned a little closer to the grate and spoke softly.
“
Isn
’
t that how it
’
s supposed to work?
”

“
A li
ttle, yes.
”
He sighed.
“
But most of the real stuff that people do, the things that really hurt them and the people they love, they don
’
t confess to, because they either don
’
t realize they
’
re doing it or they think it
’
s someone else
’
s fault.
”

I nodded and t
ook a moment to process this before speaking again.
“
So what you
’
re saying is, George didn
’
t run my family off?
”

“
No, he didn
’
t.
”

“
So what you
’
re saying is, I
’
m completely alone in the world because I choose to be?
”

“
In so many words, yes.
”

I watched as th
e tears splashed onto my hands, falling faster as my breathing went all choppy. My voice came out high-pitched and whiny.
“
This isn
’
t working the way I hoped it would, Father.
”

“
Sometimes what we hope for isn
’
t what
’
s best for us.
”

I took a moment to gathe
r myself as well as I could.
“
Okay. Well, I guess I
’
ll be going. Do I need to do anything, a Hail Mary or something?
”

“
Do you know what a Hail Mary is?
”

“
No.
”

I could hear a soft laugh come through the grate.
“
Then just go out there and do something meanin
gful to you.
”

I froze.
“
What did you say?
”

“
I said you should do something that has meaning for you.
”

I half sniffled, half chuckled.
“
What, is it like National Do Something Meaningful Month or what?
”

Another laugh.
“
I don
’
t know. I don
’
t think so. It doe
sn
’
t sound like a bad idea, though.
”

I tucked my tissues in my pocket and rubbed my face with my hands.
“
Father, what if I can
’
t find anything meaningful to do?
”

“
Then it will find you.
”

I nodded, having absolutely no idea what the hell he was talking abou
t. Sure, it sounded like a good priestly answer, but I would have preferred specific instructions, like the kind you get with a bottle of shampoo. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. That I can work with.

I thanked him for his time and pulled back the curtain. There wa
s a woman kneeling in a pew. She crossed herself and stood up, heading toward the booth. I pulled a fresh package of travel-sized tissues out of my jacket pocket and tucked them into her hand.

“
You
’
re gonna be needing these,
”
I said, giving her a pat on th
e shoulder.

***

“
Hastings Daily Reporter
, this is Jennifer. Can I interest you in a personals ad, four lines for four dollars for the first week?
”

“
Oh, don
’
t give me that crap, Jennifer.
”
I was trying to pull a sweatshirt over my head with the phone tuck
ed between my ear and my shoulder. I
’
ve had better ideas. The phone fell from my grip; when I picked it up, I heard Jennifer
’
s soft southern drawl.
“
I
’
m sorry? Who is this?
”

“
It
’
s Wanda. Wanda Lane. I called about the
‘
Do something meaningful
’
ad. Remember
?
”

“
Oh. Yes.
”
Complete silence. I grabbed the crinkled newspaper off my bed and held it up to the phone. I knew she couldn
’
t see it, but I thought maybe hearing that distinctive newspaper crinkle would put the fear of God into her.

“
Yeah,
”
I said.
“
You wan
na tell me what the hell this is?
”

Small pause.
“
I put the ad in for you? Just like you said? In two lines?
”

“
You said you
’
d make the font smaller!
”
I stared at the ad in front of me, which was circled in furious red ink.

“
Well, turns out we couldn
’
t do t
hat? So I just edited?
”

“
Edited?
”
I shook the newspaper again. In the back of my mind, I knew I looked like a Thorazine candidate, but I went with it. I clutched the paper and read the ad.
‘
“
Who are you? Wanda wants to know,
’
With my phone number! What the
hell is that?
”

“
You said four lines was too expensive? So I edited?
”

“
It
was
too expensive, you bunch of crooks! But the original request was,
‘
Who the hell do you think you are?
’
not
‘
Who are you?
’
That
’
s not editing.
”