Keeping Faith Read online

  The men and women who work at Pagan Productions in L.A. keep a healthy distance from Ian Fletcher, frightened by his bursts of temper, his ability to turn their own words back on themselves, and their instinct for self-preservation--in the event Mr. Fletcher is wrong about God, they don't want to be cast into the lake of fire along with him on Judgment Day. They are paid well to respect their employer's privacy and to firmly deny requests for interviews. It is for this reason that no one outside Pagan Productions knows that Ian leaves every Tuesday morning, and that no one has any idea of where he goes.

  Of course, people who work for Ian hypothesize like mad: He has a standing appointment with a mistress. He attends a witches' coven. He calls the pope, who is, unbeknownst to his followers, a silent partner in Pagan Productions. Several times, on dares, the bravest employees have tried to follow Ian when he disappears in his black Jeep. He manages to lose all of them by winding around the Los Angeles Freeway. One swears that he tracked Ian all the way to LAX, but nobody believes him. After all, where can you fly round-trip in time to be back for a tape-editing session that same night?

  On the Tuesday morning of the week that Ian kicks off his grasssroots antirevival at the Jesus Tree, a black stretch limousine pulls up alongside the Winnebago. Ian is discussing with James and several associate producers the reactions his recent comments have received in the press. "I've got to go," Ian says, relieved to see the car approach. He's had to juggle time and make concessions, since this week he is leaving from Maine rather than L.A.

  "You've got to go?" James asks. "Where?"

  Ian shrugs. "Places. Sorry, I thought I mentioned I'd be cutting out early today."

  "You didn't."

  "Well, I'll be back tonight. We can finish up then." He grabs his briefcase and his leather jacket and slams out the door.

  Exactly two and one half hours later he crosses the threshold of a small brick building. He navigates the hallways with the confidence of someone who has been there before. Some of the people he passes nod as he makes his way to the recreation center, equipped with oak tables and televisions and chintz couches. Ian heads for a table in the far corner occupied by a man. Although it is warm in the room, Michael wears a crewneck sweater with a button-down oxford shirt.

  His hands flutter over a pack of cards, which he turns over one at a time. "Queen of diamonds," he murmurs. "Six of spades."

  Ian slips into the chair beside him. "Hey there," he says softly.

  "King of hearts. Two of spades. Seven of hearts."

  "How have you been, Michael?" Ian scoots closer.

  The man's shoulders rock from side to side. "Six of clubs!" he says firmly.

  Ian sighs, nods. "Six of clubs, buddy." He moves back a distance. He watches the cards flip in succession: red, black, red, black. Michael turns over an ace. "Oh, no," he says. "Ace--"

  "In the hole," Ian finishes.

  For the first time, Michael makes fleeting eye contact with Ian.

  "Ace in the hole," he echoes, then goes back to counting cards.

  Ian sits quietly until exactly one hour has passed since his arrival--not because Michael has acknowledged his presence but because he knows that Michael would notice an absence even a few minutes shy of the routine. "See you in a week, buddy," Ian murmurs.

  "Queen of clubs. Eight of hearts."

  "All right, then," Ian says, swallowing hard. He walks out of the building and begins the journey back to Maine.

  Something Faith has recently discovered is that if you squinch up your eyes really tight and rub them hard with the balls of your thumbs, you see things: little stars and greeny-blue circles that she imagines are her irises, as if there's some kind of mirror on the insides of her eyelids that makes this vision possible. She pulls at the edges of her lids and sees a flurry of red, the color she thinks that anger must be. She has been doing it a lot, although yesterday, when school started, it didn't work that well. Willie Mercer said that only babies would carry a Little Mermaid lunchbox, and when she whispered to her guard, trying to ignore him, Willie laughed and said she was Looney Tunes. So she closed her eyes to shut him out, and one thing led to another, and before she knew it the school nurse was calling home to say that Faith wouldn't stop rubbing her eyes; it must be conjunctivitis.

  "Do your eyes hurt, Faith?" Dr. Keller asks now.

  "No, everyone just thinks they do."

  "Yes. Your mom told me about school yesterday."

  Faith blinks, squinting into the fluorescent lamps. "I wasn't sick."

  "No."

  "I just like doing it. I see things." She tips up her chin. "Try it," she challenges.

  To her surprise, Dr. Keller actually takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes the way Faith has been doing. "I can see something white. It looks like the moon."

  "It's the inside of your eye."

  "Is it?" Dr. Keller puts her glasses back on. "Do you know this for sure?"

  "Well, no," Faith admits. "But don't you think maybe your eyes are still looking around even when the lids are down?"

  "I don't see why not. Do you see your friend when your eyes are closed like that?"

  Faith doesn't like talking about her guard. But then again, Dr. Keller took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, something Faith never imagined she would do. "Sometimes," Faith says in the tiniest voice she can manage.

  Dr. Keller looks at her carefully, which hardly anyone else ever bothers to do. Usually when Faith talks, her mother just says "Uhhuh" and "Really?" but she's actually thinking of a gazillion other things while Faith is trying to tell her something. And Mrs. Grenaldi, her teacher, doesn't look anyone in the eye. She stares just over the top of the kids' heads, as if they all have bugs crawling through the parts of their hair.

  "Have you had your friend a long time?"

  "Which friend?" Faith asks, although she knows she can't fool Dr. Keller.

  The psychiatrist leans forward. "Do you have other friends, Faith?"

  "Sure. I play with Elsa and Sarah and with Gary, when my mother makes me, but Gary wipes his snot on my clothes when he thinks I'm not looking."

  "I mean other friends like your guard."

  "No." Faith considers. "I don't know anyone else like her."

  "Is she here with us now?"

  Faith glances around, uncomfortable. "No."

  "Does your guard talk to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Does she ever say scary things to you?"

  Faith shakes her head. "She makes me feel better."

  "Does she touch you?"

  "Sometimes." Faith closes her eyes and jams her thumbs into them. "She shakes me at night to wake me up. And she hugs me a lot."

  "That sounds nice," Dr. Keller says. "I bet you like that."

  Embarrassed, Faith nods. "She says she loves me best."

  "Then she's only your friend? Not anyone else's?"

  "Oh, no," Faith says. "She has other friends. She just doesn't see them so much right now. It's like how I used to go over to Brianna's house all the time, but now she goes to a different school so I don't get to play with her a lot."

  "Does your guard tell you about her other friends?"

  Faith repeats several names. "She played with them a long time ago, not anymore."

  Dr. Keller has become very quiet. This is strange; usually she asks Faith questions, questions, questions until Faith is ready to cover her ears. Faith watches the doctor's hands, which are shaking just a little bit, like the way her mother's did when she was taking pills.

  "Faith," Dr. Keller says finally, "does it...do you like--" She takes a deep breath and continues. "Did you ever pray to have a friend like this?"

  Faith wrinkles her nose. "What's praying?"

  From the light in her eyes Mariah knows that Dr. Keller is on the verge of a breakthrough. Or maybe it has already happened; it is difficult to tell, since Faith is playing so nicely on the other side of the observation window. Dr. Keller sits down at her desk and gestures for Mariah to do the same. "Faith