“You’ll see.”

We finally stopped across the street from a lovely red brick and whitewashed wood church. A sign in front announced in white plastic letters that there were services Sunday at 9:00 and 11:00, and suggested provocatively, “Say your prayers, you never know Who’s listening!” There were only a few cars in its side parking lot. We followed a gravel path around to a rear entrance. In addition to a stairway, a wooden ramp abutted the building, the type that had been hastily added to satisfy the Americans with Disabilities Act. Howie walked alongside me as we went up that ramp. The rear windows were covered with curtains, but lights were on in the rear of the church. When we reached the landing, I grabbed Howie’s arm before he could open the door. “Okay, now tell me.”

He nodded. “Welcome to the resistance, Rollie.”

13

If this was the resistance, it was time to start boning up on my Canadian. Most of the people gathered there looked like members of the losing team at a Sunday picnic sack race.

We were in a small room behind the sanctuary. Its paneled wooden walls had been painted white. A large cork bulletin board was covered with overlapping messages affixed to it with bright-colored tacks. A trestle table covered with white paper from a long commercial roll had been pushed against a far wall, just under a colorful lithograph of a benevolent Christ. The Lord appeared to be staring down at a tray of cheese and crackers, bottles of soda and specialty waters, and, fittingly, white wine.

There were about forty people standing in small groups. Several of them looked vaguely familiar, but there was one person I recognized instantly. “We’re glad you’re here,” Congresswoman Martha McDonnell said to me as she grasped my hand with both of hers. After a brief exchange, Howie wandered away, leaving us alone. The congresswoman sat down right next to me and leaned over, making it impossible for anyone else to hear her. “I know this is hard for you to hear, Rollie. We would have invited you to join us a while ago, but to be perfectly honest, we’re not a hundred percent certain about Jenny.”

“What? What are you talking about?” I gave it a few seconds to sink in; instead it floated on the surface of my mind. “That’s total bullshit, Martha. C’mon, are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was,” she said heavily. There was just enough pain in her voice to convince me she was serious. “And believe me, even more than you, I hope I’m wrong. I love Jenny too. At least as much as you do. But things have happened around the office that have forced me to wonder. So until we’re sure, the stakes are just too high.”

How do you respond to an absurd accusation made about the most important person in your life? Maybe I should have walked out right then, but I didn’t. I wanted to hear what McDonnell had to say. I had remained outwardly calm, and to demonstrate that, I closed my eyes and asked in a restrained voice, “What are you talking about?”