“I’m sorry,” he wrote. “This is a really confusing time for me. But there are some things I need to figure out on my own, and I hope you’ll respect my decision.”
* * *
HE STAYED with Hubbs’s buddies through the end of the semester, then sublet their apartment when they headed home for summer vacation. Hubbs moved in with him; they got hired as detailers at a car dealership and did volunteer work for Mr. Gilchrest in their spare time, passing out leaflets, setting up folding chairs, collecting addresses for an e-mail list, whatever he needed.
That summer things really started to take off. Someone posted a clip of Mr. Gilchrest on YouTube—it was tagged I AM A SPONGE FOR YOUR PAIN—and it went viral. The crowds at his lectures grew bigger, the invitations to speak more frequent. By September, he was renting a mothballed Episcopal church in Rochester, holding marathon Hugfests every Saturday and Sunday morning. Tom and Hubbs sometimes manned the merch table in the lobby, selling lecture DVDs, T-shirts—the most popular one said GIVE IT TO ME on the front, and I CAN TAKE IT on the back—and a self-published paperback memoir entitled A Father’s Love.
Mr. Gilchrest traveled a lot that fall—it was the first anniversary of the Sudden Departure—giving lectures all over the country. Tom and Hubbs were among the volunteers who drove him to and from the airport, getting to know him as a person, gradually earning his trust. When the organization began expanding that spring, Mr. Gilchrest asked the two of them to run the Boston chapter, organizing and promoting a multi-campus speaking tour and doing whatever else they saw fit to increase awareness among the local college population of what he’d begun calling the Healing Hug Movement. It was exhilarating to be given so much responsibility, to have gotten in on the ground floor of a phenomenon that had taken off so unexpectedly—like working at an Internet start-up back in the day, Tom thought—but also a little dizzying, everything growing so quickly, shooting off in so many different directions at once.
During that first summer in Boston, Tom and Hubbs began hearing disturbing rumors from people they knew back at the Rochester headquarters. Mr. Gilchrest was changing, they said, letting the fame go to his head. He’d bought a fancy car, started wearing different clothes, and was paying a little too much attention to the adoring young women and teenage girls who lined up to hug him. He’d apparently begun calling himself “Holy Wayne” and hinting about some sort of special relationship with God. On a couple of occasions, he had referred to Jesus as his brother.
When he arrived in September to give his first lecture to a packed house at Northeastern, Tom could see that it was true. Mr. Gilchrest was a new man. The heartbroken father in the shabby suit was gone, replaced by a rock star in sunglasses and a tight black T-shirt. When he greeted Tom and Hubbs there was an imperious coolness in his voice, as if they were simply hired help, rather than devoted followers. He instructed them to give backstage passes to any cute girls who seemed promising, “especially if they’re Chinese or Indian or like that.” Onstage, he didn’t just offer hugs and sympathy; he spoke of accepting a God-given mission to fix the world, to somehow undo the damage caused by the Sudden Departure. The details remained vague, he explained, not because he was holding out, but because he himself didn’t know them all yet. They were coming to him piecemeal, in a series of visionary dreams.
“Stay tuned,” he told the audience. “You’ll be the first to know. The world is depending on us.”
Hubbs was troubled by what he saw that night. He thought Mr. Gilchrest had gotten drunk on his own Kool-Aid, that he’d morphed from an inspirational figure to the CEO of a messianic Cult of Personality (it wasn’t the last time Tom would hear this accusation). After a few days of soul-searching, Hubbs told Tom that he was done, that while he loved Mr. Gilchrest, he couldn’t in good conscience continue to serve Holy Wayne. He said he would be leaving Boston, heading back to his family on Long Island. Tom tried to talk to him out of it, but Hubbs was beyond persuasion.
“Something bad’s gonna happen,” he said. “I can feel it.”
* * *
IT TOOK a whole year for Hubbs to be proven right, and during that time, Tom remained a loyal follower and valued employee of the Healing Hug Movement, helping to launch new field offices in Chapel Hill and Columbus before landing a plum job at the San Francisco Center, training new teachers to run Special Someone Meditation Workshops. Tom loved the city and enjoyed meeting a batch of new students every month. He had a few affairs—the novice teachers were mostly women—but not nearly as many as he could have. He was a different person now, more self-contained and contemplative, a far cry from the frat boy with the painted face, out to get laid by any means necessary.
On paper, the movement was thriving—membership was growing steadily, money was pouring in, the media was paying attention—but Mr. Gilchrest’s behavior was becoming increasingly erratic. He was arrested in Philadelphia after being found in a hotel room with a fifteen-year-old girl. The case was eventually dismissed for lack of evidence—the girl insisted that they were “just talking”—but Mr. Gilchrest’s reputation suffered a serious blow. Several of his college lectures were canceled, and for a while, Holy Wayne became a punch line on late-night TV, the most recent incarnation of that age-old scoundrel, the Horny Man of God.
Stung by the ridicule, Mr. Gilchrest abandoned his headquarters in Upstate New York and moved to a ranch in a remote part of southern Oregon, far from prying eyes. Tom had visited only once, in mid-June, to take part in a gala three-day celebration of what would have been Henry Gilchrest’s eleventh birthday. The accommodations weren’t much—the hundred or so guests had to sleep in tents and share a few nasty Porta-Johns—but it was an honor just to be invited, a sign of membership in the inner circle of the organization.
For the most part, Tom liked what he saw—big weathered house, swimming pool, working farm, stables. Only two things bothered him: the contingent of gun-toting security guards patrolling the grounds—there had supposedly been some death threats against Holy Wayne—and the inexplicable presence of six hot teenage girls, five of them Asian, who were living in the main house with Mr. Gilchrest and his wife, Tori. The girls—they were jokingly referred to as the “Cheerleading Squad”—spent their days sunning themselves beside the pool while Tori Gilchrest power-walked by herself around the outskirts of the property, breathing forcefully through her nose while performing an elaborate series of arm exercises with light dumbbells.
Tom didn’t think she looked too happy, but on the final night of the party, Tori was the one who stepped up to the microphone on the outdoor stage and introduced the girls as Mr. Gilchrest’s “spiritual brides.” She admitted that it was an unconventional arrangement, but she wanted the community to know that her husband had asked for—and received—her blessing for each and every one of these new marriages. The girls—they were standing behind her, smiling nervously in their pretty dresses—were all sweet and modest and surprisingly mature for their ages, not to mention completely adorable. As everyone knew, she herself could no longer bear children, and this was a problem, because God had recently revealed to Holy Wayne that it was his destiny to father a child who would repair the broken world. One of these girls—Iris or Cindy or Mei or Christine or Lam or Anna—would be the mother of this miracle child, but only time would tell which one. Mrs. Gilchrest concluded by saying that the love between her and Holy Wayne remained as strong and vibrant as it had been on their wedding day. She assured everyone that they continued to live together very happily as husband and wife, partners and best friends forever.
“Whatever my husband does,” she said, “I support him a hundred and ten percent and I hope you will, too!”
There was a roar from the crowd as Mr. Gilchrest bounded up the steps and made his way across the stage to present his wife with a bouquet of roses.
“Isn’t she the greatest?” he asked. “Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?”
The spiritual brides began to applaud as Mr. Gilchrest kissed his
legal wife, and the crowd followed suit. Tom did his best to clap along with everyone else, but his hands felt huge and leaden, so heavy he could barely pry them apart.
* * *
CHRISTINE SAID she was bored, trapped in the house all day like a prisoner, so Tom took her for a whirlwind tour of the city. He was glad for an excuse to get away from the office. It was like a funeral in there—no seminars in session, nothing to do except sit around with Max and Luis, answering e-mails and the occasional phone call, parroting the talking points they’d been given by headquarters: The charges are bogus; Holy Wayne is innocent until proven guilty; an organization is bigger than one man; our faith remains unshakable.
It was a classic San Francisco day, cool and bright, milky morning fog surrendering reluctantly to a clear blue sky. They did the usual stuff—cable car and Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower and North Beach, Haight-Ashbury and Golden Gate Park—Tom playing the role of jovial guide, Christine chuckling at his lame jokes, grunting politely at his half-remembered facts and recycled anecdotes, just as happy as he was to think about something besides Mr. Gilchrest for a while.
He was surprised at how well they were getting along. Back at the house, she’d been a bit of a problem, a little too interested in pulling rank, reminding everyone of her exalted status within the organization. Nothing was good enough—the futon was lumpy, the bathroom was gross, the food tasted weird. But the fresh air brought out a previously concealed sweetness in her, a bouncy teenage energy that had been hidden beneath the regal attitude. She dragged him into vintage clothing stores, apologized to homeless guys for her lack of spare change, and stopped every couple of blocks to gaze down at the bay and pronounce it awesome.
Christine kept moving in and out of focus on him. Yes, she was a visiting dignitary—Mr. Gilchrest’s wife or whatever—but she was also just a kid, younger than his own sister and a lot less worldly, a small-town Ohio girl, who, until she ran away from home, had never been to a city bigger than Cleveland. But not really like his sister, either, because people didn’t stop and stare at Jill when she walked down the street, tripped up by her unearthly beauty, trying to figure out if she was famous, if they’d seen her on TV or something. He wasn’t sure how to treat Christine, if he should think of himself as a personal assistant or a surrogate big brother, or maybe just a helpful friend, a caring, slightly older guy showing her around an unfamiliar metropolis.
“I had a nice day,” she told him over a late-afternoon snack at Elmore’s, a café on Cole Street that was full of Barefoot People, hippies with bullseyes painted on their foreheads. The Bay Area was their spiritual homeland. “It’s good to be out of the house.”
“Anytime,” he said. “I’m happy to do it.”
“Sooo.” Her voice was low, slightly flirtatious, as if she suspected him of withholding good news. “Have you heard anything?”
“About what?”
“You know. When he’s getting out. When I can go back.”
“Back where?”
“To the Ranch. I really miss it.”
Tom wasn’t sure what to tell her. She’d seen the same TV reports he had. She knew that Mr. Gilchrest had been denied bail, and that the authorities were playing hardball, seizing the organization’s assets, arresting several top and midlevel people, squeezing them for damaging information. The FBI and State Police made no secret of the fact that they were actively searching for the underage girls Mr. Gilchrest claimed to have married—not because they’d done anything wrong, but because they were victims of a serious crime, endangered minors in need of medical care and psychological counseling.
“Christine,” he said, “you can’t go back there.”
“I have to,” she told him. “It’s where I live.”
“They’ll make you testify.”
“No, they won’t.” She sounded defiant, but he could see the doubt in her eyes. “Wayne said everything would be okay. He’s got really good lawyers.”
“He’s in big trouble, Christine.”
“They can’t put him in jail,” she insisted. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Tom didn’t argue; there was no point. When Christine spoke again, her voice was small and frightened.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Who’s gonna take care of me?”
“You can stay with us for as long as you want.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
This didn’t seem like the right time to tell her that he didn’t have any money, either. He and Max and Luis were technically volunteers, donating their time to the Healing Hug Movement in exchange for room and board and a paltry stipend. The only cash in his pocket had come from the envelope Christine had handed him when she’d arrived, two hundred dollars in twenties, the most money he’d seen in a long time.
“What about your family?” he asked. “Is that a possibility?”
“My family?” The idea seemed funny to her. “I can’t go back to my family. Not like this.”
“Like what?”
She tucked her chin, examining the front of her yellow T-shirt, as if searching for a stain. She had narrow shoulders and very small breasts, hardly there at all.
“Didn’t they tell you?” She ran her palm over her flat belly, smoothing the wrinkles from her shirt.
“Tell me what?”
When she looked up, her eyes were shining.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. He could hear the pride in her voice, a dreamy sense of wonder. “I’m the One.”
Part Two
MAPLETON MEANS FUN
THE CARPE DIEM
JILL AND AIMEE HEADED OUT right after dinner, cheerfully informing Kevin that they didn’t know where they were going, what they were doing, who they would be with, or when they might be home.
“Late,” was all Jill could tell him.
“Yeah,” agreed Aimee. “Don’t wait up.”
“It’s a school night,” Kevin reminded them, not bothering to add, as he sometimes did, that it was odd how going nowhere and doing nothing could take up so much time. The joke just didn’t seem that funny anymore. “Why don’t you try to stay sober for once? See what it’s like to wake up in the morning with a clear head.”
The girls nodded earnestly, assuring him that they had every intention of heeding this excellent advice.
“And be careful,” he continued. “There are a lot of freaks out there.”
Aimee grunted knowingly, as if to say that no one needed to tell her about freaks. She was wearing kneesocks and a short cheerleader skirt—light blue, not the maroon and gold of Mapleton High—and had deployed her usual unsubtle arsenal of cosmetics.
“We’ll be careful,” she promised.
Jill rolled her eyes, unimpressed by her friend’s good-girl act.
“You’re the biggest freak of all,” she told Aimee. Then, to Kevin, she added, “She’s the one people need to watch out for.”
Aimee protested, but it was hard to take her seriously, given that she looked less like an innocent schoolgirl than a stripper halfheartedly pretending to be one. Jill gave the opposite impression—a scrawny child playing dress-up—in her cuffed jeans and the oversized suede coat she’d borrowed from her mother’s closet. Kevin experienced the usual mixed feelings seeing them together: a vague sadness for his daughter, who was so clearly the sidekick in this duo, but also a kind of relief rooted in the thought—or at least the hope—that her unprepossessing appearance might function as a form of protective camouflage out in the world.
“Just watch out for yourselves,” Kevin told them.
He hugged the girls good night, then stood in the doorway as they headed down the stairs and across the lawn. He’d tried for a while to restrict his hugs to his own child, but Aimee didn’t like being left out. It was awkward at first—he was far too conscious of the contours of her body and the length of their embraces—but it had gradually become part of the routine. Kevin didn’t exactly approve of Aime
e, nor was he thrilled to have her living under his roof—she’d been staying there for three months and showed no signs of leaving anytime soon—but he couldn’t deny the benefits of having a third person in the mix. Jill seemed happier with a friend around, and there was a lot more laughter at the dinner table, fewer of those deadly moments when it was just the two of them, father and daughter, and neither had a word to say.
* * *
KEVIN LEFT the house a little before nine. As usual, Lovell Terrace was lit up like a stadium, the big houses preening like monuments in the glow of their security floodlights. There were ten dwellings in all, “Luxury Homes” built in the last days of SUVs and easy credit, nine of them still occupied. Only the Westerfelds’ house was empty—Pam had died last month, and the estate remained unsettled—but the Homeowners’ Association made sure the lawn was cared for and the lights stayed on. Everyone knew what happened when deserted houses fell into disrepair, drawing the attention of bored teenagers, vandals, and the Guilty Remnant.
He headed out to Main Street and turned right, setting off on his nightly pilgrimage. It was like an itch—a physical compulsion—this need to be among friends, away from the gloomy, frightened voice that often held court in his head but always seemed so much louder and surer of itself in a quiet house after dark. One of the most frequently noted side effects of the Sudden Departure had been an outbreak of manic socializing—impromptu block parties that lasted for entire weekends, potluck dinners that stretched into sleepovers, quick hellos that turned into marathon gabfests. Bars were packed for months after October 14th; phone bills were exorbitant. Most of the survivors had settled down since then, but Kevin’s urge for nocturnal human contact remained as powerful as ever, as if a magnetic force were propelling him toward the center of town, in search of like-minded souls.