Melinda hears the lull in their conversation as an imperative to speak:
“Do you believe that?” she says, directing her wonderment at Irv. “That if someone commits suicide they go to hell?”
“No.”
“But many Christians do, right?”
“There’s a debate, but it’s doctrine.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“For the same reason the Catholics believe in the Trinity, Melinda.”
The appetizers arrive with a speed that Sigrid finds suspicious.
“Which is . . . what?”
“It’s how I understand Jesus’s words spoken from the cross,” says Irv, taking one of Sigrid’s calamari. “Jesus spoke seven times on the cross. In Matthew Twenty-Seven, verse forty-six and in Mark Fifteen verse thirty-four he says, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ This led to the Trinity,” Irv said, sucking cocktail sauce and grease from his thumb. “The thinking is, if Jesus was Lord, who was he speaking to? He was obviously speaking to someone or something other than himself, unless . . . ya know.” Irv makes a circular cuckoo motion by his head with a piece of squid. “So perhaps he was speaking to the Father, or to the Holy Spirit. In this act, he distinguishes himself from the eternal and embodies everything that is Man. The fear, the sadness, the tragedy. The longing. The recognition of betrayal. We see him, in that moment, only as the Son, and because of that, as ourselves. As I read it, Melinda, we are not invited in that moment to be cruel to him for his despair, or to mock him. Instead we are asked to feel his pain. When Jesus says, ‘It is finished’ I don’t read, ‘Mission accomplished.’ I see a person resigned. A person who has lost hope. A person who has taken a step away from this life. And our pity for him grows. And finally he says, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Now, I’m not going to equate Jesus letting go with suicide, but any decent and forgiving Christian person would have to admit that we are looking at a person who cannot fight anymore. We are being taught to be understanding of that state of mind and sympathetic to the suffering that might lead a person to it. It does not follow to me that if someone succumbs to that grief we are to treat them with eternal contempt. I just don’t believe it.”
But Sigrid isn’t listening anymore, because as interesting as it is listening to a sheriff discuss scripture, it is nothing compared to the picture of herself now on the widescreen television. Because it is not only a picture of her. It is, unquestionably, the worst picture of herself that she’s ever seen.
It is a manipulated version of the picture that Irv took during her pre-coffee haze. The burning fluorescent bulbs in Irv’s converted jail cell had been directly over Sigrid’s jet-lagged face, and so cast their industrial light down and into her blond eyebrows, which—on television—burn with electric fire. By rights, glowing eyebrows should be stare-worthy, but the tip of her nose was far more interesting, having been, apparently, polished. As the announcer speaks, Sigrid focuses on the nose and, yes, sees a tiny little image of the photographer in there—a little gnome in a sheriff’s hat. Beneath her eyes are black triangles; her eyebrows having sucked in all the available light. Sigrid looks at herself. She has never been especially vain or concerned with appearances beyond being neat and clean and properly dressed for occasions. But here she looks not so much bad as . . . evil. The kind of evil that hates children and birthdays and piñatas, the evil that lives in a cabin with meat hooks. And . . . what is that at the corner of her mouth? A piece of gristle? The foam of insanity? The remains of Hansel and Gretel?
“Hey, look,” says Irv. “That’s you. Melinda, go have them turn that up, will ya?”
Before Sigrid can object, Melinda—uniformed and authoritative—tells the barkeeper to crank the volume up, so now everyone at the bar at the Cheesecake Factory is watching the scary woman on TV and listening to the report as a new video of Sigrid replaces the photograph:
“. . . sister of Marcus Odd-Guard, who is now missing and wanted by the police, in possible connection to the death of Dr. Lydia Jones, who was found bloodied on Brookmeyer Road on August third. Ms. Odd-Guard is believed to have connections to a white supremacist motorcycle gang—the Vandals—who proclaim themselves to be the descendants of the original Vandals; the Germanic tribe that sacked a decadent Rome.”
The report pops back to an interview with Roger Mandel, whom neither Sigrid nor Melinda can hear on account of Irv’s immediate curse-filled rant. Melinda shushes him and Irv dials it back to a steady growl so that the women can hear Roger say:
“. . . a tip from a reliable source, who provided the video, showing Ms. Sigrid Odd-Guard enter the notorious Inferno bar by Target off the I-37, tells us that Ms. Odd-Guard was looking to—and I quote here—‘catch a ride with the gang to avoid the local police,’ unquote. Our investigative team has learned that Ms. Odd-Guard was suspended from the Norwegian police force recently for the shooting of an unarmed immigrant. No one knows where she is now, or what her direct connection is to this case, but we are pursuing this new connection between the Odd-Guard family and the Vandals, and Marcus Odd-Guard’s own romantic relationship with Professor Jones at the time of her death. So far the police investigators have been unavailable for comment. We’re going to be staying with this story, Alison, until we have some answers. Back to you.”
Sigrid’s burger arrives.
“Melinda,” says Irv, seeing Sigrid’s condition, “go tell Alan to turn the channel, OK?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
As Melinda carries out her duties, Irv lifts a french fry from Sigrid’s untouched plate and chews it. “So I’m thinking Juliet takes your money for a favor. She then rats you out
