Cross Dressing (24 page)

“Appliance?” Dan was clueless.

“His colostomy bag,” she said. “It needs to be changed.” Dan looked at her as if she’d asked him to crucify the old man.

“Is there a problem?” Sister Peg asked.

“Uhhhh,” Dan replied. “No.” He forced a smile. “Not a problem.” Without thinking, Dan wiped his hands on his pants. His spiritual bubble had just burst. The job itself was bad enough, but worse was the fact that the thing Dan had assumed was the Holy Ghost had disappeared the moment Sister Peg asked him to do it. Dan was disillusioned. It never occurred to him that he’d actually have to work at maintaining his faith. It wasn’t that his spirit was willing and his flesh was weak, though certainly the latter was true. It was more that his spirit was wholly repulsed. Dan had never considered helping anyone with their personal hygiene. It was the sort of notion that took some getting used to. It was a test of faith.

Sister Peg was surprised. She assumed he had done far more unpleasant things in Africa. “Let me tell you about Captain Boone,” she said. “He earned a Purple Heart in World War Two—and I mean he
earned
it. His unit was in a small town in France, I think, when the Germans launched a mortar attack. Captain Boone heard screams coming from a building, so he went in to see if he could help. He dragged several people out and was going back for one more when he got hit. The doctors kept him alive, but they left him with the appliance. And you know what? I’ve never heard him complain about it.”

Up until now, Dan had been proud of the sacrifices he had made in order to help out at the Care Center. He’d given up his fine car and his view apartment and his fancy job. Granted, they weren’t voluntary sacrifices, but still, he had given himself points for his efforts.

“Not only did he not complain, he didn’t even tell me about it,” Sister Peg said. “I only found out when I went to the VA to find out why he doesn’t get any benefits.”

Dan’s mouth began to form the word “why,” but nothing came out.

Sister Peg’s mouth twisted into something ugly. “A
‘snafu,’ ” she said. “Situation normal, all fucked up.” She looked away quickly and made a gesture conveying her frustration. Then she looked back at Dan. “Pardon my French, Father,” she said. “It just makes me mad.”

“Forget it,” he said. “I think you’re showing restraint.” Dan looked at her eyes and saw fight and compassion and maybe some loneliness. “What sort of snafu?”

“I’ve been trying for two years to get an explanation,” Sister Peg said. “But the Veterans Affairs bureaucracy is a disaster. They say they can’t find the necessary paperwork.”

“Have you tried threatening them?” Dan smiled.

Sister Peg smiled back, unsure if Father Michael would approve of her tactics. “I’ve tried everything,” she said. “Though sometimes I wonder why I try at all.” She grabbed a stack of overdue bills and looked to see which one she could pay.

A
s he made his way up the stairs, Dan wrestled his self-consciousness. This was so
not
Dan. Until recently, the most help Dan ever offered anyone was to hold a door open. But he knew he had to change. He had to learn how to do this sort of thing. He had to learn to care. Out of the blue it occurred to Dan that he also wanted to impress Sister Peg. What the hell was that?

Dan paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath, hoping to suck some inspiration or, better still, some courage from the air.
I can do this
, he thought. He thought he felt the courage coming on until he heard the gunshot, then he hit the floor so hard he thought he’d broken his nose. Dan assumed that Emmons had tracked him down at the Care Center and was shooting his way in the front door. Dan heard another shot, though this time it sounded less like a gun than a car backfiring. He crawled to the window and peeked out. He saw Ruben under the hood of the
Suburban tinkering with the carburetor. Dan knew he’d never be a martyr.

Dan found Captain Boone in his room down the hall. He was eighty years old and wronged by arthritis. He had a round, jowly face and big dull teeth. He still sported a military buzz cut; the short white stubs of hair lent his head the aspect of a round albino cactus. He was wearing a thin cotton bathrobe and slippers. Dan forced a reassuring smile as he walked into the room. He hoped his priest outfit would do most of the work.

Captain Boone saw Dan’s awkwardness the moment he walked in. He could tell the young priest was going to need help. “Good morning, Father,” he said, all chipper. “Do me a favor and relax, all right?” His voice was gruff, vaguely Southern, and grandfatherly “I know this is a bit unpleasant, but I do need the help and I appreciate your giving it. I truly do.” He adjusted himself in his chair. “And just so you won’t accuse me of not helping, I’m going to tell you some war stories that’ll make this little job seem like a walk in a rose garden.” He laughed like an old army guy and gestured for Dan to come over.

The gesture alone lightened Dan’s burden and made him grateful. Still, he felt the itch of embarrassment as he approached his task. “Thanks,” Dan said, still uncertain of his capacity to care. “I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never done this before.”

Captain Boone put the back of his hand to his forehead and feigned a swoon. “Just be gentle with me, kind sir.” He sounded like a crusty old Southern belle. He laughed again. “Come ‘ere, it’s easy. Just give the old outer layer a quick scrub with a warm rag and then change the bag like an oil filter. Nothing to it.” He could see Dan trying to imagine what it would be like. “Okay,” Captain Boone said, “there’s
something
to it, and quite frankly, it stinks like shit.” He laughed again. “There’s no getting around that.” He nodded toward his bedside
table at a box of rubber gloves and a can of air freshener. “Give us a quick spray before you get started,” the Captain said. “It’s patchouli. Pretend we’re in an East Indian whorehouse.”

Dan couldn’t believe this guy. Damaged on some foreign battlefield, all but forgotten by his government, spending his last days being washed by strangers—and he still had a sense of humor. He was such a fundamentally decent man that his first concern was making Dan feel, if not exactly comfortable, then at least less
un
comfortable. Dan thought Captain Boone would have made a great dad. Especially when compared to his own.

Dan helped Captain Boone into the tub, and with his guidance Dan bathed him. All the while, Captain Boone told Dan distracting stories of war and death and the ghastly sacrifices he had seen men make. Each story was peppered with coarse language and dirty jokes. Dan smirked, then laughed, and soon was no more self-conscious than if he were washing Captain Boone’s car. When Dan got around to the man’s botched abdomen, he was comfortable enough to say what came to his mind. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that is one nasty fucking scar.” He looked closely at the tissue. The skin looked like dripped wax.

Captain Boone nodded and told Dan what happened. “Damn mortar hit me clean, right here.” He pointed a gnarled finger at the left upper quadrant of his abdomen. “The surgeons had to remove my spleen seein’ as how it had ruptured into about a hundred pieces. They fished the parts out of a pool of shit in my gut, did a complete transection of my transverse colon, or so they told me. The only thing they could do to avoid more fecal contamination was to do a diverting colostomy. And it’s been shit-in-a-bag ever since,” he said, almost with pride. “But it could’ve been worse. The damn mortar could have hit me here.” He pointed at his heart and smiled.

Dan nodded thoughtfully, amazed that anyone could find
a bright side to having lost the better part of their digestive tract. As Dan continued washing, Captain Boone talked about his wife and two children who had died years ago and about how he had lost touch with most of his buddies from the war. But he told it all matter-of-factly, without sadness. “Of course, that’s not the way you want it to be,” he said. “But what the heck, that’s the way it is. I just accept that the Lord has a plan and that I’m just not ready to understand it yet.”

Dan imagined the man sixty years ago when everything lay in front of him—when he was all potential and enthusiasm and hopes and dreams. And then he was a soldier shedding his blood fighting for others. And then his government lost track of him and his family died and his comrades disappeared and the man was left all but alone, everything lost but his dignity.

Dan felt Captain Boone’s hand on his forearm. “Now, do a lonely old army man a favor,” Captain Boone said. “Give my crooked old dick a good, sweet scrubbin’, okay?” He leaned back in the tub and looked up at Dan.

Dan froze. He had no idea what to do or say. He fumbled for words and tried to avoid eye contact, then he saw the smirk on Captain Boone’s face and realized that he’d been had. Dan tossed the washrag into the Captain’s lap. “I don’t think your arthritis is that bad, sir,” he said with a laugh. “Scrub it yourself.”

The old man’s grin kept spreading. “Oh pleeeease …” Captain Boone whined. “Pretty please …” He laughed, full of gusto and enjoying the moment. He pointed at Dan. “I gotcha, Padre! You shoulda seen the look on your face!” He imitated the expression until Dan finally burst out laughing.

R
uth had a funny feeling. She could have gone to her son and asked a few simple questions—he was just downstairs, after all—but if she was right, his answers would most likely
be lies. Besides, she’d already tried to corner him a few times since the poker game, but he kept avoiding her. He was too busy to talk when she found him alone, and when they were in the kitchen or the TV room with the other residents, somebody was bound to hear her, and she didn’t want that.

Ruth could think of only one solution, so she picked up the phone and dialed. A woman’s voice came on the other end of the line, warbling, “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this number in error …” Ruth hung up.
That’s not good.
She waited a minute before she picked up the phone and dialed again. She thought about hanging up and just living with not knowing, but then another woman’s voice came on the line. “The Prescott Agency.”

Ruth braced herself. “Dan Steele, please.”

There was a pause. “I’m very sorry, but Mr. Steele passed away recently. Can I put you through to someone else?”

“No. Thank you.” Ruth hung up.

There seemed to be a very limited number of explanations for the set of facts she had, and no matter how hard she tried, Ruth couldn’t keep Michael alive in any of them. He was gone, she was certain of it. She wondered what had happened. Now she had no choice. She would simply have to confront Dan. But how? She didn’t want to do it in front of anyone. Dan might be in some sort of trouble.
Why hadn’t he come to me?
It didn’t take long to figure out.
He was probably afraid I was so crazy that I’d blow his cover.

It was hard enough to deal with that, but then it hit her that Michael was dead and she hadn’t said good-bye. One of her babies was gone. Ruth’s hand slid off the phone and she curled up on her bed and began to cry.

F
ather Michael spends three more years working in Africa before he snaps again. It’s a nasty combination of things that pushes him
over the edge the second time. In some parts of the country he sees people starve to death because the land can’t be cultivated. In other parts, he sees them starve to death because starvation is simply another weapon in the civil wars and the tribal conflicts that define the continent. No matter what the charitable organizations say in their fund-raising brochures, Father Michael knows the truth, and that is what makes him crack. The truth is that most of the food and medicine shipped into these war-torn areas goes to whichever army controls the roads and the airstrips. In other words, the recipients of the charity are the same people who create the need for it in the first place. The supplies in turn strengthen these militias and allow them to continue causing problems, thus bringing in more charity.

The result of this corrupt cycle is death and suffering on a titanic scale. Dealing with that level of misery and sorrow is trying enough, but something else gnaws at Father Michael. His faith is under attack. He had turned to religion thirty years earlier, looking for a way to exist with his childhood. He bought everything they sold. He cultivated a deep faith, joined the priesthood, then went to practice it in a very difficult place. This is where the theology began to fail.

Father Michael has come to realize that organized religion is at the root of the problems he is fighting. Horrible, bloody wars between Muslims and Christians kill untold numbers and displace hundreds of thousands of others, leaving them to wander semiarid wastelands cutting the throats of animals in order to get enough fluids to stay alive. Sometimes it is done in the name of God, other times Allah’s name is invoked. In other parts of Africa, Father Michael knows, millions of lives can be saved by handing out birth control along with food, but that sort of thing doesn’t fly with the guys back in Rome.

It isn’t that Father Michael has lost his faith in God, but he certainly has lost his faith in the Church. More correctly, he has lost his faith in the reactionary fraternity of old men who
run the Church as if it is a twelfth-century country club. They are patronizing misogynists utterly disconnected from reality. Their policies encourage the starvation of millions of babies and treat women as second-class citizens whose primary worth is defined by their willingness to reproduce. These are the men who took fifty years to admit that not speaking out against the Holocaust was wrongish. These are the men who denied for several centuries that killing millions during the Inquisition was a somewhat less than Christian thing to do. Father Michael takes no comfort when he hears that the Vatican is hosting a three-day symposium on the Inquisition in a feeble attempt to address the past sins of the Roman Catholic Church. He thinks maybe they should be taking a closer look at their current crop.