Her father insisted on using as few lights as possible and never turned on the heat until late November, so the narthex and stairs to the basement were dark, still smelled of damp paint. He was into self-denial, and not just at Lent, when he gave up his chocolate bars and secret cigarettes, but all the time. He ate canned soups and wheat rolls and on weekends wore ten-year-old khakis with threadbare black clerical shirts.
As she swung open the door at the bottom step, she saw Ted's mother waiting outside her office, reading the announcements tacked up on the bulletin board; Lutheran missionary work in Africa and pleas for support for the youth group car wash. When Ginger first took up with Ted, his mother was thrilled. A minister's daughter, a girl who'd have a cheerfully restraining effect on her son, who'd dress in shin — length floral dresses and quote Bible verses in times of trial. But once she'd realized Ginger rarely changed out of her jeans and sweatshirts, her tennis shoes and heavy-metal T-shirts, she'd told Ted, There's something not right about that girl.
Ginger, unlocked the office door, turned on the lamp, and motioned for Ted's mother to sit on the beige folding chair in front of the desk. The smell of burnt peroxide from a recent perm mingled with his mother's sweet perfume. She wore a denim dress with a nautical pocket seal and navy blue tennis shoes, with little white anchors on the toes. Like lots of women in the church, she dressed like a little girl, in smocked floral dresses and teddy bear T-shirts. She wore a red snowman vest on Christmas and a cotton bunny sweater at Easter. She wouldn't sit down, just stood there blinking, explaining that the store manager was threatening to press full charges. He said her son was a very sick young man.
“I just can't take this anymore,” she said, taking a wadded tissue from her pocket. “First the drugs, then the police, and now that fellow Steve. All you have to do is look at him to know he's not right. All I ever wanted to do was help my boy, try and get him back on his feet. He's always making everything so hard for himself. There comes a point where people have to take responsibility for themselves. Ted doesn't seem to realize that.”
“There's nothing wrong with Ted,” Ginger said. “He's just miserable about his face.”
His mother shook her head. She never spoke about the accident, always changed the subject to something more positive, like the kid on her block who got a track scholarship to college or the rich lawyer who took his mother for a trip around the world. “I just want him to be happy and healthy.”
“Nobody's happy and healthy,” Ginger said. “Everybody has problems.”
“If you'd raised him you'd know his dark side. Things never work out for Ted. There's something off about him. It's not in my genes, but there were bad seeds in his father's family and I can't help thinking Ted has been blessed with some of that.”
There was no arguing with her. She'd decided he was poisoned and had been working out the details of this theory for years. There was something not quite right about Ted and nothing would convince her otherwise. Ginger stood and moved toward the door. His mother followed her out of the office and down the corridor, lined by Sunday school partitions, full of long empty tables where hopeful little children made crosses out of Popsicle sticks and learned the words to “Away in the Manger.”
“If you see him, tell him to call me, please!” Ted's mother said as they stood in the damp cement stairwell near the back door. Ginger nodded, but it was a lie.
She knew his mother had told Ted that his stepfather was his real father, and by the time he found out the truth, his real father was dead. His mother made him like he was, raised like a fallen prince, taught him to think he was better than everyone and so much worse. And she thought life owed her something too and was bitter because she'd been beautiful and cheerful but things never panned out. Ted wanted to save her but he couldn't, and she'd never forgive him for that. She was vain too, had lots of photographs of herself up on the walls, signed across the bottom like a movie star, and she was always talking about how she still wore the same size dress as when she graduated from high school. She played show tunes in the house, sang along outloud, and wouldn't talk to anybody during these recitals. If Ted tried to speak with her, she'd sing louder; her eyes turned the other way. Ted said that when he watched her now it seemed funny, but when he was little her singing scared him to death.
“So Mulhoffer was mad?” Ginger asked, as she stood in her father's office in front of his huge mahogany desk.
“Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “He believes if you dress like a moral man, then you'll act like one.”
“Who died and made him God?” Ginger threw herself into one of the leather wingbacks, draped her legs over the arm.
Her father leaned back in his chair. “Mulhoffer went to the Wednesday night Deerpath Creek service and came back with raves. He says they make Christianity fun, like going to a Broadway show or a sporting event.”
“What do you think?” Ginger asked.
“I've been out there. The head minister wore red suspenders and a blue striped shirt, like a Wall Street banker. They're using corporate philosophies to make everybody feel like they're moving up the church ladder, getting a raise or a promotion. But spiritual change is more subtle than that; you can't just check items off a list.”
“Why'd you become a minister anyway?”
“For the free wine,” her father smiled wearily, “and all those delicious tuna casseroles and Jell-O salads.”
She laughed, but no matter how cavalier he acted, she knew he was worried, because the crease marks in his brow had grown deeper and that shell-shocked look never left his face.
“The problem is,” he said, “is that Grace is impossible to explain.”
“Are you mad at me?” Ginger asked.
Her father looked at her. “Not mad, just disappointed.”
Ginger looked at the pile of theology books with felt markers stuffed between the pages on his desk. His Oxford English Bible was so old, the front adhered to the spine with black electrical tape. Packs of dove and lamb stickers for the Sunday school kids were scattered next to his mug of cold coffee. In front of him was a pile of yellow legal pads.
“Are those for Sunday?” She wanted to change the subject, knew he was always ready to talk enthusiastically about his next sermon.
He nodded, obviously pleased she'd asked. “I'm writing a parable about two girls. Want to hear a bit?”
Ginger nodded, watched him straighten his spine and begin to read. This was his whole life now; his rumpled coat lay folded on the floor by a pillow and she knew he'd taken to sleeping near his desk.
The empty apartment smelled of stale beer and pot smoke. She put her palm against the rough stucco wall and moved down the hallway, past the outline of Steve's barbells. Lines of yellow light hallowed Ted's door. She turned the knob slowly, opened it a crack, half-expecting to see him on the bed, legs akimbo, blood and brain matter splattered up over the walls.
But the bed was empty, a spot of her own blood among the sheets soft-petaled flowers. One pillow was stripped of its case, leaving a rectangle of stained foam rubber. He'd taken tube socks and T-shirts, an extra pair of jeans and a couple of flannel shirts from a rag-snake that slithered out of the closet. The overturned shoe box spilled a pot leaf belt buckle, a Bic lighter, an old wallet. His ivory-handled hunting knife and the rubber-banded pack of get-well cards he'd gotten while he was in the hospital were both missing.