Terminal

I jumped again. The last thing I needed was this guy figuring out who I really was. If he told Michelle’s mom that I’d been here, that I’d been in church, she would tell Michelle, and that would lead to all kinds of questions. Questions that would only cause trouble, questions for which I had no answers because I’d been lying all this time.

So I lied again.

“Sorry, Reverend— I mean Father, but you must have me confused with somebody else. I just moved here from Lancaster. My name is John. John . . . Sherman.”

I had to fight to keep from cracking up at the pseudonym, but the priest didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh. I see. Well, I must be mistaken then. It is remarkable, though. You look a lot like him. Quite uncanny.”

“Sorry. Wrong guy.” I shrugged, feeling sheepish.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and I began to worry that he didn’t believe me. Then he spoke again.

“Do you require confession, Mr. Sherman?”

“Uh, no. Not at the moment. Look, to be honest, Father, I was hoping that I could have a couple minutes alone with God. I haven’t spoken to Him in a while and I think I need to.”

“Certainly. It happens to us all, I’m afraid. Nothing to be embarrassed about, believe me. But are you sure that I can’t assist you? Would you like to speak with me? Perhaps I can offer guidance, a friendly ear or a bit of understanding. I am the Lord’s representative after all.”

“No, no— I think I’d better take it up directly with Him, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course. This is God’s house, after all. I am just His servant. I’ll leave you alone now. However, if you need me, I’ll be in the rectory right next door. Think it over, okay? I may be able to help you, son. I’d like to try. It’s my job. Think about it.”

“Thanks, Father. I appreciate that. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later. But right now, I just need to pray.”

“I understand.” He smiled, gave a short half nod, half bow, and then left. I was alone again with Jesus. He hadn’t moved, still just hanging out, glaring at me from above. Slowly, I shuffled to the front, my baggy jeans brushing against the carpet with a SWOOSH. I knelt, gripped the rail, stared up at Jesus, and prayed aloud.

“Dear God . . .” I began, then stopped, struggling for the words. After a moment of silence, I found them.

“What the fuck is Your problem, You son of a bitch? I mean, what— just because I haven’t talked to You since I was a little kid, You decide to give me cancer? Is that it? Where were You, huh? If You wanted me to talk to You so bad, You could have let me know. You never wrote or called or sent me a burning fucking bush. What was I supposed to think? I grew up in a fucking hellhole, man. Do You have any idea what that was like for me? Do You? You’re supposed to be omnipotent, so maybe You do. I used to lie in bed at night and pray for You to help me, but You never did. You never lifted a finger. Where were You? Can You imagine what it was like to live with my father? I was glad when he died. Glad. Is that a sin? Is that why You did this? Is it because I hated You when Mom died? I hated her too, but still— why’d she have to go out like that? It’s fucking bullshit, man. Did You do it to punish me for something?

“You’re a total bastard. I quit believing in Your ass a long time ago, and do You know why?

Because You didn’t give me a reason to believe. That’s all I needed. Just a reason. But You couldn’t give me one. I thought about it sometimes, sure. When Michelle and I got married and we said our vows, I thought about it then. And when T. J. came along— man, I thought about it long and hard. They’re the best things that ever happened to me. The only good things in this fucked-up life. I thought that maybe You gave them to me— that maybe You really did exist. I believed, if only for a little while. So where do You get off, huh? Who the fuck are You? It’s not enough that we’re poor and that I’m raising my family in a trailer, just like I was raised? It isn’t enough that the little rich yuppie kids at T. J’s day care are already calling him white trash? On top of all that bullshit, now You’ve got to give me fucking cancer too? How dare You. Even if You’re pissed off at me, what did they ever do to You? Why do they deserve this? Is this Your idea of divine justice? ‘Tommy doesn’t believe in Me so I’ll leave his wife a widow and his son an orphan and they’ll be poorer than ever before.’

“Why me? Huh? Tell me that—why did it have to be me? Why not one of these asshole billionaires that drain their companies and their stockholders dry, then do two months in some minimum security, golf resort prison? Why not them? Or why not some pimp or crack dealer in York or Baltimore? Am I no better than they are? Why not give it to some terrorist or something?