Fatherless: A Novel Read online

  “I mean your mom and Mr. Finelson.”

  After a long silence, the eleven-year-old kid tried to express an age-old quandry. “Why does she have to…you know…be like that?”

  Julia heard more than the words. Jared hated to see his mother throw herself at one man after another. It distressed him when she wore clothes that made his hormonal buddies stare or make crude comments about her body. He might have been a boy, but he couldn’t suppress the desire to protect a virtue his mom didn’t care to keep.

  “It’s embarrassing,” Jared continued. “Somebody will see them together and the stories will fly. Every time kids see Mr. Fin take a call they’ll jab me and hoot like they do when they watch porn.”

  “Porn? Really?” Julia hadn’t considered Jared old enough for such things.

  Surprised by her naïveté Jared looked away, embarrassed about saying so much to his aunt.

  Julia took a single piece of popcorn to nibble while considering the boy’s feelings.

  “Your mother is a very attractive and spontaneous woman, Jared,” she began. “And she deserves to be happy.”

  Jared stiffened. “She’s not.”

  “Not what?”

  “Happy,” he explained. “At least not the way Calvin’s mom is happy.”

  “Who’s Calvin?”

  “A friend of mine. We sit by each other. I go to his house on Thursdays whenever Mom needs to work late. Mrs. Nowell picks us up from school.”

  “And she seems happier than your mom?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not happier.” He reached for the right words. “Calmer. More secure. Less show-offish.”

  “Is show-offish a word?” Julia wondered aloud.

  “You know what I mean.”

  She did. Julia knew that Maria’s appeal had a dark side, an insatiable craving for male attention. Julia considered her sister’s countless romantic sprees a sign of weakness. Why depend on guys to feel good about yourself? But then she recalled the sting she had felt over Jonathan Sowell’s apathy. Julia too had unmet needs.

  “So what makes Calvin’s mom different?”

  “Well, she’s really pretty,” Jared explained. “And she smells terrific. But none of the guys talk about her like they do Mom.”

  “Does she have a partner?”

  “Calvin’s dad, Mr. Nowell. He’s great!”

  Another piece of the puzzle slid into place. “Great how?”

  He smiled at some unspoken recollection as he tapped a pawn on the screen to launch a modified assault. “Just great. He tells lame jokes during dinner. Nobody laughs. It’s hilarious!”

  Julia had never considered what it was like for a boy to grow up with two women. Jared had never met his father, a fly-by-night encounter Maria hadn’t bothered to tell about the pregnancy. Nor had Jared spent any time with a fisherman grandpa or backslapping uncle. She remembered eating dinner with Angie’s family as a girl. Julia knew what it was to covet a friend’s daddy.

  “My dad left our family when I was little,” Julia said. “Four maybe. I don’t remember much. Only saw him twice after the divorce, once as a flower girl in his wedding. His fiancée thought I would be the perfect adornment for the ceremony. But I got nervous and threw up on the bouquet. Turned out to be a bad omen for the marriage.”

  “You barfed?” Jared exclaimed. “Cool!”

  “My mother loved telling that story. I don’t actually remember the day. But I have seen a picture of me in the dress. I looked darling.”

  Julia mindlessly moved her other knight.

  “Did your dad ever call?” Jared asked. “Did he write?”

  Julia surprised herself by feeling a slight swell of anger. After all this time? she mused.

  “Never heard from him again.”

  Two fatherless children shared a moment of isolation.

  “He never contacted your mom either,” Julia felt it important to add.

  Both took a handful of popcorn to fill the silence.

  Five moves and a checkmate later, Jared broke his string of losses and declared himself household champion. They finished the popcorn and floats while watching television before calling it a night.

  After slipping into her nightgown Julia tried to ignore a nagging memory. Going home with Angie to have dinner at her house. Watching her dive into her daddy’s open arms, feeling her own paternal poverty. She decided to type a quick message to the girl she had loved and envied as a child.

  HI ANGIE: I have a meeting in DC a week from Monday. If I fly in a few days early could we connect to catch up?

  Before hitting SEND, she recalled Paul’s demand. “Get close again, fast.”

  She added one more line to the message.

  I’ve missed you.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “An astute observation, Miss Arrasmith,” Matthew heard while slipping into the back of a large classroom where five dozen sophomores yawned their way through life’s most profound questions. Only one, a vivacious brunette seated in the front row, seemed remotely interested in the topic: “Christian heresies reconsidered.” On second look, however, Matthew sensed the girl was less enamored with the lecture than with the speaker, Dr. Thomas Vincent.

  In his early forties, Dr. Vincent had flowing gray hair and a lean vigor that seemed fitting for a man who had renounced his vow of chastity and exchanged administering holy sacraments for evaluating doctoral dissertations.

  Vincent winked in affirmation to the student, who appeared to be his favorite for reasons beyond academic initiative. “If you can remain after class for a few moments, I’d like to discuss your perspective further.”

  The girl smiled as two boys seated in the back nudged one another with a snigger.

  Having arrived thirty minutes before his scheduled appointment, Matthew had decided to catch part of the professor’s lecture. He had hoped to audit the entire semester, but paying the additional parent-sitting fees was out of the question. Walking into the classroom stirred Matthew’s resentment at a vague target. Whom could he blame? Certainly not his mother. She hadn’t chosen to get sick. His dad? How could you blame an unspecified sperm-bank donor for failing to support a nameless recipient? Himself? What else could he do? Mom only had one child and there was no one else to help her. His oppressor remained anonymous.

  Matthew found an empty chair and settled in, eager to glean from an intellect few in the room seemed clever or disciplined enough to appreciate.

  “Rosalyn raises an important point,” the professor continued. “While we often see church history as those in power defending their territory, it’s an oversimplification to say all church leaders were corrupt or all motives impure.”

  Matthew admired Dr. Vincent’s balanced handling of the church fathers. His book did not paint them as villains, just mistaken. During all three brief conversations the two had shared in the coffee shop Matthew had sensed philosophical alignment, possibly rooted in their lingering respect for a church both had left.

  “Don’t be afraid to give credit to the Christian ideals where credit is due. Denying the good things that came from the church won’t nullify their dogma. It will just make you appear ignorant.”

  A hand raised. “I thought you said the evils of the Inquisition can be blamed on church dogma.”

  “Close. I said trying to enforce compliance with church orthodoxy led its leaders to betray Jesus’s teachings. He never advocated killing pagans and infidels. He taught his followers to love their enemies.”

  “But he also said he came to bring a sword.” The student raised the stakes.

  “The Gospel of Matthew, chapter ten, verse thirty-four. Very good, Mr. Fuller.” The boy’s thumbs stretched invisible suspenders in self-congratulation. “But we need to observe what Jesus did to properly understand what he said.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he told his followers to put away their swords at the very moment they tried to protect him. Meaning he, like Socrates, chose suicide over betraying his ideals. Mean
ing, Mr. Fuller, that he demonstrated the ultimate purpose of life.”

  “Which is?” the student asked.

  “Transcending oneself.”

  The answer skimmed classroom heads like a stone skipping along the water before sinking in for Matthew. Free them to thrive.

  “What the church fathers missed,” Dr. Vincent continued, “was the purpose of Jesus’s martyrdom. They created the myth of a bodily resurrection to portray him as a death-conquering deity. In reality, he discarded his body as a death-embracing mystic.”

  “I can think of much better things to do with my body!” The comment came from a sneering hedonist in the back row. Dr. Vincent’s disarming smile released a sprinkling of macho guffaws.

  “Like every great prophet from Moses to the Dalai Lama,” he continued, “Jesus modeled a path to fulfillment much more intense than anything even Mr. Thurman’s body can give.”

  Laughter swelled as the girls cheered the counterpunch.

  “Better than sex?” a guy seated immediately in front of Matthew asked.

  Dr. Vincent glanced at his watch. “Different from sex. But we’ll unpack that after you finish the assigned reading covering the first church council. Come ready next time to discuss chapter three, ‘Arius Reconsidered.’”

  A chorus of slothful groans reminded Matthew that he deserved college more than most of those enrolled.

  “I’ll see you next week.” Dr. Vincent discharged his prisoners as the brunette sprang forward to relish his personal attention.

  Matthew’s approach seemed an unwelcome distraction from Rosalyn’s admiring gaze. Dr. Vincent had apparently forgotten their appointment. Understandable, Matthew thought as he ogled the professor’s groupie.

  “Hello, Matthew,” Thomas said while hastily scratching out a handwritten note. “I’ll be with you in a second.”

  Matthew remained just out of range, unable to decipher the writing. A book title? A lecture podcast? The name of a hotel? Regardless, the words denoted a life Matthew envied and, if he believed his mother, deserved.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Matthew and the professor entered the vestibule of a gothic building that had once held a steady stream of people lighting candles for deceased parents, struggling children, or world peace. More like a museum than a church, St. Thomas Aquinas University Parish now served as the place Dr. Vincent reflected in solitude or hosted rare chats with those students curious about the ideas explored in his classes.

  “I see what you mean,” Matthew said. “Very tranquil.”

  “I like it,” Thomas said while removing his scarf. “I’ve done some of my best thinking in that pew right over there.” He pointed to a row next to last. “Far away from the presence of Christ, but not as far as I could be.”

  Both smiled.

  “How’s your mother?” The question surprised Matthew. He had only mentioned her once to the professor, nearly two months before.

  “She’s fine, I guess,” he responded. “It’s thoughtful of you to remember.”

  “Dementia?”

  “That’s right. She has good days and bad. More bad lately.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A brief silence.

  “So, what’s on your mind, Matthew Adams?”

  Matthew retrieved a digital tablet from his coat pocket. It woke with a ping. The sound seemed out of place amid icons and relics from a bygone era.

  “I’ve been doing some reading and I want to ask you about an idea I think has merit.”

  “I love discussing ideas of merit,” Thomas replied. “Shoot.”

  “Have you ever heard of something called Manichaean philosophy?” Matthew sounded doubtful. “I’m not sure of the right pronunciation.”

  “You got it right,” Thomas affirmed. “And yes, I have. St. Augustine was schooled in Manichaean philosophy prior to his Christian conversion.”

  “That’s it. What’s your opinion of it?”

  “Do you mean my opinion of the philosophy or my opinion of its being labeled heresy?”

  “I suppose both,” Matthew responded.

  Thomas grinned. Nothing kindled his passion like an eager, open mind. “How much of today’s lecture did you hear?”

  “None really. Just a few questions at the end where you touched on the true meaning of Christ’s martyrdom.”

  “Why the fascination with Manichaean philosophy? It’s not exactly recreational reading.”

  “I’m working on a thesis about spiritual environmentalism.” The statement fell flat, less impressive than it had sounded to his coffee shop colleagues. “I should say, I’d like to develop the idea if I ever go to grad school.”

  “You’ll get there,” Thomas said with well-meaning condescension.

  Matthew felt both affirmed and put in his place.

  “As I started to say during class today, the early church missed the point of Jesus’s death. Manichaean philosophers offered something that I think came closer to Jesus’s intentions.”

  “Is that what you meant by understanding Jesus’s words in light of his actions?”

  “Nice to know someone was listening.”

  “I think I know what you meant about Jesus’s martyrdom.”

  Thomas appeared pleased. “Do you? Let’s hear it then.”

  “The church presented Jesus’s death as an act of sacrifice for sin. But what he really did was demonstrate what it means to abandon the body for a purely spiritual existence.”

  “Very good, Matthew. Hence, Manichaean philosophy. I think Augustine had it right before he submitted to church dogma about Jesus. The Manichaeans taught that the physical body is evil, a prison cell keeping us from our true nature.”

  Spirit good. Body bad, Matthew recalled.

  “They rejected the idea that Jesus was God in the flesh because God, pure spirit, would never defile himself by becoming a material being,” Thomas explained further.

  “So freeing ourselves from the prison of flesh is the ultimate meaning of Jesus’s life and teachings?”

  “I think so. That’s why I left the priesthood. Official church teachings demand the celebration of Christ’s incarnation and affirmation of a bodily resurrection. I could no longer do either.”

  “What changed your mind?” Matthew asked.

  “My spirit changed before my mind changed,” Thomas admitted. “My conversion, pardon the expression, began in the confession booth.”

  “Confession booth?”

  “You may laugh, but my journey out of orthodox Christianity began with the body odor and bad breath of my parishioners.”

  Matthew thought of his mother. Her soft beauty had become harsh and haggard, her clear mind confused. And yes, her fresh scent had been overcome by smells of stale perspiration and dehydrated urine. “I think I understand.”

  “We decay, Matthew. Why would a good God create a decaying masterpiece?” Thomas paused to let the question stew. “I don’t think he or she would do that. The Manichaeans, like the ancient pagans, including Plato, understood what the church fathers missed. So did Arius.”

  “Arius?” Matthew reached to recall the context of the name he had seen in Dr. Vincent’s book.

  “Fourth century. The Gnostics influenced him. Like the Manichaeans, they saw God as ultimate goodness that could not become matter since matter itself was considered evil. Every major controversy of early church history came back to the same question. ‘Did God, who is pure and perfect spirit, defile his purity by becoming a material being?’ ”

  “The doctrine of the incarnation!”

  “Exactly. God becoming man suggested good becoming evil. In short, they didn’t think God could have bad breath.”

  Matthew sat quietly for a moment, hesitant to admit what remained hidden beneath the surface of his questions.

  “My mom is deteriorating quickly. She needs me more than ever. She’s unhappy. So am I.”

  The comments splashed cold water in Dr. Vincent’s face, jarring him from the abstract worl
d of ideas he loved to the gritty reality of Matthew’s here-and-now dilemma. He said the only thing he could. “We decay.”

  Decay…

  Decay…

  Decay…

  The word bounced off the distant walls with fading repetition. Matthew turned to survey a hollow building once alive with rituals celebrating a creed he hoped false. He wanted to escape the images and ideas that continued to make him feel tentative, even guilty, for wanting to liberate his mother.

  Give those burdened the freedom to thrive, he thought, resentment and relief flowering within.

  “Do you ever read a columnist named Julia Davidson?” Matthew asked.

  “Sometimes. Pretty on target, I think. Why?”

  “She used a phrase I found interesting in a piece on genetic screening.” Matthew tapped his tablet screen to recover a highlighted quotation before handing it to his unwitting mentor.

  I hope she will give the baby the freedom to thrive by eliminating the risk of unnecessary disease and disability. I only wish we could give the same freedom to those of us already burdened by both.

  Thomas returned the device with apprehension. “Matthew. What’s this about?”

  Matthew wanted to say more, to trust Thomas Vincent with his moral quandary.

  Tell him what you want to do.

  He’ll understand.

  He might even approve.

  “Thank you, Father…” Matthew blushed at the mistake. “I mean Dr. Vincent. You’ve been a big help.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’m afraid you only have two choices,” the elderly woman squeezed through grinding teeth, her thinning patience on overtime. “Keep the seat you’ve been assigned or wait for the next flight later this afternoon.”

  Julia’s brow furrowed at both options. Booking at the last minute had forced the humiliation of a middle seat in coach, probably cramped between two armrest hogs. Despite her gold status with the airline, she couldn’t get an upgrade to either first or business class. But Angie Tolbert expected her to arrive before six o’clock. The later flight wouldn’t depart Denver International Airport until four thirty, landing in DC after eight p.m. East Coast time.