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- Herausgeber: IVP Formatio
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
The only person who can uncover his secret has arrived. Matthew Goodman is tired, and his one wish is for something he can't have. Instead he focuses on the demands of his work as pastor of Chicagoland's Calvary Community, including bringing a new administrative assistant onboard. New hire twenty-five-year-old Trish Card watches him with somber, lake-clear eyes. What he doesn't know about Trish and her real reason for appearing will dismantle his world. The Surface of Water is about a megachurch pastor, a famous evangelist's son, living in a world beyond his control. It's also a story about a young woman trying to understand her complicated life. In the #ChurchToo era, this novel invites readers to see life's shadowed edges—isolation, power, and abuse—illumined by the light of truth.
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For my mother
Contents
Prologue
Matthew Goodman stood alone. Wind-driven sand skittered along the Lake Michigan shore as waves smashed sand. Snowpacks still spotted the wide and empty beach. The March wind had swept everyone away—builders and beachcombers. He breathed. No cameras or IMAG screens or ten thousand seats.
Alone. Finally.
He should go too. It was nearly two hours back to Chicago. Instead, he hunched deeper in his wool coat, swiveling to the site. They had made plans; now it was only when. He had diverted funds twenty years ago—against Roni’s wishes—to build a chapel, a holy space for God. It would perch on the overlook at Living Waters, past the condos and pool and seat-crammed deck—a chapel where walls of windows could watch the far stretch of water.
This was the rare desire that moved him anymore. It was the least he could do for the One who had given him much—here at his thin space, as the Irish would say. His shoulders lowered. When had the thin places gone thick?
The wind buffeted the beach grass. The strawlike grass hadn’t regained its color. He tensed and turned. The lake was a rolling plain that beckoned, and he walked toward it. His Allen Edmonds loafers neared the moving edge.
One swim. That’s what else he wanted. His energy lifted. That’s what he wanted most. The icy water would be a . . . friend. It would quiet things. It would quiet everything. Maybe forever. The water would give him what he sorely wanted.
A chance to disappear.
1
He was, wasn’t he?
The question assaulted Trish Card again as she hurried up Calvary’s wide staircase. The megachurch lifted around her like the dome of sky. She hadn’t known. Her nerves tingled. Someone was staring. Her looks. Again. She had stopped reacting whenever a startled gaze snagged her face. One such glance was dragging like a net over her now. She raked her light hair forward. Her hair eclipsed enough. It didn’t matter.
It did.
Her head bowed as if her prayers had begun. Had they ever stopped? God had said he loved orphans. Maybe that explained the small, unexplainable flashes of light that sometimes dazed her. Then again, wasn’t that what today, Sunday, was about—and next Friday? How would she wait an entire week for the interview—here?
She grasped the banister. It was cool and hard and as self-important as ancient granite. She shook her head. How else could she explain it, but the wild holy, the mystery? To be in final consideration to assist the famous Pastor Matthew Goodman. Did it mean she would get the job? Might it mean—what?
The steps wore a cloak of carpeting that muted footfall. People everywhere. The men in designer suits and haircuts cradled their wool coats. The March wind still clawed. And their skin. All so white, like hers. The wives in tight dresses or pantsuits were, again like her, too thin to have real bodies, no soft curve of hip or buttock. María would chide them, urging on them another tamal.
One short-haired woman was holding court near the top step. Trish dropped her hand off the banister to circle wide. Too late. The woman inventoried her face before scanning her cheap clothes and shoes. The queen’s gaze tightened; her perfect brows tipped downward with the inevitable surprise. Well, she’d never play their game.
The staircase transitioned to a second foyer where five sets of French doors directed flow. After a greeter foisted a bulletin into her hand, Trish drifted to the leftmost doorway beyond where the balcony swooped downward; she clutched the railing and moved along the wall onto a peninsula that narrowed into two theater-style seats. The seats hung over the stage, curbed by a wooden rail. A bird’s-eye view. A blackbird’s?
She sank into the shadows. The press of thousands had nearly sprung her, but she had to see him, and here in the shadows, she could. The seat was comfortable, although the wooden armrests were high.
The stage circled below like a half pie, its rounded edge touching the first of three steps to the sanctuary floor. Almost directly beneath her swayed musicians while a drummer sat apart. Crowds of leafy plants hid what needed hiding, and on the far side was a clear podium waiting. Like her.
Murmurs hummed over plunks of music. Ten thousand gathered week after week. He was that powerful? Strange. His internet sermons hadn’t interested her. Pastor Matthew Goodman seemed to know little about things that mattered.
Unlike Father Martinez, who stood in the tiny church on Conklin beneath the carved sign of Micah 6:8 . . . and what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with—
“Can I sit here?” The boy startled her. His finger jabbed toward the next seat, his dark eyes bright.
“For sure!” She lifted her purse. Andrés at eight? She imagined María’s son. The dark lashes, yeah, but this version had food. He glanced up at her once, his feet swinging. Behind him, an older woman nodded.
Lights lowered as a spotlight cinched the musicians. Her heart thudded while the service clicked through singing, announcements, singing. Trish hunched forward, her elbows digging into her knees. When would he arrive? The musicians lowered their instruments. Now? Her pulse increased. She sat forward, her nails pricking her palms.
In the wall beyond the podium, a small door opened. A hand blanched beneath the spotlight. A cuff. A sleeve. A shoulder. Matthew Goodman emerged whole. Her breathing paused. His light hair shone. She couldn’t see his face, and she needed to. Trish pressed forward. Her seat was too far away.
He approached the podium while his face snapped onto the enormous screens. Over the actual man hung his large image: the side-parted hair, the light brows, the cheekbones. His white teeth gleamed. His lashes seemed too dark. Makeup? It was TV. His eye contact was calculated, timed. He was a man who appeared for all the world like a high-priced performer.
“Friends—”
Her breathing started hard. What made him sure about that? The pounding in her ears increased.
“We have gathered together once more—”
On the screen, his lips continued to move though she couldn’t hear. The drumming was too loud. She melded to her seat, her arms akimbo, but the chair held her forward, imprisoned. His sharp cheekbones. Her fingers opened and lifted to her face. Weren’t those cheekbones her cheekbones? His light hair, hers? Trish strained against the unused word, but it broke through.
Dad?
2
Goodman resisted opening the car door and thought again of Living Waters, the empty shore too far away. He leaned over his steering wheel and smelled leather. Beyond the BMW hood was the green sign proclaiming, Reserved Parking for Pastor Goodman. A sparrow’s small token had changed his name to Goo-man.
He grimaced. Who could he tell? No one. Half his staff would rush to erase it. Too bad. It was, well, funny.
At lunch he had planned away summer. He should be grateful. He straightened. The Goo-man life. Few had it. Besides, today he had time for tennis after he approved the new hire. He would keep the interview short. Keene had told him what he needed about the new girl. A lawyer would know. The indoor court was reserved. No reason to dawdle.
However, first . . . duty.
His fingers closed around his suit coat, and in one motion, Goodman pushed himself out while pulling it on, his momentum building, carrying him over sidewalk to welcome mat to staff door, where he entered Calvary Community Church. The foyer stretched high above him, giving him a sense of the Cascades around Rainier. Butterscotch paint warmed the space, and his feet tapped a purposeful beat on the cement floor.
The receptionist’s office? Empty. Dorothy, gone. He reached into his pocket for the tiny pill and swallowed before vaulting forward to push the elevator button. The doors swished open. A megachurch with a glass elevator. Who would have believed this? Not Father.
The elevator lifted him over the foyer’s book corner, where a four-color banner hung featuring his headshot. His hair was perfectly trimmed, its rebellious wave tamed, and the deepening lines over his cheekbones erased.
Upstairs, Goodman hurried to his suite’s private door. Inside, black-framed glossies dotted the wall over the leather couch. He crossed the Oriental rug, his fingers gliding over the smooth polish of his mahogany desk. What a gift, the desk. Although when he slid between it and the back wall, pressure clamped over him.
He swiveled into his chair and buzzed. “Afternoon, Sarah. How was lunch? Are we ready?”
“Yes, Pastor Goodman,” Sarah said, “we’ll be right in.”
Goodman planted his feet and faced the adjoining door. The handle turned, the door opened, the room inhaled new air.
Dark-haired Sarah entered first, pregnancy thickening her waist, and behind her followed a blond. A pretty young woman. No. Beautiful. The interviewee strode into his office, tall, slender, pert-breasted. Goodman stood. No smile moved her lips; her eye contact was unwavering. Her poise, the seriousness of it, surprised him. Few around him were calm.
Her features were molded in a curving, symmetrical way: the cheeks, the deep-set gray eyes, the rounded forehead. Her skin shone like a new pearl, muted, and pink-white. Her hair waved well below her shoulders, nearly hiding a long and slender neck.
Too bad her suit appeared cheap and her purse—vinyl? At this level, image mattered. He shifted a brow at Sarah.
“Pastor Goodman, may I introduce you to Patrisha Card?”
“Patrisha, good to meet you.” He shook a warm hand. Her gaze remained unwavering. “You’ve come highly recommended.”
“Thank you.” An alto voice carried the words.
“Why don’t you have a seat there? Sarah, would you join us?”
Sarah wrestled into the second chair while the new girl sat quickly, bending forward to release her purse. She settled back, holding a spiral notebook. It wasn’t her ring finger wearing a gold band, but its neighbor. Not married? It could cost her the position, but then again, maybe not. He was fifty-five now. The rules should change; the church shouldn’t treat him like a hormonal teen all his life.
Leather creaked beneath him. His back curved into his chair, his ankle resting on his knee. “So,” he began, “you’re from Chicago?”
“I am.” Stillness emanated from her. Her hands clasped loosely over the notebook while Sarah fiddled with her hair.
“Travel much?”
“Only here.” She tapped her temple. “I love reading.”
“Wonderful,” Goodman said. “This habit does much for our spiritual growth. What do you read?”
“Everything.”
“Which explains your writing.” He reached for his readers. “Your application essay was well written, especially your confession of faith, though I’d like to hear more.”
“Sure.” Her first smile appeared and brought with it a dimple. “It was in 1988, nearly twenty years ago now. I was seven. My neighbor, Mrs. Hape, took me downtown to an enormous building. Mom had to work, so—”
Goodman pretended to flick something off his pants and glanced at the Maurice Lacroix on his wrist. He needed to know her story, but the whole saga? At this rate, he’d be late. Unclaimed courts were fair game.
“Sorry, I should get to the point.”
“Oh.” His ankle slid off his knee. “No, no, please.”
“You’re busy. Anyway, it was a revival. The preacher was your dad, the late Pastor Goodman.”
He suppressed a grimace. People always broke such news to him as if organ music should rise in the background and crest. Goodman cleared his throat. “Thank you. Go on.”
“I’ll always be grateful to him. Always. I had sensed God. Mom had taught me, but for some reason, that was the day.”
“Tell me about your background, your education.”
She seemed to measure him. “I studied . . . journalism.”
Sarah’s movement caught his eye. His lips pursed. “So, you’re a reporter?”
“A writer. I’d like to do a book—someday. Maybe.”
“It’s a wonderful experience, getting published. Well, mostly. Those rewrites can get old.” His head tilted. “So, you have a story?”
“My first job after college was as a paralegal.”
“Journalism major to a paralegal? Was that a jump?”
“There’s a connection.” The gray eyes wouldn’t blink. “Justice. I love justice. Journalism and law attract people passionate about it.”
Young people were so idealistic. “Those professions also attract many who aren’t.”
“Sure, like any profession. Police, teachers . . . pastors.”
Sarah inhaled. His head lifted. Again, her calm stare. The girl had hit a blistering return. How often did that happen? Never. She was strong—very. Goodman smiled. “Touché. Yes, there are many who shouldn’t be pastors, I agree. However, why not journalism?”
“Starting jobs paid around eighteen thousand less than a paralegal.”
“Money pressures, then?”
Her relentless gaze faltered. Her fingers began to work the notebook edge. Was this finally a show of nerves?
“I had some responsibilities.”
“College debt?”
“No.” The voice sank.
Goodman waited. Her appearance offered a clash: beautiful face—ugly suit. That strange and forceful quiet. Interesting and irritating. Why was she slow to explain? Was it a child out of wedlock? If so, the entire hiring process could be jeopardized.
“My mom. She was ill.” Her expression flattened. “Cancer. The first time I was just a toddler. She lost her job. Insurance. There was a lot of debt—the treatments. It was just us.”
Ah, insurance. That was a relief—not a morality issue. He tossed his readers onto the desk. “I’m sorry. Insurance would be hard to replace.”
“Not hard.” Her lips tightened. “Impossible. Completely. They don’t let you. The system doesn’t care. They say they do; they don’t.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead.” She slung him one glance then, one brief glance out the tops of her eyes. But he saw something in it. Something deep. Something hot. Something angry. A crackling sensation passed through him. This young woman had fire.
“I am sorry.” Goodman waited one beat. “So, now you’re leaving your paralegal profession? Why?”
“Personal reasons.”
He shifted toward Sarah, who was staring as if lightning had struck—or should. “Sarah, you may leave now. Thank you.”
Sarah’s fixed expression vanished. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything.” She struggled up and left the adjoining door half open.
“Now—” Goodman glanced at the résumé. “Patrisha—”
“Friends call me Trish.”
Friends? That rare thing? He left his chair for the window.
Thick glass silenced the boulevard below. His face lifted. A gull was riding the wind with its gray wings stretched like a full sail. Its yellow beak opened, a black mark on its bill. Goodman imagined its call, a raucous tenor, and the horizon-bordered lake with its canopy of sky and space. He smelled the breeze and felt beneath his feet the liquid movement of sand.
One swim. That’s all he wanted. To let cool waters cover him.
Well? Not this summer. An odd sensation scaled his throat. Fatigue?
Loneliness.
The gull disappeared. From the other office came the muffled clicking of Sarah’s keyboard. Goodman turned and met the gaze of Patrisha Card. The gray eyes were watchful, the face somber. The soul beyond her eyes had age.
“A ring-billed gull.”
“You know birds?” She appeared surprised. “Not everyone knows gulls—even common ones.”
“An—an old habit. You too?”
“Yeah.” Her gaze pierced him. “An old habit.”
Goodman returned to his chair. “So, Patrisha—”
“Trish.”
“Trish. I need to get to know you here to make the best decision possible. Can you please tell me why you want to leave your current job?”
Her gaze veered beyond him. “Sexual harassment. Got tired of it.”
“Oh.” He glanced away. Goodman clutched his armrest for a moment before leaning toward her. “Is there anything you want to ask me? Any questions you might have?”
Her face went soft as she inventoried his, and he noticed again the room’s close silence. Her intensity woke him like the notes of a cello, low and melancholy. She swallowed. “No.”
Goodman stood as if released. Who of late had been this . . . what? As Trish bent to gather her things, her head revealed an unevenly drawn part. Nancy Ueland could take care of the hair and the suit.
As she stood, Goodman extended his hand. Hers rested in his, its bones fragile and still. Such loss at a young age—what might that do? “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said. “My sister died years ago. Father, eleven years ago in ’95. Mother, longer. I still can’t get used to it.”
“You never do,” she said simply, staring at their hands. “Loss is dynamic. Its meaning changes year by year.”
Loss as dynamic? Her insight seared. Into his mind flashed his parents’ amber hairbrushes, an old-fashioned matching set. His mother’s existed alone on her dresser while his father’s had traveled Africa. His hand plunged into his pocket. “You have great letters of recommendation. Carl Keene, who you know is a Calvary member and our lawyer, couldn’t say enough good things about you. I’d like to invite you aboard. Can you start Tuesday? We take Mondays off. Oh, and Paul Lemont called about salary and benefits? His office supplies your phone and laptop.”
The dimple returned to the left cheek. “Thank you!”
“Patrisha—Trish—I know you won’t disappoint.” Another sensation brushed over him then. Trish was looking at him from behind something he couldn’t yet see through.
Nonsense. He only needed some tennis.
Trish punched her brakes. The Lumina screeched and stopped as the jogger thumped his hand on her hood. Fright torqued his brows. She raised her palm; he raised his finger before wheeling back onto the curb. What was she doing? She was going to kill someone! She had to stop driving—she had to think. Ahead beckoned a gas station.
She parked two spaces from a female cashier who leaned on the brick, fingers cradling a smoke. The cashier pushed a Converse-clad foot off the wall, smoke leaving her lips. The girl was young, not eighteen. Dyed black hair drained color from her face.
For a moment Trish’s hands clenched the wheel, her forearms quivering. She released her hands and turned them upward. Sweat sketched their folds. She slid them against her skirt, streaking the gray polyester. How dumb. How many suits did she have? Trish rubbed the streak.
This could be too hard.
Energy had surged through her as she followed Sarah toward the office door; then it had seemed as if an hour slumped by from her first step toward the large desk that stood like an Old Testament altar.
She had stared. She needed to stare. She needed to take him in, to see him whole, to see him as he was. The mouth moved, the blue eyes blinked, the hands lifted and lowered in sync—all choreographed, the famous voice overlaid. Matthew Goodman, in a navy sport coat and an open-collared shirt, was no longer posed but 3D, moving, and alive.
She knew the moment she had the job—when that one real smile had reached his eyes. “Touché,” he had said. And for a moment the man inside the man flickered to life.
But wait, had she made any sense at all? She must have, but what had she said? She had to remember. She had to track each package of vowels and consonants her tongue delivered. She had to catalog things. No lost deliveries allowed.
This was going to be tricky.
Laughter ricocheted out of her. It rang too high; she clamped her lips together. No use having an attendant think her loco. She rubbed her face. Tricky. That was putting it mildly.
Trish closed her eyes. All she could see was Goodman—the suit, the office, the money. As if all that money was for him. As if places like Trentwood Apartments and Parkfield weren’t neighbors. No. What was she thinking? Trentwood was a universe away.
He was flashy still, a possible womanizer. He could have used his looks, although he appeared older. Even his broadcasts hadn’t shown this, but he was midfifties. It was the picture’s fault. Trish fished through her blazer pocket and lifted out a perfectly cut rectangle of paper. Tiny dots formed a fading picture of young Matthew Goodman, whose light hair fell into a wave below the precise side part. On the picture’s upper edge remained a ghost of pencil that must have guided the scissors. Her thumb rested on the faint lead.
She began to pocket it when the cashier tossed the cigarette and turned to lower a heel against it. The unzipped hoodie disclosed a swelling abdomen. Her shoulders stooped as if her backbone hadn’t hardened before life began its downward push. No ring, probably no insurance, and now a baby whose delivery would cost $5,000 to $10,000. Prenatal visits? Not likely. The girl might be in trouble. The attendant moved slack-kneed into the station. Trish reached for her wallet. She had only a ten; she had to start carrying more.
As her hand traveled to the car door, light caught the gold band. Her fingers straightened. The mannish band showed its wear. She flipped her hand. The band widened to hold a square tiger eye stone with its strands of brown and amber—like Andrés’s beautiful irises.
What did it mean? How could she be sure? If she was wrong, a whole lot of bad could happen. And if she was right?
Another photograph etched itself in her memory. A black-and-white print of a young woman standing with her weight on her left foot, sunglasses on her head, light hair caught low in pigtails. Trish twisted the thick ring.
Was he? Maybe. If he was, she’d go after him. She would fly after him, yeah, a blackbird after a hawk.
3
Goodman hurtled through the assistant’s office where Sarah was packing her bag. Court time neared. He stopped near the long arm of the L-shaped desk. “Any impressions? Concerns?”
Sarah had been a psych major, he recalled. She had been efficient and had even worked through a prior pregnancy. Yet her leaving didn’t mean much. Sarah had been similar to the others—like Father’s canaries, each named Usher. She certainly lacked the new girl’s fire.
“I don’t know.” Sarah shrugged. “She’s kind of different.”
“Carl Keene highly recommended her. Anything specific?”
“I’ll let you know after working with her next week.” Sarah lifted a pink slip. “Paul Lemont wanted a minute. About Patrisha.”
“It’s Trish.” Goodman exhaled a breath, hurrying through the long hall. He swung into Cathy’s office. The smaller office suite was identical to Sarah’s: the L-shaped desk, guest chairs, potted tree.
The dark-haired assistant glanced up and beamed. “He’s available.”
He had known Cathy as a girl, the daughter of well-known architect Samuel Wheat. Cathy had had a degree of pretty then, although she had let childbirth alter her appearance.
Goodman tapped the door and entered as Paul Lemont swiveled from his file cabinets. The CFO peered at him over black glasses. His pink scalp showed through the white bristles of hair. “Pastor—”
“You wanted to see me?”
“You hired her?”
“I did.” Goodman parked his briefcase in the guest chair. Paul’s office seemed stuffy with all the file cabinets competing for space. Goodman cocked his brow. “And?”
“She hasn’t got the right DNA.”
DNA—again? Build a team with like people. Trish’s suit and manner and anger. So she wasn’t their DNA. Maybe that’s why she was . . . refreshing. What you saw was what you got. He felt himself relax.
“There were gaps in her résumé. Years missing. She’s too young. Twenty-five? Does she have the spiritual maturity for this key position?” As Paul neared, Goodman wanted to retreat. “That has to be handled—quickly, quietly. Information is power.”
What a life. A mother who died of cancer. Lived with her dad—no. She had said it was only the two of them. What had happened? He hadn’t even asked. “Paul, we were young once too. Someone trusted us. Anyway, she’s an old soul. Suffering’s given her that.” Goodman inhaled. “Anything else?”
“She’s a journalist.”
Goodman studied Paul while behind him a clock ticked. For decades they had been in an awkward relationship. Paul was fine with numbers. With people? Not the most emotionally intelligent guy on the block. “Does it matter? Sarah was a psychology major.”
Paul eyed him. “You’ve made up your mind.”
“Thank you for expressing your concerns.” Goodman started backing through the door. “However, I choose Trish. Someone different. It can help, you know. Too much of the same DNA causes problems too.”
Trish’s denim couch held her. She should get up, but Friday’s interview had sapped her energy. Saturdays were precious, and she knew what needed doing. Trish stretched instead and sank deeper into the cushions.
The brick rental was wonderful. Her own house. A major step up from her apartment. Both water and electricity were reliable, so far, and washer plus dryer. Overhead, a ceiling stain showed through like a storm cloud. So?
With no one above, alongside or below, few sounds leaked through the walls. She could even hear her gray cat’s approach. Two boxes formed her coffee table, around which Livvie now padded and sniffed with whiskers like slivers of silver.
The blackbird after the hawk.
Trish sat up. The task beckoned. She went to her bedroom with Livvie following. The cat jumped onto the bed and curled near the pillow. The white comforter puffed over the pastel sheets. Trish wanted pillow shams, and then she’d stop. She’d let herself have that one thing more . . . although the shams might clash with her makeshift crate of a nightstand. Maybe she could paint the crate. There were so many colors, and painting didn’t look too hard and—
She was procrastinating. Again. Trish prodded herself to the closet and knelt while cold from the floorboards leached into her jeans. She rolled the door and groped the shadows, feeling past cardboard until she found the plastic handle. She hoisted it. A small suitcase emerged, strangely heavy—their only suitcase, not even two feet long. Its faded orange handle no longer matched its piping. Trish put the suitcase on its side; the zipper tore the silence.
How well she knew its contents. On the left was the brown Folgers can. Red and gold lines cut through the brown background, the lettering thick and white. A yellow sticker hung over the gold mountain logo, its price $3.69. She tensed as she righted it. Its contents clattered, and dust clouded the transparent lid. Trish held it a moment before gently releasing it.
She settled on the floor, her throat tightening. On the other side waited her old notebooks topped with the two black-and-white pictures on a folder. In the first photo, a young woman stood with weight on one foot, her hair in low pigtails. An arm crossed her waist, wearing a wristwatch with a large round face—a watch Trish hadn’t found, and she had looked. Sold for food?
Beyond her mom was a pier curving into a large lake. Where? Mom looked happy—and healthy.
She could leave the picture out now. Why not? She leaned it against her garage sale lamp before returning to the suitcase. The second picture had shadows. Her lips compressed. Some years had passed, and Mom wore a headscarf as she sat on their old couch, her face three-quarters to the camera. On the wall directly above her head was a calendar. Trish tried to read the month, but the photo had its secrets. What it didn’t need to tell her was the year. The headscarf meant chemo, and chemo meant 1983.
The familiar face had bloated, the long decline begun. Trish’s stomach burned. Near her mom sat a toddler whose hair sprouted into pigtails. It was a simple picture of a young child and her mother. It was the calendar straight above them that heralded doom. Time. Mom had little left.
She carried the picture to Livvie and wrapped her arm around the cat. The gray fur was soft. Livvie stretched. Trish had to think; she twisted to see the photo again. The couch—yeah. She had picked at its large buttons when Mom wanted her to nap. But the person taking the picture? No. How could she remember?
The photographer had been rich enough to have a camera and develop film. They knew composition plus the artistic use of high contrast. So, not a neighbor. A photojournalist? Male? Someone had looked twice at a young woman whose beauty was decaying with poverty and disease. Mom with her correct enunciation and bad luck would be a journalist’s dream. Trish cleared her throat as she hid the picture in a case pocket.
In the suitcase’s upper corner was the carefully folded one-piece swimsuit, the elastic in the legs disintegrating. It was modest with its old-fashioned cut. The opposite corner had held the mauled tissue with the men’s tiger eye ring. Beneath her finger, her thumb rubbed its stone.
Trish then shuffled through the folder’s medical forms that announced 1983 treatments and a 1984 remission for Esther Card until she found the rectangular slip of green paper. It bore a strange, stiff font—a typewriter’s? Across the top, capital letters shouted, Statement of Earnings. Beneath the of was the regular rate box: $457. A paystub—with a social security number and the last name of Carreden for Mom. The period ending box was dated August 31, 1980; Mom may have learned she was pregnant. Letters skimming near the top spelled Calvary Community Church, Majestic Park. At the bottom, Mom’s handwriting lived on in blue ink: Cashed, 9/12/80.
Cashed, not deposited.
Two pictures of Mom, Pastor Matthew Goodman’s headshot, the ring, the folder, and the swimsuit. Through all their moves, the suitcase had followed them like a lost dog. Had Mom ever opened it with her nearby? No. The little case always had sat apart on the highest shelf. Clues, maybe? Not maybe.
Matthew Goodman was her dad. She felt it. Her hand slid into the suitcase’s pockets, but the smooth lining had nothing more to give.
4
After Bette applied Goodman’s makeup, the pastor retreated through the greenroom to the adjacent bathroom and leaned over the basin to wash his hands. Through the wall vibrated the worship team’s downbeats. Their twenty-minute set was nearly done; then he was on. Last Sunday didn’t seem far enough away.
The bathroom’s cloistered feel offered him silence before he stepped on stage. Its lights neither blinded him nor overheated him; the trickling tap water soothed. He let the liquid ride his hands. It flowed over his knuckles, cuticles, and nails. Water ran clear, yet you could see it. You could feel it and know it and never hold it—like Someone else he knew.
Why hadn’t he scheduled time at Living Waters? What about going . . . now?
Ten thousand attendees, the multicam system, and thousands of viewers waited. Did he have a choice? He had forfeited choices years ago. He turned off the water and grabbed a towel. He positioned his face before the mirror, then inhaled and said aloud, “He was a man like me. He was human like you.”
His mirrored lips expelled the words. He’d drop a pause there and wait one beat. His brow lifted. He’d swivel, ignoring the red dots topping the cameras. Then he’d tell the story. If he got through that . . .
Or he could get in the BMW and go. Even Christ sometimes dodged crowds, despite the work that had to be done in three short years. Goodman could get to Living Waters by afternoon, when sunlight would slant over the lake. He would tell no one—not his wife, Roni, or Sarah or that new assistant. Leave, go! Euphoria tingled.
“Pastor Goodman?” Knuckles rapped the door. “Time.”
The tingling died. Goodman slid his hands over his suit and, wiggling his tie, opened the door. There waited Greg Kendall in black jeans and T-shirt with a headset off an ear.
“Hey, Pastor, here you go.” Greg handed him the beltpack transmitter, and Goodman clamped it on. He slid the cable beneath his suit coat as Greg reached to place the head mic.
“Okay, then. How’s my hair? Need resetting?”
“Nope.” Greg scrutinized him. “But your tie does.” As Greg stepped near, Goodman quashed a backward step. A guy fixing his tie? How’d it come to this? Then again, who didn’t get to touch him?
Greg’s glance cut low. “Zipper?”
This Goodman would check. His index finger hit metal. “Yes. Good?”
“Yep.” The assistant settled his headset and exited the side door.
Goodman passed enormous spools of cable as he hurried under the hall’s fluorescent lights. The cement floor wanted to announce each step, so he rolled carefully off his feet. He grasped the stage door lever.
The door opened like Lewis’s wardrobe to a world dazzling with color and life, ferns and flowers, carpet and crowds. He crossed the platform to the Plexiglas podium anchored center stage. Beneath his soles, the carpet was spongy. He halted to hit the mark where the blue cross of tape had been years ago. He scanned the auditorium and hoisted his mouth into a smile.
To his right the countdown monitor flicked the seconds. Three, two, one . . .
“He was a man like me. He was human like you.” Goodman paused and swiveled. One beat. “You know the story. I know the story. Yet, do we truly know the story? The adulterous woman. A forgiving rabbi. An unforgiving, condemning religious community—”
The story had them. He could hear his voice intone it, his volume rising. He turned to his left, where his peripheral vision could hold his image. His face stretched across the IMAG screen.
It no longer jarred him, this face, a giant’s face well liked by others. It was as if someone—someone significant, someone large—was finally there with him in this lonely spot, the preacher’s podium. Now the beloved Pastor Goodman hovered near him, a better angel over his shoulder. Goodman’s gaze went to the screen; the projected eyes darted away.
“You recall what our Savior did.” His head tilted; the screen head tilted. “When confronted with this woman religious leaders wanted to destroy.”
He paused again. The high ceiling lights, a hundred small suns, shrank the audience to only those in front. So what if these lights kept him from seeing? They didn’t know. He felt his audience. They were one colossal being, a Goliath, and he was David with God-sized Goodman behind him.
His gaze traveled left, his practiced figure eight, so all would feel connected to Pastor Goodman. He then angled his vision low right to the floor monitor, where a miniature Goodman preached with each hair in place.
“Friends,” Goodman began again, “our Savior saved. He reached God’s fingers into the dirt of earth and wrote. What Christ wrote, I do not know. Some believe he wrote the sins of these religious leaders. Perhaps. For what is hidden will be seen. Perhaps he wrote the reasons they should be the ones destroyed. And then Christ offered once more the way of salvation, the way to love, the way to God.”
He pulled from hours of research to explain what was known about the Pharisees, the men of knowledge his congregation loved to hate. He maneuvered through research and verses. Then it was time to conclude.
“Though these men know the truth of God, they know nothing of the love of God. Christ’s invitation repels them. Ignoring this invitation to love, they devise a plan to hate. These respected religious leaders scheme to kill the Son of God.
“We, my friends, are in the crowd. We hear Christ say, ‘Let him who has no sin, be the first to cast a stone.’ Who are you in this crowd? The accused? The accuser? In this story, this intervention, who was saved? Who was condemned?”
Amens surged around him. They pulled him like an undertow into deeper waters. A scene immersed him then. Instead of the sheen of his suit, rough material drooped loose folds around him. Strange. He was on the ground, palms and kneecaps hard against dirt, his head bowed. His peripheral vision caught movement, and his face, held low, tilted. A robe hem undulated around sandaled feet—feet that carried a man toward him. A mere yard from him, the feet stopped; gray dust aged skin and sandals.
Goodman crouched lower. The stranger’s knees bent and cracked; a foot curved away from the sandal sole, and the black-haired man stretched his arm to the ground. His finger started to draw lines that built strange letters. Beyond the man watched a group. Men in robes wore faces twisting in shock. They began to turn away, their arms pushing against each other. Pharisees. And the man whose feet were yet unscarred? Jesus, the Christ.
Then who was he? A woman’s face came to him. Young. Light hair. Fingers gathering windblown hair.
No. He was innocent. He was Pastor Goodman, the rabbi, the teacher. Ten thousand attendees and seven bestsellers confirmed it.
The man observed him; sympathy enlarged the dark eyes. Goodman turned. Stage replaced vision. He was standing next to the podium. Had he lost one minute on camera? Near the camera stood Greg watching him, but he wasn’t sending the wind-up or stretch signals.
Goodman’s head sank to his chest, and he expelled a long breath. Silence tightened the room. “Are we the accused? Are we the accuser? Do we know the truth of God, but know not the love of God?”
More amens swept around him. He knew they’d like this message. He sidled toward the floor monitor and raised his hands. When heads were bowed, he moved his face slightly to read the scrolling words. He paced himself through the minute-long prayer. Finally, the last period appeared. His hand hurried to the hot box on his hip. Greg no longer looked his way. Done. His entire backbone loosened.
The small grocery cart shimmied as Trish pushed it. The sound of Santos’s electric guitar zinged through the corner grocer. She had skipped church. She would watch Pastor Goodman from the comfort of home. Tuesday she would return to the church that rode upon a sea of asphalt like Noah’s ark. Maybe then she could settle down.
Really? Not a chance.
Rectangles of bread filled the shelves to her right like a neighborhood of row houses. She grabbed a loaf and upped her pace. The cart shimmied again. Trish tried to redirect her thoughts. Andrés. He hadn’t called. But that was good. It was best—really. He . . . they—no. When had it all become so awkward? He should get on with his life. She couldn’t. Yet.
She could call María. She almost had yesterday. Trish pushed the cart near the bread and reached into her purse until her fingers closed over the two envelopes. One read María; the other was blank. She checked the five twenties for María. At least she had this, but bringing food, not money, helped more. Money required an excursion beyond the safety of one’s door.
Trish pulled out her new BlackBerry and dialed. How fitting, her first call.
“Hola,” María answered.
Trish switched languages. “I got it! I got it!”
María’s Spanish lilted. Of course she had gotten the job. ¡Qué bueno! This was the week for good news, María gushed. Camila had gotten a classroom citizen award. Esteban had been made sergeant at the precinct. Trish grinned. She leaned her elbows on the cart and imagined María’s soft eyes and scarred palm.
“Any Trentwood updates?”
The voice tightened. “Sí, we did receive a letter. We will be moved to a new condominium. If Section 8 comes through. We’re now on the waitlist. A council meeting is in two weeks—Daniel, ya! ”
Trentwood with its four apartment complexes—demolished? Good news and bad. Trish heard the children. She needed to let María go. But a new condo? Perfect. “María? Will you all come out for my birthday and see my new house? I’d love to host you. I can now.”
Laughter filled her ear. “Of course. Esteban had decided we surprise you. But now you know too.”
“I’ll cook. Some cocido maybe?”
“No, no, no. I cook.”
“María!” Trish laughed.
“Sí, sí. Mi pozole.”
Trish paused. She could smell the garlic and pork. “¿Tu pozole? ”
“For your twenty-five birthdays.”
Warmth lifted Trish; María remembered. She had remembered that—An image of Goodman’s face derailed her thoughts. The warmth dissolved. “You know I’ll be working for Pastor Matthew Goodman, right?” Her eyes closed tightly. What did María know? Mom would have told María something.
“We are so glad.”
Trish lowered her voice. “Glad?”
“To work at a church. This thing, it is very good. Our church, it has a job too.”
Trish heard another cart rattling past her. Her eyes opened. No concern. No change in tone. No subtle hint or question. Nothing. Trish shoved the cart ahead. What if all this was nothing?
5
With her notebook and pencil, Trish drew her chair near Sarah and surveyed her new office. The yellow-brownish walls, bronze fixtures, and dark furniture reminded her of the high-end housing magazine she had seen last year. There were no drywall holes or puddle-brown carpeting. Everything glistened. A print on the opposing wall commanded, Rejoice in the Lord Always. The words sent something like large metal screws spinning down her spine. Hadn’t the lament Why? appeared hundreds of times in the Old Testament alone?
When the desk was hers, she would plant the old Goodman headshot in the bottom of the large drawer. A marker, a reminder to—
“—Pastor Goodman’s scheduling,” Sarah was saying. “Come up closer.”
Trish scooted again to the L-shaped desk and tried to keep her attention tethered to Sarah, but past the shared door, Pastor Goodman’s office was empty. When would he arrive?
“Tuesdays are the exceptions to everything I’m about to say.” The recessed lights laid a circle of white on Sarah’s glossy dark head. “Pastor’s in the studio Tuesday mornings. They tape the wraparound. So he’ll be late Tuesdays. Well, I don’t mean late. He’s never late. He hates it.”
“Oh.” Was it too late to back out? Pastor G might be worse than lawyers.
As Sarah began opening a spiral appointment book, Trish examined her. Her mid-length hair was pulled smoothly to the nape of her neck. Her nails ended in even white half moons.
“Now, to keep it simple, divide his day into thirds. Except for a rare breakfast out, the morning third is his sermon prep time. Don’t disturb him. Ever. Supply plenty of coffee. He likes vanilla lattes. Sugar-free skinnies. You should write it down. Yes, thank you. The middle third, which often includes lunch out, is for guests, and then the later afternoon—the last third—is for church staff and members. Wednesdays are staff meetings.”
Trish’s fingers were cramping. How was she going to last through this tedium? She tried for a deep breath and shifted her torso. “Guests?”
“He gets a steady stream of people from other churches or out of town. A lot of free consulting. I always worry about him. It’s so demanding. He’s too busy. And women. He’s always got those coming in. For counseling.” Sarah’s fingers signaled quotations. “Women can be so obvious.”
“Maybe he likes attention.”
Sarah stared. “He’s always perfectly appropriate.”
Always? Trish shrugged. “Do I answer mail?”
“Heavens no. He gets zillions. You’d never get any work done.” She rose. “It’s Tuesday. I’ll show you.”
Trish followed Sarah into the elevator as the assistant explained, “The Senior Saints do mail on Tuesdays. And usually Thursdays too.”
The elevator dinged and dropped. Trish’s stomach rolled. She grasped the rail until the elevator bumped to a stop.
The fuss the upper floors got didn’t reach the basement. The walls were unpainted drywall. Neither carpeting nor color relieved the cold cement floor. The difference was as distinct as the contrast between the lawyer lounge at Carl Keene’s practice and the staff lounge. Interesting. Money problems—or a values problem?
Trish matched Sarah’s slow pace and halted with her near a closed door. “Might as well show you this first.” Sarah wrangled a key. “Our storage room.”
The door opened, and Sarah flicked a switch. Long fluorescent tubes started buzzing. “Go ahead. Check it out.”
Trish entered the dank room. It extended farther than she had guessed. At one end were enormous wooden spools of blue, green, and yellow electrical wire and a cluster of plastic ferns. At the other, clumped stage props, including a life-size camel cutout. Nearby was a regiment of vertical files and large shelves with legions of supplies—boxes of copy paper to jugs of pink liquid.
“Those files contain everything. Tax forms, church bulletins, et cetera,” Sarah said. “You likely won’t need access, but Cathy in Mr. Lemont’s office has the keys for the financial ones. They’re locked.”
Locked? Rippling energy radiated from the files. What might they hold? One statement, detail, or key? Anything, anything that harbored one scrap of Mom. She stepped back. Soon.
Near her elbow were boxes of pencils. Trish picked up a box. Dust was gritty beneath her fingertips. She shook the box and opened it. The pencils’ pink heads were smooth, unblemished. She slid one out and inhaled. Woody and lead-sour. There were so many pencils here.
“Trish?”
“I knew a girl once.” Trish replaced the box. “She could only have one pencil a year for school. Well, for everything. Did you know you can write forty-five thousand words with one pencil?”
She inspected Sarah. The perfect shiny hair. The perfect nails. The perfect maternity wear. This woman wasn’t wearing Converse shoes with a hoodie. Sarah didn’t face what the cashier did. Food and vitamins and healthcare were in easy reach. What did Sarah know about the world? Maybe little. Trish left the room.
The next hallway door was propped open. A trapezoid of light pressed onto the cement floor. “We’re here.”
A huge table dominated the space, around which five elderly women and one rail-thin man were riffling through mounds of letters. Another white-haired woman sat apart, facing a computer screen.
“Hello!” Sarah chimed. “How are we all doing? Everyone, this is Trish Card. She’s Pastor Goodman’s new assistant.”
Most of the workers fluttered around Sarah as Trish approached.
Sarah gestured toward the mail piled on the table. “And that’s two days’ worth. A lot of it comes via email these days.” Sarah’s hand perched on the shoulder of the volunteer at the monitor. “This is Marilyn. She’s in charge.”
“We’re going to need a second computer soon.” The crepe lips wore pink. “There were almost one thousand new emails since Sunday.”
“Is this typical?” Trish asked.
“Yes, my dear, I’d say.” Marilyn nodded. “There’s always more after the sermon, and then it drops off.”
“So, how are they answered?”
“We do it.” Marilyn grasped a black binder and handed it to her.
Trish cradled the heavy binder. Color tabs labeled categories: encouragement, family issues, theological issues. “Who compiled this?”
“Pastor Goodman with some assistant years ago. People are so grateful. Listen to this lovely letter: ‘Dear Pastor Goodman, your sermons are always God’s powerful voice to me. Every time I hear you, I know I’ve encountered a true man of God.’”
Trish grimaced. “Bit of an overstatement isn’t—?”
Motion in the room stopped as eyes scrutinized her.
“Well, I mean . . .” She stiffened. Oh, no. They believed those words. Did he? She thought fast. “He has to sign all of them?”
Motion returned.
Marilyn pushed herself up and retrieved something from the table. “Here it is.” In her hand was a rubber stamp with a signature cut into a tightly upright cursive.
“Matthew Goodman,” Trish read aloud, her heart accelerating. “A signature stamp?”
“They certainly simplify things.” Marilyn placed it on a rubber stamp tree. “We have to have three of them.”
There were things to know, and they had to be known carefully. What might his signature open? Trish tried to appear calm. Nothing unethical. No way. But still. “Under lock and key?”
“Yes, my dear.” The elderly woman paused. “These could cause all sorts of problems.”
Goodman kept his face upturned, his fingers intertwined on his lap. Bette, her auburn hair bundled on her head, stepped back to appraise his makeup. She was nice enough, but now he had to suffer through Sunday’s makeup routine on Tuesdays.
“Pastor?” Bette asked. She took a second step.
His fingers tightened. It was either a request or bad news.
“Have you considered getting a lift right here?” She tapped near her eye. “Your left eyelid. It needs a little tuck.” Her thumb pressed his eyelid. Goodman didn’t let himself flinch. “It’d really open your eyes back up. I’ve been trying to disguise it, but I can’t do much more with pencil and shadow.”
His palms saddled the smooth material of his trousers. What mattered the tailoring of his suits when his appearance was fraying?
“So, let me know when—”
Greg arrived. “On in three.”
“Wait!” Bette whisked off the makeup collar. “There.”
Goodman followed Greg to the small studio. The set was disguised as a living room with a sandstone-colored couch, chair, and a non-reflective coffee table. The pretend wall wore a framed Mount Rainier in soft oils—Rainier and the Sunset Log in the alpine meadow up the slope from Wellspring, where he finally could talk to Tanner. When had they made their retreats biennial? This year, he’d have to wait for August to see Tanner.
He took his seat, holding a card. His fabric was fraying; his firstborn, Luke, wanted his market share; and calls were coming in from Africa. Why hadn’t Bette waited for after the taping? He only had ten minutes to get the wrap before the lights would overheat his makeup. Would everyone be looking at his left eyelid?
A makeup sponge invaded his vision and pressed his nose. Goodman checked his recoil.
“Little shiny today,” Bette said.
“The hair?”
She scanned his head. “Super.”
A blinding light clicked on as Bette disappeared. He blinked once and then locked open his eyes. No squinting. It’d ruined everything.
“Five, four, three—”
Two cameras anchored opposite sides of the room, where the shadowed legs of cameramen gave the only hint of others. Alone again in the make-believe room, he tried for what he hoped to be a convincing smile.
Details pelted Trish’s senses. When Pastor Goodman had moved into the next guest seat—the huge desk no longer a barrier—her left hand curled around the tiger eye ring. Slow heat climbed her neck. She tried to focus. She had to, but she wanted to stare, to hawk every detail. Were his fingers slender like hers? Yeah. Were his facial bones like hers? Yes! Would people notice? Would he?
A pants crease drew a perfect line in the shining navy fabric. The line emerged from beneath the curve of suit coat and careened over knee to end in a neat cuff above leather shoes. Slip-ons—expensive-looking and spotless, as if Pastor Goodman’s shoes never touched el suelo.
And yet. Goodman didn’t roll like a womanizer. He hadn’t the energy. He was nice enough—the little of him that escaped. She would collect those bits of—
“Trish?” Goodman was turning.
She started, her left hand a fist.
“Did you hear me?”
“Sorry!” What could she say? “I might be officially overwhelmed.”
“First days are long.” A small smile moved his mouth. Sincere. It wasn’t his teeth-gleaming mask that carved hard parentheses into his face—an old actor’s signature. “I was saying that Tuesday mornings are hectic. We do the taping first—”
“The wraparounds?”
“Yes. For the upcoming sermon. They’re challenging—trying to be original week after week.”
“Crafting a sales pitch?”
“Oh—no. They’re a . . . challenge. Yes, an important challenge.” The two parentheses showed.
It would get tiring. Always being on. She studied his face with its familiar profile and cheekbones. She saw it then beneath his far eye. A dark smudge.
“Trish?”
She pointed to her left eye.
“I know.” He frowned. His fingers went to his eyelid. “The sag?”
“What? No. Um, mascara, maybe?”
He stared. Trish couldn’t curb her grin. Tissue, she thought and reached.
“Excuse me.” Goodman grasped it and bolted into his bathroom. The door banged.
A wave of tension roiled. Trish wanted to laugh. Her hand covered her mouth; tears blurred her vision. She stood and grabbed another tissue. She wanted to run, to jump, to burst. The ring was hard under her fingers. She willed herself still.
The door opened. Goodman strode back to the guest chair. He seemed nearly shy. “I hate the stuff.”
“Never knew mascara was an occupational hazard.” She tried not to grin. “Until today.”
His blue eyes sparkled to life, and he laughed.
6
Goodman clasped his readers. He sat at the head of the east-wing conference table, an enormous rectangular table that gleamed beneath recessed lighting. To his left sat Sarah, busily passing handouts around the table where the staff had gathered. The Wednesday staff meeting would begin in one minute, and Trish hadn’t arrived. This wasn’t good. What if she wasn’t punctual?
He had liked her response yesterday to the mascara episode. She thought it funny. It was Goo-man funny. He’d give her another minute.
Goodman stood and aimed for Cathy Darning, Paul’s assistant. He sensed the furtive glances from staff who watched his movements.
“Cathy, how are you?”
She fingered her bangs. “Hi, Pastor Goodman. Well.”
“Good. Are things working out with the insurance for Caleb?”
Cathy nodded importantly. “Thanks so much for making that call. They’ve stabilized him on insulin now. He’s doing so good.”
“It’s the least I could do. All your work on our behalf.”
“Thank you.” She blinked rapidly. “I can’t even say . . .”
Cathy appeared to believe him. Well, she should. “We help each other. That’s what it’s all about. Well, excuse me, I need to begin our meeting.” Goodman pivoted on his right heel and returned to his chair. He twisted his wrist. One minute late. “Sarah, where is Trish?”
His assistant shook her head. “She had gone out for—Oh, here she is.”
He turned. Trish had entered, her face angled away from those who had gathered, eyes down, her stride long. Talking stopped. Everything stopped for a second too long. He heard the beat and its echo. Even in her suit, shabby and loose, her appearance generated energy. Her face magnetized all, except Paul, who was wholly engaged in his pre-meeting paper shuffle with Cathy at his elbow. Chris Darning, his hip against the table, twisted to see. He turned mannequin, swiveled there, facial muscles taut.
Steady, boy, Goodman thought. Don’t give pretty power. He tapped the empty chair to his right. “Trish, please. Sit here.”
As Trish neared, he kept his face forward, but his eye slid to its corner. Her hair wreathed her shoulders, half hiding her profile. At the chair she gave him a shy glance.
The knowledge came to him, keen and sharp, a lancet between his ribs. Trish knew what she triggered. And she had no use for it. In fact, she hated it. How hard it was to carry others’ fascination. It was like holding a box too large to see around and too awkward to carry far. Yes. How often he had wanted to set down their watching, their measuring, even their admiring him, if only for a short time. That would be against the rules, however. You could never put it down. You might never have it again.
His hand had gone to her shoulder. When? His fingers retreated. “Everyone meet Trish Card, my new assistant. Sarah’s replacement. Trish is from Chicago and worked at Carl Keene’s firm. Let’s spend a few minutes introducing ourselves. I know you’ll give her our warm Calvary welcome.”
