It pleased me for the most part to hear how I sounded. Seemed like I was doing at least as good a job as any of the priests or missionaries they talked about in church, the ones out there in the world spreading the Word to the desolate places far from Christendom. At the same time, I understood it didn’t matter how I felt about my ministerial abilities, that the only thing that would save either of us was how he felt. And to be fair, he did look at me for a long time with what appeared to be thoughtful consideration. Then he burst out laughing.
Go ahead and laugh, I said. We both know there was a time when you weren’t too high and mighty to believe. There was a time when faith still meant something to you.
He drained the last transparent drops from the bottom of the glass, keeping his eyes on me all the while. If you knew what it took for me to stop believing, he said, you wouldn’t have much faith either. In God or anything.
You’re wrong. Faith isn’t about being free from pain. It’s about being strong enough to handle pain when it comes.
Right. That’s why you’re extorting me with a bottle of cheap Shiraz. Because faith is so attractive on its own.
I gave you one glass because I knew you wouldn’t listen to a word I said without it. And I’ll give you another if you agree to listen some more.
He slid his feet off the covers and sat forward on the edge of the bed. The chain went lax, settling in small coils across the floor. Go on, then, he said. Tell me the good news. Show me what I’ve been missing.
I set my finger on the page and began to read.
He entered Jericho and was passing through. And there was a man called by the name of Zaccheus. He was a chief tax collector and he was rich. Zaccheus was trying to see who Jesus was, and was unable because of the crowd, for he was small in stature. So he ran on ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree in order to see Him, for He was about to pass through that way. When Jesus came to the place, He looked up and said to him, Zaccheus, hurry and come down, for today I must stay at your house. And he hurried and came down and received Him gladly. When they saw it, they all began to grumble, saying He has gone to be the guest of a man who is a sinner. Zaccheus stopped and said to the Lord, Behold, Lord, half of my possessions I will give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will give him back four times as much. And Jesus said to him, Today salvation has come to this house, because he, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man has come to seek and to save that which is lost.
I closed the book and looked up at the prisoner’s blank face. He was holding the empty glass out in front of him, ready to accept a refill the moment it was offered.
You understand why I chose this passage? I asked. Course you do. You’re a smart guy. The message should be clear to you. Zaccheus was a sinner and a cheat, but Jesus gave him the chance to redeem himself. But first Zaccheus had to prove that salvation meant more to him than money. He had to humble himself, and offer retribution, before he could truly be saved.
The prisoner nodded. Indeed, he said. And I suppose in your reading of the story, I’m the sinner. I’m Zaccheus, and you’re one of the people I’ve tried to cheat.
I took up the bottle and started to pour. This time I gave him three-quarters of a full glass, more or less, and watched him empty it all the faster. How would you have me read it instead?
Well. For starters, I’d say you should look at your own house before you presume to judge me. How much attention did you pay to this story before I showed up? Did you ever read it and wonder what Jesus thinks of you and your family living here in a house while your pickers are forced to stay in the state camp down the road? Sounds to me like you should sell the land to Russert and give the money to the poor folks around here. Or do you only bother with the Bible when it suits your own needs?
You don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re not rich. Even when Dad was alive, we were just barely getting by from year to year.
Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Is that what you expect from me? When you’ve got me chained up like a rabid dog?
I expect a little gratitude. For the wine, at least.
Right. Gratitude is the first step. First you do these small favors for me until I feel indebted to you. Then you work your Catholic guilt over me until I start sympathizing with you. Before long, I’ll be saying grace at the dinner table with the rest of the so-called family, and you’ll have a case of Stockholm Syndrome on your hands so classic you could publish an article about me in a leading psychiatric journal.
That’s way out of line.
Sure. Deny it. As if you didn’t realize the significance of what you were doing, bringing wine and a Bible in here and preaching to me about redemption.
I thought it might do your soul some good to be reminded of the word of God. If I’d known you were going to be so paranoid about it, I wouldn’t have bothered.
The good of my soul. Is that what the story was supposed to make me think about?
So what if it was? It’s not like you couldn’t learn a thing or two from Zaccheus. Don’t you see something of yourself in him?
The prisoner laughed. Hardly, he said. I should think an entrepreneur like me would have very little in common with a tax collector.
He raised his glass for another refill. I looked at the glass and held my breath and let the breath out slowly. I’d sworn I wasn’t going to let him provoke me this time, even if it meant turning the other cheek as he took massive shit all over the Scriptures. All over me and my faith. I grabbed the bottle by the neck and stuck it right into the milky white palm of his other hand. Pour it yourself, I said, and retreated back down the hallway.
Ellie was seated at the kitchen table with her mother, scraping bits of meat and sauce from her plate with a steel spoon. She looked at me as I sat down. Since the attack, the bruises on her neck had faded to a shade of yellowish brown that at times seemed to blend together with the color of her hair, making them less painful for me to look at.
How’d the sermon go, padre? she asked. I was listening outside the door. I heard you preaching to him.
I folded my arms over the table. In the seat beside me, Sandra was quietly patching a rip in one of Gracie’s nightgowns. She appeared comfortable with a needle and thread, though it still made me uneasy seeing her up and about after what she’d tried to do, let alone with a sharp object in her hand. He’s a hard case, I said. I tried everything I could to be civil to him, but it’s like he’s searching out ways to be difficult. Like the only joy he can find is in antagonizing me.
What did you expect? You must have known he wasn’t going to drop to his knees and repent after one Bible lesson. You could have read him the whole book cover to cover and it still wouldn’t have done any good. His heart’s frozen against it.
So is yours. Maybe you should try talking to him.
Oh, no. If I go in there and lose my temper, there’s a chance one of us might not make it out alive. You saw the way I was when we took Jennifer down. I can handle some things with a cool head, and other things I can’t. I really can’t.