The Beresfords (28 page)

“They’re easier to locate than the minor prophets,” was Eric Grant’s astonishing reply. I felt the glance he gave me but kept my head down.

Communal Bible reading was never my favorite part of the morning. In order to get everyone through the passage in reasonable unison, we had to deliver the verses in slow, short phrases, and I usually found myself more concerned with not getting ahead or falling behind than with understanding the actual meaning. This morning, with such a person beside me, my mouth could hardly form the words. I was paralyzed by self-consciousness.

Not so Eric Grant. He might not sing, but he could read aloud, and feelingly. From his lips, I heard the passage as I had heard few before:

But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near in the blood of Christ. For he is our peace, who has made us both one, and has broken down the dividing wall of hostility, by abolishing in his flesh the law of commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new man in place of the two, so making peace, and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby bringing the hostility to an end.

He read, not in the sleepy drone of habit, but as if he had never seen such words before. Maybe he hadn’t. When everyone else closed their Bibles and replaced them in the racks, Eric Grant continued to stare at his, only shutting it when the pastor rose to give the sermon.

“
‘
Hostile’ is not a word we use often,” said Pastor Donald, gripping the wooden pulpit with both hands as if he were on a ship at sea. “We do not think of ourselves as hostile people—we may think, on the contrary, that we are peaceable people—and yet the apostle Paul tells us we are at war. With ourselves, with others, with God. We war with ourselves because we cannot be the people we want to be. We war with others because they are not perfect and they hurt and disappoint us. We war with God because we want to go our own way, no matter where it takes us, even to our harm…”

He was right about me—Pastor Donald. Or, I suppose, the apostle Paul. I was at war. And on all three fronts. Not that I didn’t behave—I did—I was more like a covert operative, which was worse because it was secretive. I could not be the person I wanted to be, deep down.

With Jonathan I was proper and reserved. I no longer sought him out; I did not play and replay past memories; I did not try to call anymore on that bond we once had. If he noticed he said nothing, did nothing about it. And I left it there.

With Caroline I was dogged in my duty. We hung out nearly every other week—movies, shopping, running errands. But it was always deliberate and it was always work. We never plunged into confidences or surprised each other with bursts of affection. For two people so dissimilar it was impossible to draw nearer than arm’s length. Did she know, I always wondered, that I used to love her husband? Or that—if the thought slipped past my barriers and wasn’t instantly annihilated by a hammer-blow of guilt—I might just love him still? But I would not go down that road, even in my thoughts. The hammer-blow always came: Jonathan was a married man. Feelings that were understandable, even
sweet
, at a younger age were unforgiveable at eighteen. I was horrible. Horrible. A sneaky, wretched human being.

My inability to feel toward my cousin as I ought separated me from him, a distance complicated by the ribbon of anger running through it.
Why
did Jonathan not notice that we were estranged? Had he never cared for me as I thought he had, all along? What happened to the better-than-a-brother I grew up with?
We war with others because they are not perfect and they hurt and disappoint us
.

As for God, I was certain my unruly heart grieved him. Picturing him, as I was wont to do, as a bearded version of Uncle Paul, I knew exactly how disappointment furrowed his brow, how his mouth pressed into a concerned line. My prayers grew timid. I still prayed often, but now they were dry, surface offerings that stayed clear of my heart’s murky depths. I didn’t “go my own way,” as Pastor Donald put it; I went God’s way—sort of. My outward behavior conformed. It wasn’t war, really, so much as a fragile ceasefire.
If I follow you in every other way, Father in heaven, will you please overlook the teeny tiny place where I am hopeless?

“If you are at a stand-off in your life,” Pastor Donald was saying, when my mind returned from its wanderings, “call on Christ. Remember the words Paul uses in this passage: Christ
brings us near
; he
makes us one
with our brothers and with God; he
breaks down
the wall of hostility; he
abolishes
the law of rule-keeping; he
creates
a new man; he
makes peace
; he
reconciles
; he
ends hostility
. Pray these as promises. In fact—yes—we’re going to pray these right now together. Let’s bow our heads. In the quiet of your heart, say with me, ‘Jesus, bring me near. Jesus, break down the walls that separate me from you and from others. Make me new by your righteousness, and not my own. I don’t want war anymore, Jesus, I want peace. By your work on the cross, reconcile me. To myself. To others. To you. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.’”

I raised my head again, swallowing hard against the frog in my throat and wishing I could be by myself and not in public sitting beside stupid Eric Grant. I needed to think over what I heard without any curious eyes, but there was still the offertory and communion and the closing song to get through, and then brunch with my aunt and uncle. But at brunch Uncle Paul would
read the paper and Aunt Marie would leave me alone, so really it was just a few more minutes till I was rid of my unwanted companion. I folded my hands in my lap and stared straight ahead, prepared to grit it out.

“Have you eaten? You’d be welcome to join us for brunch.” Uncle Paul leaned across his wife to address Eric Grant after Pastor Donald delivered the benediction.

We often went to the Irvington Cafe after Sunday service. When all my cousins were still home these were noisy affairs, but they became gradually more and more quiet until only I was left and we ate in near silence. I knew my uncle missed my cousins as much as I did because several times he invited Aunt Terri and Uncle Roger to join us. A few meals with his sister, however, made silence comparatively attractive, and nowadays Uncle Paul disappeared behind the front page after ordering his scrambled eggs and corned beef hash.

“Would that be all right?” Eric Grant asked. “I would love to. I would really like to talk about the service.” He couldn’t have chanced upon words more likely to please my uncle, and with a sinking heart, I followed the rest of them out of the pew.

“A new guy,” drawled Jennifer the waitress, giving Eric Grant an appraising look from heavily eye-shadowed lids. “Not one of your boys, Mr. Beresford. This must be The Boyfriend.”

“Oh, no,” I protested, shaking my head vehemently. “He’s—he’s—”

“I’m family, of sorts,” he said. I expected him to add something teasing or flirty as he seemed to do with any woman under thirty-five, and when he didn’t, I stole a peek at him. He gave me a slight smile. Not nasty, just reassuring.

Jennifer led us to our usual booth where Aunt Marie slid in automatically beside Uncle Paul, leaving me next to Eric Grant again. “You need a few minutes?” the waitress asked him. “I already know what everybody else wants.”

“Make mine French toast, then.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

“My pleasure.” I hadn’t seen her trying this hard since the last time Tom was with us. What was it about Eric Grant? He wasn’t as tall as Tom or even handsome, but he did, unlike my oldest cousin, have the ability to make you feel singled out. Like he was noticing you and only you. I didn’t like it, but I remember how much Rachel and Julie did. With Tom, on the other hand, women sensed they were shooting for second. First place in Tom’s heart would always belong to Tom.

“You wanted to say something about the service?” began Uncle Paul when Jennifer was gone.

“I did.” Color came and went from his face but he sounded calm enough. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

“Did you not grow up going to church?” Aunt Marie asked.

“No. I think my mom was raised Catholic, but we never went to anything.”

“Caroline and Jonathan go,” said Uncle Paul, not really to the point, but I know where his thoughts tended. I think he took on faith that Jonathan would marry a girl who shared his values. I don’t imagine he even asked where Caroline was coming from, spiritually. When Greg Perkins wanted to marry Rachel, the point was moot because we knew the Perkins’ vaguely from church. I could see the gears click in my uncle’s head: click—Caroline raised with no religion—click—were she and Jonathan unequally yoked?—click—no, they went to church (as far as he knew), so she must have come around.

“I can’t speak for my sister,” was Eric Grant’s neutral response. “I only know the sermon today—and the verses they read—it was all new to me.”

“But you knew where to find Ephesians,” said Aunt Marie. “He found it before I did,” she added to her husband.

Eric Grant ducked his chin. “Bible-less Lit class.”

“What?” said Uncle Paul.

“Sorry, sir. It was a class I took at Santa Clara. Tom recommended it, though I think it was an easier A for him than me. It was called “The Bible as Literature,” but Tom called it ‘Bible-less Lit’ because we only talked about poetry and genre and metaphor and never about what things really
meant
.”

My uncle frowned. More gears clicked. Click—Santa
Clara
was
a Catholic university
—click—he
paid thousands in tuition and continue
d
to donate money there, and they
were
teaching some godless ‘Bible as Literature’ class
?—click—but at the very least it gave young people like Eric Grant
some
kind of grounding in the Word.

Eric Grant sensed he was losing his grasp on the direction of the conversation. He leaned forward, nervously rotating an individual cup of non-dairy creamer in his fingers. “What I mean to say, sir, is that the sermon really struck me. I’m that guy he was talking about—the one who was at war with himself and the world and God.”

No one said a thing for a long moment. Uncle Paul looked dumbfounded and Aunt Marie mystified. I found I was holding my breath. What was happening? Was Eric Grant really going to—

“I bowed my head during the prayer, at the end there,” he went on, when the pause seemed like it might go on forever, “but what I wanted to ask you, sir, is—what would it mean if I prayed like he said? Would that mean I was a Christian?”

My uncle, who ran a boardroom like nobody’s business and oversaw millions and millions of dollars’ worth of outsourced manufacturing, who had traveled the world, been married twice, divorced once, and raised four beautiful children,
that
guy—froze when faced with Eric Grant’s question. I’ve said before, Uncle Paul was never the sort to talk the talk. He might walk the talk, but talking the talk was not how he rolled. If Eric Grant had asked him about church finances or how elders were elected, Uncle Paul would have been in his element. He would have given more detail than necessary; he would have drawn diagrams. But this sort of
thing—Uncle Paul shuddered as if Eric Grant had said something embarrassing like “washed in the blood of the Lamb” or “the message really spoke to my heart.”

“You—ahem—you better ask Jonathan about that.”

Eric Grant’s face fell, and even I felt sorry for him. Which must explain why I spoke up, blurting in a squeaky voice, “I think it does. Praying what Pastor Donald prayed. Or agreeing with it.” My face was hot. “I think that makes you a Christian.”

He turned to me, his expression making me blush harder. “You do, Frannie? Wow. What do you know. Just like that. I’m a Christian.” He laughed. “I’m a
Christian
! I can’t believe it.”

That made two of us. My palms were sweating. I had never seen someone become a Christian before. Never been there when it happened. Never even heard of someone becoming one. At our church it was like everyone came into the world that way and fell off from there, like Tom. Or like Jonathan. I felt an answering smile form as we stared at each other. Was this for real? How I wished Jonathan and I were still talking—I would love to tell him about this!

“What—what happens now?” he asked eagerly.

“I—don’t know.”

“You start going to church regularly,” said Uncle Paul, recovering his mental footing.

“But—sure—” Eric Grant agreed. “But this feels momentous! Shouldn’t I mark the occasion? Throw a party—something?” He laughed.

I sat up straighter. “I know. You get baptized, I think.” I’d never known anyone who got baptized as an adult—Aunt Terri made sure I was taken care of a few months after I came to the Beresfords. And my cousins, I was positive, checked the box in their infancy. “You get baptized,” I said again, “like the Ethiopian eunuch in Acts.”

“Eunuch!” Eric Grant grinned at me. “What are you trying to say, Frannie? They certainly didn’t teach me about eunuchs at Santa Clara. About the polar opposite, I’d say.” It was a flash of the old Eric Grant, but I was spared a response because Jennifer whirled up to us with our tray of orders.