Authors: K. Ryan
His hard eyes shoot to mine. "What are you talkin' about?"
"Oh, come on," I shrug. "None of them practice what they preach. And I don't care what anyone says, but I don't really want to have anything to do with people who would never accept Benn in their church."
"Not everyone feels that way, yah know."
"Yeah, but most of them do. And they thump their out-dated Bibles while they're doing it. What's the point of picking and choosing which part of the Bible you want to follow? Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of it in the first place?"
Jack mulls that over for a few moments before his quiet voice fills the truck. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know," I rack my brain for all the inconsistencies I've accumulated through my little working knowledge of the book. "It just seems like people tend to play fast and loose with it is all. If something in the Bible conveniently backs up whatever they think or whatever they want, then it's this sacred text that must be followed to the letter or else. And when something is inconvenient, they ignore it because it's...inconvenient."
"Like what?"
"Oh, you know," I lift a shoulder. "Isn't there something about how a husband can have sex with his wife whenever he wants? Even if she doesn't want to?
And
cut off her hand if she tries to help him in a fight?"
"What?" he frowns. "That's not a thing."
"Sure it is," I laugh. "Haven't you read it?"
He huffs out a laugh and shifts his gaze to the window. "Not really. I guess I figured I'd just leave the Bible-thumping to everybody else."
That puts a little kink in my armor—I'd been counting on him to have the whole thing memorized, but like all my interactions with him, few and far between, he just isn't what I expected.
"That's probably a good choice," I laugh to mask my surprise. "I'm pretty sure it says you can't have tattoos. Oh, and women who are on their periods are unclean and must be avoided for seven days or something like that. Let's not forget the laundry list of rules about owning slaves, too. "
"Huh," he twists his hands around the steering wheel. "I guess I never thought about it like that before. So I take it you've read it then?"
"Oh no," I shake my head. "Google is a wonderful thing. You know, I just don't get how people can buy into all of that. Especially when they just pick and choose what they want to believe—let's send all the abortionists and gays to hell, but priests who molest children? They're cool as long as they go to
treatment
and as long as we sweep it under the rug until someone finds out about it."
He squints at me a little in thought. "No one ever said institutionalized religion was without its faults."
"Might as well be a cult."
Jack's head snaps to me and the nerve I've hit is laid bare. "Watch it, Rae."
"Well, I'm sorry," I throw a hand up in the air. "But you go to a building where you listen to a guy tell you how to live your life and how to get into this mystical heaven that probably doesn't exist, you stand when you're told, sing when you're told, sit when you're told...all in worship of some deity no one has ever seen before. Add that to swapping the kool-aid for body and blood—sounds a little like cult mentality to me."
"Maybe some people find that comforting," he narrows his eyes more and more with every syllable. "Maybe some people like feeling they belong somewhere."
"It's just preying on people's weaknesses," I know I'm skating on some seriously thin ice here, given that he's wearing a cross necklace
and
has a tattoo of a cross on his forearm, but I'm on a roll now. I can't stop it. "You shouldn't need to sit in a room with a bunch of people and sing and eat and drink someone's body and blood just to feel strong. You should be able to lift yourself up and take care of your problems on your own without having to pray to something that might not even be there. But if you pray to God for help and if you get that help, it's because he wanted it that way. If you don't, you get an automatic out for whatever problems you're having in your life because that just wasn't in his plan. No big deal. No accountability. Just say a few Hail Marys and you're good for awhile."
Jack eyes me carefully like he's weighing his next move in this chess game. "How can something that makes you feel strong be a weakness? If it helps you be healthy and stay that way, then what do you care?"
My lips part to reply, but he doesn't give me a chance to get a word in. I guess that's only fair.
"Talking about religion always ends the same way: someone always leaves feeling either vindicated or persecuted. I don't see the point in debating something you're obviously convinced you're right about. All Christians, sorry,
Catholics,
are brainwashed idiots who are nothing but hypocrites, right?"
I swallow hard and shift in my seat uncomfortably.
"You're right, but you already knew that. There's shit in the Bible that doesn't make sense and there are people in this world who interpret it however they want, but guess what? Everybody does that. Now, I know it says somewhere in the Bible that Benn and whoever he decides to marry technically can't, but I call bullshit on that. Just like I call bullshit on the hypocrites who ushered those priests in and out of this city to keep what they were doing under wraps. But the fact of the matter is, none of that is enough to change my relationship with God. We're the ones with the problems, not him. Besides, how are you any different than all the other hypocrites? You're sitting here doing the exact same thing they are."
I've got nothing. He's right and he's stepped right over everything I threw at him without a second thought.
"If you strip everything else away," he pushes on, his features tight and fierce in a way I've never seen before. "All you're left with is the fact that people need to believe in something. They need to have
faith
in something. I like knowing there's someone out there, somewhere, watching my back. I like knowing someone's actually listening when I talk, even if he doesn't talk back, and that he might actually do something about it. And for some people, their lives are shit, you know? They don't have control over anything and it makes them feel better knowing if
they
don't have control, someone else does who might actually have their best interest in mind. That's not weakness. That's just getting through life."
Huh. I never thought of it that way before.
Coming from him, it makes sense. And now I don't know which one of us will leave this conversation vindicated and which one will leave persecuted. My gaze drifts over to where the Maserati is idling in front of the warehouse and for a fleeting moment, I find myself hoping the door to that warehouse doesn't open any time soon.
"Do you believe in heaven and hell?" I ask him quietly, unable to meet his eyes when I say it.
Jack turns to me with carefully raised eyebrows. "Heaven and hell?"
"Yeah," I shrug. "What do you think?"
"I honestly don't know," Jack tells me with a quick shake of his head. "I guess no one really knows, but I'd rather stack the deck in my favor."
My mom didn't really see the point in that, I guess. The deck was already stacked against her when she opened up that bottle of sleeping pills and decided to swallow every last one. And if everything Jack said is true, then wouldn't God, if he does exist, have her back? Wouldn't he understand what he'd put her through, if he was the one really in control, and accept some of the responsibility too?
Even I know it doesn't really work like that. If God does exist, life is his most precious gift and she squandered it.
I don't want to talk about this anymore and it's fitting that this is also the moment the mayor chooses to materialize from the warehouse's front door. That snaps both of us back into action and I manage to grab some pictures of him leaving before he slides back into his Maserati. Once the car turns down the street, Jack starts his truck back up and makes his way around the other side of the building.
"If you see any cars around the back, don't take a picture of it," he murmurs as we turn the corner. "The last thing we need is anyone seeing you taking pictures. You think you can jot down some license plate numbers?"
I've got a note up on my phone before he even finishes talking. Sure enough, there's a black Cadillac pulling away from the curb as we drive by and my fingers fly across my screen to record the license plate as best as I can.
"You got it?"
"I got it."
That's all he needs to hear and he takes the first turn he can to get us moving away from the warehouse and the people who just left it.
"Who do you think he was meeting with?"
He just lifts a shoulder. "I guess we won't find out until we figure out whose Cadillac that was."
Jack drives me to my apartment, the truck filled with nothing but more Incubus, followed by Soundgarden and Red Hot Chili Peppers and it's just better that way. We might not have found anything useful today, but it was better than nothing. It's not enough to prove the mayor is working with the Gianotti brothers or anyone else like them, but it's a start. If we can just link him to something illegal, something under the table, we just might be able to follow the trail right to some unseen enemy, some back-alley deal that went south. Retaliation is the only thing that makes sense—now all we have to do is find a needle in a haystack.
Before I slide out of Jack's truck, I let myself give him this one last thing: "Look, I don't know what the deal with Friday is, but...just be careful, okay? There's no way Sean is getting out of prison if you do something stupid and can't help us get closer to the Gianottis."
He nods tightly and that's all I get from him.
I watch him pull away from my parking lot and finally let myself into my apartment. Freya is waiting for me at the door and crawls up my shins with her front paws before letting out a loud mew.
"Hi, baby," I purr and swoop her up in my arms. She wants food, not affection, right now, but I just need one moment of soft black fur against my cheek. The soft vibration from her chest soothes and comforts me and my mind flies back to the conversation I'd had with Jack in his truck.
He was completely right. How is me seeking comfort through my cat, the only thing in my life other than Bennett who loves me unconditionally, any different than him praying to a faceless God for solace?
I shake my head out of those thoughts and send Bennett a quick text.
I'm back. Everything was fine. How's your date going??
Not even thirty seconds later, he responds:
I figured he wouldn't dump you on the side of the road somewhere ;) Details on my date to follow.
It's then that I realize I'd just had the first genuine and real conversation I've ever really had with someone who wasn't Bennett. Not to mention one of the strangest conversations I'd ever had. He challenged me, meeting me measure for measure, matching me point for point, and didn't let me off the hook. It was energizing and...almost fun. If you can call debating the nature of God, organized religion, heaven, and hell fun. But with him, I almost want to do it again.
I don't know what that means, but I do know I'm not sure if I like the way that feels.
Jack
Hypocrites flank me on every side. My dad stands to my left. My mom on my right. And the mayor stands in front of me, about thirty feet away on his podium. As I stand here, my back stick straight and my eyes forward, my mind flashes to that conversation I'd had with Rae two days ago. That completely out of nowhere, bizarre, and surprisingly enlightening conversation.
Everyone's a hypocrite about something. Rae in judging the judgmental. Me in 'playing fast and loose' with the Bible. And then you have my parents. I glance at my mom, who's standing there with her picket sign that reads,
Reclaim Boston,
and she's as beautiful as she ever was with her eyes hard and furious. How much does she know? Does she know the man she's protesting right now raised her husband's illegitimate daughter? Does she know that daughter even exists? Even if she doesn't know, she can't be happy with him like this. I bet she hasn't really been happy with him in years, if she ever really was. And yet she still stays with him in spite of everything.
I can't bring myself to look at my dad for too long.
Instead, I focus what's left of my attention on Moretti, who's gone full-out in the height of his speech. Despite the fact that it's still early in the day, a sweltering heat settles over our shoulders and the sun glares down at what's happening here in my neighborhood.
"We must repair and revitalize our city—we can make Boston great again," the mayor tells the amped-up crowd. Part of me is waiting for him to start waving his hands and pounding his fists like a proper dictator. "We
must.
With time, care, and hard work, we will see flourishment and rejuvenation. I'm not just talking about business creation and expansion. I'm talking jobs. Jobs with better benefits, higher salaries, and quality environments. I know that's something we all want and I know that's something we all most certainly
need."
I huff out a laugh and glance at Brennan out of the corner of my eye. He shakes his head at me with a wry grin and lifts his
Whose City? Our City!
sign higher in the air. It's all bullshit. Every single word.