Diary of a Heretic

No Plan B

Tuesday, December 19 (continued)*

White flecks cake the corners of Carlos’s lips.  We’re standing in the hall, and his voice is hoarse with fervor.  It cracks; it trills with misery. “Please!  Malcolm.  Listen.” 

Wanting one more try, Carlos pins me to the wall and runs his hands over me.

I tap his shoulder.  “You don’t have to do this.”

But he grinds into me, kissing my neck.

You’d think I’d relish a chance to laugh in his face, but all I feel is sorry.  Stopping his efforts, I can’t believe the emptiness.  “Carlos, Carlos!  On to Plan B.”

And you know Carlos.  He shrugs.  “Fine.  Plan B.”

But of course I hope it’s just me making stuff up and there is no Plan B.  “Carlos, we’re only in business till Monday.  Then we’re in bankruptcy court.”

I’m asking his back.  For, there the boy is, sprawled in an armchair, listening to headphones, reading a magazine.  He smiles when he sees me.  He jumps up, pulls the headphones down to his neck, and says, “Hi.”  All sweetness and soul, all concern, pure light, peace, joy, hope, and more!  More than anyone can fathom.

And I—I’m glowing and humming, elated.  He’s shaking my hand.  It’s the most natural thing in the world.  “Hi, I’m Tyler.  We met before.  Do you remember?”

“Yes. But—” A band of heat develops behind my eyes, and I forget to breathe.  Tyler is all grace and cascading hair.  Dark supple eyebrows and clear, deep, radiant irises.  He’s so much me when I was nineteen, almost twenty.  And so not at all like Colin.

“We’re going into bankruptcy. I’m sorry if we mislead you. If you ever need references, here’s my card. The phone number won’t change.”

He tilts his head, really? I nod and he shrugs. As he saunters out, I watch his back. Such a nice kid. He’ll do fine. He throws me a rueful smirk good-bye, and I don’t know this, but the gesture is a straight guy’s minimal disappointment ; nothing but so what and who cares a full register lower than the way I think. So it’s an intimation, but still. Why the fuck didn’t I even wonder?  Tyler Dineen likes girls. One’s waiting for him at home wherever he happens to live.

--From Diary of a Heretic, a novel by Kathleen Maher, copyright 2007

*This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of Chicago’™s El tracks. 

Where Do I Get Off?

Wednesday, December 19*

This is what terrifies me:  Will I jump?  Will I push?  Knowing the breadth and depth and total irreversibility of every spontaneous move will I still succumb?  Will I run and scream, “Stop!  Colin, stop!” too late?  I mean not Colin—me.  Having caught myself inventing a paradoxical significance to the beautiful boy Tyler, will I now lose my desire for peace, joy, and hope, for the soul of sweetness and light? Or truly discover it, not in some unfair representation of was, but in myself?

Where do I get off, coming up with such shit? Oh, oh, oh—all of these contingencies. Answer the most ridiculous, portentous riddles or else! Or else, get real, take a walk, play a video game.

--From Diary of a Heretic, a novel by Kathleen Maher, copyright 2007

*This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of Chicago’™s El tracks.  

The Play Has Changed

Tuesday, December 18 (continued)*

“Excuse me.”  I return my attention to Agnes McKinney.  “Before we were so rudely interrupted, I was about to say, try not to worry, but if you do. . . ”

“I know!  I know what you’re going to say:  ‘Don’t worry about worrying.’ ”

Agnes and I smile and Carlos dances around me, rubbing his hands.  “Well, well, well.  Lo and behold!”  Determined to claim me, he drops a heavy arm upon my neck.

“The better to steer me with,” I say.

“What?”

“No need to carry me off, Carlos. You honor my conditions and I’ll honor yours.”

“Okay, fine.”  He releases my shoulder, and holding up his wrongly accused hands, ushers me into the office.  From here, it’s like looking at a series of stills, pose after pose of Carlos in sympathy and regret.  I see the one where his head dips.  The one where his eyes turn up.  The one where he clasps his hands.  Now we’re at the one where he leans in to me.  I notice he’s speaking and his words are at such odds with what’s actually going on, I have to laugh.  It’s a loud sputter, and Carlos decides to indulge me.

“I realize, Malcolm, that Maggie’s defection—um,” he continues solemnly, “must seem like a terrible set-back.  But given time, I’m sure it will turn out for the best.”

“Why thank you, Carlos.  Your concern touches me.”  Not to be unfair, I try mentally rotating his head, to see if from some other point of view I might possibly be wrong.  Was there a catch in his voice just now, a telltale quiver?

Under my prolonged (and I imagine unnerving) scrutiny, Carlos says, “You know, you have a really nice profile, Malcolm.”

“Flattery?  You’re trying flattery, Carlos?”

“I’m not ‘trying’ anything, Malcolm.  You turn on tiptoe and stick your nose in the air.  What am I supposed to say?”

“You want to know the last thing Maggie said to me?  Just before she bailed?  She yelled, ‘Carlos’s new assistant was not my idea!  It’s not my fault!’ ”

“Good-byes are tough, ” Carlos says.  “But,” he sighs, eyelids aflutter.  “Life. Must. Go. On.  Our new assistant is bright and very capable convert.”

“We’re not hiring a replacement for Maggie or in any way enlisting one. I’m a big boy now. Haven’t you noticed? The idea of a baby-sitter simply won’t work anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No new assistant. If you misspoke when you mentioned a bright and capable convert or were predicting the future, forget I said anything. But if you’ve actually arranged for someone to play Maggie’s role, the play’s changed. Fewer characters.”

Carlos clears his throat, a belabored, hawking action. “However, you want.”

--From Diary of a Heretic, a novel by Kathleen Maher, copyright 2007

*This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of Chicago’™s El tracks.

100% Used-to-be

Tuesday, December 18 (continued)*

Carlos has been inside my head, tormenting my heart all year. He’s stayed with me and, yes, in his way, as long as Maggie was there to talk me down and hold my hand in the morning, he’s loved me.  But now, that’s gone; I’m holding his gaze without flinching.  Carlos ruling my body and soul is one hundred percent used-to-be.  He can’t hurt me!  He can’t touch me! 

We’re standing across from each other as I spell this out in my head. So he has the message. I’m not fooling, Carlos. Either you contact the boy or I will turn him away the day he arrives. And if I seem cruel, all right. I’ll seem cruel. A lair, a fake—no one can think worse of me than I’ve already felt. Suffered, repented, and recovered. Once I was cruel. Now I’m not. So if anyone happens to think I’m cruel? Too bad. It’s shame but I’m only acting as necessary.

And Carlos inching closer to me gathers all of the above. His eyes betray his alarm. Those hang-dog big brown old-man’s eyes shine with something like shock and quickly close, glance elsewhere as utter disbelief suffuses his face.  Carlos clears his throat as if to try again, like pumping the gas pedal.  I’m watching his mouth twist. Gently, I shake my head, like, way past time to give it up, honey, baby, muffin.  Can’t you see, how immeasurably far I am beyond you?

--From Diary of a Heretic, a novel by Kathleen Maher, copyright 2007

*This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of Chicago’™s El tracks. Click here to read the previous excerpt.

A Brief Escape

About three months ago my husband arrived home with the news he had been laid off. The little firm where he worked as editorial director needed to balance their books before year’s end and so had chosen to let go their editorial and art directors. (Good luck with that, little firm.)

This happens all the time, I know, but it never happened to us before. Were I a different person, it needn’t have loomed as such a huge threat. But my nickname isn’t “grasshopper” for nothing. Manny’s pretty good at making money. I’m a chronic derelict, too busy jumping through fields and making up stories to earn anything close to my keep. I’m inept at gathering crumbs, can’t find my place in line, and contribute practically nothing to the ant hill.

The day before Thanksgiving, he got the job he wanted most of the various few available to him. He works as a financial writer and when the financial business goes into a tail-spin, writers appear just as expendable to investment firms as they do to Hollywood.

Bloggers are all writers, more or less. And look how many we are. Writing is an art whether good, bad, mediocre, serious, or comic. And art is risky, frequently misunderstood, and almost never fairly  compensated in coin. True, those with immense talent and exquisite timing can sometimes earn a fair dollar for their art. But even that conjecture is as subjective as art itself—after all, what is fair?

In any case, Manny and I no longer feel as if we’re teetering at the edge of the abyss, the ledge crumbling under our feet. So we’re stepping back. Before he starts his new career, we’re escaping to a cozy hut where the surroundings are warm and tranquil: no computers; a small generator for limited electricity; blue sky, bluer water, and lots of luscious, green terrain.

This week, then, I’m posting daily excerpts from the end of “Diary of a Heretic,” the novel. I haven’t plucked and culled them yet so I’m not sure whether this week will end that saga or not.  But please read about Malcolm as his cult collapses, and I’ll be back soon. 

The Day Before

This is a serialized story. Click here to read the previous post or here to start at the beginning.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving was a nursery school holiday. And same as on a Saturday or Sunday, Jeanne was allowing Colette to watch one movie. Colette was still choosing between her favorite DVDs when Kevin telephoned, a little after nine.

If Jeanne weren’t alert to the possibility, Colette would have grabbed the telephone. Now that she knew how to switch the answering machine on and off, Jeanne couldn’t get away with setting it on automatic record. Even as Jeanne snatched up the phone, Colette had hopped from the couch. “Is it Hal, Mommy? Can I talk to Hal?”

“No, it’s Dr. O’Meara.” Jeanne turned away from her child, sliding into her bedroom for privacy. Unconcerned, Colette returned to the TV.

“No, I promise. Colette gave her that impression. He calls, just saying hi, on the machine. Colette figured out how to play the messages back—a discovery. She talked about it during Show and Tell.”

“It’s a little disturbing,” Kevin said, “that Hal exploits Colette’s fondness for him.”

“I doubt he see it like that. But yes, Colette feels like he’s her friend and that makes telling him I’m not interested in him, while she’s jumping up and down, difficult. But I do tell him, Kevin.”

“Didn’t I say how persistent he’d be?” Kevin said he wasn’t accusing her of doing anything wrong. But he worried that Hal might hurt Jeanne.

“Hurt me? Like how?’

“He’s had a fucked-up life, Jeanne. So when his feelings conflict with social boundaries, he doesn’t realize it. He might force himself on you without knowing what he’s doing.”
Jeanne reassured him she’d pay attention, making sure he didn’t lose his bearings. “I can take care of myself, Kevin.”

“Can I stop by, Jeanne? We can set up a phone signal. So that if you ever feel afraid, because of Hal or anything else, you can alert me.”

“Let’s do that later, after the weekend.”

Kevin sighed. That was another thing—the weekend. Why hadn’t Jeanne told him she needed a babysitter through the Thanksgiving weekend? Yes, of course, the only solution was for Colette to stay overnight with Kevin and Patrice. And so what if it meant four consecutive sleepovers with Annabelle? “Not knowing about it before Patrice made me feel sad, like you can’t confide in me.”

“Asking Patrice first is the way mothers do it. But I guess I could have told you I was about to ask her.”

“Next time.”

“Oh God, don’t say that. There’s no next time. Asking Patrice to take care of Colette for four consecutive sleepovers? It’s too much.”

“It won’t be. It won’t. Sweetheart, can I stop by and see you? I’m two blocks away and I need to hold you.” Kevin needed to make love to her—once—if he was going to get through Thanksgiving tomorrow, with Patrice and his mother, Colette, Annabelle, and Hal all in the same room with him and Jeanne.

Jeanne peered from her bedroom. Colette had chosen a Dora the Explorer movie and was tumbling on the couch, watching it.

“I feel the same way,” Jeanne whispered. “I need to see you, too.”

Five minutes later, Kevin knocked on the door. Jeanne was waiting, sitting beside Colette watching Dora the Explorer search for a lost teddy bear in “The City of Lost Toys.” 

She answered the door and Colette said, “Hi, Dr. O’Meara.” Kevin said “Hi” and that he’d heard Colette was having a sleep over with Annabelle on Thanksgiving.

“Yep. Tomorrow night and weekend nights, too.”

Kevin touched the back of Jeanne’s neck as she explained to Colette that she and Dr. O’Meara needed to get the radiator in the bedroom working now that it was getting cold. Colette nodded, not really listening.

Inside the bedroom, Jeanne hesitated to lock the door—what if Colette needed her? She looked at Kevin, who had already locked the door and was leading her to the bed. And as always, when he made love to her, everything else fell away. But she was shivering afterward as Kevin helped her dress. Like any fantastic adventure, she thought, along with wonder and pleasure, came fear.

Colette looked up from the TV after Dr. O’Meara left. Jeanne sat on the couch and Colette climbed onto her lap. “I heard you laughing, Mommy. You were laughing but not because something was funny. You were just laughing.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Whatever We Once Fantasized

Tuesday, December 18 (continued)*

Carlos and I have battled telepathically for so long that next time we find ourselves in the same room, he’ll know. Let the young guy know—the offer of any paid position was a mistake. Even the biggest, savviest corporations do this to potential employees all the time: a person applies for work, sees half a dozen corporate-title men and/or women in serious, time consuming interviews. One or more business directors may say, “The job is yours. Can you start next month? The human resources department moves slowly.” And then, a week or so later, someone phones to say, “Sorry. We made a mistake. We have your resume on file. Perhaps the right position will become available before long. Because otherwise we’re sure you’ll soon be so far out of our league…”

Maybe only publicity agents and marketing people add that last bit. Or maybe no one does. I heard it before, though.

So the next time Carlos and I are within spitting distance, he’ll know: Tyler Dineen can’t work here. We can’t afford it. His life and career will come to him, but neither Carlos nor I will interfere. Forcing Carlos to honor my decision may require exertion. We must agree with or without discussion. For once, I’m determined to do whatever it takes.

So what if whenever I so much as read the newspaper, Carlos, real or imagined, hovers over my shoulder.  He sighs and shifts his weight, as if I have no right, but only if I acknowledge as much. He can fuss and fume till kingdom come. No actual empire is depending on my every move. There’s no reason I shouldn’t kick back with the crossword puzzle, if I want! Whatever we once fantasized might be at stake has vanished, abracadabra—poof!

--From Diary of a Heretic, a novel by Kathleen Maher, copyright 2007

*This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of Chicago’™s El tracks. Click here to read the previous excerpt.

Being My Friend Is a Job Description

Tuesday, December 18*

Expecting to collapse any second, I burst through walls and plunge through black holes.  Finally, in the shadow of the garage across the street, I bend to catch my breath.  In a minute I will storm the compound.  I’ll hoist the boy over my shoulders and race him to safety.

The frightening thing is how suddenly, perfectly easy it is.  I saunter through the massive shop—no boy in sight!—knowing just what to do. 

“Yes, hello!  It’s so good to see you.”  Gamely, I pat a stolid man’s shoulder.  He’s eating a sticky pecan roll and his beleaguered face with its puffed, almost shut eyes elicits more tenderness than despair.  Not that I’m not heartsick:  Who knows what’s ahead?  And what Carlos is capable of?

But the stolid, dejected man stops chewing.  And I say, “Hang in there.  In the end, it will be okay.”  We exchange honest, timid smiles—that’s all he wants—and I’m on to the next one.

A pale, thin woman in a corduroy dress jumps up and extends her hand.  “My name is Agnes McKinney.”  There’s a flicker of sprightliness behind a pre-assembled expression.  Her real smile is unpredictably shaky. “We need to have faith,” she says.

“No, no.  We’re supposed to doubt.”  For once I’m sticking to the premise.  “Faith and doubt go hand in hand.”  And like an amnesiac come to his senses, I say the words and shudder with revelation;  how long had I blanked on the NANM’s central tenet?

“Okay,” She tugs at her reddish, helmet-like hair.  “I’ll grant you that—”

“Thank you.”  A bubble, a tickle, a nice, normal exchange.  That’s how far I am from anxiety. 

So why am I sick with foreboding?  Why am I. . . Oh yes, here’s the reason.  Here comes Carlos, tongue wetting his lips.  He hurries out from behind the long, sleek countertop.  We immediately make eye contact, and—I do not flinch.  Something happened back there in the birch grove.  A transformation?  A connection or communion from Colin and me. Tyler and Colin are not alike; I invented a connection out of nothing. To be honest, Tyler doesn’t even resemble Colin. He’s no longer someone I desire.

And further, how odd that someone decided he should replace Maggie as my personal assistant, someone paid to be friendly and understanding. Who decided I needed someone like that? Only Carlos would have the idea that being friendly toward me was in fact a job description. But now she’s not here and if Tyler has signed on for a position, someone must tell him the position no longer exists. Maggie and Carlos invented it.

--From Diary of a Heretic, a novel by Kathleen Maher, copyright 2007

*This excerpt continues the serialization of Diary of a Heretic, the novel, which portrays the rise and fall of a contemporary spiritual movement that blossoms suddenly, and briefly, around Malcolm Tully, the owner of a coffee shop/donut house across the street from a terminal of Chicago’™s El tracks. Click here to read the previous excerpt.

Finish Line

Ordinarily, I'm quick with fulsome praise and thanks to anyone who helps me in any way, from pushing me away from a speeding bus or signaling that I’ve got lipstick on my teeth. Let me eat the last hors d’oeuvre at a party and I’ll express my gratitude until you make a desperate excuse: “Gotta run.”

But I’ve never finished in the top three of anything, and have certainly never been graced by such an outpouring of communal support. This blog just won third place in the 2007 Weblog Awards “Best Literature” category, and I can thank BlogCatalog, MyBlogLog, and Cre8buzz friends, the Kula Yoga community, close and long-lost friends, and my far-flung family. That’s for starters.

Some people refused to vote for me or, so they said, anyone else. Awards were silly and they weren’t participating on principle. I respect that. It’s a valid perspective. But when the Weblog Awards named my online fiction as a finalist, it blew my mind. I’ve wanted to “be a writer” all my life and “Literature” has loomed as an ideal since I first read Hop on Pop.

All bloggers are writers and writers need readers. That’s why I started blogging: I posted my fiction so people could read my writing. They made it real. Otherwise, writing for yourself is like talking to yourself: do it too much and you'll lose your sanity.

Once Diary of a Heretic got going, I discovered that blog readers and writers become friends. My blog friends tapped their friends to vote for me—sometimes more than once. So thank you: Blue Girl, Claire Helene; Dan Leo; Jon Swift; Lance Mannion; Lily Kane; Maryam; Melissa McEwan; Mimi Lenox; and the Self-Styled Siren. Thanks also to Kevin Aylward and his crew who put together a wonderful competition.

For me it brought a rush of supporters, readers, bloggers I hadn’t known before, and a sense of community that grows more valuable all the time.

Nancy at Writer’s Block, another finalist for “Best Literature” this year provided a link to all the Literature finalists, with notable generosity. (Jon Swift did the same for the Funniest Blog Award.) So congratulations, too, to the winner in Literature: Neil Gaiman; second place, Pepys Diarys; and Bookgasm; McSweeney’s; Maud Newton; Avon Romance; Classical Bookworm; and Eric Hare.

Missing Persons

This is a serialized story. Click here to read the previous post or here to start at the beginning.

Lawyers and realtors and banks, Oh my!

Years ago, my mother yelled at me. “Lose the ‘oh my!’ Hal. It’s effeminate.”  How I’d love to hear her bitch at me like that now. Her mind’s regressed to its infancy.

I’m living at the Econo-Lodge while I wait out this nightmare. Tuesday I’m moving back to Lawrence, back to living with my mother. My home in KC stands empty, ready for the auction block, and I need to sign a good chunk of my future away on Monday.

A week ago, Bill Logan, my mother’s chief nurse, called about the month’s pay I owe him. “Mailed the check yesterday,” I said. What else can you do? Stall.

Since then, I haven’t even reached his voice mail. So Saturday I’m driving to Lawrence, just for the day—to see what’s happening. With my mother, it can’t be good. I would leave today except the university dental clinic offered me two nights’ work. Then I can give Bill Logan whatever I’ve got, as a small installment. I rely on the guy. He’s never failed her, even though she’s a living terror. He even handles the schedule of student nurses’ shifts for me.

This morning I stayed on hold at the nurses’ center for hours. Eventually, an assistant coordinator admitted Bill has relocated—no forwarding address except Iowa City. Just on that much, I might find him when I can pay him. Iowa’s geriatric nurses’ program is famous. I can’t blame Bill. No matter what I walk into Saturday morning. Dealing with my mother is hell, and I owe him so much money he probably gave up.

Then, this afternoon when Jeanne didn’t answer her phone, I panicked. Her voice mail involves this sickening beeping and I’m in such bad shape, after hearing it, I raced down the lawyer’s hallway and vomited. I kept phoning her every ten minutes for almost two hours.

Jeanne’s my one ray of hope. With so much shit flying, her beautiful voice washes off every damn last fleck. And, man, nothing gets past my Jeanne. She absolutely refuses to let my dreams for our future together distract me from my problems here and now. Which officially she knows nothing about. I’ve told her only that I’m finishing up my life in KC. But if you think about it, that implies this whole stinking business.

Jeanne’s a total angel, but practical. And smart. She’s heard my mother’s nonstop screaming and so no doubt has deduced the situation. Same way she picked up on my trivia tic, but unlike everyone else, let me know she sympathized without ever calling me on it. Nothing out loud and now the tendency has fallen away. The dental clinic kids ask me, who was the first woman to climb Mt. Everest and sulk when I say, “What? Who? How should I know?” (Junko Tabe.)

So, Jeanne’s still not answering and I’m calling Kevin. He’s bailed me out since high school. Last week, he telephoned me—a first. When I return to Lawrence not only is Kevin giving me his unscheduled patients and the root canals and implants he doesn’t want—he’s giving me mornings. Anyone who wants an appointment before one p.m. is mine. Later, when I asked Patrice, she said he’s finally finding time for himself; she suspects golf.

Two minutes ago, I called his office only to discover I’ve blanked out again. Kevin’s in Chicago at the ADA annual seminar. How did I space that? Career wise it’s my one chance to network. So fuck me.

I’m calling Patrice because Jeanne’s still not picking up. But Patrice doesn’t answer; Mrs. O’Meara, Kevin’s mother, picks up. Mrs. O’Meara and I do our fifteen-year old thing where I say, “How are you, Mrs. O’Meara?” and she says, “If you don’t call me Rebecca, I’m not talking.” 

“Rebecca, then, how are you? Have you retired from the retirement home?”  She knows my mother and has pleaded with me to send my mother away. To the Memory Center in Wichita.

“They’re not retiring me, yet, Hal. I’m here helping Patrice with Annabelle and Colette, while Kevin’s in Chicago and Jeanne’s visiting her family.”

“She is?”

“Apparently so. Kevin should be home Sunday night.”

Patrice just picked up. “Hal, are you and Jeanne are coming to Thanksgiving? Same as last year?”

Same but different: I met Jeanne at the O’Meara’s Thanksgiving last year. But Colette I already knew as Annabelle’s playmate.

“Nothing I’d like more, Patrice. Hey, is Colette around? Ask her if she wants to say, hi to her pal Hal.”

(Click here to read the next episode)