Forgive and Forget
By Chris Britt
Chris Britt is this month’s winner of $620.00 for a story about childhood innocence.
Bio: Chris Britt is a short-story writer living in Evans, Georgia. His stories have appeared in The Broken Teacup and Euphemism.
His substack can be found at: https://substack.com/@chrisbritt
Without further ado, “Forgive and Forget” by Chris Britt.
I knew what was coming. Pastor Mike has no poker face.
He’s only a few years older than me, but between his eyebrows rests a massive chasm, from years of intense active listening. You can almost hear those tiny forehead muscles scrunch together when bad news finds Pastor Mike. After Cindy Teasdale’s letter arrived, the chasm was so deep I thought he would induce an aneurysm or squeeze out a turd. As he read the letter to me, his elbows propped on the desk, he kept running a finger between his eyebrows, like he was a kitten in need of a soothe.
I’ll say this about Cindy Teasdale: she knows how to topple a youth pastor. All it took was ninety minutes watching the movie and one hour writing the letter.
Did I expect the parents of First Baptist Church Clifftown to object to kids aged 13 and up watching a PG-13 movie? No, I did not. Did I expect a parent to watch the movie, count every curse word and sexual reference, write a letter (cursive, college-ruled paper) quantifying the depravity of Can’t Buy Me Love, and demand that Pastor Mike fire me? No. No, I did not.
But that’s what God willed, apparently.
Pastor Mike placed the letter on his desk and inhaled. If there was an exhale, he hid it well. “You’ve placed me in a tough spot.”
“Have I? By showing a movie that teaches kids the importance of being yourself?”
He lifted the letter using a thumb and index finger, like it was a dead squirrel. “The amount of profanity is shocking.”
“Have you even seen it?”
“You know Margaret doesn’t allow cursing movies in our home.”
“I showed it at my last church and no one complained.”
“This isn’t Toledo, Clay.” He had a point there.
We’d made a good team: I was the cool youth pastor who hosted sleepovers fueled by RC Cola and pizza rolls, and he hurled brimstone from the pulpit. Kind of a good cop/you-may-burn-in-Hell cop thing.
Pastor Mike seemed on the verge of tears, which prompted thoughts of Jimmy Swaggart, Jim Bakker, and Tammy Faye. Tears streaming, mascara flooding the jawline, all in service of last-ditch public apologies. I could probably manage a snot bubble if I got worked up enough.
“What if I apologize to the congregation Sunday morning? Both services, for good measure.”
He rose, shaking his head slowly, and rubbed his forehead while rounding the desk. He gripped my shoulder for the last time, and because I was sitting I fought mightily against the urge to punch his dick.
“It’s time to move on, Clay.”
I shook his hand, because that’s what good Christian men do in Missouri, but before he relaxed his grip, he looked at the clock over my shoulder. “But I still need you to lead youth group tonight.”
#
I’d never been fired. Descending into the bowels of the church, toward the classroom I’d decorated with bean bags and Michael W. Smith posters, I felt anger and embarrassment, but also relief. I was ready to move on from mouth-breathing teenagers with inconsistent hygiene regimens. I gave a good sermon, expressed an appropriate mix of confidence and sadness at deathbeds. Surely a reputable church lacked an associate pastor.
Or maybe, I thought, I should succumb to destiny and join my dad’s plumbing business back home. Pipes betray you, but never with malice.
As I approached the darkened classroom, my spirits lifted when I remembered the high school and junior high track meets scheduled for that evening. Perhaps there would be no youth to mentor, and I could slink away from Clifftown unnoticed.
I flipped the light switch and discovered, standing in the corner like a future serial killer, Kevin Teasdale. Other than his mother, he was the last person I wanted to see. Bible in hand, wearing pristine Jordan 5s that had never graced a basketball court, Kevin fidgeted in the manner of a snitch facing his snitchee.
Part of my job as a youth pastor was to make the kids feel welcome and comfortable in their skin. This moment seemed to call for a different approach. Instead of my usual dramatic entry, complete with high fives and fervent eye contact, I leaned against the doorway and crossed my arms.
Kevin tucked the Bible in his armpit, clasped his hands at the waist, glanced briefly at my shoulder then down at the carpet and back to my shoulder, then removed the Bible from his armpit and gripped it with both hands, as if lugging a sandbag.
I offered a tight smile as he squirmed.
“See any good movies lately, Kevin?”
“Um, not really.”
I stepped into the room. “You didn’t enjoy Can’t Buy Me Love?”
He blinked and searched the ceiling for an answer. “It was okay. I liked the part where the guy farted into the station wagon.”
“Indeed.”
Looking back, I view this as a decision point. I was torn between the urge to teach this kid a lesson and my responsibility to lead a simple one-hour Bible study; between the certainty that he wronged me by squealing to his mom and the slim possibility that I deserved it.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that our hour had just begun, and no one else had arrived. Cindy Teasdale would be in the adults’ prayer meeting for an hour, followed by an hour of choir rehearsal. Kevin’s dad, Barry Teasdale, attended Sunday services, but never showed his face on Wednesday nights.
“How about some ice cream, Kevin?”
“Oh, ok,” he said, nodding, suddenly enthusiastic.
As we exited the church, Kevin veered left, toward the Dairy Queen. “I’ve been wanting to try the banana-split Blizzard.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Pointing to my car parked in the street, I said, “Let’s expand our horizons.”
#
The eastern road descended to Kingston gradually, before easing toward the Mississippi River. Beyond the river, a harsh spring breeze rustled the soybean fields of Illinois.
Missouri voters had recently approved “games of chance” if they occurred upon “excursion gambling boats.” One such boat, the Casino King, floated on the Mississippi in downtown Kingston, just twenty minutes from Clifftown, luring the heathens with calliope music and flashing neon.
I didn’t have a plan. Just a vague notion that Kevin had never experienced anything real, sheltered among pearl-clutching adults. He knew nothing of addiction, despair, or violence. He was unable to distinguish between sins that harm others and cultural norms that, when violated, merely grate on sensitive nerves.
Broadway took us straight to the river. We silently passed the abandoned theater, a bar with blackened windows, an antique store open three days a week from noon to five, and a Taco Bell with idling cars filling the drive-thru.
Judging by the abundant parking available, Wednesday nights were tame at the casino. Even better, I thought. Surely we’d encounter the dregs of society.
I turned off the car and opened the door, but Kevin remained still.
The scent of funnel cake wafted from a storefront across the street, reminding me of scuffed boots and fistfights at the county fair. A member of Kingston First Baptist had recently opened the shop, hoping to benefit from the casino’s foot traffic. A vocal contingent at FBC Clifftown questioned the faith of one who would so closely associate with a house of sin.
Gesturing to the Bible resting on Kevin’s lap, I said, “You can leave that in the car.”
“What are we doing here?” Kevin leaned forward and squinted at the trio of beer-bellied men waddling toward the casino. “If there’s a new yogurt place nearby, I’m really not interested.”
“I promised you ice cream, and ice cream you shall receive.” I nodded toward the casino, and as Kevin opened the door, he said, “In there?”
“Yep.”
By the look on Kevin’s face, you’d have thought I was forcing him to work a whore-house coat check. “I don’t think I’m allowed in there.”
“Allowed by the casino or by your parents?”
“Well, both.” He sat like a lump in my passenger seat, gnawing his fingernails. “Can kids even go to casinos?”
I’d never been inside a casino and had no clue if kids were allowed. My confidence, at this point, dipped slightly. But I figured, at least, they’d allow us onto parts of the boat other than the casino floor, where we’d encounter shouting inebriates or sobbing girlfriends or, if we were lucky, a passed-out junkie with a shoelace around his arm. Then I’d say, “See, Kevin. These are the sins that matter, the ones that destroy. An actor saying ‘shit’ through a TV speaker does no harm. And showing such a movie is not a fireable offense.”
Plus, I’d heard they offer free soft-serve to kids, so I wasn’t lying about the ice cream.
#
The promise of unlimited self-serve soft-serve coaxed Kevin out of the car.
As we approached the gangway, he said, “Why do you keep looking around?”
I scanned the area for needles, overflowing trash bins, hoboes sitting on milk crates around bonfires. But I had to admit, casino management kept the area clean. The water lapped against the shore and herons glided across a cloudless sky. There was no one to accost us, and on the riverboat’s upper decks couples gathered at the railing, preparing for sunset, as two kids on the lowest deck nibbled cotton candy.
“See,” I pointed. “Kids are allowed.”
We crossed the gangway and approached a counter. In red letters above the counter, a sign read: “No person under 21 allowed on the casino floor.” We paused and looked at each other, and I peered around the counter, hoping for a glimpse of ne’er-do-wells or drooling alcoholics at a blackjack table. But I only saw a woman in a flowery dress, glass of wine in hand, rubbing the back of a thick-haired gentleman as he played the slots.
“You look familiar,” said the woman behind the counter. She had bad skin and an aisle of gray roots that betrayed her blond hair.
I offered a polite grin. “First time here.”
“Wait, I know. You work at First Baptist in Clifftown, right? We get mailers from you guys every week.”
“Well, I used to work there.”
A sharp intake of breath from Kevin.
The next seconds were a humiliating blur of Kevin wailing, me praying that God would distract the gathering crowd by smashing a whale into the Casino King, and the counter woman opening and slamming drawers before handing Kevin a brown paper bag. I’d only seen bags relieve the panicked in movies and TV shows, and lacked a firm grasp of the science that existed at the intersection of hyperventilation and paper goods. But soon Kevin’s sobs ended and he rested on a bench, his head against an orange life preserver hanging from a hook.
The counter woman, panting from the commotion, slipped her fingers into a back pocket, handed me a slip of paper, and pointed up the stairs. “We have an ice-cream shop on the second level. Why don’t you take your son.” She nodded at the paper. “Free cone on us.”
Kevin’s face had gone blank, but upon hearing there was no unlimited free soft-serve, he shot me a look that said, “I see you through your act and find only incompetence,” a look I’d received from other teenagers, but never from Kevin.
#
“Why are you leaving us?” Kevin’s voice was soft and broken. We leaned against the railing, watching debris float downriver, while Kevin slowly licked a vanilla cone.
There was no deception in his voice, no staged sincerity. He seemed baffled that I would ever leave.
I realized that Kevin was no rat. Maybe he’d told his mom about the movie, but not in an effort to malign me. He probably mentioned it in a quick rundown of the sleepover, never aware that a parent would object.
“I have an opportunity back home,” I lied. “Too good to pass up.”
Kevin fiddled with the napkin wrapped around his cone. “What’s a better opportunity than here?”
When we entered the casino, my intention was to destroy his naivete, to prepare him for a world that would swallow whole an innocent. But standing on the Casino King, with no child of my own and no girlfriend in over a year, I felt the urge to preserve his purity. Perhaps he would experience years of easy life, free of disease and hardship, and maybe he deserved that. Who was I to reveal the real world?
Instead of answering his question, I patted Kevin on the shoulder and reached for my wallet. Behind us, in the rear of the boat, was a small arcade with coin-fed machines, including a game where you inserted a quarter and hoped your quarter pushed other quarters into your waiting hand. I pointed toward the arcade. “How about a few games before we head back?”
We entered the deserted arcade. Sun streamed through the glass walls, igniting the disco ball strung from the ceiling. I fed a couple bucks into the change machine and soon Kevin yelped after one of his quarters yielded a windfall of about a dozen quarters. He cradled them in his hands, beaming, and offered his bounty to me. I laughed and waved him off. “See if you can turn that into your fortune.”
He carefully placed the mound of quarters on a stand next to the game, then studied the quarters inside the game, searching for the spot most likely to yield a quarter avalanche.
But before inserting a coin, he straightened and turned to me. There are moments in teenage life when they appear to mature instantly, a knowing look or sharpened cheekbone. With Kevin, it was his sincerity. “I’ve tried to be like you.”
Now I felt like a complete asshole for blaming Kevin for my firing. “In what way?” I asked as I swallowed the bubbling lump in my throat.
“Forgiveness,” he said. “Kids at church interrupt and crack jokes and talk when you’re talking, but you never yell, even when your face gets red.” If he only knew the torrent of curses that flowed through my brain in those moments. Cindy Teasdale would have a fit.
“I can tell that you’re forgiving them,” Kevin continued. “And I try to do the same when someone makes me mad.”
That was the closest anyone had come to thanking me for my work at church.
“Thank you for saying that,” I said.
And in an instant, Kevin’s face returned to doughy adolescence as he fed a quarter into the game.
We needed to leave in fifteen minutes and, with Kevin entertained, I exited the arcade and walked to the front of the boat. There was a bar, along with several cocktail tables overlooking the river and the impending sunset.
That’s when I saw Kevin’s dad.
#
Barry Teasdale stood at a cocktail table with his back to me, his head turned to his companion. He sipped a beer and in front of her was a glass of wine, along with a wine bottle in an ice bucket. Barry was an attorney in Kingston–his office just a few blocks away–and he wore a dark suit, with the jacket taken in at the waist and white shirt cuffs peeking from his jacket sleeves.
I’d only seen Barry in church on Sunday mornings. He struck me as taciturn and serious, sitting in the pew with his arms crossed, Cindy Teasdale rubbing his bicep. After the service he would head straight for the exit, while Cindy sought out visitors and invited them to return.
The woman was a couple decades younger than Barry. She gulped her wine and reached for the bottle, while adjusting the waist of her gray skirt. She wore a matching jacket, but both the jacket and skirt seemed roomy, as if she was wearing them for the first time after a hasty stop at JC Penney.
I’d seen Pretty Woman, and from the fidgeting, I realized that Barry had hired a hooker. Had I been raised in the area, I would’ve assumed she had crossed the river from Illinois. But she was just as likely from Kingston.
He never touched the woman, but he leaned towards her and maintained eye contact, laughing here and there, obviously in command of the conversation.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned. A casino worker pardoned his way past and I gazed down the length of the boat. The arcade door remained closed. No sign of Kevin.
In my pastoral experience, the father breaks the family. But in my personal experience, it was my mother. She was the Barry Teasdale of Toledo, except for the hooker part. I never understood what drew her to my father. He was–and is–blue collar to the bone, and she struggled through law school at Case Western, eventually opening a solo family-law practice. Her clients were mostly men seeking divorce, and it was only after she left my father for one of her clients that she admitted she’d been cheating on him for years.
My father discovered her infidelity after I asked him why trash was floating in my toilet. I’d never seen a condom before. I imagine he was especially hurt, as a plumber, that she’d chosen a dolt who would tempt fate by flushing a condom.
On the Casino King, watching Barry and his prostitute, I remembered my father hunched at the darkened kitchen table, sipping tap water. My mother had just left. I was amazed to see him smile. But then I realized his smile was fueled by incredulity. He had been duped. He kept shaking his head, saying, “If I only knew.”
I decided that Cindy Teasdale needed to know.
Suddenly, the hooker turned and walked in my direction.
I retreated to a hallway behind the bar, where the bathrooms were located. I leaned against the wall, casual-like.
She rounded the corner and pushed the door to the ladies’ room.
“How much do you charge?”
She stopped and canted her head. “Pardon?”
“Hourly or nightly? I’m just curious.”
She seemed unaccustomed to inquiries from strangers, which I found surprising. “Well, I haven’t been hired yet, but I think we charge the standard hourly rate. You can ask Mr…” She placed her hands on her hips and craned her neck forward. “I’m sorry, did you say nightly?”
Were prostitutes this well-spoken? So assertive? I began to realize that I may have misjudged the situation.
“Nightly? No, I don’t think so. You must have misheard.”
“No, my hearing is fine. You said, ‘Hourly or nightly?’” She even lowered her voice and performed a decent imitation of my flat, Midwestern accent, though I’d argue she made me sound dopier than I actually sound.
I smiled broadly as I inched away. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
She opened her mouth but before she could speak, Barry Teasdale appeared. “Clay,” he said, clearly not prepared to encounter his son’s youth pastor loitering near a casino bathroom. He pursed his lips and swiveled his head between me and his…whatever she was. “What are you doing at the casino? On a Wednesday night when you’re normally at church with my son?”
“Trolling for hookers,” she said.
“That is incorrect,” I said, wagging my finger at the woman. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
“No, you asked if I charge hourly or nightly. That’s very clear.”
I could feel my damp armpits. “You know, attorney jokes. I think I screwed up the punchline.”
“Leslie,” said Barry. “Why don’t you visit the restroom and I’ll work this out.”
The look from Leslie is one I’ll never forget. It was the teenage disdain I knew so well, fortified with real-world weariness. She backed into the restroom, her eyes fixed on me.
Whispering, Barry said, “Again, why are you here? Where’s Kevin?” His cologne smelled like a leather-bound book filled with lemons.
“Right, well, we mixed things up tonight. One of the seniors wanted to lead the youth Bible study.”
“But why are you here?” he asked, rotating a finger in the air.
“Oh, yes. That must seem strange. Just an idea for a new gambler outreach ministry.”
Barry’s no idiot. I doubt he believed me, but his desire to remove me from the situation guided his response. “Interesting,” he said. “Go where the sinners are, right?”
I nodded with enthusiasm, but before I could speak, he said, “You know, Leslie is a third-year law student at Wash U. Just down here for an interview.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Just so you know.”
“Okay,” I said. “Understood.” Barry offered his hand and I shook it before he entered the bathroom. The handshake felt like an understanding that neither of us would ever speak of seeing the other at the casino.
I peered around the corner, expecting to find Kevin waiting, confused, having overheard every word.
But no one was there. And as I entered the arcade, I saw that Kevin’s pile of quarters had grown, and he’d managed to retrieve a stuffed baseball from the claw game.
Lucky kid, I thought.
#
I needed to get Kevin off the riverboat and back to Clifftown without either Cindy or Barry knowing. Checking my watch, I knew we had time to drive back before Cindy finished choir practice. Having just lied to Barry regarding Kevin’s whereabouts, my immediate concern was how to smuggle Kevin off the boat without Barry noticing.
