In April, Simon went down to Murray Park to eat hamburgers with the Methodists. It was his monthly tradition. The Methodists’ burgers were charred and rubbery, but the Methodists themselves made ideal marks. They were upstanding citizens with steady jobs at regional banks and local power stations. They’d known neither poverty nor wealth. And they weren’t teetotalers like the Baptists, so you could ply them with craft beer and get them yapping about golf and gambling and everything their marriages lacked. They assumed good faith in the people around them. Simon loved the Methodists. Despite his taste, he chose to find them charming: a matter of professional habit. It was Leonard who’d showed him the way. You had to love your marks.
He loved some more than others. Elaine Fincher was his favorite. He sought her out at every cookout. On that Saturday in April, he found her standing by herself, in the park’s lone, shabby gazebo. The gazebo was off-white and listing, its cupola a little too tall. It was perched on the bank of a reflection pond. Elaine leaned against the rail, nibbling on a dinner roll. She looked more pensive than usual, more withdrawn. Her gaze was fixed on the pond, placid and murky in the midday sun. When Simon joined her, she met him with a glance, before returning her attention to the water. Together, they watched a trio of mallards weave between partially submerged rocks and thickets of wavering reeds. The ducks appeared to glide across the pond, as if propelled by some unseen motor. But Simon knew better than that. Beneath the surface, their webbed feet were surely kicking.
I’d like to be a duck, Elaine said.
I don’t know, he said. Looks sort of dull.
But don’t you see? They’ve got it made. Especially here. Good fishing. Free bread.
She had a point. The pond was a prime spot. A mild breeze shook the pines on the opposite bank. Wispy clouds scudded across the pale blue sky, tossing patches of cooling shade over the water. Joyful shouts rose from the lawn, where the Methodists’ children were playing tag. Simon watched the ducks glide on.
They don’t know how good they have it, he said.
Exactly. They’re thoughtless. Carefree. Wish I could live like that.
She sounded like Leonard, his former business partner. Leonard had been about twenty years older than Simon. He’d identified with birds. He especially liked pigeons; he admired their moxie. They’re survivors, he’d say. Crazy bastards go zipping through warzones like it’s nothing. But Leonard was not a survivor. Three years ago, back in Minneapolis, he’d leapt from a bridge, like the poet he used to quote whenever he was drunk. He’d jumped for no discernible reason, excluding the possibility of general, untreated malaise; their little advance fee scheme had been going surprisingly well. That was how Leonard was, though: guarded to the end. Nobody could crack him. Simon admired him for that.
Elaine turned to face him. Her eyes were wide and brown and searching.
Want to get out of here? she asked. I’m bored, and it looks like things are winding down.
That was unlikely. Lynn Martin, the Evangelism Chair, was holding court about thirty yards away, next to the folding tables of food and drink. The cookout would continue as long as she did. But really, one early exit wouldn’t jeopardize Simon’s con. His collection bucket was already full. The cash had poured in as soon as he’d finished his speech. His work for the day was already done. He knew it was better to turn Elaine down, to go home, but the fact was she intrigued him. Her voice was low. Her laughs were earned. She was sharp. Each conversation felt tinged with a hint of barely-acceptable risk.
Where would we go? he asked.
Anywhere you want. Anywhere but here.
Simon had started seducing the Methodists nine months ago, during his first week in Colesburg. He had met Lynn at a food bank, where he was scouting for potential marks. Clutching a canvas shopping bag full of old soup cans, she fit his profile exactly: comfortable, but not too comfortable. Upper-middle class. White. Influential in her church. Hungry for affirmation. Credulous. Eager to speak of Haiti and Nicaragua, of poverty and grace, and to be met with sympathy. After they got to talking, she invited him to her church’s cookout in Murray Park.
He spent the next week preparing his story for the cookout. He had a method. He identified a charity: Angel’s Purse, a real organization with a verifiable mission. According to its website, Angel’s Purse aimed to combat human trafficking on an international scale. Further scrolling told him the organization was based in Chicago. That was all he needed. Invention was next. He expounded on what he’d learned, scribbling feasible lies in his favorite spiral notebook. When he was satisfied with what he’d constructed, he committed his lies to memory. He spoke them aloud, let them bounce off the walls of his spare studio apartment. The lies became a story. He repeated the story to himself until it sounded like a version of the truth.
At the first cookout he mingled selectively. He found the most outgoing Methodists—Lynn’s closest friends—and lured them into long conversations. He told them all the same story. He said he was new in town. He said he’d moved to Colesburg at the behest of his employer, Angel’s Purse, a large organization dedicated to combatting human trafficking. He said he was raising funds to liberate child trafficking victims in Indonesia—Borneo, to be specific. He knew little about Borneo or child trafficking, but the Methodists didn’t notice. They nodded along as he told them about the island, about the conditions. He knew the details to include: guns pressing into flesh; skinny girls trembling in rags; lashes inflicted on soft skin; boys with sad eyes and broken noses and gap-toothed smiles; and squalor, unadulterated squalor. They told him he was doing God’s work.
The next month, Lynn invited him back. This time she asked him to address the group as a whole. He arrived carrying a large orange bucket. He spoke the words they hoped to hear. He spoke of Christian charity. He spoke of tithing as the minimum, rather than the ideal. He spoke of diseased trees and the fruits they might bear if given the chance to survive. At this last point their eyes gleamed. He held up his bucket and asked for their donations. They stuffed the bucket with wads of cash. When he thanked them, they grinned and demurred. They were only doing their part. They didn’t question his intent. They didn’t care, as long as he let them give.
He returned each month, and each month the Methodists gave more. His success surprised him. Since leaving Minneapolis he’d bounced from town to town, working odd jobs and trying to make his cons stick. But the Methodists gave him stability. He soon felt secure enough to quit his part-time bartending gig and move into a new two-bedroom apartment. He had no practical use for the second bedroom, though he aspired to fill it one day. Some nights he spent hours splayed across its soft, bare carpet, scrolling through pictures of desks and dressers on his phone and wondering what might go with the room’s pineapple pattern wallpaper.
Elaine was one of his earliest donors. The first time they talked, she told him he had a lovely voice. This made him feel like a charlatan, but he didn’t hold it against her; he knew she’d intended it as a compliment. They developed a rapport. She was funny. And she was tall, too, which made her easy to pick out of a crowd. He came to see her as a kind of confidante, though his disclosures were limited to petty confessions about his mood or his general health. He only saw her at cookouts. When she was near him he felt close to God, or to the idea of a god, though they almost never talked about faith. She made him want to pray. He didn’t know why, but he tried it a few times when he was alone in his apartment. He didn’t pray for peace or joy or anything so abstract. He prayed the giving wouldn’t stop.
His bucket sat on the lawn, beside the folding table that held the vegetables and condiments. Elaine waited in the gazebo while he went to retrieve it. He could feel the heat of her gaze as he strode across the lawn and into the crowd of Methodists. The warmth comforted him.
Before leaving, he had to say his goodbyes. No French exits. The Methodists expected a certain level of courtesy. He made quick work of most of them, tossing out kind words and limited inquiries; he took care to disengage whenever a conversation dove below the surface. Slowly, he shuffled through the crowd, drawing closer to the bucket, his bucket.
Lynn cut him off when his target was almost within reach. She placed a hand on his forearm. Her grip was firm. Simon glanced around, casting about for her husband, Nathan. He avoided conversations with Lynn these days, when possible. She admired him too much, and admiration usually led to scrutiny. She’d always asked plenty of questions, but lately her inquiries had become more probing. She wanted to know more.
This time she wanted to know about Borneo. She wanted to hear about the people, specifically. What were they like? How did they dress? What did they eat? What did they think of Americans? Though he’d done some basic research, he was unsure of how much she knew about the region, which made it difficult to calibrate his answers accordingly. She was well traveled, as she was all too ready to remind him. Still, he could spar with the best of them, and Lynn certainly wasn’t the best of them; she didn’t even know she was sparring. He danced around her questions, parrying with generalities and questions of his own. She was happy to answer him at length. She was keen to wax philosophical.
I think everybody should travel, she said. It’s an education. But Nathan doesn’t agree.
What does he think? Simon asked.
Oh, you know. He’s happy to stay in Virginia. Says it has everything he needs.
And does it?
I think so, she said. But that’s not really my point. I think we have a duty to share ourselves. Don’t you? We should share our talents, share our perspectives. And we should let people teach us too, of course. I learned a lot down in Haiti. I like to think they gave me more than I gave them, even though I was the one digging wells.
She burst into laughter, squeezing his arm.
I know exactly what you mean, he said. Borneo taught me a lot.
Her grip tightened, causing her wedding band to press into his flesh. She thanked him for being such a good listener. They talked for several minutes more, though the rest of their conversation largely stuck to the inane. She only relinquished his arm when he promised to stop by her house for tea one day. Once free, he murmured a quick goodbye and made a beeline for the bucket, hoping to stave off further delays. He was eager to be alone with Elaine.
The bucket was full, as he’d thought. He hoisted it by the handle, taking care to keep it from swinging. He didn’t want to lose his hard-earned winnings. He hurried back to the gazebo, where Elaine stood on the steps, waiting. She greeted him with a smirk.
What’s so funny? he asked.
Nothing, really. Just saw you over there, talking to Lynn. She looked excited.
He shrugged. Ready to go?
Of course. I’ve been ready.
Before he could apologize for the delay, a series of loud splashes sounded from the pond. They turned to look. The mallards had emerged from the water, heads bobbing. They were in a hurry. They waddled up the steep bank and past the gazebo, letting out frantic quacks, as if pursued. But there was nothing behind them, aside from the rippling water.
Wonder what they’re running from, Elaine said.
No telling.
They watched the ducks scurry past the rest of the Methodists, who took no notice of their progress. The ducks waddled on, beyond the grassy lawn and up the slope of a rugged hill. They disappeared into a copse of birches.
They decided Simon would do the driving. The walk back to his sedan, half a mile away, was pretty in any season, but it was especially pleasant in the spring, when the tulips were in bloom. They took it slow, stopping every couple minutes to comment on some aspect of the landscaper’s handiwork. Elaine seemed knowledgeable on the subject. She told him she’d once wanted to be a landscape architect. She’d given that up, though, and settled on civil engineering. Now she got her fix from gardening.
Nothing wrong with that, he said. Wish I could garden.
You can, she said. You only have to start.
I don’t have any land. I live in an apartment. Besides, I’m no good at it.
There are ways. You should come by my place sometime. I can give you some pointers.
I’d like that. What do you grow?
Mostly vegetables. I make a mean beet soup.
They drove to a diner Elaine liked on the west side of town. Simon left the bucket in the back seat of his car, beneath a blanket that used to belong to Leonard. His car was enough of a beater that he didn’t expect any thieves to look inside, but excess caution was no sin when money was involved. Plus, it was important for Elaine to think he was a good steward.
The diner was a bit of a dive: dim lighting and scuffed tiled floors. A red laminate countertop separated the customers from the exposed kitchen, staffed by scowling teenagers in checkerboard aprons. After a short wait, Simon and Elaine were seated in a tall booth along the back wall. They sat across from each other, almost knee-to-knee. Simon picked at the bench’s peeling vinyl.
Funny, Elaine said. I never noticed this place was such a shithole.
He laughed. He’d never heard her curse before.
It’s not so bad, he said. The food smells good.
Simon ordered a ham and cheese omelet and an ice water. Elaine ordered a coffee. She made a joke about the bags under her eyes and asked him to excuse the fatigue. It wasn’t him, she said. Her firm had her working nonstop on this bridge project. The bridge was supposed to span a gorge in eastern Tennessee. There was already a perfectly functional truss bridge in place, but the local authorities wanted something for the tourists. They were obsessed with cables.
They’re clueless, she said. But that’s all right. It’s beautiful country, so I can deal with the rest. I drive out there every now and then for a site visit. The views are stunning.
Do you get to travel a lot?
No. We’re a small operation, so we tend to stay local. The bridge is a special exception. My boss has connections out there. Wish I could do it more. Travel, I mean. I get real restless.
You should try taking a vacation. I hear it’s nice.
Can’t afford it. Well, I can, but I don’t want to go somewhere by myself. Kind of defeats the purpose. I can be alone on the cheap whenever I want.
Some new scenery doesn’t hurt. Can give you perspective.
The drinks arrived. Steam swirled up from the mouth of Elaine’s white coffee mug.
I don’t need perspective, she said. I need company.
What about church? Plenty of company there. And they seem to know you well.
She scoffed. I go out of habit. Or, I don’t know, masochism. They’re fine, but I’ve known them too long. And I can’t cozy up to Lynn like you do. She overwhelms me. Always has.
The server brought out Simon’s omelet. He took small bites, pausing at intervals to make eye contact. Elaine liked active listening. The outside of the omelet was lukewarm, but the inside was hot, and the contents scalded the roof of his mouth. He tried to hide his discomfort.
I don’t mean to imply I’ve lost my faith, Elaine said. That’s not it. Not at all. It’s just, I get tired of the people. They all do that thing. Know what I mean? That thing Lynn does. She thinks she has to perform. Like, she has to play the hostess. You’ve seen it. The hand on the arm. The constant invitations. It’s contagious. They’ve all started doing it, everyone. Wears me out.
Their hearts are in the right place, Simon said. They’ve been very generous.
I know. They love to remind you, don’t they?
I suppose, he said, tugging at the collar of his polo.
I don’t know how you put up with it.
He wanted to tell her she had it all wrong. He didn’t put up with the Methodists. He cherished them. They were overbearing sometimes, sure, but they weren’t so bad, overall. There was substance behind their facades. You could break through and find it if you knew what you were doing. Even Lynn had something packed in there. She was a surprisingly competent painter. She’d shown him some of her work. It was mostly pastoral kitsch, but the brushstrokes were confident. And he could tell the difference: he’d fenced a few paintings back in Minneapolis. But he couldn’t tell Elaine any of that—especially not the last bit. She had to see him as a more distant figure. Anything other than benign detachment was out of the question.
I don’t mind, he said. They’ve made me feel welcome.
Give it time, she said. You’ll be sick of them soon.
Maybe. But they’re fine for now. They suit me.
Makes sense. They’re pliable. Must be a nice change of pace.
His pulse quickened. Was that an accusation? He didn’t think so. Her tone was even. Her shoulders were relaxed. She was fiddling with her coffee stirrer. As far as he could tell, she was only making conversation. Still, it was important to deny such suggestions. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression.
I’m not sure what you mean, he said.
Oh come on, she said. You can speak freely. Lynn’s not going to jump out from behind the counter. And I’m not going to judge you. I know you’re a stand-up guy. Besides, the manipulation is justifiable. You do it for a good cause. That’s the beauty of charity work.
She ran a hand through her hair, a tangled mess of black curls and frizzy gray flyaways. The motion was unconscious; he’d seen it countless times. It usually cropped up when she was stressed or annoyed. She didn’t seem stressed. But he couldn’t know for sure. His intuition was imperfect, and he wished he could ignore it. He was tired of observation with a purpose, sick of feeling like everything he saw and heard was only fodder for his little fictions. The constant maintenance. He craved pure, pointless experience.
There was no time for that now, though. He had to find a way out of this line of conversation.
You sound cynical, he said. I get it, but I don’t see it that way. I find my work fulfilling. And I like Lynn, by the way. I like almost everybody in the congregation. They’ve been so kind.
She groaned. I thought we were past this.
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Past what?
This, she said, spreading her arms. This dance. This pretense. I thought we knew each other better. I thought we didn’t have to bullshit anymore.
What do you want me to say? That I’m bilking the whole church?
He let the question hang in air. It was strange to have said it aloud. Not wrong, exactly. Just strange. When he was a boy, he’d watched his brother take a pocketknife to a basketball. Together they’d let it deflate. He remembered the thrill, simple and perverse; he felt it now, waiting for an answer. Any answer. He almost didn’t care what it was.
No, she said. Of course not. I’m not skeptical of you. I’m skeptical of them. I wonder about their intentions, that’s all. I don’t think they’re that charitable. As I see it, they want someone to take their money and tell them they’re good. And I think you fill that need. You’re very talented at putting their not-so-pure impulse in the service of something greater. I just wish you’d admit it. It’s not that bad, you know. It’s not bad at all.
She gave him a knowing smile. A wave of guilt washed over him. Before he could think of a response, the server came to clear away the dishes. Simon asked for separate checks.
I’m expensing this, he whispered to Elaine. I shouldn’t, but I trust your discretion.
She giggled. His breathing started to slow. It would be all right.
In the parking lot, she invited him to her house. We could watch a movie, she said. Or do something else. Whatever you want, really. It doesn’t matter. I’m not busy.
He watched her. Her face was open. Earnest. She thought his small disclosures were the same thing as intimacy. But he’d sworn off real intimacy. No more partners. No more hangers-on. Leonard’s funeral had almost killed him. He wished he could explain this to Elaine, wished he could make her understand the limits of his affection. He wished he could tell her about that last afternoon in Minneapolis. He wanted to tell her about Leonard’s casket, about the wailing sister and the dead-eyed priest and the mourners who kept calling Leonard’s cons a lifestyle, as if he’d been some tortured bohemian. He longed to describe the weightlessness that came in the middle of a con, when everything was right and nothing seemed to matter. That was a wonderful feeling, a floating feeling. He’d chased that feeling across the country, all the way to Colesburg, Virginia.
But now it was leaving him, the weight returning. His thoughts dragged. His tongue went heavy. He gave his excuse: a feeble lie about a meeting at five. Elaine nodded. She said she understood. She let him wriggle free.
The drive back to Murray Park was relatively quiet. Elaine looked content. She stared out the window and hummed along to the pop songs.
When they got there, most of the parking spaces were empty; the Methodists had all gone home. He parked in the spot behind Elaine’s Nissan.
Thanks for today, he said. I had a blast.
We should do this next time, too, she said. Beats the cookout by a mile.
Sure thing. We’ll have to pick a better restaurant, though.
She grinned. They said goodbye. He watched her drive away.
After she was gone, he sat in the car for half an hour, listening to the radio. His back ached. He felt as if he’d just picked up an impossible load. He didn’t know how to put it down.
The next morning, Simon woke before sunrise. He brewed a cup of tea and stood beside the window in his empty second bedroom. He watched for birds but saw none. The gray sky was empty, much like the street below. When he finished his tea, he rinsed the mug in the sink and stuffed it in a plastic grocery bag. Then he tied the bag up and stuffed it into his duffel bag, next to a stack of T-shirts. He put the duffel bag in the trunk of his car, between his beanbag and his deflated air mattress. It was good he hadn’t sprung for more furniture.
The sun came up a few minutes after he crossed the town limits, the rays beaming through the driver’s side window. His collection bucket rattled in the passenger seat. To the south there would be more cities, more cons to run. He was certain of this. He would hit Raleigh, or maybe Charlotte, or maybe somewhere even farther south. He would cross state lines and county lines and city limits until he felt like stopping. Maybe he would find a new congregation. Presbyterians, perhaps. He liked churches. They never skimped on food. Maybe he would send Elaine a nice postcard.
He fought traffic all the way to the North Carolina line. He saluted the welcome sign—a private ritual. The road opened up. He drove past rundown bars and tobacco fields, rustling the tall grass along the shoulder. The gray sky had blown on, leaving a vast, blue expanse. A hawk soared above the nearest overpass, wings spread wide. He wished he had a camera handy. It was a gorgeous animal: singular and fierce and lonesome, a black speck against the overwhelming blue. He watched it disappear behind a line of swaying loblolly pines.
When he turned his eyes back to the road, he could feel the whole world there, before him. He was running again. Moving again. He was fine. The movement was all that mattered.
Glenn Bertram is a writer from South Carolina. His fiction has appeared in various locations, including Barrelhouse and South Carolina Review. He’s also a former fiction editor of The Greensboro Review. He currently lives in North Carolina with his wife and their dog.
