J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

While he ruminates on this, I’m struck by how much Carter has grown up since the specter of fatherhood reared its head. He’s retired the ironic tees in favor of shirts that actually button down the front. Instead of flip-flops, he wears canvas lace-ups. He’s been through a lot, this young man, but life hasn’t marked him. I feel a quasi-paternal pride, though I’ve never been anything like a mentor to him, let alone a father.

“You’re gonna be a dad,” I say, stating the obvious.

He smiles.

The outreach center where he works is undergoing a transformation, he tells me. The man behind it, Murray Abernathy, bought a building in Montrose and spent a pretty penny doing renovations. That was a couple of years ago, and until now the facility has remained mostly empty. Originally, Abernathy envisioned sharing the space with charity and social justice organizations, but the partnerships never materialized. “It’s the way Murray embraces things,” Carter says. “He gets so excited that people are afraid he’s going to take them over.”

Now that’s starting to change. Thanks to the recession, there are plenty of nonprofits looking to economize. In addition, the need for shared infrastructure and coordination has increased. “There are more people in crisis, so why not create a single place where they can go for whatever kind of help they need?” Robb’s time has been increasingly devoted to cultivating these partnerships, keeping Abernathy’s intimidating enthusiasm at bay.

“It may sound shallow,” he says, “but I finally feel like I’m doing something. You can only have so many open-ended theological arguments with people before you start feeling it hasn’t amounted to much.”

“Is that right?” I’ve been on the receiving end of those arguments before, so I can relate to what he’s saying. “I’m glad you’re finding your feet there. I know you had your doubts for a while.”

When I’d first met him, Carter had a comfortable job at a suburban church shepherding affluent teens. Then one of his charges, Hannah Mayhew, disappeared and suddenly the bubble he’d been living in burst. Since then, he’s been on a kind of journey, looking for a simpler, more authentic way to minister. Living in Houston, I’ve run into all kinds of religious leaders, from the staid and respectable to the firebrand nut jobs, and I try to respect other people’s callings even when I do not share them. With Carter that has never been hard. The authenticity he claims to seek is something that, to my mind, he already possesses, though for some reason he cannot see it for himself.

“I want you to know,” he says, “you’ve been a big help to me. You probably won’t even remember the conversation, but last year, when I’d just found out about Gina being pregnant, we got into an argument in the car. Do you remember?”

In the middle of the Simone Walker case. I remember it well. My mind was on other things at the moment. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We got to talking about evil, and you said God wouldn’t stand by and do nothing if he had the power to stop it. Because if you had the power, you’d stop it, and isn’t God better than you?”

I don’t recall my exact words, though I remember the gist of the argument. Something about free will.

“Dean made me think of it. That thing he said about the conspiracy nut he met at our church. I think I know the guy he’s talking about.” He shakes his head. “People need to put a face on what happens. That face used to be God’s. Christians called it providence, the idea that God was behind everything that happened, working it all out according to his will. I grew up in church, though, and that’s not what I was taught.”

“Really?” I say, thinking of my Presbyterian aunt. “Because I’m pretty sure I was.”

“No, what I was taught was that line I tried to feed you. God wants to do the right thing, but his hands are tied. Anyway, Dean’s right. Since God isn’t in charge anymore, we invent conspiracy theories to replace him. We know there’s some kind of driving force-”

“There’s always chance.”

“Is there?” He’s on the verge of taking the bait, then pulls up with a grin. “I won’t rehash an old argument. I just wanted to show you I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong.”

I pat him on the back. “I knew that already, Carter.”

When the dishes are squared away and the grill looks spotless, we head inside to rejoin Charlotte and Gina. There’s some truth in what he said about people inventing conspiracies. But the fact is, sometimes the powerful do conspire. Lorenz said I was showing him my own psycho wall. Bascombe thought I was crazy even to suggest something sinister’s going on with Brandon Ford’s supposed death. Everybody knows that conspiracy theorists are idiots. So what can you do when confronted with evidence of a conspiracy? All this is jumbling around in my head, along with what Gina said about crawling over the devil’s back.

“What’s that quote you told me once,” I ask Carter. “Something about Satan’s biggest lie?”

He grins, no doubt happy that at least one of his proselytizing attempts has stuck in my mind. “It was this: ‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.’”

“That’s it.”

A good line. If conspiracies don’t exist, they’re just a fantasy of simple minds, then blowing the whistle is tantamount to confessing your ignorance. I know better than to believe in such things. I should walk away. I should forget.

“What’s that from, anyway?” I ask. “The Bible?”

“No,” he says. “It’s from The Usual Suspects .”

When they’ve gone, Charlotte and I go back on the deck. The sun sits low on the horizon, casting an orange glow, but the air remains thick with heat. Sometimes a Houston sun can be a malevolent thing. Other times that warm blanket brings nothing but comfort. We recline side by side on the chaise chairs, our hands joined. Charlotte’s bare feet stray over to my side, running down along my calf.

“I could stay out here forever,” she says.

“I’m not sure I could.”

“Roland. That’s not very romantic.”

“I just mean, if I don’t get back to work soon I’m gonna go crazy.”

“That’s funny,” she says. “I was going to bring up the possibility of retirement again. I know we haven’t talked about it in a while, but you’ve put in your years. With Hedges moving on and all the. . changes at work, maybe it’s time to reconsider?”

“The way this conversation used to go is, you’d say we should both quit our jobs and buy an RV to tour around the country.”

“I’m pretty sure I never said anything about a recreational vehicle. In my sixties, maybe, but not in my forties.”

“What about your job, though? You seem to enjoy it.”

She pulls her foot back, but leaves her hand in mind. “Do you have a problem with me working full-time again?”

“Of course not. But if you’re working and traveling the way you have been, what am I supposed to do if I chuck the badge? Take up gardening?”

“This yard could use it. But no. There are other things you could do. You know what I’ve always thought you’d be great at? Teaching. You’d make a good history teacher, and then I’d know when you were coming home each day. And if you were coming home.”

“Don’t be so sure. The public schools these days. .”

“It’s just a thought,” she says. “The main thing is, I want you to be happy.”

“Who says I’m not?”

“I’ve. .” She takes her hand away to flick her hair back, then returns it with a squeeze. “I’ve found something, Roland. A few years ago, we were both so miserable. There were so many things we didn’t even talk about-”