Page 120 of Bless This Hot Mess

“I’m giving you its heart,” she said. “The legal entity is going to be chopped up and fed to lawyers and the government will take any money that’s left until it can sort through it all. But the spirit of it? The idea of a bunch of misfits in Greater Napanee sending heartfelt music and musings out over the airwaves? That’s yours now. If you want to grow it into something even better than before.”

“Would we rebuild it right here?” Ronald asked.

Emma-Lou smiled and for the first time since they’d sat down, it reached her eyes. “You know, I’ve been hearing rumours about a certain Ark in your backyard, Ronald. Something about cats and two-by-two theology. And I once heard a very persuasive argument on my own station that maybe the size and shape of Jesus’s sandals helped him to walk on water, something about surface area being equally important to consider as density.”

Ronald’s face lit up, “You think we should… broadcast from the Ark?”

“Ronald, don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re dense,” Emma-Lou smiled. “I think your voices belong somewhere noone can burn down quite so easily. A place where you can be your own bosses. A spot that’s a bit off the beaten path and in the middle of nowhere so if Ricky Martin, or No Doubt, or The Cranberries or Boyzone has a problem with one of your covers, you won’t be so easy to track down.”

“If Boyzone needs our coordinates,” Japheth began.

“We’ll be happy to send a map,” Rebekkah finished the thought.

“Pirate radio for Jesus?” Ronald considered, “I’m in!”

“FM license, highly questionable permits,” Suwarna said, eyes already refocusing on a buoyant future. “I’ll see what can be done. Or not done but plausibly denied, for your God.”

Emma-Lou slid off the desk and brushed off her coat. “I have to meet CSIS and Stanford Weinus. And probably a priest. In that order. But I needed you to know before anyone else. The Triune of tribute song singers and irreplaceable support staff. Whatever happens to me, you stay strong. Giddy-up and let God do the heavy lifting on this one. I believe in you. In all of this. In what it could become–free of a shady past and built on a solid new foundation. Or… solid water.”

They followed her out onto the sidewalk. She paused at the edge of the ruined lot, looking back one last time at what had been her parents’ life’s work and her own crucible.

Then she turned toward town, toward judgement, possibly a stay in a penitentiary but most importantly, the inner peace knowing she’d finally done the right thing. She began to sing again, voice low but carrying,

“Lay down the lies like broken oars.

Let all the dirty dollars go.

Not confused between sinners and saints,

Time to let the whole town know.

Pick up a hammer and build some bridges

Wash the stains but keep the threads

I will face the light, no more ghosts or worries,

No longer lost at sea in my own head.”

Her figure grew smaller as she moved down the street. People began to emerge from doorways, watching, listening. Someone joined in the refrain enthusiastically, though they were just now learning the lyrics. The tune was catchy though so no one complained as many were trying to whistle along as best they could. The town, which had braced itself for scandal and tragedy, found itself humming to a redemption song it did not yet fully understand, but soon would.

“I hear their laughter in the plaster,

Their prayers tucked into the town’s heart.

Though the Triangle stole my parents

Their purpose is getting a brand-new start.

Who rises when the lighthouse keepers

Vanish far from earthly sight?

Who finds a pathway in the dark

Until her courage sets a match alight?

They weren’t born to play it safe,