Authors: Vestal McIntyre
Liz put her fist to her hip impatiently and rolled her eyes. Then she gestured toward the joint, which had gone dead in the ashtray. “That stuff causes impotence, you know.”
“So they say, but my experience proves otherwise.” Winston began grinding his pelvis.
Liz grimaced and turned. Before she mounted the stairs, she heard Jay say to Winston, “You’re a fucking retard.” Of all of Winston’s friends, he was the least moronic.
Abby, at this moment, was with her father, taking one of their long walks along the lakeshore. It was the time in the evening when the lake glowed as brightly as the sky, and the trees created a mottled, black border between them. Curled beech leaves crunched underfoot, and the pop of a shotgun sounded, then echoed, causing the starlings that loaded a tree to take flight, rising like bubbles released upon the opening of a pop bottle.
“Pheasant season,” said Chuck, in answer to Abby’s unasked question.
She nodded. Then, after a moment, she said, “I miss Mom.”
“I know, sweetie.” Chuck reached over and put his hand to his daughter’s head, then let it fall to her shoulder. “Would you like to go down there next weekend?”
“Is that all right?”
“Of course it is, Abby. I’ll call tomorrow and reserve you a plane ticket.”
“Do you want to come, too?”
“No, I’ve got work. I just went. I’ll go down with you for Thanksgiving. I’ve already spoken to your mom about it.”
“All right.”
Somehow they had lost the trail. They walked through tall grass so thick and stiff it went up their pant legs and pierced their socks, then they stopped at the edge of the park to remove foxtails. This park was empty; the cement-and-plank picnic tables were bare and peeling. Concrete ramps led down into the water where, in the summer, people eased their motorboats in the lake for waterskiing. In spring the lake contained runoff from the faraway mountains, and was clear. But by the time the water was warm enough for swimming, it was also thick with green algae, a bloom caused by fertilizer washed from the fields into the creeks that fed the lake. “Frog nog,” Mr. Padgett, Liz’s father, liked to call it. It could give you hives.
The Padgetts owned a boat, and Abby had been out on it many times. She liked to lie on the bow and hold the rail, letting the wind whip her hair, as Liz’s brother, Winston, and his friends water-skied—friends such as Jay Cortez, an unskilled but fearless water-skier who crashed through the wake but refused to let go, often returning to the boat with pink water-burns across his ribs. Strange, that a boy like Jay could have such a gentle younger brother.
“I’m helping Lina’s son with a science-fair project,” Abby said.
“Jay?”
“No, Enrique.”
“Smart kid?”
Abby nodded vigorously, but her eyes became desperate with the awareness of another emotion overwhelming her. It won, that image that was always vying for her attention, of her mother telling her with clinical coldness in her eyes (although she held her hand tight), “It’s renal cancer, Abby, kidney cancer. It’s not good.”
Abby’s face crumpled; she was crying. They stopped and Chuck wrapped his arms around her. “I know, Abby. It’s too hard. We weren’t made for this.”
They stood awhile, then Abby wiped her face with her hands, and they walked on.
The mention of Enrique had, in Chuck, brought on a brief rush of thoughts of Lina. It was like, in the shower, when the warm water finally kicks in. “Why don’t you tell me about this kid’s science project?” he said.
And she did.
I
t had been with mixed pride and shame that Lina said in confession that first time, “I slept with a married man.”
There had been a long pause. This was quite a departure from the unkind thoughts and foul language Lina usually confessed.
“That’s a very serious sin. You’ve broken the sixth commandment,” Father Moore said.
“I know, Father.”
“Is this a one-time fall?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Will you be in a situation with this man again? A situation of temptation?”
“Oh, no.”
“Seven Hail Marys and seven Our Fathers.”
But the next week, Lina said it again—quickly this time, like a child who believes a swift admission might diminish the crime and avert a spanking. “I slept with a married man . . .”
Father Moore, who had never before addressed her by name in the confessional, said, “Lina, not again!”
“. . . twice.”
“Lina, you’ve got to stop this. It’s not right. It’s a very dangerous sin.”
“I know, Father. I’m weak. I tol’ myself not to do it again, and then I did it.”
Father Moore counseled her on ways to guide her mind back onto the path of righteousness and entreated her to avoid being alone with the man at all costs. Finally his voice softened, and he said, “Pray for strength, my child, and I’ll pray for you.”
“What is my penance?”
“Twenty Hail Marys and twenty Our Fathers. Consider the wife, Lina.”
For a moment Lina thought he meant the Blessed Virgin, but then—oh, yes, the
wife
, Sandra. “Thank you, Father,” she said.
Neither Lina nor Chuck had been able to mention Sandra’s name to that point. She had been staying with her parents in Salt Lake City, and Lina assumed that divorce was not far off. Maybe they were waiting for Abby to graduate, so she wouldn’t have to endure the talk of the kids at school. But Lina didn’t ask for details. The idea of Chuck as a divorced man alternately thrilled and scared her.
“I think she’ll be back on Tuesday,” Chuck muttered as they lay together one afternoon that week.
Lina nodded and allowed a few minutes for the woman’s mention to fade. Then she carefully wrapped the sheet around her and sat up. Chuck pulled it away. “Stop it!” she hissed.
Chuck roughly yanked away the rest of the sheet and pulled Lina back onto the bed. She went to cover herself, but Chuck took her shoulders, turned her toward him, and cupped her face in his hands. “Do you know, Lina,” he said, “that I love every inch of your body, that every part of you thrills me?”
Lina said, “Stop it. I’m not some kid. You don’ have to say those things to me.”
“It’s true, Lina. I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I love to see you naked. You’re absolutely beautiful.”
“You’re lying,” Lina said. But she felt, deeply, that he wasn’t. She could hardly believe it, as fat as she was, but Chuck did adore her completely and without reservation. And she wished she could say the same of herself. She liked Chuck, he was in her thoughts all day long, she might even be coming to love him, but those wisps of hair on the part of his back where wings would attach disgusted her, and there was sometimes an eggy smell about him that turned her stomach.
When she went to leave that afternoon, a car was pulling into the driveway next door, so Lina waited until it disappeared into the garage. She turned to Chuck, who was standing behind her, and said, “I can’t keep parking in the driveway. Your neighbors know I don’ clean your house this often.”
Chuck shrugged.
“Maybe you don’ care, but I do! We’ve got to stop this,” said Lina, feeling tears rise. “We’re breaking the sixth commandment. I’m rushing through my houses to come over here. It’s no good. Mrs. Hood got after me. She could tell I didn’t vacuum.”
Chuck took her in his arms. His voice was very gentle. “Tell Mrs. Hood to vacuum her house herself.”
Lina laughed through her tears and swatted his shoulder. “You think it’s funny, but I have to make a living.”
Chuck hesitated, then said, “I could—”
“Don’t you dare,” said Lina. “Don’t even say it.”
Chuck realized that Lina thought he was going to offer her money. This hadn’t occurred to him. Having never been poor, he had no concept of the terror of collection agencies or the humiliation of food stamps. He was barely aware that things like these existed. Poor people, in his mind, simply lived in smaller houses. What he was going to offer was that Lina park in the garage next time. He didn’t correct her, though. Savoring her anger, Chuck held her closer and felt the aching pulse of a returning erection. If he couldn’t be that crass man who would offer her money, he could at least let her believe that he was.
As Lina cleaned the Sheltons’ house the next day, she thought of her afternoons with Chuck, turning her favorite moments like jewels in the light. When he was on top of her, he liked to take her face in his hands and hold it and stare into her face, unaware of the lost expression on his own. Never had she been treasured like this. Then she admonished herself:
It’s so stupid; it’s so wrong
. Then she fell back to remembering how sometimes, lost in the pleasure and in her, he’d bite his lip, trying to get it just right.
Back and forth, it filled her day.
When she finished the Sheltons’ and went out to her car, there, on the driver’s seat, sat a gift box. She looked around and quickly got in. She drove out of the subdivisions far into the fields and pulled over near an irrigation ditch. A magpie dipped its Popsicle-stick tail to slow its flight, and lit on a cattail where it bobbed back and forth like a metronome. The box was covered with white velvet and tied with a red ribbon—the type of box that could hold expensive jewelry. She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside was another box, a small plastic one with a circular button on the top, the type of button people in the movies pushed to make something explode. She took out this little box, careful not to touch the button, then realized: it was an automatic garage-door opener. Underneath there was a note that said, “5:30?”
That week, Father Moore refused to give her penance. “Twice? Again? Lina, you must stop. There is no penance this week. Be strong. Stop doing this.”
It frightened Lina not to do penance. Wouldn’t the sin sit on her soul? She thought of her father with his bent back and staggering walk—results of having lived his life under the weight of his sin. She did the previous week’s penance over again. Sandra returned. Lina didn’t see Chuck that week, so in her next confession she allowed herself a false sense of virtue. She had very little to report.
T
HE BASEMENT OF
Murphy Nazarene was wallpapered with a print meant to look like pine paneling. But it was so old that it had turned gray and begun to peel away at the corners. Connie stopped herself from judging. Did she prefer the pastel-painted walls and chrome fixtures of her church? No, it was vanity—she said so to herself every Sunday. The measure of a church was its congregation, not its house, and on this Wednesday evening Murphy Nazarene was full of life. There had been a potluck dinner of lasagna, homemade biscuits, and Jell-O salad, then the kids had been wrangled into their various youth groups. The men were having a special outing at a bowling alley down the road, and the women now occupied the main rec room. The comforting sound of dishes being washed came from the adjoining kitchen as Connie helped Bill set up the slide projector. The women sipped coffee, pinching together the tiny paper wings that served as handles on the disposable cups, as they waited for the presentation to begin.
Connie trembled a little in the light of all this attention. This group was far larger than the Dorcas Circle. But, then again, First Church in Eula had six or seven different women’s groups to accommodate the varying ages and interests of the congregation. There was the Esther Circle for college-age girls; the Rebecca Circle for young mothers; Pet Outreach, a group of middle-aged women who worked with a youth group, taking pets to nursing homes; and the Knit Wits, a group of seniors who listened to inspirational books-on-tape while doing needlework.
There was also the divorcées’ support group. This had been formed during a time when Connie had been serving as a deaconess. She had opposed its formation. It was one of the few times she spoke out at a meeting of the board of deacons. In his teachings Christ himself had made strict prohibitions against divorce, she said. It seemed part of the group’s purpose to help these women find new husbands. To Connie this was tantamount to establishing a group within the church whose purpose was to facilitate adultery among its members. The other deacons and deaconesses sat in a silence of anger and guilt. Several of them had been divorced and remarried. It was a sobering speech, but a necessary one, and no one rose to rebut it—no one could have; Connie was too obviously correct. But they had gone ahead and voted the divorcées’ support group into existence, along with a corresponding men’s group, which then never really got off the ground, as it seemed that men either quickly remarried after a divorce or left the church.
Connie had, she felt, been proved right over the years, as the divorcées’ support group, under the name of Naomi Circle, became a large, energetic group devoted more to gossip than prayer. Members of the circle who were unaware of Connie’s opposition to its existence had invited Connie to their events, and Connie had politely declined. It seemed pathetic for these women to revel in their sin. One year, they arrived at the church picnic, late and en masse, all wearing floral-printed dresses they had bought at the same store. The congregation had erupted into laughter and then applause. “Let the party begin,” said an old man at Connie’s table who had tucked his napkin into his collar, like a child. Connie shuddered. It really was like the arrival of the whores.
Connie was more than happy to remain the one member of the Dorcas Circle without a husband at home.
“Thank you, Connie,” said Bill quietly once the projector had been adjusted and an image of the African savanna appeared on the screen. The tiny fan inside the projector whirred and sent a warm air into the faces of Connie and Bill. “I guess you could take a walk or get some coffee if this bores you.”
“Never,” Connie said. “I’ve been looking forward to hearing you speak again.”
Bill smiled, turned away, and said, “Thank you for your patience, ladies. If someone could hit the lights, I’ll get started.”
Connie made her way to the back of the room and sat in a folding chair against the wall. The metal was cold under her back and bottom. The lady seated in front of her turned, and, with an exaggerated look of concern, mouthed,
Can you see?
Connie smiled, shook her head, and raised her hand slightly. It was a gesture that said not
Yes, I can see
, but
Don’t worry, I’ve seen this before
.
“I thought I’d start with something pretty,” said Bill. “This is the view from the roof of our hospital.”
“Ahh,” said the women.
Bill proceeded with his presentation in exactly the way he had the week previous, except that, by necessity, his voice was louder and, perhaps because of this, seemingly more confident. Again, when he reached the slide of himself with the orphan children, it was upside-down. “Oops,” he said. “I’ll have to fix that.”
The women all laughed.
After she drove Bill past the moonlit field, Bill mentioning more than once that he was pleased with how the talk had gone, after she dropped him off at the parsonage and he quickly thanked her and bid her good night, Connie went home and took in the two boxes which, they had decided, could remain in the trunk of her car until the next speaking engagement. She reheated a meat loaf and called Gene over from Enrique’s. They ate quietly, both deep in thought. Then Gene went to his room, and Connie opened the box marked number one, took out the carousel, and set it on the kitchen table. She carefully lifted the slides one by one to the light until she found the one of Bill and the children. She turned it right-side up and returned it to its slot. Then she continued through the rest, remembering what he had said about each.
Connie returned the carousels to their boxes and put them by the door. She heard the amused music of Lina’s voice, as she did several times a night if the TV wasn’t on, but didn’t mind it. This happy noise reminded her that in an emergency she could yell and Lina, and possibly some other neighbors, would come running. Connie returned to the table with the envelope that contained her prayer-chain letter. She had received it the day before but hadn’t yet decided on the wording of her prayer request.
The prayer chain was made up of fifteen Nazarene women around the country, and the letter—a bundle of fifteen notes written on everything from flowery stationery to recipe cards—made its way from one woman to the next. When you received it, you prayed for the other specific requests, removed your old note from the pile, added a new one, and sent it on. Some women wrote detailed lists—Claire from Reston, Virginia, used the prayer-chain letter almost as a journal of her family, thanking the Lord for her grandkids, praying that her son would find work and her daughter a husband; other women were brief—Susan from Phoenix, who had lupus, wrote the same thing every time: “Pray for healing.”
Connie took out a small pad, sat back down at the table, and wrote, “Connie in Eula, Idaho, would like the members to pray for the Nazarene hospital in Savanes, Ivory Coast, and she would like to thank the Lord for giving her a small role in its mission.”
A
FTER LESS THAN
a week at home, Sandra Hall went back to Salt Lake City for another round of treatments. Chuck and Abby picked up burritos on the way home from the Boise Airport and ate them at the bar in the kitchen. Chuck flipped through the mail, then stopped. “Stanford,” he said. “Big and fat.”
Abby put down her burrito and took a deep breath before opening the envelope. “Congratulations . . .” she began, then was overwhelmed by tears. There were tears around every corner these days.
Chuck got up and embraced her from behind. “Call your mom. I’ll clean up.”
Later, as Abby stared into an open book, unable to focus, there came a knock on her bedroom door. “Abby?” called Chuck. “Can I come in?”