Virgin (13 page)

"What's
happened is I've become the Prisoner of Zenda."

Charlie had
never been a sturdy sort, but now he looked positively gaunt. Arthur wanted to
throw his arms around him and tell him how much he'd missed him, but the look in
Charlie's eyes stopped him cold.

He sat on the
foot of the bed, carefully, so as not to upset the tray.

"You know
better than that. This is your home."

"Not with
turnkey Sanchez around."

"Charlie,
I brought you back for your own good. That's not the kind of life for you. For
anybody. It's an abomination in the eyes of God."

"It's
my
life." Charlie's eyes flashed. Arthur had never seen him so defiant.

"It's a
sinful life."

"Life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness--isn't that what a United States senator
is supposed to protect?"

"Don't be
flip. I want to help you turn your life around."

"By when?
For the primaries in a few years?"

If only it were
that simple, Arthur thought. If that was all there was to it . . .

He shuddered as
old memories surged to the fore. Violently he thrust them back down into the
mire where they belonged.

No. This was
not only for himself. Charlie's sodomite urges were a test. If Arthur could
help his son out of this moral quagmire, he would prove himself, he would . . .
redeem
himself. And God would know what a weapon he had in Arthur
Crenshaw.

"Do you
like the life you're living, Charlie?"

"It's the
only one I've got."

"That
doesn't answer the question."

"It has
its moments."

"In the
wee small hours, Charlie . . . when it's just you and God and the dark outside
the window . . . how do you feel?"

Charlie's gaze
faltered for the first time. He fiddled with a slice of toast on his breakfast
tray.

"I wake up at three or four in the morning, shaking and
sweaty. And I sit there thinking about how I've failed you. I remember how Mom
never put me down, but every so often I'd catch her watching me and there'd be
this unreadable look in her eyes. I didn't know what she was thinking, but I
have to assume I disgusted her. And I know what
you
think, Dad--you've
always been up front about how you felt. So I sit there in the dark thinking
about how
repulsive
I am to the two most important people in my life." His voice fell to a
whisper. "And I feel like such a loser."

Arthur felt his
throat tighten. He had to help this boy. He reached out and put a hand on Charlie's
arm. Dear Lord, it was so
thin.

"You can't
be judged a loser until you've given up trying, Charlie. And that's why I
brought you home. I want you to try."

Charlie looked
up at him again. "Try what?"

"To change."

He shook his
head. 'That's not possible."

"It is,
Charlie," he said, gently squeezing his arm. "With God's help and the
right doctors, you can do it."

Charlie's laugh
rang hollow against the walls. "I think God must have lots of concerns
more pressing than my sexual orientation. And really, Dad, if it's the election
you're worried about, relax. No one will connect me with you. And even if they
did, it could actually work to your advantage. We're a pretty cohesive voting
block now. We proved that in the last election."

We . . .
Arthur shuddered at Charlie's casual alignment of himself
with the likes of Act Up and Queer Nation and the pathetic human mutants and
aberrations that marched in those Gay Pride parades. If getting elected
depended on their votes, he'd rather not run.

But public
knowledge of Charlie's homosexuality was only part of the real threat.

"I won't
deny the election is important to me," he told Charlie. "You know
that. There's so much good I can do for this country if they'll only let me. I
have plans. I can make us great again." He didn't just believe that--he
knew
it. "But if I can't help my own son back on the right path, how can I
expect to do it for an entire nation?"

"Dad--"

"Give me a
year, Charlie. One year of prayer and therapy. That's all I ask. You're young.
One year out of the rest of your life is not too much for your father to ask,
is it? If there's been no change at the end of that time, and if I see
you've made a sincere effort, then I'll accept your . . .
the way you are and never bother you again about it."

Charlie was
staring at him. "Accept me? I don't think you can."

"If you
can try, I can try. One year." He thrust out his hand. "What do you
say?"

"One year
. . . that's too long."

"Half
a year then. Six months.
Please!"

Charlie
hesitated and Arthur sent up a prayer:
Please make him accept, Lord. Between
the two of us I know we can make him normal.

Tentatively
Charlie reached out and grasped his father's hand.

"All
right. Six months. As long as you understand that I'm not promising you
results, just to give it the old college try."

Arthur blinked
back the tears that surged into his eyes. He pulled Charlie close and embraced
him.

"That's
all I ask, son. That's all a father can ask."

Thank you,
Lord, he said in silent prayer. I know this is going to work. If I can teach my
boy to pray, if he can learn as I have learned, if he can find for himself just
one tenth of the peace I find in you, he will be saved. I trust in you, Lord,
and I know that you will help me in this.

But as he held
his son, Arthur was alarmed at how frail he seemed. He could feel the corduroy
ridges of ribs through Charlie's sweatshirt. Weight loss, night sweats . . .
Charlie couldn't possibly have . . .

No. That was
impossible. God wouldn't do that to him. Arthur didn't know if he could handle
that. Not after Olivia. He was strong, but he had his limits. He wasn't cut out
to be a modern-day Job.

He cast the
thought from his mind and held his son tighter.

"Everything's
going to be all right, Charlie. God will make it so."

I swore to all present that I would guard her until my last
breath. I told the brother, I will kill to keep her safe.

But he said to me. No,
you must not kill.

And then I swore I
would die to keep her safe. But within I promised that if the need arose I
would gladly kill to keep her secret. It is the least I can do.

I do not fear killing.
I have killed before, slipping through the crowds in Jerusalem, stabbing with
my knife. And I fear not damnation. Indeed, I am already thrice-damned.

from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller
Museum translation

9

Manhattan

As Sister
Caroline Ferris reached behind the scratched and dented dresser in her room at
the Convent of St. Ann, she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall
behind it.

You're
twenty-eight, she thought, and you still look like a child. When are you going
to get wrinkled so men won't stare at you?

Maybe if she'd
spent her teenage years worshiping the sun instead of God, she'd have at least
a few wrinkles to show. But she'd entered the convent at fourteen, and as a
result her skin was pale and flawlessly smooth. She kept her thick, dark, hair
cut in a bob---straight, functional, easy to care for. She wore no makeup--never
a trace of mascara or shadow for her large blue eyes, never even a touch of
color to her thin lips, and when out in public she tried to look as serious as
possible. Yet despite her shapeless clothing and carefully cultured Plain Jane
look, men still approached her. Even in habit!

Maybe I should put on forty or fifty pounds. That would stop
them.

But no matter
how much she ate, her body burned it off. She seemed doomed to remain 120
pounds forever.

She removed the
compact-like case from under the rear lip of the bureau top and opened it.
Inside was a foil and plastic card with twenty-one clear bubbles, one for each
of the contraceptive pills the pack contained. The label inside
the lid read Ortho-Novum 7-7-7 and gave the patient's name
as Margaret Jones. Half the pills were gone. Quickly Carrie pushed the next
light-peach tablet in line through the foil and popped it into her mouth, dry
swallowing it as she shut the case and returned it to its hiding place.

Good. The daily risk of taking her pill was out of the way.
With no locks on the doors within the Convent of the Blessed Virgin, someone
could pop in at any time.

Carrie had
noted she had two refills left on her pills. After that, the fictitious Margaret
Jones would need another appointment at the West Side Planned Parenthood
clinic. She shuddered at the thought. She hated pelvic exams and lived in fear
of the chance that someone in the waiting room might recognize her as Sister
Carrie. But she put up with the indignities and the fear to avoid the greater
terror of pregnancy.

Since she'd be
traveling alone, she'd leave her habit behind. She adjusted the collar of her
starched white blouse and straightened the jacket of her black gabardine suit. "Sensible"
shoes--black pumps with one-inch heels--completed the picture.

She checked the
rest of her room to make sure it was neat. A bed, a nightstand with a
handpainted statue of the Blessed Virgin, a reading lamp, a dresser, a
crucifix, and a closet-- not much to take care of. Everything was in place. One
last thing to do . . .

She knelt by
her nightstand and gazed at her Virgin Mary statuette. She repeated the same
prayer she said every time she was about to sin:

Forgive me,
Mary. I wish I could have been like you, but I was never given the choice. And
though I sin with full knowledge and forethought, please know that I am devoted
to you and always shall be. Yet despite all my devotion, I know I'm still a
sinner. But in just this one thing. In everything else I gladly deny myself to
do your work, do your bidding. Yet a small part of my heart remains unruly. I
hope, I trust, I pray that in your own heart you will find room to forgive this
sinner.

Sister Carrie
crossed herself, rose, and headed for the first floor.

On the way out
she checked in with Mother Superior to let her know she was leaving and told
her when to expect her back.

The older woman
smiled and looked up at her over the tops of her reading glasses. "Tell
your father our prayers are with him."

"Thank
you, Sister. I'm sure that will give him comfort."

If you knew
that monster as I do, Carrie thought, you'd withhold your prayers. Or perhaps
you wouldn't. She stared a moment at Mother Superior's kindly face. Perhaps
you'd pray for even the most ungodly sinner.

Not me, Carrie
thought, turning and heading for the street. Not for that man. Not even an
"Amen."

Supposedly she
was visiting him at the nursing home. Usually the sisters traveled in pairs or
more if shopping or making house calls to the sick or shut-ins, but since this
was a parental nursing home visit, Carrie was allowed to travel alone.

She'd never
been to the nursing home. Not once. The very thought of being in the same room
with that man sickened her.

Brad took care
of the visits. Her brother saw to all that man's needs. The cost of keeping him
in the Concordia, which its director had described as "the Mercedes Benz
of nursing homes," was no burden for Brad. Her investment banker brother's
Christmas bonus alone last year had come to over a million dollars.

Brad traveled a
lot to earn that kind of money. Many of his clients were headquartered on the
West Coast and he spent almost as much time in California as he did here in
Manhattan. So whenever he headed west he'd call and leave word that he'd be out
of town. That meant his condo was hers to use whenever she wanted a change from
the convent. Carrie availed herself of that offer by saying that her brother's
absence made it necessary for her to attend to her father more often at the
nursing home.

And when she
visited the condo, she did not visit it alone.