Chapter Four
Chapter
Four
“Blood alcohol was barely above zero,”
Constable Singh said. “I’m sorry, Mark, but he could have gotten
that way from eating his grandma’s rum balls. No evidence of DUI,
and no breach of his parole.”
“I saw him with a drink in his hand,” Mark
said stubbornly.
“Might have stayed in his hand and not gone
in his mouth. I don’t know. But we couldn’t hold him for
anything.”
“What about the riot? I read that in the
paper this morning.”
“He didn’t do anything to incite it. The
citizen videos make that clear. As far as I’ve seen so far, he was
the one to calm it down. I might have been able to lay charges
against his friend if the patrol officer hadn’t assaulted him, but
as it is, the department is facing an internal affairs
investigation into the officer’s behavior and is worried about a
possible lawsuit.”
Mark knew Singh from a variety of community
outreach programs. They weren’t friends, exactly, but they were
certainly allies. He didn’t want to push, but it was hard to let go
of his plan. It had all seemed so simple the night before. “What
are the other terms of his parole? Is he honestly allowed to just
continue with his life like nothing ever happened?”
“No, he’s not.” Singh gave Mark a doubtful
look. “Are you sure you want to get into all this? We have staff in
charge of monitoring him and ensuring compliance. But I heard the
tapes of what he was saying last night, and based on that I’d say
he’s absolutely aware of how delicate the situation is. If he
breaches parole, it’s not going to be subtle. It’ll be because he
loses control of himself and does something stupid, not because he
forgets to make it home before curfew.”
“He has a curfew, then? What time?”
“Nine o’clock.” The constable sighed as he
gave in. “And he has to be gainfully employed or engaged in
full-time school or training, has to live in an approved location,
has to abstain from drugs or alcohol, has to report twice a week
and may be subject to random drug testing. He can’t commit any
crimes, not even misdemeanors.” Singh stepped forward and rested
his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “We’re watching him. You don’t have
to.”
Mark forced himself to nod. “Okay. Yeah,
okay.” He smiled as if going back to casual chatter, then asked,
“So, he’s got a job already? In this economy, he’s lucky! Where’d
he find something?”
Singh looked like he saw right through Mark’s
charade, but said, “Gage Roofing. Same place he was working before.
He’s a friend of the family, or something.”
“Roofing,” Mark said. “That’s hard work.”
“Not the way he does it, apparently.” Singh
shrugged. “But if they’re willing to pay him, we don’t inquire too
closely.”
Seemed like they didn’t inquire too closely
into much, Mark thought as he walked out of the police station.
Seemed like they just wanted this whole thing to fade away, as if
everyone should just forget about it and move on. But it was kind
of hard to do that when Mark could still remember the feeling of
his mother’s frail shoulders shaking with sobs as she’d clung to
him the night before. When he could still see his father’s
hopeless, lost expression as he’d watched his wife of thirty-nine
years falling apart. Mark’s brother was dead, his family was
destroyed, and the man who had caused it all was drinking beer and
causing near-riots without any repercussions.
Mark didn’t look at his watch. He knew he was
running late, and didn’t need the graphic display to remind
himself. Instead of heading to the church, he steered his aged car
toward the edge of town, the new subdivision that was going up near
the highway. Some of the houses in there were almost done—they
might be at the roofing stage. If Cain wasn’t working out there,
Mark could just drive around for a while and see where roofing was
being done—it wasn’t that big of a town. Maybe the roofing company
did work out in the country or in neighboring towns, but maybe they
didn’t. If Cain was nearby, Mark would find him.
It didn’t prove to be too difficult. A quick
trip through the winding roads of the subdivision brought him to an
estate-sized lot with a half-finished house on it. There were men
crawling over the roof like purposeful crabs and Mark squinted at
them. It was hard to see faces and Mark wasn’t sure he wanted to,
anyway. He needed to know where the man was, maybe, but that didn’t
mean he wanted to see him living his life.
Something slid on the roof and for a quick,
exciting moment Mark thought one of the roofers was going to fall.
Maybe it would be Cain, toppling from the peak of a two-storey
home…but it didn’t happen. The wrapper from one of the bundles slid
a little more and then someone caught it and threw it over the edge
into a waiting garbage bin. Mark leaned back in his seat and forced
himself to close his eyes. He was a man of God, and he’d just been
excited about the possibility of seeing a fellow man die.
No. Not die, just get hurt. And excited
wasn’t the same as wanting it to happen. It had been a strange
reaction, but not sinister, surely.
He opened his eyes again and saw Cain. He was
off the roof, pulling bundles of shingles from the back of a
flatbed truck, and even from a distance Mark could see the way
sweat was sticking the man’s shirt to his body despite the cool
spring weather. What had happened to not working too hard? The
other men were working steadily, but Cain was clearly driving
himself harder than the rest.
Maybe it was a macho thing. He was trying to
get fit, or trying to prove what a tough guy he was. He wasn’t that
big—maybe five-ten, and built lean. Mark pushed the thought of
Jimmy’s six-three, heavyset frame out of his mind. He didn’t need
to think about that, didn’t need to wonder why his brother had been
fighting this kid in the first place. It didn’t matter how it had
started, it mattered how it had ended, with Lucas Cain picking up a
bottle and breaking his victim’s skull.
Across the street, Cain was walking back to
pull another bundle from the flatbed when one of his coworkers
stumbled, almost falling under the weight of his load. Cain was
quick, catching the shingles and steadying the other man, then
going on about his job without even a smile. He was cold. Uncaring,
not deigning to try to make friends with the others on the crew. It
was as if he were angry somehow. Did he think he’d been in jail too
long? Was the job not to his liking? Were the crew of the wrong
race, or displeasing to him in some other way?
Mark caught himself. He was being irrational.
He was giving in to anger and hatred rather than focusing on love.
Well, in this case, love was out of the question. God would have to
understand that. But He might not approve of the way Mark was
letting himself grow obsessed with all this. He was late for work,
and he wasn’t doing anything productive out here.
There was nothing productive to be done, of
course—not in this matter. Which meant Mark should chase it from
his mind. He put the car into gear and pulled away from the
construction site.
“Do you have a minute, Mark?” Father Terry
Groban was the rector of the church, Mark’s immediate superior, and
if he was asking for a minute, it wasn’t the sort of request that
could be refused.
“I’m just waiting for a parishioner. Well,
not actually a member of our congregation, but a boy I’ve been
counseling. He isn’t here yet, though.”
Terry came in and sat in one of the leather
armchairs that furnished Mark’s office. His smile was gentle behind
his neatly trimmed brown beard. “Another one questioning his
sexuality?”
“I guess I’m developing a bit of a
specialty,” Mark admitted. “I think I fill a unique niche.” He
tried not to sound bitter as he added, “It’s just as well, since so
many other parishioners want nothing to do with me.”
Terry didn’t rise to the bait. They’d had the
conversation before and probably would again in the future, but he
was clearly looking to discuss something else right then. “How’s
your family?”
“Fragile.” Mark wondered if there were words
he should add, but the description seemed sufficient, so he didn’t
augment it.
Terry nodded solemnly. “It was a terrible
thing. And difficult if they think justice hasn’t been done.” He
paused, then proceeded more carefully. “Your parents weren’t in
church on Sunday. I know they aren’t our most devout parishioners,
but they usually come to services. Then I went by the house on
Tuesday, but your father said your mother wasn’t feeling well and I
should come back another time. I’d like to offer my support, Mark,
but I’m not sure it’s welcome.”
“They need some time, I think. They’re…” How
to explain his parents? “When things get tough, they huddle up a
bit. You know, they pull back into themselves. Just family. But
I’ll try to get them out. Hopefully Sunday service, at least. And
I’m taking care of them.”
“All right, then.” Terry nodded as if the
issue was resolved to his satisfaction. “And I know it’s not a good
time, but I wanted you to know that the bishop is still considering
you for the Inclusion and Equity panel. I spoke to him last night,
and he’s hoping to have a decision made within the week. You know
you have my support, and now more than ever, I think you might
benefit from having something work-related to really focus on.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
Unless the rector was just trying to get rid of his awkwardly
honest gay priest. But Terry had been too good a friend for Mark to
be totally cynical about his motives. “And I’m still very
interested in the job. I think the church needs my voice. We talk
about the four-legged stool all the time, and I’m sure there are
people better able to discuss ‘scripture’ and ‘tradition’ than me,
but I think I could contribute on ‘reason’, and I absolutely think
I’d have something to say from ‘experience’.”
“You don’t need to give me your job interview
speech, Mark. I helped you write it.”
“Right. Sorry. I just feel very passionately
about this. The church needs to keep examining its policy on gay
issues, and it needs to consult gay church members and clergy, not
just academic theologians and politicians.”
“I understand. But your sexuality is only one
aspect of your life, and only one part of who you are as a servant
of God.” He peered at Mark as if trying to read his response, then
nodded slowly. “Pray on it. I’ll do the same. We’ll see what we
come up with.” He headed for the door, then stopped and turned
around. “And Mark, take care of yourself. If you need some time
off, let me know and we’ll arrange it. This is a difficult time for
your parents, but it’s hard for you as well. It’s a hazard of the
profession, I think, putting everyone else’s needs ahead of your
own, but you can’t minister to others if you aren’t strong
yourself. Okay?”
Mark nodded. “I’m fine,” he said, and tried
not to notice Terry’s look of concern. He was fine. There were
things to be dealt with, of course, but he had it under control. He
tried a reassuring smile, then stood himself. “I’d better go find
Alex. I don’t want him to think I’ve forgotten about him.”
“Take care of yourself,” Terry said
again.
“Absolutely. I will.” Not that he needed to.
He was going through a difficult time, but he could handle it. His
parents needed him, the confused gay teens needed him. Even the
older, straighter members of the congregation needed him, if they’d
only admit it. He would look after them—he could worry about
himself later.