Killing Doctor Jon: Jon's Trilogy, #3

Chapter 1: Doctor Jon

Old Town,

Alexandria, Virginia

Tuesday evening, May 27, 2008

Oh, God … Jon—no, I absolutely will not marry you.

Excuse me?

The Tuesday following Memorial Day was a slow night at Sumalee’s Thai. They almost had the small place to themselves. One other couple ate at a table on the far end of the floor, and the attentive staff made regular rounds. Sumalee herself had already been by to ask if everything was to their liking. Up until now, it had been.

Mary Kelly settled back into her chair. Even she was unsure if the look on her face was one of amusement or annoyance. She was wearing the other Little Black Dress this time, the one built for speed. Between them on the tablecloth sat a small box with a diamond ring, simple and beautiful, sparkling with the reflection of the overhead light.

For one thing, I’ve known you for … what? It’s been seven weeks now. In that short amount of time, you’ve had two different sets of people try to kill you—and me too! Does that seem like a good sales pitch for a life together? What’s next?

"Life’s next, Mare. Good times, bad times. The whole thing, with someone you can trust to love you all the way through, from now until the end."

I trust you absolutely, Jon. I love you too, you know. You’re a good friend, whatever else we might be. She paused. But there are things I still don’t know about you. Those things are really important to me.

So ask, Anthony invited, also settling back into one of Sumalee’s chairs.

It’s not a quiz show, big boy. Some things need to be shown instead of told.

Such as?

Well, for one thing, sexual compatibility, Mary asserted. Despite my best efforts, I still haven’t gotten you into the sack. Do you expect me to sign on for a lifetime cruise with someone who may or may not know what he’s doing in bed?

Is a gunshot wound a good excuse?

"Oh, buddy, don’t use the ‘but I've got a fresh gunshot wound’ excuse. I’ve gone out with guys who would have wanted sex after a fresh amputation. She paused. With you, it’s something else."

Yes, Jon agreed, "it’s commitment. I’m not going to spend some of the most important emotional capital I have on someone who isn’t worthy of it again. I went down that road once, and it hurt. But I trust you, Mare. You’re smart and strong and alive, and one of the bravest women I can imagine. If you’ve wanted to go all the way with someone—not just for a night, but for a lifetime—I’m ready. If you need to think about it some more, close the box. But don’t close the lid on us. What we’ve already been for each other deserves more."

Mary leaned forward. Yes it does. And so far you’re the only guy who’s ever stopped me from going there.

Sumalee came over with a pitcher each of water and iced tea, refilling their glasses. She spied the ring sitting between their dessert plates. Oh, you kids! You two get married now? she asked.

She’s deciding, ma’am, Jon said, smiling.

Sumalee hefted her pitchers once again. Oh, honey, you think about it. I remember you two from before. He eats all his food, and he leaves good tip. I see him open doors for you. You no have to worry about man like him.

Mary smiled at her. Thanks, Sumalee. Are you married?

Yes, long time. He still not opening doors. You could do worse. The woman bustled away, moving across to the other couple to top off their beverages as well.

"We’re real close to a consensus here," Anthony offered with a grin.

It’s not horseshoes, Jon Boy. Sell me.

What’s the worry, Mary? I mean, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance it’s going to fit.

Oh really, she said, knowing he was not talking about the ring.

OK, ninety-five.

"Jon, it’s not a joke. I’m not like you. I can turn into a real bitch if I go too long, and if we don’t cut it together I won’t be able to live with the mistake."

Do you know how to take pleasure from a man?

Oh, buddy, you have no idea.

"Then you want a man who’s about giving rather than taking. Who knows a woman’s pleasure is where real lovemaking can be found. That his own is inevitable, and hers is the only really worthwhile goal."

You’re getting warmer, Mary admitted. Me too, actually, she thought.

Jon was looking into her eyes. "Come on board, Mary. All I can tell you is that I think things through, beginning to end. Everything, everywhere, all the time. I’ve thought about what kind of husband I could be for the right woman. It’s now I’ve seen someone who would fit right into every imagining. Make it real for me."

Mary glanced at the ring. It was simple, perfect and beautiful. She decided to let fate take the helm. She held out her left hand. Tell you what, Jon. If it fits, you have a deal. If not, I get to think about it.

Jon grinned. Deal, he said, plucking the ring out of its slot and taking her hand.

Fit, she willed. It slipped on with just the right amount of resistance at the knuckle. Damn. He’s good.

Marry me? he asked her again.

Oh, Jon. I will. Get the check, and then let’s go home.

He nodded in understanding and left her to go to the till. Sumalee stood there already with a broad smile on her face.

Mary looked at the ring on her finger. The stone looked like it belonged there. No more excuses, Doctor Jon. Tonight I’m doing the teaching, she thought.

Britteridge College,

Sheffield, Maryland

Two years later

"Jon, your students’ class evaluations from second semester are once again simply stellar. We’ve had enough enrollees sign up for Comparative Religion 205 in summer session that it’s been moved to the Rotunda." Doctor Mills sat back in his chair, looking well pleased.

Dr. Stephen Mills headed the Britteridge College Department of Theological Studies. This same office had once witnessed the nadir of Anthony’s postgraduate experience:  his initial dreams of achieving a doctorate being ground into dust under the bootheel of political correctness. Today, things were different. Once his mentor, Mills now sat as his department head. Anthony was no longer a student but a faculty member of the prestigious Ivy League institution.

It had not been long after he and Mary announced their engagement that Mills offered him a slot. There had been a lot to do in rebuilding a department’s staff devastated by the 2008 suicide bombing. Theological Studies was, however, again up to speed, and the campus had normalized in record time. Neither one of the men had regretted a moment of their arrangement since.

Doc, surely I’m not filling a Rotunda classroom in summer session? Anthony asked, feeling amazed.

"Oh, no, Jon, I didn’t say filling. However, the class is over capacity for Roberts Hall, if only just. And your drop rate doesn’t push me toward taking any chances."

Well, sir, I’ll do my best for them.

Mills studied one of the evaluations in front of him. "Jon, I don’t mean to embarrass you, but you seem to inspire your students to write the most glowing reviews I’ve ever seen. These are love letters. I expect a sonnet to show up in the stack one of these times."

"Oh, man. I just teach, Doc. There’s a lot of give-and-take all the time. Sometimes it seems to be something they enjoy and sometimes it isn’t. But together, we always manage to make it a conversation."

Mills put the sheet of paper back onto the stack. "Whatever you’re doing, Jon, keep doing it. I like it, and the Dean likes it, and there’s no doubt your students like it."

I will, sir. Promise. Jon grinned at the praise.

Doctor Adams also talked to me about handing off the mandatory Islamic Perspective seminar to you before he goes on sabbatical. Mills leaned back and removed the reading glasses from his nose.

Anthony’s face lost its smile. Oh, sir … I’m honored, really, but—

Mills nodded. I know, I know, Jon. I have the same concerns. Not that it reflects on your ability or viewpoint at all, but given your history here, we probably don’t want to go this direction. Kathy Osleen has agreed to handle it instead.

I completely agree, sir. Anthony’s relief was visible. Doctor Osleen’s a great choice.

Hesitating, Dr. Mills inquired, There’s been no more trouble in your life from that part of the world, I hope?

None whatsoever, sir.

Well, Jon, hopefully it will remain the case. Is there anything I can do for you as we start the summer?

I’m good, sir. Thanks for asking.

"Thank you, Jon. It’s a pleasure to have you on my staff. Mills’ expression was undeniably genuine. If anything should come up, please do let me know."

Anthony rose, grinning again. I surely will, Doctor. Thanks again.

Three weeks later, Anthony was standing in front of another group of students. It was the first day of his flagship course, Comparative Religion 205. The stadium seats of the wedge-shaped classroom were numerous enough for his students to spread out comfortably. This time, there were a few more than thirty. The number of enrollees surprised Anthony, just as it always seemed to.

He attributed the substantial attendance to his lingering celebrity from events two years past. A prerequisite only for Theological Studies undergrads, CR205 remained popular. Anthony’s reputation on campus was good, and the course was becoming a common choice for elective study. His lectures were smooth and his required readings considerate of a student’s time. In addition, Anthony always did his best to review before exams. Those who did their part would fare well in his class, and their professor continually delighted in seeing it happen.

Good morning, class. I’m Jon Anthony, your instructor for Comparative Religion 205, which is where you’re sitting in case some of you were wondering.

There was the usual mix of Britteridge attendees:  young men and women, older-than-average adults returning from the working world, and foreign students. As they all watched, he fired up the projected display listing the links to the class syllabus and schedule on the Britteridge Intranet. Laptop keyboards clicked as they navigated to the class vitals.

Anthony returned his eyes to them as they finished bookmarking the pages. Let me give you just a brief overview to start us off. You, sir, right there on the aisle. Comparative Religion 205—what do you expect?

The student looked confused and then grinned. Religions? Compared? There was a smattering of chuckles around the room.

Anthony grinned himself. "Hey, you guys are smart, he said. More laughter sounded. You sum it up pretty well. We want to do more here, though. This is a class about thinking. There are other classes where you can go for rote memorization. I’m more interested in teaching a person how to think instead of what. Here, we will examine how people across time and across the world managed to answer some of the most foundational questions in their lives. Those questions and answers are essential. This means they embed deep into a person’s core personality, and as we’ll find out, do so whether or not they are deliberately addressed."

Anthony was gratified to see all of them paying attention. "Everything and everyone, you see, has a beginning, a middle part and an end—every story, every life, and every undertaking. We all get from here to there, and the route taken depends on the perspective of the actor. Differing perspectives have predictably differing routes. Decisions—based on the information at hand—are what determine those routes. Moreover, those choices are what eventually produce history. This is why we want you to understand perspectives, especially those which are so foundational."

Intellectual lights were coming on in the seats in front of him. He had made his point. He could not avoid feeling the high, every time. Already, he had made a difference for them. It was a familiar feeling. It had convinced him the front of a classroom was where he had always belonged.

ForwardNews Studios,

Manhattan, New York City

Rita Schwartz hustled with an armful of hard copy down the hall toward the corner office. The world was turning digital, but it was still handy to be able to spread out preparatory materials and get a visual on the segments making up the layout of the television show. As a producer, Rita was part of a team who segment by segment made the news commentary broadcast happen. It was a tough job, and ForwardNews was in the big leagues. The network was a venue leaving particularly little room for error.

Though she was the last one to arrive, she was still ahead of schedule. Deb would be able to start right on time. Rita thanked heaven.

Rita, there you are, Deborah Vosse said with a smile.

Rita gave her a self-conscious grin. "Sorry—paper jam in the copier. I got everything though." She began placing the layout on the conference table, roughing out the segments of the show in piles of research documents. Ordinarily, the writers and Deborah would get it all knocked together in a matter of an hour, give or take fifteen minutes.

Deb, are you really going to highlight the UC seminar the President’s pastor gave this week? Is it going to be helpful given the political climate right now? a writer asked her from the opposite end of the table.

"Helpful, Rob? When did we stop being journalists and start being helpers?" Vosse’s smile faded a bit.

The writer, one of the new ones, seemed taken aback. Sorry, Deb, I just—

I know, Rob. And most of the time here at FN you’d be right. But this is a news show, not a cheerleading competition. The Reverend espoused some fairly outrageous and prejudicial ideas, and we’re going to comment on them. We’ll have some back-and-forth in the segment with a couple guests on this one. If any of the higher-ups don’t like it, I will handle them.

We got a confirmation from Doctor Jon again, Deb, Rita interjected. A derisive snort came from the end of the table. Deb glanced his way, and the warning registered. Rita felt little, cold pricklies rise on the skin of her arms. Someone down there was playing with fire.

Thanks, Rita. We’re always glad to have Doctor Anthony back, Vosse said coolly, especially when the discussion is going to involve the religious climate.

Deb, I don’t understand your connection with the guy. He’s a fundy freak, the same news copy hack opined.

"Rob, he’s here for balance. He says what he thinks on the first try, he doesn’t stutter, and he doesn’t talk over other guests. E-mail consistently runs five to three for having him back. That’s good enough for me. If good enough for me is good enough for you, you may have more of a future here."

Yes, ma’am. I didn’t mean—

Deb leaned back, waving him off. No, Rob. That came out a little stronger than I meant it to. I apologize. Nevertheless, I value Jon’s honesty and his articulation, even if his opinion doesn’t fit into most of what this network is about. He’s a guest. Treat him like one.

Sorry, Deb. I just can’t believe you ever had him back.

Vosse smirked. Me either. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the news biz, it’s the conclusion you should surprise yourself every once in a while.

Rita finished arranging the stacks of papers and photos. The woman took her place to Deb’s right.

Thank you, Rita. Vosse straightened. Let’s get started, shall we? She gave her producer a little smile.

Rita smiled back at her boss, liking the New Deb better. Rita remembered Jon Anthony’s first appearance on The Deborah Vosse Hour. It had been her idea. Her career was lucky to have survived.

By Friday, Jon Anthony was again in New York. It was becoming a regular event. For Mary, it was now enough of a routine activity that—more often than not—she no longer accompanied him. This time she had some work to do on the house, she had said. His wife had not elaborated; it was OK with him. Generally, the nails drove in straighter when she was the one doing the pounding.

There was no avoiding the role of a public figure after the spring of 2008, so he had settled into the part. His area of expertise was interfaith relations. Jon found the opportunity to espouse his message via the cable shows had developed the same appeal as teaching. Ideas, of course, had the potential to change lives. Presenting his precepts made him feel as if he served a purpose whether it was to a classroom half full of Britteridge students or a half-million television viewers. It was the same rush:  he spoke, and when he did, others would listen.

It had been five weeks since Jon’s last television appearance, one on the Eagle Network. Commentary had, he thought, turned into a nice sideline. Anthony had good relationships with several popular anchors including rivals Deb Vosse and Danny O’Brien. The pay made it worth Jon’s while to catch a commuter flight up from Baltimore for a day or so once or twice a quarter. Timing his appearances carefully, producers kept him familiar but avoided overexposure.

So, once more he sat on the comfortable leather upholstery in the Green Room for the studio of The Deborah Vosse Hour. With him was a former senator from Connecticut, author of a book on women in government, who would follow him after his own segment wrapped. Anthony knew her to be a very liberal person. It probably was why, beyond a polite greeting, she had nary a word to say to him as they waited. It was typical behavior with many of Vosse’s guests here at ForwardNews.

Words are where it all begins, he thought. People digested information all of the time and then applied judgment through the filter of their perspective. The accuracy of perspective was paramount, and he always tried to relate the fact in his message. What was real had always been real … and would ever remain so.

A flawed perspective might prosper for a time, he knew, but only to the extent its adherents were able willingly to ignore contradictory evidence. Communication with integrity was the medium of worthwhile ideas, and such ideas were the basis for productive action. Those actions resulted in the neighborhoods in which people lived, the local governments serving them, and the state and national assemblies representing them. Delusion only poisoned the processes of any system in which people tolerated folly.

Dr. Jon Anthony put up with the loss of anonymity imposed by a modicum of celebrity for the sake of the quality of nationally syndicated discussions. He was not a politician; he was a teacher, and the ideas he promoted were the most vital he could imagine. He could not conceive of doing otherwise. Life was far too short to advocate anything less than the truth.

After knocking, one of Vosse’s people, Rita, opened the panel and stuck her head through the doorway to the Green Room. Doctor Anthony, are you ready?

Yeah, sure, Anthony said, grinning. Here we go again, he thought. He glanced at his companion. Have a good evening, Senator.

She actually smiled as he rose and headed for the door. And you, Doctor Jon.

Chapter 2: Reduction to Essence

We’re back, Vosse said into the camera a moment after the director’s finger pointed straight at her to bring them out of the short break. Still with us in-studio tonight as we discuss the political-religious climate is Doctor Jon Anthony of Britteridge College. She swiveled her chair toward him. Jon, enough talk about national issues for once. Can I say you are looking well?

And you, Deborah. Life’s been good, Anthony offered.

We’ve been seeing you quite a bit on ‘The Other Channel.’ We try not to hold it against you of course, she added with a smile.

Antony smiled in return. Danny always tells me to pass along his good wishes.

I bet he does. Seriously, though, Jon, you have drawn quite a little following across the country, you know. Has celebrity changed anything in your personal life?

Life is what it is, Deb. I try not to think about what it should or should not be … except when I’m thinking deliberately, of course. I sometimes wish I could take a vacation back to obscurity. I’m certainly not addicted to the limelight yet.

The anchor nodded in understanding at Jon’s tone. You’re someone who generates strong opinions. Some in my line of work consider you a philosophical throwback.

In mine too, Deborah.

Why is that, do you think?

Anthony shrugged. My only explanation is that my own opinions are as strong. I like to think it’s because my framework is conceptually complete. Once logical attacks are marginalized, there’s nothing left to sustain passionately engaged critics but emotion.

You’re still regarded as a heretic by some Middle Eastern elements, Deb observed.

I imagine they do, and wrongly. There’s no shortage of emotion in their part of the world either.

Which is the greater gulf, the political divide in this country or the cross-cultural gap between the West and Islam?

There’s not as much difference as one would think, Anthony said, for a moment looking thoughtful. "I do what I can to try and present valid points of view wherever I find them. It is vital, really, if my objective is the discovery of truths. My goal is to understand a broader perspective. The cross-cultural interconnection of humanity makes up the fabric of what God is doing in the world, right now, today. If you concentrate on commonalities, you find the connections. It may be a similar attitude in our own country could best determine the direction we all will take as a nation."

Vosse nodded, asking her follow-up. Which is more powerful, truth or perspective, do you think?

Truth, unquestionably.

Why?

"It’s because we live in a world of actualities, Deborah. Actions have predictable consequences. Attitudes evolve and culture changes, but the natural laws of consequence remain as a constant in the background. We can discover those by linking truth to truth, and build a framework of what we know to be real. This happens only if our objective is actually the discovery of truths rather than the propagation of the beliefs which make us most comfortable. Truths, he pointed out, do not suffer from inspection."

The parable of the house built on sand? Vosse asked with a smile.

Of course, Anthony laughed. "Very good, Deb! The result, you see, is a system of belief becoming simpler as it progresses. Clarity of vision arises of a Creation unimaginably complex. I call it ‘reduction to essence,’ where we stop believing and start seeing. The valid precepts of all the great religions are found there … because things real have always been real, and are just as they will always remain."

"It’s somewhat amazing you still remain, Jon, after the number of Islamist assassination attempts you’ve survived. You say your beliefs accommodate theirs, yet they’ve tried to kill you … how many times now?"

Six.

Why do you think it is?

Anthony answered her as one who had thought the question through already. I’m a threat because I question the validity of hierarchies some cultures view as the sole outlet to The Word and Will of God. There is power found in exclusivity, and power is a comfort to the insecure. It’s a scary thing to realize one’s mortality, Deb. One trip through this life constitutes a pass-fail test, and the stakes are Heaven or Hell. Such leads to doctrinal rigidity in those unconvinced of the power of God’s love for the entirety of His children.

And we aren’t feeling a lot of love from radical Islamists these days, Vosse said, her hand resting beneath her chin as it did whenever she was listening intently.

Islam is indeed doctrinally rigid. They are deeply concerned with the intact transmission of their faith from generation to generation and are universal in their goals. The concept of freedom of religion is rather foreign to the Muslim. Their perspective does not accommodate the idea.

And they see your invalidation of their mind-set as a serious threat.

"I wouldn’t say invalidation. Nevertheless, Islam is only part of what God is doing as He works today. Judaism is also and Christianity most of all. We are different textures of thread in the same grand tapestry."

As, I assume, you would assert are the liberal and the conservative viewpoints in the U.S.

I would tend to agree, Deborah.

"If I can get personal for a moment, I confess I worry about you, Jon. You say things like this out of honesty, but in the Muslim world, you’re portrayed as more of a blasphemer each time. Given the number of