Faking grace, p.27
Faking Grace, page 27
“I’ll stay.”
As he steps inside and closes the door, Linda continues to her desk and pulls out her chair.
I see her hesitate at the sight of the folder with its sticky note. “The letter is wonderful. Very honest.”
Which is more than can be said of you, Maizy Stewart.
“Thank you.” She gestures to the chairs before her desk. “Have a seat, Gr—” Her mouth curves with what seems part sorrow, part bitterness. “But it’s Maizy, isn’t it? Maizy Stewart.”
Guilt scampers through me on clawed feet. “Yes.” Giving my skirt an upward tug to ease the material against my backside, I sink down into the chair.
Linda nods at the other chair. “Jack?”
I hold my breath at his hesitation, certain he finds the prospect of being so near me distasteful. But he sits and even angles toward me—the better to protect his back?
Linda regards me with a lined brow, then leans back. “I’m familiar with your writing, having followed your articles in the Lifestyle section for several months. You’re quite good … witty and entertaining.”
Under different circumstances, I would beam. “Thank you.”
“So tell me why that piece on Columbia’s Mule Day is the last that MTR’s readers have seen from you.”
I lift my chin. “When I applied here—”
“Before we begin,” Jack interrupts, “we ought to clarify whether what is said is on the record or off.”
The severity of his inflected voice makes me catch my breath. “Off. I don’t work for the paper anymore.”
I’m not surprised by the skeptical lift of his eyebrows.
“I e-mailed my resignation last night.” Along with a plea for time to repay the part of my salary that covered my investigative work. “And intended to do so before we ran into Porter outside the bowling alley.”
“Really?” His disbelief has a bite.
I give my attention to Linda, whose face reflects the strain I’ve added to her already strained life. “I didn’t take this job to investigate Steeple Side. I took it to pay my bills.”
“On your application and résumé,” Linda says, “you claimed you had no previous work experience in the field of journalism.”
“I did.”
“A lie.”
“Yes.”
“The first of many, I assume?”
“There were eight in all … That is, big ones.” You don’t have to be so honest. Or maybe I do…
Bewilderment softens Linda’s face. “You tracked your lies?”
I doubt I’ve ever been as aware of a man’s presence as I am in this moment with Jack’s tension thickening between us. “Despite appearances, I’m not good at lying. I wrote them down so I wouldn’t forget.” I open my eyes wide. “I did fix two of them, though, so it’s really just six lies.”
Jack makes a sound of disgust, and Linda clears her throat. “If you originally took the job to pay your bills, why did you feel it necessary to lie about your lack of journalistic experience?”
“A friend—” Was she? As angry and disappointed as Tessie is, I want to believe she cares for me, even if I did become a means of retaliation. “A friend warned me that if it were known I worked in mainstream media, the chances of being hired at Steeple Side were nil.”
Linda inclines her head. “Your friend may be right. So how did you go from working here to pay the bills to working here undercover?”
“And why did the Seattle paper sack you?” Jack asks, evidence that he’s been digging into my past.
Acting as if Linda posed the question, I keep looking at her. “That’s where it begins … with the Seattle paper and my promotion from general assignment reporting to investigative reporting.”
Over the next quarter hour, I ignore Jack as I tell Linda about my first failure to deliver an investigative story, being scooped by my boyfriend, the firing, the breakup with Ben, and the move to Nashville prompted by Tessie’s promise of a job at the Middle Tennessee Review that didn’t work into full time as expected. When I lightly touch on my plan to increase the chances of snagging the job at Steeple Side—not a word about The Dumb Blonde’s Guide to Christianity—Jack shifts in his chair. Thankfully he doesn’t say a word about our bumper sticker encounter.
“Then you’re not a Christian?” Linda asks.
“No! I mean, yes. I’m just”—my hands flutter—“not Christian enough.”
Her forehead furrows. “Go on.”
I attempt to moisten my lips, but my mouth is so dry that the tip of my tongue drags across my bottom lip. “I need some water.”
I start to stand, but Linda waves me down. “Jack, would you grab a bottle from my fridge?”
He rises and returns with two. He passes one to Linda, the other to me. As I accept it, I hazard a look into his face in hopes of a softening there. None.
After a long drink, I tell about Tessie’s reaction to my having met Jack, which led to Tessie’s tale of the story she believes he pulled out from under her with divisiveness.
“I remember Steeple Side’s big layoff,” Linda says. “The company was going through a rough time, and it was the only way to preserve the rest of our jobs. However, your friend is wrong in believing that the disgruntled ones were bribed to keep them from airing Steeple Side’s dirty laundry.” She looks to Jack.
He pushes up from his reclined position. “The employees who had been let go were asked to come in and talk with us. No threats were made, no offer of money for their silence. It was a time of reconciliation between Christians. That’s all.”
I want to say I believe him, but his eyes show no invitation of reconciliation between us. I tell Linda about my move from part-time to full-time status at the paper and the strings that were attached. “I’m sorry. I should have refused, but I thought it was what I wanted—to be an investigative reporter again and to write life-changing stories. It seemed to be my only chance to redeem myself after the mess I made in Seattle, so I took it.”
Jack makes a dissenting sound. “You admit that you took the private failings and struggles of people who had befriended you for your personal gain.”
I peer at the man who revealed his own private failure that day at the café…who kissed me in the park two days ago. “I told myself that if hypocrisy were rampant at Steeple Side, our readers had the right to know who was telling them how to live, but it was just as much about climbing out of the hole I got myself into.”
“Then you regret not pursuing the story on the state senator?”
Linda’s question is uncomfortably direct, but I refuse to soft-pedal the answer. “I have regretted it. After all, in trying to preserve a reputation she didn’t deserve, mine was destroyed.”
Linda looks away and nods as if to herself. When she looks back at me, her brow seems somewhat smoother. “Why did you resign from the Middle Tennessee Review?”
“For the same reason I was fired in Seattle: failure to deliver a story.”
“Why didn’t you deliver this time?”
“Because …” To bring God into this, though He does belong, would only fuel Jack’s disbelief. “The only story here is one the paper isn’t interested in—people caring about one another and forgiveness.”
Linda leans forward. “There won’t be a story then?”
I look down. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I turn to Jack. “Tessie—er, Teresa—was overseeing the investigation. She has my notes.” Though I want to clarify that those notes aren’t complete and don’t include his revelation about Bette, I can’t do it in front of Linda.
“So they could still go forward with it,” she prompts.
“Yes.”
“Will they?”
I recall Tessie’s face, her disgust, her anger. “It’s possible.”
Linda rubs her temple. “What kind of things are we talking about?”
“Everything—gambling, porn, divorce, drugs.”
She holds up a hand. “That’s enough.”
From outside her office, I hear the phone ring, and as I’m not at my desk to field it for her, she picks up. “Linda Stillwater.” She listens, glances at Jack, then me. “Thank you.” She lowers the handset. “I’m told you haven’t cashed any of your Steeple Side paychecks. Why?”
My heart zings at the realization that here is proof I didn’t go into this investigation without reservation. “It didn’t seem right.”
“From the start?”
“Yes.”
“Noble,” Jack drawls, “but is it? After all, it would hardly reflect well on your integrity if you accepted payment from those you were in the process of betraying. And what about all those bills you needed to pay?”
Would I have cashed the checks if I hadn’t been able to meet the minimum payments? I don’t know. “Once I was put on full time at the paper, I was able to pay most of my bills without the Steeple Side checks.”
Linda sighs. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait and see what Teresa Halston does with your notes.”
What will she do? And has she already done it? “I could ask her.”
“Might be hard to get through to her now that you’ve resigned.”
“Actually she’s my landlady. I live in the apartment over her garage.”
Linda’s lids rise to reveal more of her eyes than I’ve ever seen. “That could prove uncomfortable.”
“Obviously I’ll be looking for another place to live.”
She considers me, then pushes back from her desk and stands. “Unless there’s anything else you need to tell us, we should adjourn this meeting.”
Feeling like a coiled spring, I jump up. “Thank you for listening.” I see that Jack has also risen. “It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes for me to clean out my desk.”
“Not today, Maizy.”
Nearly missing the placement of my forward-moving foot, I turn with Jack and ask, “What?”
“Go home. I don’t know how we’re going to handle this situation with your story hanging over our heads, but you haven’t been let go. At least not yet.”
A glance at Jack reveals his jaw is clenched.
“I’ll call you at home this afternoon or early evening,” Linda continues. “You’ll be there?”
Where else would I be? Unless, of course, Tessie kicks me out. “Yes.”
She comes around the desk, takes my arm, and leads me to the door, where she leans in. “One thing you need to know is that none of us, not one, is ‘Christian enough.’ We’re always reaching for what’s out of reach. We just want to get as close to it as we can.” And with that kindness, she pats my shoulder, opens the door, and nods for me to go through.
According to the message on my machine, Jem has been admitted to a program for eating disorders. Another answered prayer, as it happened so suddenly that we didn’t get the chance to talk. Thus my troubles remain mine, allowing her to focus on her own while she undergoes treatment.
I push up from my slump amid the sofa cushions and open my hand to consider the necklace I’d scooped up hours earlier when I stationed myself beside the phone to await Linda’s call. I start to curl my fingers back over it, but the imprint in my palm makes me peer closer. I’ve been branded, though only temporarily, as the impression of the cross will soon fade. Regardless, I find myself searching for the symbolism of that cross figured into my flesh. Sacrifice? Just like—
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right. Not at all like Him, you self-pitying faker.” I pour the necklace onto the table beside the phone, only to jump when it rings. Is this it? I want it to be, and yet I don’t.
The phone rings twice more before I lift the handset. “Hello?”
“Maizy, it’s Linda.”
Gulp. “Hi.”
Silence, then a rustling like that of termination papers. “I read your soup kitchen piece. It’s good. Honest and insightful.”
“Thank you.”
“I have to tell you that I met with resistance when I suggested that we keep you on at Steeple Side.”
I know where this is going. A prayer not answered the way I wanted it. “I understand.”
“However, once I showed the committee—”
Committee? Oh, Lord.
“—the piece you’d written, several of the members thought you deserved a second chance.”
Meaning grace for Grace? All because of what I wrote? With a sudden urge to read it through—to see what they saw—I look at my laptop on the kitchen table.
“So the job is still yours if you want it.”
Gasp. Grace. I am being shown grace. Grace I wasn’t shown at the Seattle Sound. What about Tessie’s grace? Joy pounded by guilt over what she did for me and what I was unable to do in return, I bite my lip only to shake my head. No, I did what was right, even if she doesn’t see it that way.
“The only thing is, the job is likely to remain part time.”
I can always find another job to supplement my income. Say … writing classified ads? “That’s great.” Well, not exactly. “I don’t imagine Jack is too happy with the decision.”
“The two of you were seeing each other, I believe?”
Good thing I’m sitting down. “Is that what he told you?”
“Simple deduction, which means it’s going to be sticky if you stay at Steeple Side.”
In other words, Jack doesn’t believe you deserve grace, even though he was treated to a full serving years ago. The resentful little voice wheedles its way into me. While he wasn’t fired for his indiscretion, the offer of the position he sought was withdrawn, and it wasn’t until months later that he secured it. Grace, but a little at a time perhaps. And I suppose that’s a good thing.
Still, just thinking about the quelling looks and cold shoulder I’m bound to receive from Jack is almost enough to make me pass on Steeple Side. But I am not going to scurry out of the light like a cockroach seeking the cover of dark. Far worse things lurk there.
I press my shoulders back. “I’d like to stay.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Now there are a couple of things we need to address. The first is your name. If you want to go by Maizy Grace, that’s fine, but your co-workers need to know that you’re Maizy Stewart. Meaning it will get around that you wrote for the Middle Tennessee Review.”
“How much will I have to explain?”
“I don’t believe you need to go into your move from lifestyle reporting to investigative reporting, at least not at this time. Should the paper go forward with the story, that may change. We’ll deal with it then.”
Lord, I know this is the chicken’s way out, but won’t You please have a little talk with Tessie? And maybe Ray?
“The other thing is that the decision to allow you to stay at Steeple Side was not an easy one, and our belief in you isn’t without risk. So I’m asking you to guard the trust we’re placing in you.”
I can’t help but draw a parallel between her request and the one Tessie made when she vouched for my ability to deliver the Steeple Side story. I failed her. Will I—?
Not this time. “I won’t let you down.”
“I’ll see you in the morning then.”
Lightheaded with a mix of dread and relief, I say, “Thank you, Linda.”
Five minutes later, I settle before my laptop with Woofer on my lap and open the OverwhelmingGrace. SS document:
Overwhelming Grace
by
Maizy Grace Stewart
My grandmother signed me up to volunteer at the soup kitchen this past May—without my consent. To be fair, she also placed her name on the list. To be unfair, when the day arrived and my “mysteriously” flat tire proved insufficient to absolve me of the commitment, Grandma deserted me. Where did that leave me? At the side door of the old church hoping no one would hear my respectfully subdued knock.
Evidently, church folk have keen ears.
In the basement I was given an apron and a hair net before I took my place in front of a steaming tray of carrots. The smell … well, one would have to be desperate to ask for a scoop of my offering. But when the homeless and hungry came through the line, they did ask. Most were grateful for the color I added to their plates, and some even looked at those canned carrots with the same enthusiasm with which I regard a slice of apple pie. Amazing. But not really, I soon discovered. They were hungry, and all that seemed to matter was that the vegetables were edible and would nourish them until their next meal. Whenever that might be.
Though the hundreds of homeless people who came through the line weren’t all pleasant—and what right did I have to expect them to be?—most were appreciative. Now that I look back on the experience, I realize they weren’t all that different from me. Regardless of the circumstances that landed them on the streets with little more than clothes that were once less threadbare and soiled, they needed help. They needed hope. They needed grace.
I need help. I need hope. I need grace. Actually, I need overwhelming grace. Though I am hardly in need of food, clothes, or a warm and safe place to sleep, I need the acceptance, forgiveness, and love of others. I need to be real and trust God with the same certainty as one of the homeless women I met.
Despite one woman’s terrible circumstances, she blessed me for the carrots I slid onto her plate. Not knowing what else to say, I blessed her back. She smiled and said that God blesses her by giving her a new day each morning, keeping her safe, and placing me there to feed her when she can’t stomach more garbage scraps. Me feed her? No, she fed me. As a fellow volunteer noted, such an experience puts things in their proper perspective.
What did I take away from the experience? As a Christian who more fittingly bears the prefix “cultural,” I consulted a book that has proven useful in recent months. In The Dumb Blonde’s Guide to Christianity, under a chapter titled “Punching the Time Clock God’s Way,” I found reference to Ephesians 4:28: “Use your hands for good hard work, and then give generously to others in need.”
I will, starting today.
I turn my palm up to search out the impression made earlier by the cross. It’s gone. Not the slightest trace left. Well, not on the outside…
I lean over to meet Woofer’s gaze. “We’re starting over again. A new chapter. Are you up to it?”
