The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story Read Free Page B

the window—the sound of the waves was setting his head on fire.Then someone knocked on the door. Sally opened it, a card key in her hand. “You okay, boss?”
    He rubbed his forehead and blinked at her. “What—what happened?”
    “Ah,
querido
,” she said, and she touched his head gently with her index finger, the gesture of a lover, not an employee. “You had a little more than one margarita.”
    She sighed, dropped her hand to her side, turned a little away from him.
    “So did I.”
    For a moment he thought he might throw up. He hadn’t wanted this. Had he? “Please, God,” he gasped, even though he wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking.
    He started to ask Sally the questions that had to be asked. What had they done? And what were they going to do now? How would they make things right?
    But Sally said suddenly, “The airline just called. I pulled some strings, got us in first class on the next flight out. We need to be packed up for the ferry in an hour.”
    “Okay,” he said. He looked at her. She looked back. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
    She nodded, crossed the room, closed the door. His head was still pounding and he still felt sick to his stomach, but he walked back to the window and opened it. The salt smell and the noise of the crashing waves washed over him. And not for the last time, he wondered what it would feel like to walk out into that water and never come back, to sink into that place where thought and memory no longer existed.
    They didn’t talk about what happened during the ferry backover to Cancún, nor in the cab to the airport, nor on the flights back to Seattle.
    And so, that Sunday, as he reported on his trip to the people of Grace, since they hadn’t said it, then nothing had happened. And if nothing had happened, then there was no reason anyone else should know about it.
    Or so he thought, until the following day when Martin Fox walked into Jack’s office and shut the door behind him. Martin was a Seattle investment banker and one of Grace Cathedral’s elders, the lay leaders of the congregation.
    Jack himself had laid hands on Martin to ordain him as a church leader. He thought that they were as close as either of them could permit themselves to be with another human being. And yet, here stood Martin looking at him fiercely, as though they hadn’t just enjoyed their best fiscal year ever, as though they didn’t continue to add members and ministries, as though they weren’t one of the best-known churches in the whole God-forgetting Northwest.
    All of a sudden, Jack had a flashback to the pressure of Sally’s hand on his shoulder, to the sight of that rumpled bed, and he felt his stomach contract with something that felt very much like fear.
    Martin seated himself across from Jack without asking leave to do so, and spoke without being invited. “Why didn’t you come to me when there was still time to do some damage control?”
    Jack felt his gut contract again, but he kept his face blank except for the arch of one eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
    “I should have known that nobody could live up to what you preached,” Martin said. “You’ve made us a laughingstock, Jack. A cliché.”
    “Martin,” Jack said evenly, “what are you talking about?”
    “What am I talking about?” Martin reached into the pocket of his thousand-dollar suit, pulled out his phone, and held it up for Jack to see. “This was posted on Twitter. Someone else posted footage to YouTube. One of the staff saw these and sent them to me.”
    “Martin—” Jack began, taking the phone.
    Then he saw the picture.
    It was from the bar in Isla Mujeres. Jack’s face looked sweaty, flushed, as he dangled a scorpion by the tail and prepared to eat it. Behind him, Sally cheered him on, her hand on his back. He was surrounded by a dozen other rowdy revelers.
    Jack looked across at Martin, who shook his head. “Is that you, Jack?”
    “Who took that?” Jack asked, breathing slowly