Jo’s thoughts immediately turned to the girls living on the street, and she felt the familiar throbbing pang. “Maybe. Yeah, but no one asked me.”
Francis said. “He didn’t have to ask. He knew.”
After a pause, Francis continued. “What happened was not good, not right, but perhaps the outcome is a burning desire to save others in a similar circumstance, and the ability to make them listen and follow you out of it, because you know what it is like. You’ve been there too. A certain power comes with making it beyond a trauma and having it have no hold on you, coming through it with no fear, no tears, not chained, and untouched: ‘he walks through fire, yet he is not burned.’”
Francis stood and resumed his pacing, then sighed. “Oh, Jo-Jo, how would I know? It’s all theories, ideas, speculation. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”
Jo thought it was a funny thing to say, but he let him go on and did not remind him of his parents’ deaths and his living in near poverty. Francis stopped completely, standing still. Rufus pawed at his side a couple of times, then plopped into a sit next to him, tongue lolling, and staring at his face.
More subdued, Francis said. “What could I know about real pain or betrayal? I’ve always just been given everything I need. I’ve never been brutalized or endured real suffering. Really. Do something for me. Ask God if He would send you the answer. You ask Him for me−I know He’ll answer−then explain it back to me.”
Jo closed her eyes. The conversation tired her, but in a sleepy, not agitated, sort of way.
Opening her eyes, Jo said to him. “You are an excitable little man.”
Then, more seriously. “Francis, I’m tired.”
She repeated. “I’m tired, Francis.”
He looked at her, head tilted, reminding her of Rufus’ quizzical look. This was the first time she’d ever expressed to Francis even the smallest bodily need or desire.
“I can never rest, never stop, never relax, never let my guard down,” she confided. “The only time I feel momentarily satisfied is when I’m looking for a fight or smashing someone in the face. I only sleep when I’ve brought my body to utter exhaustion.”
“You lost your parents when you were three. You own nothing. You struggle to get through the week, and yet…” she said.
“I have much more than you know,” Francis told her.
Jo said. “I want it, too.”
Francis responded. “Do you want the Lord Jesus Christ to take on all your burdens, wash away all your sins, for the Holy Spirit to enter into you, and to become a child of God for all eternity?”
She sighed. “Okay.”
Francis said. “You’d better sit down for this.”
Leaving Ben in the recliner, she walked across the room and sat cross legged on the floor. Francis knelt in front of her and put one hand on each shoulder. He spoke in a rhythmic chant, talking as if to an old friend. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. In silence, he slowly inhaled and then expelled the air matching his breathing to hers.
Then, in a sing-song voice, Francis prayed. “Oh Father God, Magnificent in glory, unfailing in patience, who desires union with all your human creation. Jo comes to you earnestly seeking, yearning for reconciliation …
He sounded very far away.
A crinkling sensation buzzed between Jo’s ears, and she was hit with a rush of wind. Her arms went limp and head slumped forward. She was glad to be sitting. Eyes welled. Francis continued to chant. After some time, Francis became silent. Jo opened her eyes. They were wet and shining with the whites a bright white.
Finally she spoke. “I think it took.”
And then said. “So what now?”
Francis took a worn New Testament out of his back pocket and handed it to her, saying, “This is a general guide−an instruction manual of sorts. I’ll give you the first half next week. Pay attention. Listen. God has big plans for you. Are you Baptized? You’ll want to join a church.”
“I’m not a joiner,” she informed him.
“Okay, when you are ready, then,” he replied.
***
After spending their Sundays together, as Jo lingered in her oversized tub enveloped by hot water and the smell of lavender, or vanilla, or cinnamon, she found she was increasingly left with a strange and unfamiliar longing for physical, human contact. Until one week, as Francis prepared to slip out the door, she allowed herself to speak aloud the single word that had been on her mind for weeks.
“Stay.”
“I want to,” he replied, “but it’s not a good idea.”
“You know,” he admitted, “I’m still a virgin.”
“Ahh…” she teased, “sort of a ‘40 Year Old Virgin’ meets ‘Failure to Launch.’”
He feigned insult, “No 33 year old virgin, well 33 next Sunday. Let me plan the day. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. I’ll ask for an answer then. Don’t get me anything else.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she said, then feeling a rare compulsion to explain, she added, “I don’t do gifts.”
***
He arrived in the Nova the following Sunday on a beautiful Indian summer day. Jo slipped into the passenger side seat. Francis wore a new white dress shirt, and Jo noticed that the gas needle was pointing to full. Jo spied a large picnic basket and a cooler in the back seat She lifted the top of the cooler and found a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
“What are we celebrating?” she asked him.
“That is to be determined,” he said.
As they drove, Francis said to her. “I need to tell you about myself. Who I am. Also, I want to ask you something, and I brought the picnic. I thought we would leave the city behind today, go to a beautiful meadow, right outside a chapel. And, if you decide against the proposal, we’ll just have some lunch−you gotta eat.”
Jo nearly smiled remembering back to when they first met and his pickup line.
His words tumbled in a rapid fire free-flow. “I found you years ago and for a long time admired you from a distance. I didn’t want to introduce myself until I was free. I’ve not been completely honest about who I am. Have you heard of Charles Davis?”
“Of course,” she said. Even someone without a television would know he was one of the countries richest men and biggest philanthropists.
“I am him,” Francis said.
Jo fell silent.
Francis attempted to explain. “I have control of billions but no access to it, if that makes sense.”
“No. It doesn’t,” Jo responded curtly, her jaw clamped tight.
Francis went on. “Would you let me tell the story without interruption, because it is rather long and complicated even if I say it straight through.”
She nodded.
“His words, his speeches, his decisions, the way the billions are spent. I control all of it,” he said adamantly.
Jo’s heart pounded. She felt white hot anger starting to swell inside of her. Secrets. Lies. Was he no different from any other man? For a fleeting moment she wished she hadn’t fallen into the habit of leaving her handgun home on Sundays. It would make killing him so much easier, first him, then herself.
Francis glanced her way. Her face was like granite, so he plunged ahead.
“For the past year, I’ve been telling you about me, about what I do. That man in Sierra Leone was me. The initiatives there, I orchestrated those, and funded them. I spend most of my week on airplanes checking on endeavors across the globe and the rest of my time here in the states meeting with high level advisors.”
She stared at him.
“It all started with my parents; they were extremely wealthy people. But private, very private. Not attention-grabbing like a Hilton or Leona Hensley always in the public eye. They did not gather much notice because they lived modest lives. My father was a philanthropist and set up the initial structure of a network to funnel his money into various do-gooding channels without anyone knowing it was coming from him.
”
Jo examined him wearily, trying to absorb his words and make sense of his ramblings.
“Of course there is more,” he went on, “but that’s the basic gist. Oh wait, wait. I forgot to tell you a most important piece that likely will weigh into your decision. I received access to a trust on my 18th birthday. My aunts had always covered my basic needs, but there wasn’t much more for “extras” as they called them, like the electronic gadgets or designer clothing that largely separate the popular from the losers in school room politics. When I came into the cash I went nuts. But after nearly a year of reckless spending, accumulating a massive number of big toys, and an endless list of best friends and large entourage, I realized unlike my father, I had no financial constraint. I had become a complete asshole.”
Jo could see that Francis was looking for a response, a reaction of some sort. Jo felt numb, her expression was set.
“So, in my typical compulsive manner, I had my advisors help me draft a means of making the finances a permanent trust. I wish now I had been a little more generous with my allowance. I had just read the “Perfect Joy of St. Francis,” the life story of my namesake, and was unduly influenced by his life of poverty. This work has been too consuming for me to earn any extra; I didn’t realize this would be my income and not just supplement it.”
Francis drew in a long breath, and Jo sensed he was finally winding down.
“The money is mine, only I can’t use it on myself, except for things like the suits and private jet I use in conjunction with business ventures. I receive a small weekly stipend, usually I’ve spent that by Wednesday and mooch off my aunts for the rest of the week. It will increase some if I marry and with each child living at home or in college. I’m a servant to this money and have been asking God for years now to release me of this servitude. To give me a sign. I think he’s given it to me. I’ve picked a successor. No one you would know, puppet masters are invisible by nature. Of course I may have to jump in if he screws up; but he’s been working side by side with me for two years and frankly I think his judgment is often better than mine.”
“The second sign was you,” he confessed. “I dreamed of a warrior, a woman warrior, with rust colored war paint down each side of her face. I held that image of a woman warrior with a rust streaks running down each cheek; when I first caught sight of you on the train so long ago I recognize you were the warrior and later that the colored stripes were the grooves you cried as a child and now, though your eyes have rusted, the tears you feel inside for the street children you cannot reach. The same day my puppet master started working solo was the very first time I let you see me. I had to wait until I knew he was right before introducing myself. I knew once I met you there’d be no going back to my old life.”
“Jo,” he said, “it’s been a good run. I’ve done a lot of good things by the grace of God and the mounds of cash at my disposal. But, I’m tired and used up. I want to live a normal life. I want to settle down with you, support you in collecting waifs through the night. Open a school for wayward girls. Do some hands on do-gooding, for once. Maybe raise a dozen or so kids of our own.”
“That is,” he said, penetrating her eyes, “if you’ll have me.”
Jo had no idea whether any of this was so, or whether he was an amazingly creative, albeit deluded, storyteller. Suddenly it struck her. What did it matter? Either way, she felt an inability to walk away any more than from a stray with a busted leg looking at her through soulful eyes.
***
Jo and Francis stopped briefly at the aunts’ tiny house and announced their intentions. There Francis picked up five cleaned and pressed suits, a pair of shined shoes, a change of casual clothes, a pair of pajamas, his laptop, a briefcase, and toiletries packed in a leather travel case. After disentangling themselves from the embrace of the aunts, who cycled between screaming, crying, and laughing, they headed for Jo’s apartment and dropped off Francis’ belongings. Then, Jo and Francis took two subway trains to a not so nice part of the city.
Francis had guessed right that Jo would want to pick out their rings. She wanted to do it right away. Jo led the way down a side street. The sun was setting and questionable people were emerging on to the street.
“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Jo reassured him, “these ladies are eyeing you like a pack of dogs for a cheeseburger.”
Francis figured it was not a Barmakian jewelers she had in mind. He suspected they’d be selecting rings from a pawn shop. Jo stopped in front of a store front with iron bars over the windows and a neon sign that read, “Sins on Skins.”
She explained. “Our shop isn’t open on Sunday, but I figured one of these sketchier places would be.” Then elaborated. “Most tattoo places are basically the same−tons of designs all over the walls and a front part that looked like a waiting room of a doctor’s office.”
It was clear from Francis’ dubious expression that he thought this one was more like a free clinic.
Jo said. “The people are pretty much the same: tough dudes coming out with tears in their eyes and people getting one stage completed of huge tattoos that go all down their backs. And there are always some chicks getting cute flowers or hearts.”
As they sat in the waiting room Francis asked Jo to talk him through it.
She informed him. “It won’t take that long, not more than five or ten minutes for small ones like these, and a one time thing.”
“What does it feel like?” he asked.
“It hurts,” she said.
Jo’s name was called, and she and Francis disappeared into the back. The artist was the stereotypical burly, hairy, tattoo covered, leather clan man. He said he’d have to shave the skin first since there is hair all over the body, even on the back of the finger. Francis was relieved to hear that tattoo rings are not done all the way around the finger, just on the back. The skin on the inside of the finger sheds constantly so any tattoo there would fade fast. That was fine by him−less tattoo, less pain.
Jo designed the pattern for them. Using a black felt tip pen, she traced their hands onto paper and drew the same design for both. She talked about the image of two hands reaching and finger tips touching, merging and under mighty protection as she sketched two black lines with three small circles above them making hers more feminine with thinner lines and the dots smaller. The result was simple, but somehow profound.
Francis knew it would hurt, but figured this was as good a way as any to embark on a lifelong commitment. Jo went first and showed no reaction nor emotion. Then, it was Francis’ turn. Jo’s description of the experience was spot on, “It feels like being burned while a bee stings you over and over again.” He knew if he moved and the design got messed up he’d have that mess for the rest of his life. So, he stayed still fighting the pain and holding back tears that he could feel at the back of his eyes. When it was done, the fresh tattoo looked crisp and sharp. Jo told him that it wouldn’t always look that way.
“When the scab falls off,” she said, “it will look a little dull, but by then,” she assured him, “you’ll love it so much you won’t care.”
Francis hoped Jo would always feel the same way about him.
***
That night Jo lay asleep in bed…and suddenly there he was, coming towards her, carrying a dollhouse stretched out across two arms, enormous, pinkness, him peering over the side, an excited grin.
Jo was jolted awake as though from a free-falling dream one moment before hitting the pavement. She backed her large frame into the curve of Francis’ sinewy one. Francis draped his arm sleepily across her. She repeated to herself “oh God keep me safe, make me strong” as she drew in a long breath and exhaled deeply.
She felt her pounding heart slow, with an absolute knowledge, “It is finished.”
Then, she received an idea, “Stay in the now.”
So, reaching for a mental joy fix, she turned her mind to a vision of the rattie boys running free, in a field, playing in the distance. Then, catc
hing sight of her, they scampered towards her for tickles and some peanut butter toast.
It was then she heard “and see the to be,” as the rattie boys stood up on two legs, and with outstretched arms grew into human girls rushing her, hugging.
She gathered them up in her arms murmuring into course hair, “I will keep you safe, make you strong.” The corners of her mouth upturned slightly, as Jo drifted into a peaceful sleep.
***
www.spintheplate.com
The full length novel Spin the Plate is published
and available through Black Rose Writing
www.blackrosewriting.com
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends