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Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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collar. His hair was bushy and white, and he smiled a confident smile he made sure I could see.
6
T he door of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots was open before I hit the top wooden step. The Reverend Adam Souvaine stood inside, hands folded in front of him, smooth face beaming at me. His eyes were green and wide, and his white mane of hair looked as if belonged on an older man, or a show horse. Behind him on the wall was an orange cross about the size of Mickey Rooney.
“Mr. Peters,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Welcome to our church.”
His hand was out. I took it. Firm grip. Palm and fingers hard. Behind him I could see into the small entryway.
“Reverend Souvaine,” I answered.
“Please come in,” he said, letting go of my hand.
The door closed behind me. Standing behind it was a man about my height but a hundred pounds heavier. The man’s face was round and dark, black hair combed back. He wore a gray suit with a white turtleneck sweater. He looked like a turtle—hard, cold, slow, and determined. He also looked as if he didn’t like me. I hoped it was the look he greeted all converts with.
“Mr. Ortiz is deacon of our congregation,” Souvaine said, beaming at the medicine ball of a man blocking the door.
“He must give a mean sermon,” I said.
“Mr. Ortiz functions best as collector of tithes, tender of the meager possessions of our church, recruiter for committees and causes. You will not believe it, Mr. Peters, but our Mr. Ortiz has had a number of careers, including that of professional wrestler, and not so long ago was a criminal in his native country. Mr. Ortiz has done some things in his day which God had difficulty forgiving, but Mr. Ortiz’s sincere contrition and genuine repentance have earned him forgiveness.”
A python ready to strike but kept in check by the soothing voice of his trainer, Mr. Ortiz’s expression did not change. At no time in those few moments did I recognize anything on that dark, round, leathery face that resembled repentance or contrition.
“Let’s continue our visit in the sanctuary,” Souvaine said, taking my arm and guiding me out of the small wooden entryway and toward a room to the left. Deacon Ortiz entered the room behind us and closed the door.
The sanctuary was nothing special—an uncluttered desk and chair in the corner away from the windows, a black leather sofa, and two matching chairs with little round black buttons all over them. Jammed but neat book shelves covered the long walls. The wall behind the desk held a large, not very good painting of Jesus Christ, flanked by an equally bad painting of George Washington on the right and a much worse painting of Abraham Lincoln on the left. Below the painting of Christ was a photograph of a sober-looking man with a bushy black mustache and a collar that dug into his double chin.
“Who’s the guy on the bottom?” I asked.
“That,” said Souvaine, looking at the photograph of the uncomfortable man with reverence, “is J. Minor Frank, departed husband of our major benefactor, Mrs. Bertha Frank. This room,” he said, with a wave of his right hand as he sat on the sofa, “is the J. Minor Frank Sanctuary. Please sit down.”
I sat in one of the leather chairs. It squooshed as I sat.
“Is there anything I can get for you before we begin?” Souvaine asked smoothly. “I’ve asked for some lemonade.”
“You can have Mr. Ortiz take a seat or lean against the wall or stand somewhere I can see him,” I said.
Souvaine chuckled, amused by unfounded suspicions.
“Mr. Ortiz,” he said. “Please take a seat at my side.”
Ortiz looked at me as he moved next to Souvaine and sat straight on the edge of the sofa, both feet firmly on the ground.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Now that we are comfortable,” said Souvaine. “I assume you have some questions you would like answered. I will be happy to oblige. In fact, it is my obligation to the church and God to respond to all honest
6
T he door of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots was open before I hit the top wooden step. The Reverend Adam Souvaine stood inside, hands folded in front of him, smooth face beaming at me. His eyes were green and wide, and his white mane of hair looked as if belonged on an older man, or a show horse. Behind him on the wall was an orange cross about the size of Mickey Rooney.
“Mr. Peters,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Welcome to our church.”
His hand was out. I took it. Firm grip. Palm and fingers hard. Behind him I could see into the small entryway.
“Reverend Souvaine,” I answered.
“Please come in,” he said, letting go of my hand.
The door closed behind me. Standing behind it was a man about my height but a hundred pounds heavier. The man’s face was round and dark, black hair combed back. He wore a gray suit with a white turtleneck sweater. He looked like a turtle—hard, cold, slow, and determined. He also looked as if he didn’t like me. I hoped it was the look he greeted all converts with.
“Mr. Ortiz is deacon of our congregation,” Souvaine said, beaming at the medicine ball of a man blocking the door.
“He must give a mean sermon,” I said.
“Mr. Ortiz functions best as collector of tithes, tender of the meager possessions of our church, recruiter for committees and causes. You will not believe it, Mr. Peters, but our Mr. Ortiz has had a number of careers, including that of professional wrestler, and not so long ago was a criminal in his native country. Mr. Ortiz has done some things in his day which God had difficulty forgiving, but Mr. Ortiz’s sincere contrition and genuine repentance have earned him forgiveness.”
A python ready to strike but kept in check by the soothing voice of his trainer, Mr. Ortiz’s expression did not change. At no time in those few moments did I recognize anything on that dark, round, leathery face that resembled repentance or contrition.
“Let’s continue our visit in the sanctuary,” Souvaine said, taking my arm and guiding me out of the small wooden entryway and toward a room to the left. Deacon Ortiz entered the room behind us and closed the door.
The sanctuary was nothing special—an uncluttered desk and chair in the corner away from the windows, a black leather sofa, and two matching chairs with little round black buttons all over them. Jammed but neat book shelves covered the long walls. The wall behind the desk held a large, not very good painting of Jesus Christ, flanked by an equally bad painting of George Washington on the right and a much worse painting of Abraham Lincoln on the left. Below the painting of Christ was a photograph of a sober-looking man with a bushy black mustache and a collar that dug into his double chin.
“Who’s the guy on the bottom?” I asked.
“That,” said Souvaine, looking at the photograph of the uncomfortable man with reverence, “is J. Minor Frank, departed husband of our major benefactor, Mrs. Bertha Frank. This room,” he said, with a wave of his right hand as he sat on the sofa, “is the J. Minor Frank Sanctuary. Please sit down.”
I sat in one of the leather chairs. It squooshed as I sat.
“Is there anything I can get for you before we begin?” Souvaine asked smoothly. “I’ve asked for some lemonade.”
“You can have Mr. Ortiz take a seat or lean against the wall or stand somewhere I can see him,” I said.
Souvaine chuckled, amused by unfounded suspicions.
“Mr. Ortiz,” he said. “Please take a seat at my side.”
Ortiz looked at me as he moved next to Souvaine and sat straight on the edge of the sofa, both feet firmly on the ground.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Now that we are comfortable,” said Souvaine. “I assume you have some questions you would like answered. I will be happy to oblige. In fact, it is my obligation to the church and God to respond to all honest
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