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Sister Mary Sebastian hadn't shown up on Thursday afternoon. Jean had given up waiting for her and gone back to bed; Stannie had disappeared completely. It was Ed who'd kept watch for the nun deep into the night, wanting to talk about a job at St. Francis—the Sister had found him this job here, after all, so why couldn't she just as easily arrange a job over there with the children? Maybe teaching auto shop or welding.

Ed sat out in the driveway in a folding chair for hours, listening to the birds and the frogs and the wind in the long grass. He fell asleep waiting, with his head on his chest, and dreamed that he saw Sister Mary wading through a swamp in the dark, pulling apart cattails and reeds and staring out with her man face, watching, waiting. Then he saw A.J. sailing away on a boat with a grey-haired woman who wore a long purple dress and a white cloth draped over her arm like Jesus in the picture books. The woman turned and gave the ugliest look: pointed her finger and said words he couldn't figure out. Ed knew who it was.

He had only glanced at Ernetta from the back, climbing into A.J.'s rental truck on the day she came with Tom McLeesh. He'd seen a short, bent-over woman in her sixties, or thereabouts, with thick arms and a curly head of grey hair. For a second, he'd stopped right dead in his tracks; he'd squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun and the world had squeezed itself up like old cars flattened in a junkyard: green palms, blue sky, and white sand squashed into black lines that raced along in zigzags when he turned his head. Then the truck door slammed and the world exploded up to size again. He looked from house to car, from car to house, and finally turned around and walked out of the bright air, back inside and down the stairs to the basement. In a damp corner he crouched over his tools at his work bench, breathing loud, his stomach swollen over his belt like a giant ball about to burst open.

Ed had wondered about that woman in the car, sure enough, and what exactly A.J. was up to, but his mind was caught up in other things, too—the fellow on the steps who'd mocked his scars; the communist brothers down on the beach and that homosexual sitting there with his bleached hair; the lazy boy crying in the dockhouse and the drunk woman upstairs and the whore on the balcony steps who thought she was doing him a favor by fetching his hat (there was people you didn't want to scare, but there was also people you did). Whores and hypocrites everywhere you looked. Over all these lazy evil people, Ed thought, he was a like a rock of righteousness, waiting for the day when God would push him rolling down the hill. Like in the book of Daniel, a rolling rock of destruction.

Except he had to be careful because of A.J., to take it slow. Ed could tell in his writing that it was almost time: A.J. saw through people and he saw through Hollywood. He knew it was whores and perverts trampling down America, lying to everybody. And he hated the whores for it, you could hear the hate spilling out of his words even when he tried to be funny. Just like Ed, A.J. looked at himself and at other people without the softness that lied to you about what was right and what was wrong. He was hard as a soldier of God should be.

The only difference between them was that A.J. had been raised by these hypocrites here and he hadn't heard the truth from nobody—hadn't even been taken to church to hear it, nor heard it from his aunt who was supposed to tell him, nor anyone. A.J. saw the hypocrites and whores and the demons and stood against them, but he didn't know yet that there was angels in the world, too, looking after the innocent. A.J. needed to have his eyes opened. Sitting out late on that Thursday night, waiting for the nun to come back so he could talk to her about a job with children, Ed realized that he wasn't waiting for Sister Mary at all: he was actually waiting to talk to A.J. For the first time ever, he'd really talk to the boy.

Yet A.J. never came home that night, and by early morning Ed had a crick in his neck from sleeping slumped over in his chair. He went back in the house and took a little more fitful rest, dreaming again about a woman crouching in the grass, watching him with cat eyes. By Friday noon, with the boy's room still empty, and knowing that the boy was due to leave for Washington just the next day, Ed decided that the time just hadn't come yet. The time was coming soon, but God had clearly shown that he must wait. So Ed went back to the basement again and to his tools, and he squatted in his dark corner with his stomach hanging over his belt, working hard. You could hear him breathing all over the cellar, and even upstairs, if you listened hard enough. Linda Kate thought she heard him breathing and she felt sorry for him: she was busy tracing her route on a map of the Western United States.

* * *

Stannie lay alone in a motel room that Friday, after drinking so much the night before that he'd forgotten how to drive himself home. His tongue felt as fat as his head. He had a phone in his hand and he had just dialed Rose's number.

"So I get the answering machine again, huh? Come on, I know you want to pick up. I'll give you another minute … " He waited, and then sighed. "OK, well, have it your way. But there are big things happening, girlie babe. You're going to be sorry you didn't come down. It was your chance to meet my real mother. Turns out I'm the love child of right-wing terrorists. I'm very serious about this. Stop messing around with Corbin and call me. I'm serious." He snapped the phone shut and it rang again immediately.

"Yeah? Rose?"

"Sorry, no. It's Moira, Stan. How are you?"

"Moira!" Stannie smiled and threw himself back against his pillow. "Moira. And they say agents never call. It's only been, what? Eight weeks?"

"Two weeks," she said. "I call when I have news."

"What do you know about the Oscars?"

She paused. "That's exactly what I need to talk to you about, Stan. You know, they took forever getting back to me, and then they announced you'd be presenting with Brett Bordley-Young."

He scratched the stubble on his chin. "Kind of insulting, I thought. She's what, fourteen years old? Some kind of singer? Or actress?"

"She's huge. She just had a Barbie Doll named after her. But you're right, Stannie, she was beneath you. Keep thinking that way."

"'Was' beneath me? What do you mean?"

Moira gave a husky sigh on the other end. "The problem is that—if I understand correctly—she's just not eager to present with you, Stan."

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry. It seems to be because you're a writer instead of an entertainer. It may be just youthful ignorance—she probably doesn't read. I tried to get in touch with her agent myself, but they're not answering my calls."

Stannie felt his cheeks tingling. "Tell them to get me somebody else, then."

"I'm trying. The Academy can't seem to find anyone—because it's late, and also because some of your reviews have been in bad taste. People have sort of turned against you."

He snorted. "They say these things. I've got plenty of friends left in Hollywood. I'll call Ben—"

"He's on location in Afghanistan. Totally out of pocket."

"I'll call the other Ben."

"Look, I know you've got friends in Hollywood, but this isn't up to them, it's the Academy's call."

"Yeah, and will they call?"

"I'm not sure what's going to happen. I'm doing my best, that's all I can tell you."

Stannie sat forward and scratched his armpits. "We signed something, didn't we?"

"They might cut you out of this, Stannie. They can do that if your behavior reflects badly on the awards."

"My behavior. What total hypocritical bullshit coming from Hollywood."

"You don't hide your bad points well enough. You don't mind being seen as sexist. You're proud of it. And you're a racist, too."

"That is such a black thing to say, Moira. I'm not a racist."

"Really? I recall you saying somewhere that Samuel L. Jackson was one of the best actors in community theater today."

"That comment wasn't about race, it was about talent."

"I happen to think he's pretty talented. But I guess that's a pretty black thing to say, too, right?"

He rubbed his eyes. "They can't wiggle out of this. Not unless they want to be ridiculed everywhere—I can do that. I'm going to Los Angeles next week, and I'm presenting an award for—what is it—Best Foreign Short Actor or something. Just watch me, Moira. At worst I've got two complimentary tickets and they can't take those away."

"Remember Ralph Nader, what happened to him in 2000. I'll get back to you, Stan. I'm sorry about the trouble."

"Yeah."

He put down the phone again and picked up a cigar and a fountain pen from the pile of trash he'd dumped out on the nightstand. He'd get these people, one way or another. In life or in print, he'd have the last word.

He scratched a few lines on the back of a napkin. His handwriting was terrible: "Bad penmanship excites women," he'd told Rose once.

"Oh, you think so?"

"Yeah. Like scars."

"I bet you think body odor is sexy, too."

"Of course it is. Body odor, hair oil, five o'clock shadow. Women love that stuff. How do you think Alec Baldwin got where he is today?"

"He's some kind of movie star, right?"

"You'd probably prefer Matt Lauer."

"I might if I knew who he was."

Rose. She never watched television; she could identify more foreign dictators than movie stars. He remembered her several years back, sitting across from him in a pub in London with her hair shining in a braid down the front of her blue sweater, her face glowing pink in the firelight, her eyes wide.

"Rose, look to your right," he'd whispered. "Look who it is."

She'd glanced blankly at the table beside them. "Who?"

"Hugh Grant!"

The name meant nothing to her.

She was beautiful, uncynical, unspoiled. So how had he of all men managed to attract her in the first place? Definitely not with his writing: she hated it. Not with his name-dropping: she'd heard about his family, but mostly in connection with old political scandals (the Colfax Properties Debacle). He'd met her when he was smoking a cigar on a snowy street outside a restaurant and she appeared from nowhere with a camera.

"Hey, can I take your picture? I'm working on a photo-essay called, 'A Cigar is Never Just a Cigar.'"

"Sure you can take my picture." He'd tried to look handsome. "What's your name?"

"First tell me yours."

"Stan. And I'm freezing my ass off for this cigar. They won't let me smoke inside."

"Keep your face just like that. I love the watery eyes."

"I call it my Dr. Zhivago face."

"Dr. Zhivago." She looked up from the camera. "Great novel."

He smiled to himself now, thinking about that. How she'd said "great novel," instead of "great movie," like almost anybody else. So where was she? What was she doing?" The last time he'd seen Rose, she'd been upset about something. It took him a minute to remember what it was: not his pot habit, not the other woman thing (his slip-ups didn't seem to bother her anymore, probably because he'd been so damned discreet and respectful). He wracked his brain. Oh yeah, the book she'd just published—the signing at Borders and the good reviews. He hadn't paid much attention, hadn't even read the book yet. She'd sounded cold the day he called to say goodbye:

"I can't talk right now, Stannie, I'm walking out the door."

"See you in a few days, right?"

"Yeah, unless something comes up with work."

"Like what? What could possibly come up?"

"Possibly something to do with my career. Not that my career means anything to you."

He imagined her having dinner with Joseph Corbin, discussing whatever they were working on. What was the big secret, anyway? Was Corbin trying to get dirt on him, or what? Stannie hated Corbin, even worse today than usual. He wished she'd come home and call him. Tomorrow he'd be flying back to Washington. Maybe he'd take Ernetta with him—check her out of the Comfort Inn downtown and buy her a first-class seat to Dulles. He'd introduce Ernetta to Rose. That might get the girl's attention. Rose couldn't resist anybody with a sad story. Maybe he'd even take Ernetta to the Academy Awards—Ernetta Duckworth at the Shriner Auditorium, sunk down in a plush velvet seat behind, say, Cameron Diaz. He'd have to think about that one for a while.

He laughed, took a deep breath and kept scribbling on the page.

Is the World a Better Place Because I'm Alive?
I know what some of you are thinking: I must have been high when I wrote this. Well, for your information, I haven't had anything stronger than Tequilah in several minutes. My mind is as clear as a men's room wall, and I happen to know that asking whether the world is better off because I'm around is kind of like asking whether football is better off because of green paint. But this is my column, so just turn the page if you don't like it.
Recently, I met my birth mother (until now known only as "the Duck Woman of Webbville," but I've already told you people about my web toes, so don't ask). Anyway, she informed me that, beyond a doubt, it's a GOOD THING that I was born. She was explaining at the time why she'd decided not to abort me. Like I had wondered. I mean, like I'd really pondered before that moment whether I should be walking around on this planet as a conscious person instead of being reunited with the great Circle of Life in some dumpster. But now, suddenly, doubts loomed. Doubts like … well I was too upset to think of similes. This was angst, existential crisis, nihilistic despair. You know the crap.
I put off thinking about it, though, till I felt totally sick of Free Cell and all 900 channels were carrying senior golf tournaments. Then I took pen in hand and sat down with my Tequilah to reflect on the question of my existence. Is the world, indeed, a better place because I, Stan Colfax, exist? Or would the cosmos, in the balance of things, have been better off if the stork had coughed up a few hundred bucks for my mother's trip to Planned Parenthood?
Maybe I'm just questioning my existence because my girlfriend has probably dumped me. I say "probably" because she hasn't answered the message in which I told her I'd cut off my own ear if she didn't answer it by today. Actually, though, that's not the real issue (I mean I'm hardly even THINKING about that, so if she has any ideas, she can just can them right now). The real reason I've taken this dip into despair is because I watched It's a Wonderful Life last Christmas with my (adoptive) family and realized that, hey, first of all I'm spending another Christmas with these people, and second of all I am no George Bailey.
That's right. I don't rescue children from icy ponds, I don't enrage drunken pharmacists with my selfless honesty, I don't postpone travel in order to save small-town banks, and I definitely don't give women back their clothes when they're crouching in shrubbery naked. Actually, whatever my mother might think, I'm more of a Potter type—kind of the Lionel Barrymore of the magazine world. No, people don't take up collections to save me from bankruptcy, even though I've established a Web site specifically for that purpose; in fact, a lot of people just plain hate my guts.
Think about it. Would anybody have cared if POTTER rolled his wheelchair off the bridge that snowy night? Would an angel have jumped in the river to rescue POTTER? No, because everybody knows that Bedford Falls could have been a much better place if old Potter had been conceived after 1973. Anti-abortion activists talk about protecting innocent life. A few really stupid individuals have killed others and/or themselves to save a kind of creature that looks like something you'd feed with fish flakes. But even assuming that a ten- or twelve-week-old fetus counts as a human being, consider that Hitler himself was once a slimy little creature on the verge of being born. Would the Womb Bomber have blown up a clinic and sacrificed his own life to save baby Adolf? I doubt it, since even terrorists have their standards.
I don't think my life is worth any sacrifice, either. A few people believe the Womb Bomber still lives: if he's out there and wants to convince me that, yes, this existence of mine is a Wonderful Life, I hope he'll contact me (please, not by radio). But until then, I'm pretty sure my life has no real benefit to anyone. And you know what? I'm OK with that. Yes, if humanity could have looked into the future of the fertilized ovum known as Stan Colfax, it might have flushed me back down the old fallopian tubes. Lucky for us bad zygotes, though, you can't tell a duck from a swan—or a Bailey from a Potter—until long after the egg is hatched.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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