Salvation Boulevard (18 page)

“You have a beautiful home,” I said to Susan.

She looked around with a wan smile, then gave a slight shrug of regret and indifference. “I'm going to sell it.”

“That's a shame,” I said.

“No, not really. It's way too big for one.”

“Still . . . ”

“And I wouldn't want to live in it without Manny.”

The Jews have a custom called sitting shiva.
Shiv'ah
means seven in Hebrew. The seven first-degree relatives—husband or wife, mother, father, brother, sister, son, and daughter—are to sit in the house for seven days to mourn the dead. A candle is lit and must be kept burning for the duration. Other relations and friends can come and visit.

“I brought a cake,” I said, holding the box out to her.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it. Her hands were so lovely.

“I was told it's the custom to bring food. I didn't know what to bring.”

She smiled. A beautiful smile, on the verge of laughter.

“What?”

“I just had a vision of you bringing a casserole.”

“Should I have?” I asked, feeling awkward.

“No,” she said sweetly. We were standing in the foyer. “Come in, come in,” she said, leading me into the living room. There were several people there, and food, and a candle burning.

There was an old man with Manny's face, most of his hair gone, the skin over his skull gone thin and tight. His eyes were red and filled with loss.

Susan made the introductions. It was Manny's father, Abraham. The woman sitting next to him, nearly his age, her hair soft and white, was Manny's mother, Betty. He had no brothers or sisters.

The others were neighbors and the wife of a lawyer in Manny's office.

“You knew my Manny,” Abraham said.

“Yes. We worked together.”

“Carl was Manny's investigator,” Susan said.

“Oh, yes,” the old man said, nodding. “He liked you.”

“Yeah, I liked him too,” I said.

Susan asked me if I wanted something to drink—coffee, water, something stronger. I said coffee, and she took the cake and went into the kitchen.

“You were with him, weren't you? That time when he got up on his car and spoke. You helped him up. I saw the video. And you stood in front of him, so the rocks wouldn't hurt him. You were a friend, a good friend.” Abraham tried to smile, but tears welled in his eyes. “He was a wonderful son. He didn't just make money; he believed in things too. All of this, this is nothing,” he gestured at the multi-million-dollar home.

His wife reached over and held his hand.

“And you were with him when he was shot. Yes, that was you.”

“Yes, I was.”

“I saw. You tried to stop that man. I saw. I played that video over and over.”

“You shouldn't, Abe,” his wife said. “Someone made a Tivo of it. He should stop watching it. To see our own son murdered. Shot like that. Some kind of barbarian, he must be.”

“You know what is the greatest tragedy in the world?” Abraham leaned forward. He grasped my hands and stared into my eyes. “For a parent to outlive his child.” He began to weep. “May heaven spare
you such pain. May heaven spare you. My Manny, how I loved him.” He released me and sat back, his weeping face bare and open to the world.

Susan came in, all proper and neat, carrying the cake on a platter, a few slices already cut, a cake cutter on the platter beside them, my cup of coffee in her other hand. She quickly and quietly put both on the table, then went down on her knees beside the grief-stricken patriarch. She took a napkin from the table and wiped the tears that he was too bereft to pay attention to. She seemed especially beautiful in the comfort and love she was offering. It looked like a scene from the Bible storybooks we give the children in which the illustrator makes the good daughter as radiant as a saint.

“Abe,” she said, “Manny had a good life. He did. He died fighting for what he believed in.”

“Thank you,” he said to her absently. Then he said it again, “Thank you,” with attention. “Yes, to die fighting for what you believe. That is something. Thank you. You must keep reminding me.”

“Yes, father,” she said.

I reached over and took the coffee to hide my tears. There was a miniature pitcher of cream and a bowl with sugar cubes and small silver tongs on the table. But I wanted it hot and bitter on my tongue to distract me from the real pain.

After a while, Manny's father calmed down, and Susan patted him and rose up. I wanted to say something to him too. “He was a good man,” was the best I could manage.

The old man nodded and said, “Yes.” Manny's mother said, “Thank you,” and I was afraid she would break into tears like he had a few moments before. I was going to add that I would miss him, but it wouldn't be nearly as much as they would. My feelings were so small beside theirs, so I said nothing more.

“Have something,” Susan said.

It gave me the opportunity to say, “I need to talk to you for a minute, if that's okay?”

“Of course.” She excused herself to the others, and I followed her into what had been Manny's home office. He had a lovely old desk on which sat a large, flat computer screen. He had shelves and shelves full of books, enough to make him some sort of kindred spirit to Nathaniel MacLeod. He had a leather armchair with a matching leather footstool and a couch that didn't match. It felt rich but not ostentatious or off-putting. It was comfortable. The whole house was comfortable. It would be a shame to sell it, but that's the way of the world.

“What is it, Carl?”

I sighed. “Manny told me . . . see, I asked him, was this case pro bono. And he said no. But now I hear that it was. Do you know?”

“It was.”

“Why would he lie to me about it?”

“He was upset that he did.”

“He was?”

“Yes. When you asked him . . . he really wanted you to take the case and work with him, but you caught him by surprise, and he felt that you would feel more comfortable if it was just a job, not a cause. But also, he didn't want to ask you to, or even put you in a position where you felt you should, work for less or for nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Partly his politics,” she said. “I mean, look at this place. Manny made a lot of money. Off of crooks and corporations and who knows what. So, if he wanted to work for nothing, fine, but he felt it was wrong for someone like you to work for nothing.”

“Yeah, 'cause I'm a . . . ”

“Oh, Carl, you have to know Manny didn't disrespect you. Manny never respected money.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“He loved it,” she said and laughed fondly. “He loved it, but he didn't respect it. He was sort of amazed. And he just hoped that he wouldn't come to depend on it. And he certainly didn't think that
he was better because he had it, or that people who didn't were less. Anyway, once he said it, he couldn't figure out how to unsay it.”

“Why me? There's lots of others out there.”

“He said you were a stubborn Dutchman.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“That once you started, you wouldn't stop. You wouldn't be bought or intimidated.”

“Why was this so important to him?”

“Maybe because of all the money. He needed to do something for a cause. To make up for it, to make it worth something.”

I nodded. That made sense to me.

“He's counting on you to finish it,” she said. “To make sure his life was worth something.”

“Oh shit,” I said and sat down, head in hand. I wanted to quit this job so badly. So damn badly.

“What's wrong?” she asked and put her hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her. It was as if the room were exploding with light. I don't know what to call it—lust, infatuation, possibilities, sin, a road over the mountains to a place I'd never been. She looked back at me in the brightness, and all of it went through her mind too: the permutations, confusions, complications, the inappropriateness, the betrayals, the sheer wrongness of it, and the shining light.

“Oh dear,” she said in a very mild tone and withdrew her hand. “Oh dear.”

“Well,” I said. “Well, I better go.”

“I understand. Did you find out what you needed to know?”

The Angels sang.

Our hearts were lifted. People rose in their seats. They clapped. They sang. They swayed and danced. They embraced their neighbors. They hugged complete strangers. There was ecstasy on their faces.

I had my own two angels, one on either side of me. My heart was filled with love. And with certainty. My daughter, my wife, my family. This was what I needed. This was what I wanted.

Paul Plowright, up on the stage, began to speak. He said, “I want to talk to the parents. And to the grandparents. And to those of you thinking of becoming parents.

“My heart goes out to you because it is so hard.

“Why does it feel like you're all alone? All you're trying to do is raise your children to obey the Ten Commandments, and it feels like the world is against you, the whole world.”

The people around us were listening, listening intently, as was I, because he was right.

“You're not paranoid,” he said. “You're not crazy. You're not bad parents. It feels that way because it is that way.”

Yes it is. And that was the response of thousands of others around me. They spoke their agreement out loud. They clapped,
cheered, and said, “Amen.” It felt good to me to be among likeminded people.

“They go to school, and their teacher tells them—their teacher is
required
to tell them—that the Bible is
just
a book, like any other book. That the Bible is no better than some Communist tirade. One that says religion is the opium of the people just because our faith makes us feel good.

“I admit—I
celebrate
—the fact that our faith can make us happy, that Jesus can bring us ecstasy and soothe our pain, that prayer comforts us in times of grief and gives us strength in times of trouble. But the reason is because His way is the Truth. It does not mean that religion is a drug that turns us into fools and sheep.

“Then, after school, your son or your daughter goes over to visit Joey or Janey across the street. Nice kids, nice parents. But they haven't put adult controls on the Internet. In five minutes, they are watching sex acts that we didn't even know existed when we were growing up. A lot of us still don't. And don't want to know. But our children know, and they have seen them and children learn by imitation.”

He stopped and sighed, then changed his tone and rhythm. “You know what,” he said flatly and dryly, “you've heard this all before. I've said it all before. I said it and said it until I got tired of hearing myself say it.

“So I did what I always do when I have a problem. I got on my knees, and I prayed. I said, ‘Jesus, what about all of these temptations and seductions and perversions.'

“And Jesus said to me, ‘Paul, I'm tired of hearing you complain all the time.'”

We all laughed at that. It was just so human. And real.

“I tried to say, ‘Lord, I'm not complaining, but these are terrible times.'

“Jesus said, ‘I don't want my people to be whiners and bellyachers. That's not what Christians are. Get up off your bottom and do something.'” That was an applause line, a big one.

“Well, I admit, I was a little taken aback. I said, ‘But Lord, look at all we've done. Look at this big cathedral. Look at the schools. Look at the TV and radio. The this and the that and the other and . . . and,” Plowright sighed, “Jesus said, ‘Well, Paul, if you think you've done enough, then maybe you've done enough.'

“I could feel he was about to leave me—not that He ever leaves anyone, but you know what I mean—and I said, ‘Wait a minute, Lord. I'm sorry. I'm being a little slow here, but I am a mere mortal, and sometimes I don't get it.' It seemed to me that he nodded. ‘It's not enough, is it?' I said. I realized that as long as there's more to be done, it's not enough. Whatever we have accomplished, if there is more that could be accomplished, it's not enough.

“He looked at me with love and kindness, and I felt that he was pleased that I had understood something.

“‘You want me to do more, Lord, don't you,' I said. Then I asked, ‘Tell me, Lord, what do you want me to do?'

“He just looked at me. And I understood. He gives us so much. He gives us faith and love and strength and community, but at some point, it's up to us. It's up to us to do some thinking, to do the work.”

The Angels began to hum behind him, not an identifiable tune but gently rhythmic and uplifting.

“So I prayed some more because I didn't know what to do. But I knew that Jesus would guide me. I prayed until my knees were sore. Until my back was sore. Until I thought I couldn't pray anymore.

“Then I saw what He wanted me to see.

“Jesus gave me a vision. It was a shining city on the hill. And its name was the
City
of the Third Millennium. Not Third Millennium Cathedral, or Enterprises, or Third Millennium Estates. A city, the City of God.”

His face shone, and he spoke, as every once in a while he does, like a man who has truly seen a vision and is certain of it and is now sharing it.

“Our own city,” he said, “with a great university. Greater than the ultraliberal, radical, anti-Christian university over there.” He pointed in the direction of the University of the Southwest.