Beyond Religion

Copyright © 2005 by Robert Wagner.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

I-SINNER

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

II-PRIEST

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

III-MISSIONARY

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

IV-LOVER

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

EPILOGUE

Dedication

Thanks to Cathie McEwen for making faces at the first draft. Also, thanks to Maureen Medved for her patience through numerous workshops. I appreciate Pat Anderson’s hard work for fine-tooth combing the manuscript. Finally, thanks to Claire, my patient wife, who had the good sense to remain neutral.

I-SINNER

CHAPTER 1

My dream recurs. A breaking sun shoots sparkles through

the skiff of fog that layers the lake. Father and I are fishing, trolling in his aluminum boat. The putt, putt, putt of the outboard, like the rhythm of a soft rock band, is easy listening music. I’m not quite awake. The sweater Mother knit for me is warm and only a bit itchy. Soon it will be too warm and too itchy. I tried to tell her we were fishing from a boat and there was no need for knee-high rubber boots.

Father wears a red plaid lumberjack shirt with the top two buttons undone. His fishing hat is emblazoned with a green-eyed hawk on a blue background. Across it are the words Seattle Seahawks.

I lean back in the clip-on chair and tug at my line to see if I caught a fish.

Father’s cap is low over his eyes. Tufts of red hair flutter in the breeze below the cap. His sleeves are rolled up now, and his freckled arms warm in the morning sun. His wide back is to me.

He is ambidextrous and holds his rod with one hand while the other grips a can of Coors.

I scan the water for ripples or the splash of a trout as it jumps for breakfast. Patience, Father says, you need lots of patience. Fish only bite when you think they won’t.

I close my eyes only to be jolted by his yell. They’re jumping dead ahead.

The boat lurches forward, and I’m dumped into the lake in a torrent of bubbles and water. My heart races, and I kick my way to the surface. He can’t hear my screams. My boots fill with water and again I sink.

I wake up gasping. My head is beneath my pillow and covers lie on the floor. I am cold. My sweat congeals. A film of ice envelops me.

Mother is beside me. She must have heard my screams and surrounds me with warm blankets, but I dare not close my eyes.

Not the same dream? she says. Funny, you’ve never been fishing.

She presses a hot water bottle on my chest. Soon, my shaking hands are quiet enough to hold the hot chocolate that she made. I don’t want to go to school today, Mom.

It’s better that you go. Have a hot shower. You’ll feel better.

I leave but not before I reluctantly eat a bowl of hot cereal. Don’t dawdle after class. Father’s coming home from camp.

Rock, rock, rock. Swivel, rock, rock. I enjoy the motion as I lounge in Father’s chair and wait. Soon he’ll burst home for a weekend of R&R.

Our driveway abuts against an aging verandah. I feel safe here in the den behind the old porch that’s a dry moat surrounding the house. And before Father can cross it to reclaim his den, I will find safe haven.

A low rumble, like gathering thunder, warns me of his arrival. His black mud-spattered truck with its ram emblem grinds into the driveway, brakes locked and spewing gravel. A terminal revving of the engine precedes its shut down. I relinquish the TV, Prime Star remote, and one hundred sports channels. Where would I rather be on a Friday night? Elsewhere, of course, elsewhere, with my friends, hanging out, driving around, and doing whatever.

I remain hidden under the shadows of the eaves as Father jumps out of his truck, lands like a paratrooper with both knees flexed, and slams the truck door with a backward kick of his right foot. A chirp of the remote irritates my ears as the truck locks down. In three strides, he is at the front door reaching for the handle. He pulls his cap from oily matted hair and slaps it across his knee to expel a week of accumulated sweat and sawdust. My sister and mother are on the porch waiting to greet him. Soon, they’ll be surrounded by the smells that accompany him.

He insists that we spend our Friday nights at home.

I work all week. What’s the point in coming home if no one’s here? We need family time.

The tightness in Mother’s face reflects constant pain. Every Friday afternoon, she takes pills to ease her backache, removes the pillow from behind her knees, and twists herself out of bed to stand under a hot shower until it’s no longer hot. She emerges with her hair neatly combed and a freshly made up face. Then, she waits like a sentry for her husband and smiles when his footstep shakes the porch.

Welcome home, Bruce, she says, hands folded in front of her. He reaches for her, but she retreats and winces as a sagging floorboard jars her back. Do you think you’d have time to fix that board, Bruce? It’s in an awkward place, and I’m forever catching my heel on it.

Guess I better. I told Tom to fix it. You’d think somebody in grade 12 could remove one board and replace it. I’ll try to get around to it. Tom would only bugger it up anyhow. By the way, where is he?

He’s around somewhere, but he never learned how to fix loose boards nobody taught him.

She squeezes the small of her back and sighs. Why don’t you take off your coveralls, dear?

She flicks a few bits of sawdust off his shirt. You have clean clothes in the bathroom and a cold beer in the cooler. I know how thirsty you get in a hot bath.

Bruce Spanner only grins when Mother insists that he remove his boots before entering the house.

Thomas, where are you?

Right here, Mom.

Well, don’t just stand there. Get his bag out of the truck and take it to the laundry room.

You OK, Mom? You don’t look so good.

Of course I don’t. My back’s killing me. I never should have let them talk me into a second operation. I’ve got screws and rods in my back. I’m so stiff I can’t bend over to tie my laces. I can’t get a decent back rub anywhere. All the doctors say is, ‘It would really help if you’d lose weight.’

Julie busies herself in the kitchen. She is cook by default. Mother can’t stand long enough to cook. I’m unfamiliar with the culinary arts and therefore useless. Besides, she’s my older sister; it seems a natural function. A pot of water simmers on the stove. Beads of sweat dot Julie’s forehead, while her cheeks are pink in the kitchen’s heat. A neat orange apron covers the yellow dress that she wore to work.

Hi, Thomas. What’re you up to?

Just hangin’, sis. Waiting to have dinner with Father. Can’t go out till later when he’s watching some game on the tube.

Don’t be so selfish. He works all week. Why shouldn’t he insist on dinner with all of us?

I guess.

Her slender hand automatically locates spices and utensils. Essential materials are at waist level. Mother insisted on this so there’d be no need to bend, even though she rarely cooks anymore.

I suppose you’re bored, Julie says. How about setting the table so we don’t have to eat with our hands? Did it really matter if the fork was on the left or right? We could still reach the spoon even if the handle was up or down.

Practice, Tom. You can’t get married until you get it right.

Julie’s hazel eyes crinkle at the corners and for a moment, I want to do it right.

I don’t want to get married, I reply. Why should I get someone who’ll boss me around?

You could take turns you know.

Naw, I’m not a fighter. How about you? You ever want to get married?

Look around. Do you think it’s fulfilling to cook a man’s meals, do his laundry, and have him come to bed smelling of beer, hands all over you, and then snore half the night?

They’ve got separate beds. Besides, it doesn’t have to be like that.

Awesome, Tom. You get extra spaghetti tonight, but no beer.

Come on, sis, I bet there are a lot of guys who really like you. Why don’t you give one a chance?

Because nobody treats me like an equal. Most want only one thing. To the others, it’s always the little woman or she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like the church. Women aren’t good enough to be priests and speak for their god, only good enough to serve. I wouldn’t mind being a nun, but not the old kind, suppressed, inferior, and subservient. I do have some pride.

It’s cool the way you’ve got it figured. So chill. I was just asking.

Oh, sorry, Tom, I got carried away. I’m frustrated having to look after Mom. Who else would? Everything hurts when she moves. I know she’s seen every doctor, quack, and healer here in Bellingham. Even Seattle’s specialists can’t help her. All the chronic pain joints, MMPI surveys, electrical stimulations, antidepressants, physiatrists, and psychiatrists can’t help her. Do I dump her? I can’t, Tommy. I just can’t.

Holy shit, Julie. I hardly know what you’re on about. It’s different for you. You’ve got a job. You could split. And maybe, just maybe, Mom could start to do stuff and get it together. Then maybe she could get home care or something.

Mother shuffles into the kitchen. Her eyelids droop, and her voice sounds far away. How are you managing? What can I do to help?

We’re just about there, Julie says. We only need to boil the spaghetti and make the sauce.

That’s great, sweetheart, I really don’t know what I’d do without you.

Julie’s smile verges on a grimace. You would, Mom. You’d make do.

Maybe, but you’re a big help.

CHAPTER 2

Father slouches at the kitchen table, fork in one hand and beer

in the other. His hair, a curly mop, no longer matted, adds an inch to his height. Muscular forearms protrude beneath rolled-up sleeves. His hands are rough and scarred while fingernails are burdened with the perpetual grime of his job. Physically, we are opposites, he the bulldog and I the greyhound—a greyhound that can’t even run. I’m two inches taller than Father, and his chest circumference seems twice that of mine.

A clean shirt, open two buttons at the neck, betrays the first signs of age. Some of his chest hairs have transformed to a subtle shade of gray.

Hey, he says. Where is everybody?

We’re coming, dear, Mother calls from the kitchen, and we proceeded like three wise men bearing gifts. Mother carries spaghetti, Julie brings sauce, and I trail with miscellaneous.

Looks great, he says. Sure is nice to come home to a real meal. Not like camp where the cook doesn’t give a shit.

Mother frowns and dabs at her lips with a napkin. It’s so nice to see you. How was your week?

It was a sonofabitch. I was setting up the trim saw and getting the angle just right. Ninety degrees up and ninety degrees lateral. I ran a test board when the blade exploded. Some goddamn tree hugger hammered a nail into a tree. Lucky thing, I wore a face shield—not a mark on me. The FN bastard could have killed me.

Mother savors a minor victory, Bruce Spanner no longer says fucking at the dinner table. He abbreviates it to FN.

So what’s up with you, guys? Father asks between sips of beer. What’s new, Julie?

Oh, nothing much. I’ve reorganized the optometrists to actually spend time in shopping malls. Then people can get their eye exams and glasses with a minimum of inconvenience. It’s turned out to be a real moneymaker. I got a raise.

Smart girl. That’s real good. I’m happy for you.

And I’m going to be a nun.

What?

I think I’m going to be a nun.

Father nearly swallows his beer can. His eyes bulge, and his neck veins stand out like breakfast sausage. A nun? Like in penguin? What the hell for?

Well, Daddy, because I want to help people.

Shit. So you’re going to help a bunch of drunks and wimps that won’t help themselves. And where’s that going to get you?

I’ll have a good feeling.

Bruce Spanner fixes his bright blue eyes on his daughter. You’re young, smart, and pretty. You’ve got a real good future. What pervert have you been talking to?

Father glares at Mother. Do you know anything about this crap?

Oh no, sweetheart. This is the first I’ve heard of it. But we did raise her Catholic, and she still goes to church on Sundays.

I don’t give a shit if she goes to a mosque on Saturdays. It’s the stupidest goddamn idea I’ve ever heard. You better get it out of her pea-brained mind.

Mother smiles.

It’s OK, Julie says. I haven’t decided for sure. I need to give it more thought and prayer. Perhaps counseling too.

Father upends his beer and squashes the helpless aluminum can. Then he turns his sights toward me, swiveling slowly like a tank turret. What have you been doing?

Nuthin’.

What do you mean, nuthin’?

Just going to school and stuff.

What kind of stuff?

Oh, you know, the usual. English, math, socials—stuff like that.

You still working at McDonald’s?

Yup.

Well, ain’t that something. Working and going to school.

He opens another Coors. Where have we gone wrong, Judith? One wants to be a nun, and the other goes to school and does nuthin’.

Oh relax, Bruce. He’ll get it all together. It’s just that he’s a slow starter.

Well, it’s un-American. But then what can you expect. He was born premature when we were on holiday in Canada.

Julie rolls her eyes. Just how slow are you, Thomas?

Just what I need, I say, two of you on my case.

You know, Father says, when I was your age, I was in the army and—

We know, Julie says and rolls her eyes once more.

Never mind. How are you coming along, Judith? he said turning to Mom.

Slowly. When I move the wrong way, pain goes down both my legs; and when I cough or sneeze, it just kills me. Sometimes I’m so numb that I don’t know where my legs are. Dr. Johnston says it’s my proprioception that’s impaired, and that’s why I don’t have a position sense. He doesn’t think the surgeon did anything wrong, but I was a lot worse after the operation. As a matter of fact, I got worse right after the myelogram. I’ve heard they didn’t have to stick a needle in my spine and put x-ray dye in. A CAT scan or MRI would have told them all they needed to know. Look at Elsie Waterton. She’s in a wheelchair from a myelogram. Maybe I should see a lawyer. These doctors always stick up for each other. What do you think, Bruce?

What?

I said—oh, never mind. You weren’t even listening. You don’t even care enough to pay attention. Go. Take your beer to the den. Watch your sports on TV. It’s my body. My problem.

Sorry. I didn’t mean nuthin’. My mind wandered for a minute.

Mom gets up slowly, with both hands braced on the table, her suffering etched on the crease lines of her face. Julie, help me to bed. There’s no reason to stay up. Do the dishes, Thomas. Your sister’s done enough. Besides, she’s going out.

Julie, can I get a ride to Bill’s house? He’s got a big collection of videos, and we were just going to hang out.

Father’s face reddens. That’s bloody great. I work all week, look forward to seeing all of you, and what happens? Everybody disappears. What am I, a bloody mule?

I cringe. Soon he will yell.

Julie steps toward him and puts an arm around his shoulders. Oh, what big muscles you have, Papa, but I work too. After I finish my job, I come home to cook and look after the house. And Tommy works too. He vacuums, dusts, waters the plants, takes out the garbage, cuts the grass, and does what he can to keep this place going. It may seem like mostly women’s work to you, but it all helps. Besides, she says, pushing her lips into a pout. I know you’re going to put your feet up and watch TV. So I’ll go out tonight and socialize. All work and no play, you know. If I don’t have a social life, I might just become a nun.

I leave with Julie, amazed at how she softened Father.

I have a pain, Julie. Will you teach me how to do that?

She grins. I can’t teach you. It’s an inborn thing.

Bill’s house overlooks Bellingham Harbor. A wrought iron fence guards the manicured lawn and sculpted plants. Interlocked bricks pave the driveway that leads to high double oak doors. Recessed to the left of the house, a three-car garage blends with the shrubbery.

Bill’s new in school. He wanted to be friends so he threw a party at his house. We’re curious about Bill and his 911 Porsche.

He’s standing at the open door. Baggy pants drag on the hardwood. A T-shirt with a nude picture of Marylyn Manson hangs over his belt. A plain gold chain encircles his neck. Hidden by his shirt is a muscular body. A Seattle Mariners baseball cap sits backward on his spiked hair. From time to time, a casual hand checks the diamond in his ear lobe.

Enter, he bows. We got popcorn, ‘n’ beer, ‘n’ pizza. Glad you made it. There are a lot of people here already.

He hands me an imported beer in green glass bottle. I knew there was beer other than Coors in a can. He says, The women are waiting. What kept you?

The old man came home. He only let me go after he had enough beer.

Nearly the whole class is here. Most just stand around with drinks and talk. Some sit on sofas, smoking grass, and nodding to the music. No other cigarette has that smell.

She must have come up from an angle at my blind side. I feel the softness of her breast against my side and enjoy her arm around my waist. Moira squeezes close and says with a laugh, I didn’t know you were a party animal, Tom. Are you having a good time?

Oh, yeah sure.

Sure you are, she says and giggles as she leaves.

For a while, I stand in a corner and drink my beer. I try unsuccessfully to look cool. My fingers keep time with INXS, Sting, and Backstreet Boys. A few couples, glued to each other, sway under the subdued light in imitation of a dance.

I nod to people and some even talk to me. It’s not necessary. I only need to be here. After a few more beer, I loosen up and mellow as the hours pass. In the morning, I have a job. Reluctantly, I decide to go home. I try to find Bill to say good night. He’s wrapped around a girl and can’t see me. I decide not to bother him.

When I leave after midnight, no one offers a lift, so I walk. Dew slicks the grass. I discover this when I accidentally walk off the sidewalk and fall on my bum. Soon I need to stop and pee into a hedge. More than dew moistens my shoes.

I near my house and see the light is on; I decide to sneak in the back. It’s no use; all the doors are locked. I use my key and tiptoe past Father’s den. He’s still watching TV.

CHAPTER 3

Saturday morning and nothing is stirring except a thump as

Father’s feet hit the floor. Vibrations initiate a pain in my head. I scramble into my clothes, eat two peppermints, and ignore my headache. Father sometimes yanks off my covers and pulls me