CHAPTER THREE: Evan

They were not lost, they were going North. No matter what, they would cross the border, and though Evan had explained this four or five times since they left Pennsylvania, Annabel refused to accept the simple logic of it. They were unlikely to miss a whole country, he told her, especially one as big as Canada. Annabel didn't think that was funny. It occurred to Evan that Annabel didn't quite believe Canada existed. She knew it was a country where it snowed, she knew about hockey, about maple syrup, she knew Evan and his countrymen really did say, eh? at the end of their sentences. But Canada wasn't real to her, not like Wisconsin, or Chicago, or Missoula, Montana, none of which she had ever visited, but all of which she believed in. About Canada, she was more skpetical. Maybe it wasn't Evans directions she suspected; maybe she thought there was nowhere to go. That if they did keep going north, north of Vermont even, they would reach the end of America and just fall off the edge of the earth and tumble into space and on and on for eternity.

When they stopped for gas, an hour south of Burlington, Evan relented and took out the map. He was annoyed at her for questioning his sense of direction, but he wasn't quite sure why he'd refused to show her the map before then. It had been open in the mess in the back seat for the fist part of the trip, but on this last leg, the last stretch before Canada he'd wanted to do without charts, to prove something to himself, maybe, but he wasn't sure what. He unfolded the map, and spread it over the hot hood of their car, and showed Annabel where they were and where they were going. He leaned over the map and traced the route with his finger. You see, he said. Here's where we are. Here's where we're going. Here is the border. This line. We've got another hour and a half maybe, and then we'll be in Canada.

He was still studying the map when she kissed his cheek, and for the first time in days, everything seemed fine, all the tension disappeared. All he had to do was show her the map. There was something in that, he thought, something serious, though he wasn't sure what. Something wise. He had been finding wisdom in the world recently, a new sensation for him, and he liked it. What was the lesson here? Trust the person with the map? Everyone needs to be shown where they're going once in a while? Believe in the driver? Evan wasn't sure, exactly, what lesson he had learned, but he was sure of its significance. He would write it down in his journal.

I'm excited, Annabel said, opening her eyes wide, and making it clear that she was happy now. Her man had done right by proving to her with secondary, verifiable, sources (the cartographers at the American Automobile Association) that they were, indeed, going in the direction he claimed.

Evan admired his wife from behind as she skipped towards the bathroom of the gas station. That's my ass, he thought, and though he felt a twinge of guilt for such a coarse thought, it was true. It was his ass. She was his wife. Marriage meant he could think that sort of thing, that was part of the reason for marriage, part of it's purpose, among the privileges that come with a lifelong commitment before God. Lust for his wife wasn't just tolerated, it was encouraged. He was proud of himself, proud of that ass, proud of the things he would do with that ass and the rest of that body tonight, in Canada. He folded up the map and tossed it into the back of the car. He thought of fucking his wife right there in the parking lot of the gas station, but felt that was beyond the acceptable limits of how much lust was allowed, even for a married couple who were encouraged to celebrate sex, rejoice in it. It felt good to have such limits.

And anyway he was in a hurry, excited about returning home to Canada.

***

They had left California five days beforehand, had stopped in Colorado, Missouri, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. They were finally in the North East, which seemed strange to Evan for many reasons, not least of which was his realization that the last time he'd been this close to the Atlantic had been his father's funeral. At the time he was living in Oregon, working for a cycle tour company. He had flown to New York City, spent the night drinking and a good part of the morning screwing a jazz singer he'd met that night, then he got on a bus to Montreal, hung over and puking in the bathroom most of the way. It was early November when his father died – rainy and mild in Oregon, sunny and warm in New York, and miserable in Montreal. The taxi could barely get up the hill to the Hand house in Westmount, the combination of rain and snow almost defeating their ascent. But he arrived to find the small family gathered at home.

Julian was a prick, as usual. Why the stop in New York? We would have paid the more expensive flight, you know. Are those the only shoes you brought? Why don't you ever consider anyone else in anything you do? Why did you quit university? Etc. etc. etc. Arrogant self-serving, always right, always with something critical to say. But at least his father was dead – Evan didn't really mean that, exactly, but at least there was just one Hand man criticizing him now, and not two. For whatever disapproval Julian displayed, it was nothing compared to the disappointment he felt from his father.

He was shocked at how affected his mother was by his father's death. She was completely broken-down, puffy eyed and sobbing. Evan didn't remember his parents having such a close relationship; he had trouble imagining with any precision the nature of their marriage. The mystery that is our parents' love. He had never met a less-funny man, though his father was smart, and good-looking right to the end: tall, silver-haired, square jawed. He had those piercing endless eyes, eyes Evan had inherited. If nothing else, he was present in his mother's life all those years, and sometimes just being there is enough. Though surely there was more about him that had made his mother happy.

Thoughts of his father's funeral lead naturally to thoughts of his mother's, but he banished those. They were too shameful. He shook his head, focused on the road. He'd met Annabel shortly after his mother died, after … her funeral … after a few weeks of drinking and drugs and drifting had found him in a Church in Tigris, California. Evan couldn't even remember having met anyone who actually went to church, unless you considered some of his Latino friends, but that didn't really count, they didn't believe in anything in particular. They inherited going to church same as they inherited their brown eyes.

But Annabel Detwiler, whom he met a month later at a Church BarBQ in Tigris, California, had an answer for why he went to church that day, and it made as much sense as anything else: he was called.

Evan answered that he'd never been more certain about any decision in his life, and if that meant he was called, so be it. Whatever the reason he went to church that day, the effects were almost immediate.

If he was indeed called, it frightened him a little to think that God was paying so much attention to him. It worried him that Someone would be keeping track of his movements, it worried him that he would be watched by an all-knowing pair of eyes that he might disappoint. But whether or not he was called, he was definitely saved shortly after he went to church. And what had been, by all accounts including his, a wasted life of useless wandering quickly found focus. For the first time, Evan felt like what he did with his life actually meant something. For the first time in his life he felt like he had purpose.

***

Evan grew nervous as he and Annabel got near the Canadian border. He felt sweat dripping down his sides. And yet he hadn't touched an illegal substance in almost a year. This time all he had was some clothes, a wife, and a briefcase filled with the future. Everything above board. And yet he was trembling.

Are you OK, sweetheart? Annabel asked him when the border came into view. He pulled over to the side of the road.

Yes, he said. I'm fine. Fine. He gripped the steering wheel, took a deep breath, then leaned over and kissed Annabel, a long, tender kiss. She touched his face, caressed his cheek, brushed her finger along his ear. It's amazing what a wife's gentle finger on the ear can do to a nervous man. He hugged Annabel tight to him.

I love you, Annabel, he said, struggling to conceal the tremor in his voice. He experienced a déjà vu the next second. Had he lived this scene before? Dreamed it? Seen it in a movie? He searched his memory, but nothing came to him.

The gravel clattered against the undercarriage of the big SUV as they pulled back onto the highway.

The first questions were easy:

Citizenship? Canadian and American.

Where do you live? Tigris, California.

What will you be doing in Canada? Visiting family and friends, looking at some ... opportunities.

This last confession was perhaps not so easy, but Evan delivered it with a calm assurance.

The border guard was a cute, young Québécoise woman with a mouse-brown ponytail. She had that Quebecoise look about her, a rough sassiness unique to the province, charming, sweet, dirty. She had pouty lips, sharp eyes, a crooked right incisor. A year ago Evan would have imagined pulling at the buttons on her blue polyester shirt, touching the soft flesh of her hip. A year ago he might have asked when she got off her shift. But not now. You're married, Evan thought to himself. Married to Annabel. He pictured his wife with no clothes on, her long blond hair, her perky breasts, nipples erect. This helped him concentrate. That's better, he thought.

The guard asked him about his business "opportunities," and she flashed a little smile when he used the word "church." She didn't even seem to mind that he was not speaking French. Bonne chance, she said, handing their passports back. Et, le bon Dieu soit avec vous.

Evan suspected she was making fun of him, but maybe not, maybe she was looking for a new spiritual direction in her life. As most Quebecers, he was in the process of wagering, must be.

Here was a people lost in seas of problems, in search of solutions. They had all the prerequisite characteristics that Evan was sure, and the Reverend John Dawes had been convinced, could make for a high-growth, high-impact congregation. They had a history of deep spirituality. Nowhere else in North America (never mind Mexico, which was a different proposition altogether) had a population been so dominated by a Church. OK, it was the Catholic Church, but that just proved how much they sought direction, not just spiritual, but in every aspect of their lives. It was biologically pre-determined, culturally ingrained. They were bred to have a deep relationship with God, and they weren't getting it, it was denied them by years of radical politics. They were the most liberal population in North America – supportive of gay sex, gay marriage, marijuana decriminalization, abortion, had the lowest marriage rate, highest birthrates outside of wedlock, and churchgoing had dwindled lower in Quebec than almost anywhere else in the world. And what else? Among the highest suicide rates in the world, the highest levels of unemployment in North America, the highest high school dropout rates. They were seeking something here. Just look at Separatism: that was a church too, to replace the other Church, and if what Evan read was true, that faith was slipping away now. Leaving a vacuum. The same vacuum that was being filled all over the world by new churches with new ideas. Separatism wouldn't answer their needs, and the Catholic Church was clearly incapable of answering anyone these days. Modern countries needed something new, something that really spoke to them, something marketed in the right way, something that helped them navigate the collapsing moral universe they found themselves in now. The Catholic Church was an old institution with old ideas – no wonder it was suffering so much in Quebec. It was irrelevant, but that didn't mean that God was irrelevant, didn't mean all Churches were irrelevant. It meant just the opposite, Evan was convinced.

And if he – an ex-pot-smoker, ex-consumer of drugs and alcohol and pornography, an ex-woman-chasing bum had been convinced by the New Hope Church of Christ, then he was sure that the population of Quebec could be too. He was willing to bet his future on it. The opportunity for the right Church with the right attitude was huge. A new Church with new answers, answers built directly on the Bible. Quebec was just waiting for something like this. Look at the cults! If the Raelians, the Solar Temple found such a willing population here, surely the New Hope Church of Christ could make bigger inroads in Quebec. John Dawes and New Hope Church of Christ were offering something real, something beneficial, something that would help the people of Quebec find their way, just as it had helped Evan. They were offering the Word of God, unfiltered, straight from the Bible.

That most powerful product any salesman could hope to sell.

And even better: Quebec was a total unknown in the rest of North America. That was the real beauty of it, as far as Evan was concerned. No one knew about it, no one understood it, no one really cared, to be honest. Yet here was a captive population of six million souls, six million relatively wealthy souls, and as far as Evan knew, he was the first man with the idea to expand one of most successful church movements into the political and linguistic quagmire of Quebec. The first person ready to bring answers to this strange population that needed nothing if not answers. Maybe he wasn't the first man, he hadn't really checked that, but still he was sure there was a huge market and he would be among the first men.

Six million souls all looking for direction. And Evan, now that he had found direction, could be the man to bring it to them.

Six months after Evan joined the New Hope Church of Christ, Annabel suggested that he meet with Reverend John Dawes. Annabel was sure John would like to hear about Evan's idea for opening a chapter of the Church in Canada, and when she said this, Evan felt the old terror of disappointing someone.

He had grown up with a demanding and accomplished father, and an older brother who had excelled at sports, at school, and life beyond. Evan had a chiseled, beautiful face, and bright intelligent eyes that made people assume he was bright and intelligent, as all his family members were. When people met him, they expected great things from him. Teachers, professors, employers, lovers. But Evan wasn't very bright, he knew that, not particularly intelligent, and he had none of the talent for success that his bother had. He always ended up disappointing. Disappointing his father, of course, and his brother, his teachers. His professors, coaches, employers. Friends and lovers.

So for the past few years, certainly since his father died, he had avoided putting himself in any situations where much was expected of him. It was much easier to avoid disappointing when you avoided expectations at the start.

But since joining the Church, things were changing. He was learning to be the man that people thought he ought to be, not the boy he always felt he was.

He understood what was said to him here, why it was said, and he did his best to do what was asked of him, to follow the guidelines that had been set down in what John Dawes called the world's greatest self-help book. And he succeeded.

It was that simple, he decided, people respected him here for what he did, not who he was, and he found that comforting. He had quit drinking, he had quit drugs, both of which had cleared his head, and he was proud of that achievement. He had quit sex, even, which amazed him, and seemed to clear his head further. The congregation was proud of him. He got hearty handshakes and bright smiles from the men, and the women hugged him with such warmth, such Christian love. We're so proud of you, they said. So proud that you've found the path with us. And no one was more proud than Annabel.

I told John about you, Annabel said. He said he wants to meet you.

When Annabel took his hands and looked into his eyes, saying, John would like to hear about your ideas, Evan felt such a surge of lust – a pure pure surge that stirred his loins and made his nostrils flare – that he thought perhaps God was calling him again. Instead of answering he pulled Annabel to him, felt her breasts pressing into his chest, their soft, firm roundness like pressure on his soul, and he whispered in Annabel's ear: I've never wanted to make love to someone as much as I want to make love to you right now.

Annabel didn't answer at first, but she burrowed into him, her face pressed against his neck, kissing him. Evan realized she was shuddering, and he thought she was laughing because he'd said "make love" – Annabel didn't like the word "fuck," but it still sounded funny to Evan when he said, "make love." But Annabel wasn't laughing, she was crying, he realized, and he felt her hot sticky tears on his neck.

Why are you crying? Evan asked her softly, caressing her hair, and she pulled back from him slowly, then reached up and touched his face, a beautiful face, a face, she said, like King David. A strong face. The face of a leader.

What's wrong? Evan asked her. Why are you crying?

I'm crying because I'm so happy, she said. Evan couldn't help notice that her nipples, under her white t-shirt, were erect. He pressed her hand to his face with his own and waited for her to say more.

I can't wait till we get married, Evan. I can't wait for you to be my husband. I can't wait to be your wife.

John Dawes was in his early fifties, a little on the stout side, but fit. He had strong fleshy hands that were as smooth as a doctor's, well-groomed and cold. He spoke often of hard work in his sermons – evoking shovels and pick axes and the breaking of stones – but his hands seemed to have been well-protected from such manual labour. It was metaphysical labour he was engaged in, working up a sweat banging the pulpit, shaking hands with the congregation after worship, and in his tireless efforts to bring the word of God to the people. He wore cologne, had bright white teeth, and carried himself a bit like a tired football player, pitched forward, slow moving, but threatening to pounce in any direction.

Sit down, son, he said after shaking Evan's hand. He motioned towards a chair.

Thanks for meeting me, Evan said, Mr. Dawes. Evan stumbled a bit when he said that. Should he call him Reverend? Or was it doctor?

But John Dawes didn't seem to mind one bit. Please, he said. Call me John. John was good enough for my dad and it'll be good enough for you.

John smiled as he said this, a smile of such intensity that Evan was taken aback. He stammered a thank you, to which John responded, No, no. Thank you. You're the one should be thanked. I heard a bit about your story, from Annabel Detwiler and some of the others, and I gotta tell you, Evan, you brought joy to me. When I hear about a man such as yourself finding the Path through our little congregation, it brings no end of joy to my heart. So for that I thank you. Deeply. Now. I hear you have some interesting ideas.

What we're looking at, Evan heard himself saying, in the confident tones he remembered his private school classmates using when he was younger, is a whole population that needs something. That needs answers. With your help, I think I can bring some answers to those people. I think your Church – our Church has the answers those people need.

John smiled behind his desk and leaned forward. We don't provide answers, Evan, he said.

He wasn't scolding so much as contemplating when he said it, thinking out loud, asking Evan to join him on this intellectual journey. That's not what we do. We ask questions. And we ask people to ask questions of themselves. God provides the answers. We just show people what the Lord has to say in His book. After that it's up to them.

John Dawes glanced at the package that Evan and Annabel had prepared, the bright-coloured charts and tables of statistics, the lists of legislation and recent provincial and federal votes and court decisions, the map, the budget. But he seemed to get bored with the presentation quickly, and he waved off Evan's pitch as Evan was pointing to a graph of real estate prices in Quebec. At the dismissive flick of John's hand, Evan panicked. He didn't know what he would do if John Dawes turned him down. What would Annabel say?

Look son, John said, coming around from behind his desk, and sitting on the edge. Evan braced himself for words like: Thanks for the effort, son, but we aren't interested.

Instead, John Dawes said: I don't go in for all these numbers. All the numbers in the world won't make a bit of difference on judgment day. What I want to know is what's in your heart? He reached forward, and poked Evan in the chest. What's in your soul, Evan? You aren't in this office by accident. You didn't come to this Church by accident and you didn't meet Annabel Detwiler by accident. You and me, we are not talking about this by accident. No one lights a lamp and hides it in a jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, he puts it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? There's a reason you're here. Do you know what it is?

Evan said nothing, waited.

You're here to tell me you want to do God's work. And I'm here to tell you I want to help. Now when's the date for the wedding?

His eyes bore into Evan's and Evan thought he might burst out crying with joy.

He didn't. Instead he stood up and shook John Dawes's hand. He had his blessing, a pledge for six months training in Christian Leadership and scripture at the New Hope Academy, and $25,000 of seed money, to be matched with funds Evan expected from his inheritance, to start building a ministry in Quebec.

Evan and Annabel were married a month later.

Of the skills Evan had developed over the years, one was the ability to handle grilling by smart men intent on seeing him break. His father, a hard-reasoning, contemplative man, subjected Evan to silence from a young age, and there was nothing in the world more powerful than silence when a senior and a junior were talking. Evan remembered countless sessions in his father's study, when Cedric Hand would stare down at the little boy over his glasses, saying, I want you to think about what you've done. What do you think you should have done? Most men cracked under silence. Yet the ability to manage silence, to even inflict some himself, gave Evan an edge in situations like this. Whether or not he had any faith in himself, he knew how to set his jaw, steady his eyes, and handle silence like a man; even if he was still just a boy.

That night with Jake Detwiler, Annabel's father, he felt like a man. He had plans, plans endorsed by Dr. John Dawes, and plans for Mr. Detwiler' daughter. And so he leaned forward, when Detwiler asked him a question, held the man's eyes, and waited. He waited and waited, using every bit of strength he had, every bit of training his father and the strict teachers at his private school had given him for this moment. And finally, when Mr. Detwiler himself seemed to start to squirm, Evan said:

Your daughter helped me find Jesus, Mr. Detwiler. She helped me find the way to the Lord. For that alone I will be forever grateful. And I promise you, Mr Detwiler, I will honour her every day of my life. I may not have a very impressive past --- and here Evan felt his chiseled face and intelligent eyes did him some good and he used them to great effect, felt the tears welling just slightly, the glistening punctuating his passion and sincerity -- I may not have lived an impressive life to date, in your books, but as Jesus said: It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.

I was a sinner, Mr. Detwiler, and I have been called.

Mr. Detwiler considered this, on his veranda, and then asked, Did you play sports in school Evan?

I was quarterback in high school. And I played wide receiver in university for two years. Now we're talking Canada, here, this isn't the Big Ten. Ha ha! There wasn't any chance of me getting drafted into the NFL.

That didn't seem to matter much to Jake Detwiler, and he chuckled at Evan's joke, and Evan knew he was home free.

But I did do my time of the field at Queen's University, he said.

Evan was stretching the truth a bit here. He had been back-up quarterback in high-school, but starting slot-back. He had tried out for the football team at Queen's, got cut the first year, made it the second, but quit after a month of training and no playing time. Detwiler didn't know that, didn't need to know. And if Evan ever got challenged to a game of touch he was pretty sure his arm was in good enough shape to convince anyone.

And, Detwiler said, getting serious again, what are you going to do for money?

Well, I do have a decent inheritance, Mr. Detwiler, not millions, but it's invested well. Blue Chips. I plan to build something with this money, build something that will make you say, I'm proud that Evan Hand is my son-in-law. I'm proud of my daughter's husband. I'm planning to bring John Dawes's Church to Canada.

Is that where you're planning to bring my daughter?

Here Detwiler regained the upper hand for a moment, but the younger man was ready for this challenge and he held Detwiler' gaze for as long as it took for Jake Detwiler to start laughing. And then Mr. Detwiler squeezed Evan's shoulders, and quoted Ezekial, and the Book of Matthew.

John Dawes tells me you’re a fine boy, he said. Would you like a beer? He's got a lot of faith in you, and I trust John. He built this Church from nothing, in twenty years, and if he's got any skill, it's picking men he can trust. So if John Dawes trusts you with his Church, I'm willing to trust you with my daughter.

Evan met Annabel later that night and she cried again with happiness. She touched Evan's leg, dangerously high on his thigh, and he blushed as his body reacted. And Annabel did something she had never done before, she caressed him through his jeans. She let him touch her breasts that night and he thought he might explode. He did, into a paper towel, when he got to his little studio apartment later that evening, his future wife's virginity still intact.

They were married a few weeks later in a big, one-sided ceremony. Annabel was surrounded by family, lifelong friends, prayer companions, school acquaintances, people she had known all her life. Evan had told no one from his former life, not friends, not Julian. He was alone except for the new family he was marrying into, the family of Christ.

We’re almost there, Evan said. Ten more minutes and we'll be at the cottage.

They had just left the little Canadian town of Knowlton, and were driving now towards the cottage at Mount Echo, with farm land and forests on either side of the straight, hilly road.

I'm horny, Annabel said.

We'll be at the cottage soon.

But I'm horny now.

Hang on five minutes and we'll be there.

I don't want to hang on, she said, and she reached over and unzipped Evan's pants, stuck her hand inside and grabbed him. I'm so excited Evan, she said. This is so exciting.

Evan laughed nervously, as he tried to fend off her advances while concentrating on the road. She'd never done anything like this before. He was unsure what the Bible had to say about hand-jobs in moving vehicles on public roads, even if there was no one around to see them, and even if the hand-job participants were man and wife. He was pretty sure the Bible would not come down in their favour. He was equally sure that Reverend John Dawes would not grant New Hope Church of Christ approval to such activites. Before he realized what he was saying, he shouted: Stop!

It came out more harshly than he would have liked.

Annabel pulled her hand back and sat up straight in her seat, and Evan realized immediately that some damage control was necessary. He had just spurned a sexual advance from his wife, a public, risky sexual advance, and Evan was smart enough to know that women like Annabel didn't think much of having their advances spurned, even if this was the first moving hand-job she had ever tried to give.

Annabel, he said, to stone silence. It's just that I'm driving, it's dangerous. Still more silence. He reached over and put his hand around the back of her neck, which she allowed, which was a good thing, but the joyful adventurous atmosphere in the car had been poisoned.

They crested the hill and turned the corner on Turkey Hill Road. A red station wagon passed them, going the other direction.

You see, Evan wanted to say but didn't, how would you have felt if you were giving me a hand-job and that car passed us? Instead they sat in silence for another minute at least, Evan considering the situation, considering that Annabel was wrong to try to give him a hand-job in public – he was sure John Dawes wouldn't approve – and wrong to be angry with him when he asked her to stop. But he considered further that that line of reasoning was just going to make things worse, not better. They were about to arrive, to settle into a new project, a new life, and starting such a proposition with the tension now rife in the car wasn't a very good omen – he didn't mean omen, he didn't believe in omens of course, he meant that it wasn't really a good way to start God's work. And so he did what Jesus counseled him, or at least that's how he thought about it, and it worked. He turned the other cheek. Or at least: he apologized.

Annabel, he said. I'm sorry I snapped at you.

He was sorry and he was giving up nothing by saying so. I'm nervous about all this, you know. I'm just keen to get to the house.

He felt his wife's neck relax, she was quiet for a moment, and then she said she was sorry too, she loved Evan, she shouldn't have done what she did, she felt terrible about it, and … she would have continued talking but Evan stopped her.

Don't feel terrible, he said, just wait till we get to the house and I'll show you what I think of the whole thing.