False Allegations

'Until…?'

'Until I tried to kill myself. The last time. Psalmists have a prohibition against suicide. A powerful, strong prohibition. Job wished for death, but he never tried to take his own life. His refusal mocked Satan and so made Job great. I knew I could be shunned for trying to kill myself, and I was afraid. But the church counseled me. First a neighbor—'

'In the hospital?'

'A 'neighbor' means a member. All Psalmists are neighbors. They can't do pastoral counseling, but they can be…supportive, I guess. But it was a minister who did the real counseling.'

'Why did you try and kill yourself, Jennifer?'

'Because it was all…nothing,' she said, just above a whisper. 'Just nothing. No matter what I tried to do, I failed. I flunked out of school. College, I mean. The work wasn't hard, but I just never did it. I drank. A lot. And I smoked marijuana. I took pills too.'

'The orange–and–white capsules? Too many of them?'

'How did you…? I did do that, but that wasn't what I meant. Uppers mostly. Speed. The church helped me with that too. When I flunked out, they got me a job. In an AIDS hospice. Psalmists are the leaders there,' she said proudly. 'The Church has an encyclical condemning anyone who says AIDS is God's punishment for sin. Job's suffering was multiplied by his neighbors' belief that he committed some hidden sin. But really it was Satan who had tricked God into testing Job's faith. Job passed, and God has never tested any of us that way since. AIDS is a plague, not a punishment.'

'But the hospice job didn't work out either?' I asked, guiding her back to what I needed to know.

'Nothing worked out,' she said, hollow–voiced. 'I had a boyfriend. We were engaged. But he broke it off. I never knew why—he just came over to my apartment one day and told me. It was hard. Very hard to tell my mother…'

'She knew the man? The one you were engaged to?'

'No. She didn't really know him. But he was a neighbor. And his father was a 'son.' That's like a deacon in another church. His whole family was very highly respected.'

'And after that?'

'After that, I suffered. But not like Job. Not from illness. And not heroically either. Just…suffered. I got pregnant. And I didn't even know who the father was. I had an abortion. And I got…hurt when they did it. I can never have a baby now.'

'Did you think—?'

'I knew it wasn't a punishment,' she interrupted. 'God doesn't do that. It was a mistake, that's all. Another failure. Like me. I worked sometimes. I was a waitress. And I did office temp too. But I was always bad at it. Bad at everything. I knew I wasn't stupid but I just…didn't care, I guess. I knew I would always lose whatever job I had, so I always got lousy jobs so I wouldn't care when I lost them. I did the same thing with men. Do you understand?'

'Yeah I do,' I told her. Stone truth that time.

'I started pulling again,' she said. 'All the time. Even in public. I never did that before—I never went so far. Then I realized I couldn't even stop that. And I knew I had stopped it once. So I would never get better. I had no friends. No real friends. Nobody to talk to. I started to cut myself. Not to die, so I could feel something. See?' She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, showing me the perfectly parallel cuts on her left forearm, as neat as tribal markings. 'I have them on my legs too. It always made me feel better…I can't explain it.'

'Do you ever poke yourself?' I asked her 'Like with the tip of the knife, or a pin or anything?'

'Yes. I did that too. I did everything to myself. And one day, I cut myself and I didn't feel anything. Nothing at all. I watched the blood run down my leg and I didn't feel anything. I was going to cut my throat. The artery—I know where it is. But I…couldn't. So I found a vein.'

'Did you leave a note?'

'Who would I leave a note to? There was nobody.'

'How did—?

'I failed at that too,' she said quietly. 'I passed out, but I didn't die. I was supposed to pay the rent that afternoon. The landlady always came by to get it—she wouldn't take checks, it always had to be cash. When I didn't answer the door, she just opened it up. She had a key. She called the paramedics, and I woke up in the hospital.'

'A psychiatric hospital?'

'No, a regular one. Later, I went to a…home, I guess it was. It didn't have bars on the windows or anything, and it wasn't a hospital. I don't know what to call it.'

I could feel Heather's eyes, but not Kite's—like he wasn't giving off any heat, just a piece of furniture. When I looked past the woman, Heather had turned her back to me. She was looking at the hologram, standing hip–shot, one hand under her chin, like she was studying a painting. I looked where her eyes were trained. The child's kite was gone. Now there was a bird, hovering high, face to the wind. A hawk, maybe, watching the ground. I couldn't see where the hawk was looking—Heather's hips blocked that part.

'All that time,' I asked Jennifer, 'you never—'

'All what time?'

'From when you walked out of Brother Jacob's house in Buffalo to when you tried to kill yourself. How long was that?'

'Nine, ten years.'

'You never thought about what happened? Never thought about Brother Jacob?'

'No. If I had, I would have gone to a judge.'

'Sued him?'

'No, the church has a judge. Every congregation has a judge. Any neighbor can file a complaint against any other neighbor, even a minister. Judges have to investigate the complaints, and then they report to the Council.'

'That's still in the church.'

'Yes. The Council is always seven: three judges, two deacons, and two neighbors. They're elected. If the judge files a report, the Council decides if there's guilt. And if there's guilt, the Council decides on the punishment.'

'Which can be what?'

'You can be fined. Or suspended. Even banned from the church, depending on what you did.'

'But you never—'

'No. I never thought about it. Not about going to the judge. I mean, about…it.'

'You never called Brother Jacob, or wrote a letter?'

'No. I mean, not after that time when I found out—'

'And he never contacted you.'

'No. I just went into a void, I guess. I don't really know—I don't understand that part so well.'

'So how did you—?'

'When I started the counseling, I just told them the truth. I failed at everything, and I didn't know why. After a while, they said there were…gaps, like. That's when I went for hypnosis.'

I could feel Kite stiffen next to me, but he didn't make a sound. 'By yourself?' I asked her.

'Yes. Oh! You mean…no, I mean, it wasn't my idea. They found the therapist for me. The hypnosis, that was just part of it, not the whole thing. And it was a doctor. A real one, I mean. Not a Ph.D. doctor, like I have for my regular therapy.'

'How long were you in—'

'I still am,' she said, cutting into my question. 'I guess I will be for a long time. It was…months before I even started to remember.'

'But then it all came out?'

'I don't know if it's all out,' she said, her voice resigned. 'I don't know…yet. I remember stuff more and more all the time. But what I told you, that much I know is true.'

'We've been doing this for a while,' I said, glancing at my watch. 'I need some time to absorb everything