Keeping Faith: A Novel (43 page)

“Neither do I. Don’t look so surprised.

I’ve met with her, too, you know; she’s a sweet kid. Which leads me to believe someone’s putting her up to this.”

Kenzie thinks back to the moment in Faith’s bedroom, when Mariah silenced her daughter with a single glance. “Her mother.”

“That was my conclusion, yes.” He settles back against the pew. “I know Mrs. White isn’t much of a practicing Jew, but some things stay with you. If repressed childhood traumas can come back to haunt you, why not religious practice? Maybe it was ingrained at an early age in Mrs. White–preverbally, even–and she’s somehow communicated this to her daughter.”

Kenzie scratches her chin with the top of her pencil. “Why?”

Rabbi Weissman shrugs. “Ask that fellow Ian Fletcher. God can be a very lucrative silent partner. The question isn’t why, Ms. van der Hoven. It’s why not?”

November 19, 1999 “You certainly raise a good point,” Father MacReady says. He walks beside Kenzie on the grounds of the church, setting up small tornadoes of leaves with the toe of his cowboy boot. “But I can raise a good one, too. Why would a child–or her mother, as you suggest–choose to be a stigmatic?”

“Attention?”

“Well, there is that. But seeing God isn’t nearly as big a draw as, say, seeing Elvis. And if you want to stick to Catholicism, I’d have to say that visions of Mary have always attracted a bigger, more emotional crowd than sightings of Jesus.” He turns to Kenzie, the wind ruffling his hair.

“Stigmatics are subject to intense scrutiny by the Catholic Church. Far as I know, if you commune with Elvis, you only have to answer to someone like Petra Saganoff.”

“It doesn’t seem odd to you that a little Jewish girl is having a vision of Jesus?”

“Religion’s not a competition, Ms. van der Hoven.” He looks at Kenzie carefully. “What’s really upsetting you about this case?”

Kenzie crosses her arms, suddenly cold.

“I’m convinced Faith isn’t lying. Which means that I can’t help but believe that maybe someone else is putting her up to this …”

“Mariah.”

“Yes,” Kenzie sighs. “Or else …

she’s really seeing God.”

“And you have a problem with that.”

She nods. “I’m a cynic.”

“So am I,” Father MacReady says. “Every now and then, even up here, we get a crying statue or a blind man who can suddenly see, but these things don’t usually happen unless you’re David Copperfield. I’m the first person who’ll tell you that devout faith can change a person. But work miracles? No way. Heal?

Uh-uh. And the truth is, the only piety Faith’s got going for her is in her name. She didn’t grow up believing in God. She doesn’t care even now, really, who God is.

Except for the fact that God is a friend.”

Father MacReady stares toward the edge of the church’s property. The sun has broken through the clouds, reflecting in blue and gold rays like a stock photo on religious paraphernalia.

He can remember his mother pulling the car over to sigh at the beauty of a moment like this. “Look at that,

Joseph,” she’d say. “It’s a Jesus sky.”

“Ms. van der Hoven,” he muses, still staring off into the distance, “have you ever seen the sun set in Nepal?”

Kenzie follows his gaze to the dazzling palette of the sky. “No, I haven’t.”

“Neither have I,” Father MacReady admits.

“But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

Vatican City, Rome The forerunner of the Office of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was instituted in 1231 by Pope Gregory IX,

and occasionally carried out its mission by stretching suspects on the rack, searing them with live coals, flogging, and burning them at the stake. It has been a long, long time since the Inquisition, and the office is now devoted to furthering correct Catholic doctrine rather than censuring heresy. Yet Cardinal Sciorro sometimes walks through the halls and smells ashes;

sometimes he wakes in the night because he’s heard people scream.

The cardinal prefect likes to think of himself as a simple man, a holy man–but a fair man. Since the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith acts like a court of appeal, he knows he is well suited to his position. He wears responsibility as surely as he wears his mozzetta, and it weighs just as heavily on his shoulders.

He is in his office, sipping his morning chocolate and reading over paperwork that’s been piling up, when he first comes across it. “The MotherGod Society,” he says slowly, testing the words on his tongue; they leave a bitter aftertaste. He skims the brief: A group of Catholic women of significant numbers wish to appeal the censure of His Excellency the Bishop of Manchester, claiming that the words of one Faith White, who is not Catholic, are not heretical.

The cardinal prefect calls to his secretary, an attentive monsignor named Reggie with the look of a beagle about him. “Your Eminence?”

“What do you know about this MotherGod Society?”

“Well,” Reggie says, “they were demonstrating in St. Mark’s Square yesterday.”

These militant Catholic women are becoming more and more of a force. For a moment, the cardinal feels a pang of nostalgia, for the way the world was before Vatican II. “What did Bishop Andrews consider heresy.”

“From what I’ve gathered, the Jewish visionary says God is female.”

“I see.” The cardinal prefect exhales slowly, thinking of Galileo, Joan of Arc, of other victims of alleged heresy. He wonders what good it will do if, after this appeal, the MotherGod Society remains censured. He can stop these women from putting heresy into print, from spreading false dogma, because they’re followers of Catholicism.

But Faith White–she’ll still be out there, saying whatever she wants.

Lacey Rodriguez kicks off her shoes and slips the tape into the VCR. Not for the first time since she’s been an investigator, she mulls over how thoughtless employers can be. A few more perks, a better benefits package–hell,

maybe even a personal greeting every now and then … any of these things might have gone a long way to keep Ian Fletcher’s cameraman from selling out a videotaped copy of Millie Epstein’s stress test for a measly ten thousand dollars.

She pushes the fast-forward button on the remote control, not having the slightest interest in the old woman’s cardiac rhythms or huffing and puffing on the treadmill. Then she sits forward, transfixed, her fingertips covering her slowly spreading smile.

Keeping Faith

THIRTEEN

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary,

the devil, as a roaring lion,

walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.

–1 Peter 58 November 23, 1999 “The man,” Joan announces, slinging her briefcase onto our kitchen table, “is an asshole.”

Neither my mother nor I blink an eye.

We’ve heard Joan rant this way about Malcolm Metz before. I sit down across from her as she shuffles through papers. “The good news,” I say, full of false cheer, “is that in a few weeks you’ll never have to see Metz again.”

Joan looks up, surprised. “Who’s talking about Metz?” She leans back in her chair, massaging her temples. “No, today I had the singular pleasure of deposing Ian Fletcher. The guy’s twenty minutes late and wouldn’t answer to anything beyond his name and address.

Back in third grade he must have learned to say “I take the fifth,” and he’s been waiting for a chance to use it ever since.” Shaking her head,

she hands Mariah a list. “All I got out of him is that he’s going to be a pain in the ass on cross.”

Mariah takes the paper, trying to get her head around Joan’s comment. Ian, a witness for Malcolm Metz? For Colin?

“Besides Fletcher, is there anyone else on the witness list you can give me some information about?”

I try to answer, but my mouth is too dry to manage more than a puff of surprise. I am dimly aware of my mother, her eyes narrowed on my face; of the sea of letters that form and dissolve into names: Colin, Dr. Orlitz, Dr.

DeSantis. “Mariah,” Joan calls, her voice a long way away, “are you all right?”

He has said, all along, that he will help me. He has said that he’ll do whatever is in his power to make sure I keep Faith. And yet here he is, in league with Malcolm Metz,

lying to me.

What else has he lied about?

With a great surge of adrenaline I stand, pushing my chair back from the table. Joan and my mother watch me walk out of the kitchen, follow me to the parlor. When it becomes clear to them what I mean to do, Joan rushes to intervene. “Mariah,”

she cautions, “don’t fly off the handle here.”

But I’m not thinking clearly; I don’t want to think clearly. I don’t care who sees me running across the yard with a speed born of hurt and fury. I barely even pay attention to the charge that electrifies the media as I close in on the Winnebago with single-minded purpose.

I don’t even bother to knock. Chest heaving,

I stand in the doorway and stare at Ian and three of his employees, gathered around a tiny table with papers strewn all over. For a beat, Ian’s eyes speak to me: surprise, pleasure,

confusion, and wariness registering one after the other.

“Miz White,” he drawls. “What a very pleasant surprise.” He turns to the other three people and asks for a moment alone; they file from the Winnebago casting curious looks my way.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Ian comes around the table and grasps my shoulders.

“What’s the matter? Did something happen to Faith?”

“Not yet,” I bite out.

He steps back, distanced by my anger.

“Well, it’s got to be something. You can’t imagine the kind of stories brewing in the heads of all the reporters who watched you walk on in here just now.” Then his face changes, slipping easily into a boyish smile. “Or maybe you just couldn’t live another moment without seeing me in person.”

I swallow hard. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re testifying for Metz?”

I can’t help it, the way my voice breaks in the middle. I have the satisfaction of watching Ian start, and then, to my surprise, he begins to laugh. “Joan told you.” I nod. “She let on how uncooperative I happened to be?”

Then Ian reaches for me. “Mariah, I’m testifying for you.”

I sniff into his shirt. Even now, when I should hate him, I notice the scent of his skin.

Steeling myself, I draw away. “Well, you may not have noticed, but Malcolm Metz is not my lawyer.”

“That’s right. I went to him, made him think I’d give him examples to kingdom come about you being an unfit parent. When it’s my turn to testify in court, though, he’ll be in for a surprise, since my speech will be dramatically different.”

“But Joan–“

“I didn’t have a choice, Mariah. I can go over my testimony with Metz to his face and then get up on the stand and start speaking Swahili without it being a big deal. After all, I’m his witness, and it just means I’m not behaving properly. But if I lie to Joan Standish in a deposition and then get up in a court of law and say something entirely different, I’ll be committing perjury. I had to plead the fifth today–

repeatedly–because it keeps her from getting in trouble, and me from getting in trouble, and Metz from getting suspicious of me.”

I want to believe him; God, I do. “You would do this for me?”

Ian inclines his head. “I would do anything for you.”

This time when he takes me into his arms, I don’t resist. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?”

His hand strokes my back, gentling. “The less you know, the better. That way if it all blows up in my face, you won’t be caught in the explosion.” He kisses the corner of my mouth,

my cheek, my forehead. “You can’t tell Joan yet. If she finds out before the trial, she could get into a hell of a lot of trouble.”

In answer, I go up on my toes and kiss him. Shyly, at first; then I open my mouth on his, identifying coffee and something sweeter, like candy. Surely if Ian was lying to me, it would be evident. Surely if he was lying, I would have the good sense to see through him.

Like I did before? Closing my eyes, I firmly push away the thought of Colin and his indiscretions. I feel Ian’s heat rising between us, his hips pushing against mine.

With a gasp, he breaks away from me.

“Sugar, there’s a whole crowd of people out there waiting to see whether you’re gonna make it out of this trailer alive. And if we keep this up, I can’t make any promises.” He chastely kisses my brow and takes a deliberate step away, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?”

“You don’t look like you’ve been fighting with me, exactly.” Flushing, I smooth my hands over my hair and touch my fingertips to my lips.

Ian laughs. “Just look angry, and get back to the house fast. They’ll think you’re still nursing a powerful mad.”

He cups my cheek in his hand, and I turn my lips into his palm. “Ian … thanks.”

“Miz White,” he murmurs, “it’s my pleasure.”

Joan and my mother hover at the door and immediately surround me as I walk inside, making me think of circus performers who wait at the high rope ladder to make sure their companion on the trapeze returns to safety. “Good God,

Mariah,” Joan scolds. “What were you thinking?”

My mother doesn’t say a word. She stares at my mouth, red and kissed, and raises a brow.

“I wasn’t thinking,” I confess, and at least this much is true.

“What did you say to him?”

“To be polite to my attorney in the future,” I lie, staring Joan right in the eye,

“or else he’ll have to answer to me.”

A few minutes before Petra Saganoff and her film crew are due to arrive, I pull Faith aside into an alcove by the bathroom.

“You remember what we talked about?”

Faith nods solemnly. “No talk about God. At all. And there’s going to be a big camera,” Faith adds. “Like the ones outside.”

“That’s right.”

“And I can’t call Petra Saganoff the B word.”

“Faith!”

“Well, you called her that.”

“I was wrong.” I sigh, thinking that if I survive this day, I will never complain again in my life. Through Joan, I’ve arranged to have Petra Saganoff in to film what she calls “B-roll”–background footage of Faith playing and of us just being us in our house, that she’ll then go off and record over with her own narrative,

before airing the segment on Hollywood Tonight!

Joan made sure that Saganoff signed a release about what she is allowed to film and what she isn’t, but I worry about her visit all the same. Although I think Faith will be able to act normally for a half hour, this could backfire … something Joan has pointed out to me ever since I suggested this exclusive. Our lives haven’t exactly been predictable lately. What if Faith starts bleeding again?

What if she forgets, and starts talking to God?

What if Petra Saganoff makes us all look like fools?

“Mommy,” Faith says, touching my arm.

“It’ll be okay. God’s taking care of it.”

“Excellent,” I murmur. “We’ll make sure to give her a good seat.”

The doorbell rings. I pass my mother on the way to answer it.

“I still don’t like this. Not a bit.”

“Neither do I,” I say, scowling at her.

“But if I don’t say something, people are going to assume the worst.” I pull open the door and fix a smile on my face. “Ms.

Saganoff, thank you so much for coming.”

Petra Saganoff, primed and in person, is even more attractive than she is on television. “Thanks for the invitation,” she says.

With her are three men, whom she introduces as a cameraman, a sound man, and a producer. She does not make eye contact with me; instead her gaze darts around the hall, looking for Faith.

“She’s just inside,” I say dryly. “Why don’t you follow me?”

We have agreed to allow her access to Faith’s playroom. What better way, I figure,

to show that a child is just a child, than to watch her with her dolls and puzzles and books? But by the time the cameraman and the producer have decided where to set the camera and arranged the lighting for the shot, nearly thirty minutes have passed. Faith’s getting fidgety; the cameraman even gives her a “gel”–a colored piece of plastic that he’s affixed to the lights with clothespins. She takes it and peers through it, screening her world yellow, but I can tell that she’s reached the end of her patience.

At this rate, Faith will be ready to leave her toys and go somewhere else by the time Petra’s just getting started.

I am thinking of the time Ian filmed Faith at my mother’s stress test, of how even with limits in place, there is still so much that can go wrong –when suddenly a fuse blows. “Ah, damn it,” the cameraman says. “Circuits are overloaded.”

Another ten minutes until we fix the fuse. By now Faith is whining.

The cameraman turns to the producer. “You want continuous time code or time of day?” Then the sound man holds up a white card in front of Faith’s face. “Give me some tone,” the cameraman says, and a few moments later,

“Speed.” The producer looks at Petra Saganoff. “Whenever you’re ready.”

When filming begins, I’m on the floor helping Faith play with a felt board. As per Joan’s instructions, I don’t talk to Petra or the camera; I do only what I would normally be doing with Faith. I try to keep Faith’s attention from the little red light on top of the camera, a place she seems to want to fix her gaze. Petra watches from the corner.

“I’m hungry,” Faith says, and I realize it’s already lunchtime.

“Come on. We’ll go into the kitchen.”

Well, that creates a quandary. Technically we haven’t filmed for thirty minutes, but the crew is off limits to the rest of the house. I suggest that the crew take a break and continue filming after Faith eats. Graciously, I invite Petra into the kitchen.

“You have a nice place here, Mrs. White,”

she says, the first words she’s really addressed to me since her arrival.

“Thank you.” I reach into the refrigerator and pull out the peanut butter and jelly, set it on the table–Faith likes to spread her own sandwiches.

“I imagine this has been hard for you,”

Petra says, and then smiles at the expression on my face. “Want to frisk me? See if I’m wearing a mike?”

“No, of course not.” Joan’s ultimate command: Keep your cool. I choose my words carefully, sure that the voice-over narrative Saganoff does will somehow come back to whatever conversation we are about to have. “It has been difficult,” I admit. “As you’ve probably noticed, regardless of what the people outside think,

Faith’s just a little girl. That’s all she wants to be.”

Behind Petra’s back, I see Faith holding up her palm. She’s spread jelly all around the Band-Aid, so that it looks as if she’s oozing blood, and she’s waving her hand in the air and silently pretending to moan.

My mother, catching my look, rushes over to Faith and wipes the jelly off her hand with a paper towel, firmly waggling a finger in her face in warning. I focus my attention on Petra again and smile brightly. “What was I saying?”