“Is this Holly Miller?” he said again.
I may as well light a cigarette and listen.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“Ms. Miller,” said Mr. Rhode.
Who does he think he’s talking to, my mother?
“I understand you contradicted my son when he said Aslan was Jesus.”
“Contradicted? No, I didn’t agree,” I said.
“Yes, well, the thing is, my son thinks very highly of you, and I’m thrilled to see him so engaged.That said, faith is important to us. My son and I spoke about your remarks. He told me he thought you dismissed the idea that Jesus is Aslan because you’re lost.”
Out of the mouth of a child,
I thought. “Well, he’s certainly right on that front,” I said.
“And this is why you direct so much anger at the idea of Aslan as Jesus?” said Mr. Rhode.
Why does he care?
“Trust me, God, Jesus, or whatever you want to call him, and I parted ways many years ago and continued in opposite directions. I’ve long since gotten over my anger.”
“Do you really believe that?” he said.
“What? The opposite directions or the anger?”
Come on, Holly.
I sighed. “I’m sorry to be so terse, Mr. Rhode. It’s just that I’ve been having a bad time on and off for most of my life. Right now the bad times are on. And, frankly, God’s certainly never done much to help me.”
“And you’ve asked for help?”
“Asked and been ignored enough times to stop believing in God,” I said.
“Well, if you are looking for God to solve your problems, then I’d like to suggest a different approach. A paradigm shift expanded to human experiences, if you would.” This had to be the weirdest conversation I’d ever had, but his reference to science made it hard for me to dismiss him as I had his son.
“Okay,” I said, “continue.”
“Rather than viewing God as the solution to anything, try having faith that there is something larger at work on all our behalf.Those who have faith generally find comfort, and it’s that comfort that helps them do amazing things. My son’s esteem for you makes me think that you must believe in something. Call it whatever you like,” said Mr. Rhode.
Even though he reverted back to a more existential argument, I engaged, and we debated the meaning of faith and the idea of a belief in God for twenty minutes.
Finally I said,“I still don’t buy most of what you’re saying, but
you’ve made your point, and I promise to be more respectful of your son’s beliefs.”
“Thank you, Ms. Miller.”
“Oh, you can call me Holly.”
“Thank you, Holly.”
“Just don’t send me any literature,” I said.
He laughed. “My son also said you’re funny.”
“I used to be,” I said.
“Take care of yourself, and thank you for your positive influence on my son.”
Mr. Rhode hung up and I sat in the dark thinking about what he had said. Between him and Mike, my fragile new facade was starting to show cracks.Then I thought about Peter and how much I had loved having these kinds of debates with him. And before I could stop myself, I picked up the phone again, dialed star-six-seven to disguise my number to make sure there was no trace of me just in case the call went unanswered, and then punched in the seven digits I’d spent the last seven-plus weeks trying to forget.
He answered.When I heard his voice all I felt was ambivalence.
“It’s me,” I said.
Silence.The silence transformed my ambivalence into deprivation.
“I miss you,” I whispered.
Silence. My breathing quickened.
“I miss you too,” said Peter.
I exhaled. “Can I see you?”
“How about tonight?” said Peter. I relaxed. “We can grab a bite after my class.”
I called and checked whether the emergency card could cover a bikini wax, manicure/pedicure, and dinner if I had to pay for it.
When I heard the card had no limit, I almost wanted to send the Father a thank-you note. Almost. Instead, I ran down the block to take care of outside business, then home to wash my hair and choose my outfit. I wanted to look careless and casual but also irresistible.
“You look fantastic,” said Peter, giving me an awkward hug.
Did he think I was going to look awful? That I had gotten fat? What was Pam saying to him?
“And I love those jeans on you.”
Refocusing on Peter, I said coyly, “I know.”
I flirted with Peter all through dinner. It felt as if I were someone else. Later, back in my apartment, Peter poured two glasses of wine while I put on some music. For the first time, I didn’t have to wait for the Committee to leave the room.
The bass from the stereo crawled up my legs, making me want to throw off the last vestiges of who I was. I looked at Peter. He smiled. I started dancing, running my palms slowly up my legs, across my hips as I moved closer to him. Then I tipped my head forward and took the ends of my shirt, pulling it slowly over my head. Peter looked puzzled. I threw my shirt on the floor and moved closer, removing one bra strap at a time. Then I reached behind my back, unhooked my bra, and let it drop. Peter leaned back, nodding. I undid the top button on my pants and slid the zipper halfway down. I stood right in front of him and playfully slid my finger back and forth on the top of my panties. I leaned closer and touched his top lip lightly with my tongue. Then his bottom lip. I kissed him softly as I reached down to unbuckle his jeans. I put my right knee down on one side of him and then my left knee on the other side. Straddling him, I brushed my nipples against his mouth, pulling away when he tried to catch them with his lips.Then I kissed him again, pressing harder
and harder as I slid one hand into his pants and put the other one in mine. He pulled my hand out and took over. Lifting up, he pushed me back against the couch and pulled off my jeans.When he pushed inside me, I felt numb. He brushed back my hair.With his hands on either side of my face he started to move faster, pushing harder until he came. He shook and then dropped on top of me.
“Did you?” he said. Nice of him to ask now.
“Yeah,” I said. He didn’t move, and the weight of him on top of me was crushing. It felt good. I put my arms around him and he fell asleep inside me.
When Peter woke up, he kissed me lightly and said, “You’re different somehow.” The dark room closed in on me. I felt like a flower shrinking back from too much sun.
“In a good way,” he said, touching my chin. “Yeah, I like this.”
I felt a hardening in my chest. His comment bugged me on so many levels. Maybe he really did like me regardless of my job. But then, he also liked me without my Committee, and I felt like I was nothing without my Committee. But as long as I was nothing, maybe I deserved less than nothing.
“So, what are you doing for Christmas?” I said to the ceiling.
{ 22 }
I
wore the wrong outfit to a funeral. I don’t remember who died, but I’ll never forget my mother’s displeasure over my choice of attire. Keeping my mother’s displeasure at bay was my excuse for taking Peter with me to California. I kept the part about who called whom vague.
“Whose funeral?” said Milton.
“Oh, who cares,” snapped Sarge.
“Yes, let’s talk about something else,” said Betty Jane.
“Let’s talk about the funeral,” said Ruffles.
“What did you wear, Holly?” said Milton.
Ever since I’d eaten those damn chips, Ruffles had become very pushy about unearthing the past, and Milton latched onto anything Ruffles supported. Just like that day when I had a good feeling turn bad with Mike, Ruffles’s pushing me to peruse the past felt odd and thrilling. I wanted to run, but because she pushed, I continued forward, hoping I didn’t end up with the psychological equivalent of taping a phone recording for a business.
“I was six and a half, and I thought the world should be purple,” I said.
My father, who left me to dress myself, was to blame for my funeral fashion faux pas that day. I chose everything purple in my wardrobe—socks, underwear, velvet hip huggers with bell-bottoms and a drawstring fly, and a sweater. My choice of shoes were toe-biting black Mary Janes or bright blue clogs with a tiny red heart on the outside edge.You can guess which shoes I picked. It didn’t matter, because by the time my father presented me, he’d already dulled the day with his standard whiskey and cigarettes. Not even my mother’s wrath penetrated that protective armor.
“Look at her.” She swept my outfit with her hand as if to wipe away my clothing blight. My mother always behaved as if I wore purple to spite her, but this time it definitely was the clogs that caused the deepest offense. “My daughter in bohemian clothes, clashing colors, and wooden shoes at a funeral. People will think we can’t afford to dress our children properly.”
My father was saved by the priest, who interrupted and said, “We’re ready for the family now.”
Sarah took my hand and said, “Holly, come on.”
My mother sat in the front pew next to her sisters and other family members. My aunt motioned to Sarah to come to their pew. Sarah shook her head fiercely and shoved me into the second pew right behind them. She pressed her body into the wooden corner where the side, bench, and back all met. I sat near her with my legs dangling impishly.
Organ music began to play. Everyone stood and turned. My father and uncle walked up the center aisle carrying something. The church filled with plaintive notes and muffled sobs. I smelled frankincense mixed with wax when I climbed up on the pew. My clogs clacked on the wood. I raised my arm and waved hard at my
father and uncle. My aunt reached over and tried to pull my arm down. I leaned away from her and kept waving.
“Let her do it,” Sarah whispered angrily.
The procession passed slowly by our pew. I waved harder. My father and uncle ignored me. My grandfather walked behind my uncle. Someone was opposite him. On their shoulders was a doll-sized casket. My aunts’ husbands walked behind the procession of four. They lifted the small white box up in the air and placed it gently on the gurney set up at the front of the church altar.The music stopped.
“You may be seated,” said the priest.
The church filled with the noise of people dropping down heavily. Sarah pulled me down and tucked me back into the corner of the pew.The priest started speaking. People crossed themselves, stood up, sat down, then stood up again.
“Holly?” I rolled my eyes up, straining to see inside my head. Two people—a man and a boy with a blurred face—had been in there for three days now. I called them the Silent One and the Boy because the man had not said a word since he had appeared and the boy seemed to be afraid of everything or crying.Today at least he’d stopped crying.
My dangling legs swung back and forth under the pew. On a forward swing, my clog flew off, hit the back of the pew in front of us, and fell to the floor. Like most old-style European churches, the acoustics were very good. And my clog drop was well-timed with a moment of silent prayer.
I sat frozen like a statue. The offending clog lay on its side, barely concealed by the pew in front of me. My mother whipped her head around, glaring. The heads in front of us lifted and then dropped again. My mother pointed at my shoe and hissed, “Put that back on and sit still.”
My mother’s standard method of imposing good behavior in
church was to grip a small bit of my upper arm between her sharp red nails and then twist. If I made one peep, she would twist harder. Even at my age, I knew how to mute cries of pain. I shrank back, relieved that she couldn’t reach my arm.
When my mother turned again, I slid my body forward and reached for my shoe with a pointed toe.When my foot met the clog, it flipped upright, making a light tap on the marble. I slowly moved back to the bench, keeping my foot flexed so as not to lose my shoe again.
While the priest droned, I tried to follow the story in the stained glass windows on the opposite wall. I concentrated on my favorite—the one where a bloody-headed Jesus dragged a cross anchored over his bent back.The congregation shifted forward to the kneeling position again. I concentrated on Jesus. In my head the Silent One carried the Boy in a piggyback ride. I giggled. Sarah elbowed me.
“Holly, let me out,” said the Boy.
The last few days nobody had paid attention to me except to tell me to go play, or sit still on the sofa. Last night when I closed my eyes I felt myself drift backward. I didn’t understand what I was doing, but it helped pass the still hour on the sofa, and it was definitely more interesting than watching the whispering people eat crackers and sip wine.
As I slipped forward to my knees I whispered, “Okay.” I watched as my arms pulled the offertory envelopes from the box that held the songbooks. The Silent One shook his head sadly. Then I tasted the sharp glue of the envelope seal. My thumbs pulled away and the envelopes drifted, seal up, onto the pew before me. After a while, the pew was littered with envelopes.
“Please be seated,” said the priest.
The Boy ceded control back to me.
The priest spoke for a few more minutes. People stood, shook
hands, knelt, and then finally filed to the altar for communion. Even though it had been explained to me many times, I still didn’t understand why people ate Jesus. I had nightmares about the body of Jesus sliced up into little wafers. What alarmed me most was,What would happen when the body of Jesus ran out? If I used my father as a measure, his body could be sliced into a lot of paper-thin disks that would last our church about a year. A year was not forever. Jesus was going to run out. Then what? I vowed never to eat Jesus. At least he would last a little longer if I abstained.
My mother stood before the priest. She tilted her bowed head up and opened wide to consume Jesus. I felt sick.
“Holly,” said the Boy. “Look.” He pointed from my head to my mother’s dress.The offertory envelopes hung on her butt like too many earrings. I sniggered into my sticky fingers. As my mother made the slow traverse back to her seat, my aunt pulled off one of the envelopes and whispered, “Elizabeth,” as she showed it to her.