Chapter Thirteen
My name is Aaron Mendelssohn. Not Father Mendelssohn, I’m not Catholic. A common mistake some people make. I can’t speak for all pastors and priests, but I surmise that most of them had no idea of their calling in their youths. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was a troubled teen, but I got in my fair share of trouble.
Fresno is a boring town. People find trouble out of boredom, as if it’s their only chance at survival, stirring the pot a bit for amusement. The worst thing I ever did was break the window of a BMW parked in a Macy’s parking lot to steal a cellphone and sunglasses. Maybe you could say the worst thing I ever did was sucker Marie Elbrick into having sex with me. She was thirteen and I was fourteen. We were hanging out under the bridge at the dry riverbed at the northeast edge of town, about a mile from Fresno State campus. We were neighbors and she was my first crush. I don’t think she liked me more than friends, but I had a kind of gift even at that age: the gift of manipulation. I got into that poor thing’s head, made her feel like a dumb kid who wasn’t cool enough or adult enough to do the things I was wanting her to do to me. I don’t remember precisely how I did it, but shortly after I began my campaign of manipulating her, we were lying naked on the dirt making a fine mess of our morals, if we possessed any to begin with.
When I ran into Marie a few years ago, boy was she shocked to learn that I’m a pastor. I don’t blame her. She wound up becoming a member of my congregation. Occasionally when I’m behind the lectern reading my sermon, I’ll make eye contact with her and see flash-images of her lying naked under me at the riverbed. It’s something you can’t take back, becoming an adult at such a young age. It’s a concept so fundamental that you can’t undo your actions, but it’s a fascinating one, and a profound one. In a split second you can decide to commit murder and do it, and for the succeeding billions of split seconds of your life you spend them in consequence, in jail. On a caprice, fourteen-year-old me manipulated Marie into having sex, and the man I became has to face that consequence for the rest of my life. Not that it’s nearly as bad as murder, but you get my drift. Consequences don’t have expiration dates, they are forever. Forgive but not forget, and all that.
Some people are under the impression that when God speaks to us, it’s direct. As in we can hear a voice not our own. Maybe that does happen on great occasion, but it has never happened to me. Yet I’ll tell you openly that God has spoken to me numerous times. His voice is our subconscious. Not every time, but you somehow know when it is. Maybe that’s God’s doing, as well. When you ask God for guidance, oftentimes your ensuing thoughts are a product of Him. So even though God didn’t tell you (for example) to accept that job offer in Topeka, He arranged it so you’d feel it was the right decision to make.
The first time God spoke to me was when I was fifteen. I mentioned breaking the window of the BMW to steal a phone? I did something similar to an old station wagon. The difference was that the door was unlocked. I was walking from my house to my best friend Shane’s, had only just left, striding along the sidewalk when I noticed the wagon, the door-lock lever sticking up. I stepped to the car and saw a bag in there, a purse. I wondered how anyone could be so stupid, to leave a purse in a car, let alone an unlocked one. Thirteen years later, I sometimes wonder if God hadn’t arranged for that to happen, as it put me on the path where I am now. I opened the door, took the purse and fled.
I was a block or two away from the wagon when I concluded that I wasn’t being pursued. I had a look-see inside the bag. Mostly it consisted of trifles, such as Chapstick and bifocals, but there was a wallet. I kept the wallet and discarded the bag under a hedge. I counted ninety-one dollars in the wallet. I was ecstatic. That’s a ton of money for a fifteen-year-old. I removed the driver’s license from a window-slot without much looking at it and pocketed it. Licenses can be sold. Fake ID’s. I was passing by a street gutter, chucked the wallet inside and continued on.
Soon I heard sirens in the distance. I thought someone called the cops on me. I picked up my pace. An ambulance turned onto my street, and I was relieved that it wasn’t the police. It sped past me in the direction I was heading.
It was a block away now, and slowing down. My stomach gnarled from what I was seeing, that being where the ambulance was stopping. And though I didn’t believe in God back then, I prayed that it wasn’t Shane’s house it stopped at, but instead his neighbor. I took to a sprint, my heart thumping in my chest.
There was no denying it now, it was indeed Shane’s. A uniformed man and woman trundled a wheeled stretcher into the house. I ran even faster. They were inside the house when I arrived on scene. I didn’t knock, barged right in. Shane was the first person I saw, and he was weeping. As was his father. Shane’s mom, Mrs. Simon, was being put on a gurney. She was suffering a heart attack. I thought heart attacks were for old people like grandparents, not parents. She wasn’t even forty yet! She was heavy-set, and smoked like a chimney.
I sat in the back seat of Mr. Simon’s Buick alongside Shane as we trailed the ambulance to Lawrence Matthews Hospital. The two weeping Simons in the car affected me; I began crying with them. I was distraught for Misses Simon, when ten minutes ago I was ripping off a misses by another name (Mrs. Weiss said the woman’s driver’s license).
We were in the waiting room, Shane seated between his father and me. I felt the wad of money in my pocket and felt like a shit. I withdrew the license from my other pocket and examined the woman whom I stole from. The forty-seven-year-old lady smiled widely at the camera for the picture. I’d describe her as not pretty but lively and affable-looking. She reminded me a little of my own mother, which didn’t help matters. This woman would go to her car maybe today or tomorrow and wonder if this was where she misplaced her purse. She’d waste an hour or so searching for it fruitlessly before beginning the tedious task of replacing everything lost—or in her case stolen. Long line at the DMV, a trip to Blockbuster for a new card, Blue Shield for a replacement medical card, et cetera. The house the station wagon parked before wasn’t a very nice house; she was anything but rich. The twenty-year-old wagon was testament to that. So would she miss that ninety-one dollars from her wallet? Any conclusion otherwise would be disillusioned. Maybe she had withdrawn cash from the ATM that morning to give to her landlord, as she had written her rent check for eighty-dollars short due to some unfortunate expense incurred that month. Or maybe it was for medicine. Maybe for heart medicine so she could avoid suffering the ailment that sent Mrs. Simon to Lawrence Matthews Hospital. Every idea I came up with that her money could be used for made me sicker and sicker. What would I do with the cash, buy some football cards? Coax an older kid to buy me a couple Penthouses and a case of Bud? I wasn’t drinking at fifteen, but I might as well have started, being that I was obviously on the path to becoming a real shit, a real loser.
For the first time in my fifteen years I was wallowing in self-loathing. I hated myself. I wanted nothing more than to turn over a new leaf, and wished there was a way I could turn that leaf right this second.
A doctor entered the reception room with a grin, which the Simon’s and myself received as good news. He declared that she was recovering, followed by some medical jargon, and stated that we could visit her if we’d like. Shane and his father followed him into a hall as I stayed behind, elbows on my knees, resting my head that felt heavier than it had ever been in my hands. Rushing into the room through two automatic sliding glass doors was a man pushing a wheelchair with his very pregnant wife. They were frenzied, in a hurry to get the baby out of her. She was groaning and wincing. It wasn’t a minute later that they had vanished behind any number of hospital doors, the world’s newest inhabitant moments or hours away from joining the fray.
It made me remember Marie Elbrick. I had done to Marie what the man pushing the wheelchair full of precious cargo had done to his wife. Different outcome, but that was a result of good luck. What if I had impregnated poor Marie? Thirteen and pregnant, yikes. Her folks were Catholic, so
I doubt that baby would have been aborted. I’d be a fifteen-year-old father right now. How would I have provided for that child? By breaking into cars and stealing cash? My self-loathing resurfaced at the thought. Was it worth it what I did to Marie? It was fun at the time, sure. A better question would be was it worth it to Marie? She lost her virginity at thirteen, years before she’d have a brain that cogitated like an adult’s. Years away from being able to make that weighty decision of first-time-sex with any degree of certainty that she was making the right choice. Maybe if she had never met me, there would have come a point when she decided she’d like to stay a virgin till she got married, or become a nun. Doubtful, but at that moment every idea seemed more than possible, they seemed probable. She might have met a boy and fallen in love with him. And after a few years of nurturing that love they’d finally consummate their relationship by surrendering their bodies to the other, knowing it’s the right decision, and remember that magical and unequivocal evening for the rest of their lives. I stole that possibility away from Marie. And from myself, for that matter. But at least I deserved to have it stolen away. Marie didn’t. There would be no magical first time for her. Her first time was pretty much the result of a dare from a stupid-assed punk kid. Not exactly a Cinderella story, is it?
A nun then entered the hospital reception room. How about that? I had just entertained the idea of Marie becoming a nun only a moment ago, and here enters the hospital a nun. She was old and short, clad in the standard nun garb. She held in both pruned hands a coffee-tin painted white. There was a picture on it of some village in a third world country. A sign over the tin read Philippine’s Ministry Donations, God Bless. She slowly trudged along, passing by every person in there, smiling at each of us and angling her tin so we’d all have to get a good look at the villagers whom we might decide not to assist in their time of need. An older man in sweats put a twenty in there. Others put bills in there as well, some only coins. But would you believe that every single person in that reception room donated? Not most of them, all of them. Okay, maybe not the few children present, but they didn’t have money, and their parents donated. When she passed by me, smiled down amiably at me, I had the sudden urge to take my ninety-one stolen dollars and drop them in the tin. I almost did. I flinched, extended my leg to better remove the cash from my jeans, but then decided against it, looked away from the nun in my shame. The reason I fell short of donating the money was actually a pretty good one: I had resolved to return the money to the station wagon on my way home. It was a sudden idea, and when it manifested I felt great about it. I’d only be able to return the license and cash, but those two things might be enough to make a shitty circumstance slightly less shitty for the woman, and that was a start in the right direction.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said to her, denying her the decency of eye contact.
“Be not sorry, young man. May God bless you,” she said and moved along away from me.
I’d have preferred she call me a little heathen bastard. That she was nice about it made me feel even worse. My self-hatred was at high tide.
The first time God spoke to me was inside that hospital. It came not as a booming sonorous voice like it does in the movies, but as my own voice. It merely said, Give her the money. That’s all it said. You might wonder why I think it was God who said it. Bear with me for a moment.
I didn’t give it a second thought. I stood up and groped the ninety-one dollars out of my jeans pocket, took a few steps to erase the meager distance the nun had gained over me, and dropped the cash in the tin. She turned her head toward me, looked up with wide-eyed wonderment, then back to the tin where she observed in the wad of bills at least a couple twenties, if not more. Her smile was wide.
“Are you sure you want to do this, son? It is a lot of money.”
“I’m sure.”
“God bless you, my child. You are a wonderful boy!”
“I wish I was.”
I returned to my chair, gazed around the room. Many eyes were upon me. These people uniformly wore pleased expressions, admiring ones. The older man in sweats who had dropped a twenty in the tin gave me a thumbs-up gesture.
To these people I was a good kid. Little did they know. But if they could see me as a good kid, wasn’t it possible that I could make others see me in the same way? The only way to achieve that was to become a good kid. A tall order. But not an impossible one. I didn’t want to commit to becoming a saint of a kid just yet. I had to think it through first. What would I have to change in my life to accommodate my wishes of turning over a new leaf? I’d have to give it more thought later.
Shane had returned from visiting with his mother, took the seat beside mine. He relayed the good news, that she was going to be all right, but she’d have to stay here for a while. Shane wanted to stick around and said I didn’t have to. Maybe sticking around would be that first step (second step if you count the donation to the nun) toward becoming a good kid. It would show that I care about people other than myself. Truth was, I didn’t want to stay there. It was Saturday, the best day of the week, and who would want to waste it sitting in a waiting room? I sure didn’t.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying,” I said to Shane.
“Go ahead. There’s no reason for you to stay. Maybe you should call your parents and have them pick you up. It’s kind of far.”
“Nah, it’s only like a thirty-minute walk.”
It wound up being a forty-minute walk. As I neared my house, the station wagon came into view. I felt guilty all over again. I turned around and tried to remember which gutter I tossed the wallet into. It was a block or two past the car, I recalled. I retraced my steps and soon found the gutter. I dropped down to my knees and looked inside. I couldn’t see it from my angle. I laid down flat and scooted to the opening, reached my hand down inside and immediately felt the imitation leather wallet. I secured it, cleaned it against my jeans. It looked good as new. I returned the license to the allotted slot. I then returned to the hedge where I discarded the purse and found it, put the wallet back inside.
When I got near the lady’s house I kept a good eye on it, hoping nobody would see me. I opened the wagon door and placed the purse exactly where I had stolen it. I closed the car door and turned around, gasped. The woman I recognized from the driver’s license was descending the two porch steps with a sharp stare and knitted brow.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
I walked away with my head down and mouth closed.
“You’re the Mendelssohn boy, aren’t you?” she said to my back. “Yes. June’s son.”
I stopped.
“What were you doing in my car?” Her demeanor wasn’t accusatory, but one of curiosity.
“Nothing.” I faced her, guilt written all over my face.
It dawned on her that I may have had some dubious reason to be in her car, perhaps theft. She approached her car. I took the opportunity to resume my pace homebound.
“Is your mother home?” she asked. I think her reason for saying it was to make me aware that she’d be having a word with my mother if I didn’t cooperate in this matter. It worked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She waved me over as she opened her car door. My heart hammered, sweat puddled on my brow. I went to her.
“Whoops,” she said, “I left my purse in the car?”
“I guess so,” I said. I imagined being grounded for a month, maybe two.
She reached in and seized it, looked at me with one brow a little higher than the other. “This isn’t why you were in my car, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I couldn’t believe I said it. She couldn’t believe I said it. Maybe she suspected it, but I doubt she suspected an honest answer from me just then.
“Yes? What did you want with my purse?” She opened it and fished around inside.
“I’d rather not say.”
She looked at me quizzically before returning focus to the purse. She withdrew the wallet, set the purse on top of t
he car. She held the wallet up between us, fixed on me.
“Do you know what’s in here?” she asked. I didn’t know it was a rhetorical question: I was about to say ninety-one dollars, but she spoke before I could. “It’s my daughter’s unborn child’s baby-shower gift. My daughter Emma is having a baby shower tomorrow. My son has the registered list of items Emma chose from Babies R Us. I picked out a stroller that is fifty-percent off. I went to the bank this morning to get the eighty dollars to pay him for it. He’ll be here this afternoon to drop off the stroller and collect the money.”
I nodded, swallowed, a hard lump in my throat.
“Aaron?”
“Ma’am?”
“Is my unborn grandchild going to have a stroller that his grandmother bought for him?”
Our eyes were locked. I made no movement, no sound. My heart beat so hard that I could hear it.
“Would you steal from an unborn baby?”
“No, ma’am.”
She lowered the wallet from between our gazes and said, “Let’s have a gander, shall we?”
All at once I spewed, “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. I swear I’m trying to become a better kid. Honestly. I gave a nun—”
She held up a hand gesturing me to stop talking. She unsnapped the fold and opened the wallet. I began weeping, bawling at what I saw. I nearly dropped to my knees and covered my face.
She thumbed through the twenties, looked curiously at me, then closed her wallet, placed it in her purse on the car.
“Aaron Mendelssohn,” she said with some importance. “It appears I owe you an apology. I didn’t openly accuse you of stealing, but I guess I insinuated it, didn’t I?”
“No, ma’am.” I sobbed.
“And I upset you, too,” she said regretfully. “Would you forgive an old lady? I’m truly sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I wiped my eyes.
“His name is going to be Adam,” she said. “The baby.”
I composed myself a little. “Adam?”
“Yes. He’ll be my first grandchild.”
“Congratulations.”
“I hope you won’t think less of me. I’ll understand if you tell your folks that the lady a few houses down is a cynical and suspicious old bat. But I’d greatly appreciate it if you didn’t. I don’t want to create waves in the neighborhood.”
“I won’t say anything.”
I cried all over again on the short walk home. My mom asked why I was crying. Already I didn’t want to lie. Already I was changing and for the better. What I said wasn’t exactly the truth, either. “Shane’s mom had a heart attack.”
She touched over her heart. “Oh my lord…”
“Don’t worry, she’s going to be all right.”
“She’s so young!”
I nodded, said I was going to my room. She was rushing to the home phone as I entered my room. I had but a single book shelf. On it were any number of dumb books. I reached up and removed a big heavy dictionary, blew the dust off the cover. I opened it and searched Miracle:
1. An effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.
2. Such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God.
3. A wonder; marvel.
I closed the dictionary and replaced it on the shelf.
That evening at the supper table I asked my folks if they owned a bible, and if so could I borrow it. They were equally piqued; my sister teased me over it. They did own one. My dad asked why I wanted it.
“Just to read. I thought it might be interesting.”
Being that most boys my age preferred skin-mags to books, let alone books that shaped character and taught virtue and morality as the bible does, they were quite pleased with me that evening, proud of me. Even though I wouldn’t consider my folks to be religious people, they had a relationship with God to some small degree, and like many others they were constantly setting goals of attending church more regularly (but never doing it). Their bible would have more dust on it than my dictionary, and they regretted that, as well. My dad said he hoped I’d develop a more personal relationship with God than he and my mother had. To them my newfound interest in the bible and God was the closest thing to a guarantee that I’d grow up all right, as good Christian boys tend to do. He gave me the black leather bible with some ceremony, having dusted it off and inscribed the first leaf of the book: For my dear son Aaron. May the Word of God live in you for an eternity. Your father, Don. If I had any questions about what I read—it was a King James version, a little difficult to read—my father would happily explain it to me. That wouldn’t be an issue, as I’d put to use the dictionary frequently.
That night I began at Genesis and two months later I read the last line of Revelation.