BOB
And lo and behold, coming down the front steps at the hostel, Bob was coming out. He said without even saying hello to the his fried the minister, "Hey can I get a ride to the university?" where we'd just come from. "I have a meeting in 45 minutes and think I've missed my bus." The minister just smiled, turned to me and said sheepishly, "And I present to you….. Bob."
In the car, the minister introduced us. He referred to me as a 'reverend', that term I was unused to. The Canadians seemed so formal that way, so I started calling myself, "Rev. Tim," there too. I don't think Bob was strictly rude, but he seemed unimpressed with my particulars, that I'd worked for a decade in South America with the WCC, and that I was out here to interview for two positions, both of which, it turned out, Bob was well acquainted with. He seemed to know everyone on both committees, as large and physically distanced as they were. He knew that WCC Executive woman from upcountry. They'd been undergraduates together many years previous.
The minister then said to Bob, "Reverend Tim here thinks he knows one of the young women who hangs around the coffee klatch. Not a student. But a known quantity in the computer science department. Tim says she goes here by a differing name. The guys there say she knows you."
Bob brightened up, "Oh, you mean…" and he used that differing name. He then surprised the minister by saying, "She knows you. Said she once attended your church out in the unwashed suburbs." At that the minister looked a little lost and said, "Ok. I don't remember the name, and we do get a lot of people coming and going." The minister then related that he'd, in fact, driven a young woman of his acquaintance to this hostel just two weeks ago! The two of them then wanted to know how I knew the young lady, and I got a bit flustered - I mean, explaining it was not so simple.
Bob saved me from inventing something by cutting in, "She's a bit of a mystery woman. Showed up at the university three or four years ago, I ran into her first at the hostel. I showed her around. Then she kind of disappeared, and reappeared two weeks ago. A whiz with computers, although the guys at the coffee klatch don't think she's ever had formal education. Except for here, where she impressed some faculty."
As we were parking in the university parkade near the student cafeteria, I asked, "Has she ever mentioned Washington, D.C., or any of the cities in the metro region?" Neither Bob nor the minister had heard anything like that, although the minister was still not quite clear who we were talking about. "She never said it, but I always assumed that the woman I knew was an American."
There was a new set of students at the table. The minister talked about this klatch as an enduring 'institution' at the university, apparently it had been where he'd learned his theology fifteen years previous to this.
Fast forward. The minister eventually drove home. Me, I retrieved the rental saying that I'd drive Bob back to the hostel. Bob really was the area's resident historian, filled me in a bit more about that suburban pastor, the university congregation looking for a pastor, as well as the residential educational institution up-country which was looking for an executive director. He was a good friend of that WCC vice-president who lived in the Okanagan. He knew the history of it all. Said, "I know where the bodies are buried."
It was getting dark and there was the mist of a light rain as he got out. Made maritime Vancouver look even more mysterious. Before closing the passenger door he turned to thank me, and added, "You know, neither of those positions may be for you." He then said that if I was offered either, that there were three things I should check out (on each of them) before saying yes. He then walked the short walk to the front stairs, and then up and in to the hostel.
I sat there with the wipers intermittent, slow-slapping of rain off the windshield. I was lost in thought, as it was my last night here on the Canadian west coast. Probably forever. The 'wet' coast. The car would be returned at the airport tomorrow. I probably was never returning.
Then I was startled by the thumping on the driver's side window right beside me. I expected to see Bob.
Jesus, Mary and Joe Cocker - I turned to see Paige Jennings's slightly older face getting rained on through the glass, not a foot away.
JESUS, MARY, AND JOE COCKER
Paige Jennings. My oh my. The rain had stopped. Paige and I were now seated on a log on a beach to the west of the hostel, and below the university. The cargo ships were moored in the dark harbour in front of us, with the mountains darkly silhouetted beyond that. Everything was dimly lit, the dwellings on the far shore as they rose up the mountain's side, as well as on the ships.
At the hostel, she'd come around to the passenger side, door unlocked, got in, and just sat there. Just like that. Said that if I left the hostel's parking lot and turned right, she knew a place where we could talk. Alone. The sandy beach was ideal, even as the dark marine-cold was uncomfortable.
Other than the driving directions we didn't exchange any further words. There we were, sitting.
At the beach she then said, as if simply continuing a conversation we'd had more than a dozen years previous, "Imagine my surprise. You, my pastor, and him, my minister. I'd collected my computer from the store today, and went over to the cafeteria to see who was available for some convo. And there you two were. Pastor Tim. Sitting there with my Canadian minister. Quite the duo. When I saw the two of you, I beat a retreat back here. Then you show up at the hostel. You're a shaman. How did you know?"
I assured her I was no shaman. "Paige. There's a lot of people looking for you. I'm one of them. What do you want me to tell people?"
"Tell them to stop looking. But it's hard to believe that you're not stalking me. I mean, for the love of God, what were you two doing there? What were you and my minister talking about? How'd you find the klatch? Are the two of you in on this?"
I told her that it had nothing to do with her. There was no 'this'.
But she was frantic: "Jesus, did he call you two weeks ago? That would mean I've been made for two weeks!"
I told her to calm down. "I just met the guy. Last night. I'm here for job interviews." She shot me a look of disbelief.
I continued with salient stuff wanting to get it in early, thinking she could bolt any minute. "Should I tell them you're alive and well? Should I say that to Henry?"
"Don't you bother Henry. He's been through enough." So she does know stuff from back home.
I said, "Paige, you've got to know that I have about 1000 questions. And please believe me, this is a total accident."
She answered, "Right. You're pals with that minister." She paused, "Ok, ask away. Like my parents, I've perfected the art of deflecting the ones I'm not going to answer anyway, but want you to think I have."
"Speaking of," I interrupted, "do you know where your parents are?"
She smiled and said, "This is the part where I make up something which sounds plausible, but when you think about it, says nothing."
".…. which is not the definition of lying," I finished.
".…. which technically means that my parents weren't exactly the liars I said they were."
We were picking up where we'd left off in 1984. Helping her manage her monstrous parents. It was weird. I said, "Remember Pastor Dale? Dale Woods? He got quite enmeshed with you family, especially with what happened just before Christmas 1987. I don't understand a lot of it….."
She then pivoted, "Tell me about Alice and Claire Louise. She must be 11 or 12 by now."
"Twelve. And smarter than both me and Alice. Oh, and Claire Louise has a little sister to boss around."
I imagined she fantasized about growing up in a normal house. She sighed and said, "And I take it you're back from Argentina?"
I said, "Yes, for about two years now. We'd had a good time for the first five years, but Argentina then changed politically. The World Council of Churches was red-baited. I was publicly accused of being appointed to my position by the KGB."
Paige let out a gaffaw, prompting me to respond with a, "What!?" All she said was, "Never mind."
I then got into it, "Look, Paige. I'm serious. We got back in 1994 to find that it had been, then, seven years since your parents moved back to the USSR. No one seemed to know where you were. Dale Woods? In 1988 he went all obsessive about your family, the 'illegals' and everything. And, yes, the murders. Even the cases where someone should have been murdered, but weren't, which was equally mystifying. Eventually Dale got shut down by the FBI who complained to Wesleyan Seminary where Dale was on faculty. I've read most of what he kept. The big question always was: where is Paige?"
Paige looked down at the sand where a few isolated raindrops started to fall again and said, "Well, I'm right here am I not? You and my minister from the border seem to have figured that out. Congratulations!"
I said as forcefully as I could, "No, Paige. We haven't." It didn't seem to be sinking in.
So I stopped talking. We sat silently, me wondering if the rain was going to interfere. It stopped, so I continued. "Look, Paige. Let's just say for the record that I'm your pastor. Still. Pastoral confidences, okay? But let me ask: have you ever killed someone?"
"No."
"Have you ever broken the law?"
"No more than you, when you were chaining yourself to air force fences."
"Ok. Touché." I thought for a second, then added, "Let's then agree that I'm your pastor. Never stopped being. I get the feeling that I actually once lied about your family - to the FBI no less - so I think I'm good, and you can trust me."
She looked at me: "Lied to the FBI? Was that to Mr. Beeman?"
I returned the look: "How did you know?"
She said, "I gather that he's still Henry's mentor. That boy needs one."
I said, "No seriously, Paige. I've never known what to make about Stan Beeman."
"What's to 'make'? He's FBI."
Remembering the dinner for seven when Alice had been first pregnant, I said, "He's always been close to your family. I mean, c'mon, your parents were Russian spies, and Stan Beeman was your dad's best friend!"
Paige looked out to the water ahead of us: "You mean, did he ever know about Mr & Mrs Jennings? You know, I do not think he did."
I didn't believe that. So I asked it of her, "How can you know that, Paige?"
She went silent. Then said quietly, "Can I tell you something, something that will sit forever behind that confessional seal of yours? Never to be spoken of again?"
I trotted out my standard answer: "As long as it's not something I'm compelled by law to report."
