Dwelling Places, page 27
It irritates Kenzie that Young Taylor has turned normal for now and the Omaha relatives act as if he’s a great kid. Maybe they don’t know anything about his Goth act or his getting kicked out of school. At any rate, David, who looks as normal as guys get, has hung out with Young Taylor the whole time. They sit in Young Taylor’s room and listen to music, and David talks about Omaha and Young Taylor talks about Des Moines; they both talk about how lame their schools are. Their voices sometimes rise and drift across the hallway.
Sharon and Aunt Marty have shared the double bed of the spare room across the hall. Joe has bedded down in the family room, and David slept in there on the floor in his sleeping bag one night but last night fell asleep on the floor in Young Taylor’s room. Kenzie offered her bedroom to Grandma Rita—none of them wanted her to spend the holiday alone at her house, even just overnight—but she is content to sleep in the living room on the sofa, in the glow of the Christmas tree. Kenzie is thankful that her own space has not been encroached upon. Sharon is really nice, but Kenzie sees right away that they are now from completely different worlds. When Sharon and David lived here, she and Kenzie did a lot of faith-related things together, but Sharon’s present involvement with God is the minimum church attendance, and she has not picked up on any of Kenzie’s comments meant to explore her spiritual state. Kenzie stays out among their houseguests as much as seems necessary but has retreated several times to her room. She can’t manage to get to the church for her regular prayer time, so she simply prays in her room and hopes that no one knocks on the door.
But tonight everything could change. She is singing in the Christmas pageant at the Baptist church. Jenna is reading a poem, Trent is reading the Christmas story from Luke’s Gospel, and Kenzie will sing a solo at the end, “O Holy Night.” And after she sings, the pastor will lead the congregation in carols, and the last carol will be “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” which will be the altar call. Reverend Darnelle believes that people should have the opportunity to turn to God during any service, even special holiday worship.
Her whole family will be there. This could be the night of battle, and of victory. It could be that God has brought her family to this very night in order to work miracles in their hearts. She imagines them walking up the aisle one by one, and the pastor praying with them. She imagines hugging each one afterwards, telling them how much she has prayed and how happy she is that God has touched them.
Mitchell will be there too.
He was unsure at first. Sometimes his worst battles are at church, as if Satan chooses that place to torment him the most. But two days ago he told Kenzie, “The Lord told me that you’ll need my support. So I’ll be there, Kenzie. I’ll probably sit in the back, but I’ll be singing every word right with you.”
She stares at the young woman in purple, who smiles back at her from the mirror. She has finally come to the place where God wants her. And she can say with all honesty that she is beautiful tonight.
The church is full, warm, and noisy before the service begins. Then the lights go down, except for candles in the windows and dim lights over the altar. The crowd grows quiet. Kenzie’s family is seated in two rows halfway back on the east side of the sanctuary. As she sits by the piano, with the rest of the choir, she looks at each loved one and prays silently for the Holy Spirit to move.
The service goes along slowly: the opening hymns, the prayers and welcome, the children acting out the Nativity as Trent reads. Trent’s voice is more irritating than ever. He’s trying to be deep-toned like a preacher. Kenzie notices Young Taylor and David smirking at him. She wishes Pastor Williamson were reading; he has such an intelligent yet friendly kind of voice.
Then the choir performs a special Christmas medley, and Jenna reads her poem, and Reverend Darnelle preaches a sermon that is shorter than usual. That doesn’t cause him to be any less enthusiastic or evangelistic. He’s possibly at his best tonight. Kenzie watches Mom and Dad, who are attentive, then Grandma Rita, who looks tired and uncomfortable. Aunt Marty and Joe are listening politely, and Sharon is not paying attention at all; she seems to be paging through the hymnal. Young Taylor is unusually focused, but on the candles to his left, and David appears to be counting the blocks in the suspended ceiling. Kenzie keeps praying.
She turns her gaze for about the twentieth time to Mitchell, who sits in the back pew near the gas heater, hair neatly combed, looking so handsome she can’t stand it. He wears a dark green sweater over black slacks. He has sung with gusto through the entire service, listened to every word, and bowed his head deeply for every prayer. Twice now he has winked at Kenzie and raised his hands slightly from his lap; they are pressed together prayerfully.
Suddenly the sermon is over and the pastor says, “Before our final hymn tonight, we have a very special treat. Kenzie Barnes is going to sing for us.” He turns toward Kenzie and the pianist, and Kenzie stands, feeling as if the universe were swirling around her.
She has memorized the song, but it takes all her concentration to sing, and so she reads the music in her hands, which are shaking slightly. The one or two times she looks up, it’s her father’s eyes that catch her. They are glistening, and he smiles at her the way he used to when she’d show a calf at the fair, leading it to the center of the circle and hoping it would come willingly rather than making her pull at its halter and reins and making a mess of things. No matter where she looked, it seemed that Dad was right there, his face saying it all: You can do it, sweetheart. It’ll be fine.
She finishes the song, and the congregation applauds, and she’s too overwhelmed to look at anybody. As the congregation stands to sing the invitation hymn, she kicks herself for not looking at each member of her family while she sang. She should have made some eye contact at least.
But the invitation has begun now, and she can’t be distracted by her own performance. She sings with the choir, facing the crowd, and at every line, she looks up at those middle two rows. Through the first two verses there are no signs of response; they’re just standing there, singing. Young Taylor and David aren’t singing at all, but whispering to each other. Kenzie sings the third verse, her eyes glued to Mom and Dad. She shifts them to Grandma Rita. Aunt Marty and Joe are singing but look ready to be somewhere else now. Sharon reads off of their hymnal and joins in halfheartedly. It seems that the only people who might respond to the Holy Spirit are her parents and grandma.
She sings the fourth verse, willing her father to move out from the pew and walk down the aisle to the altar. She wills her mother to follow him. She pictures Grandma Rita sitting in the pew to pray. But they all just stand there and sing. Daddy’s eyes are no longer glistening. Mom’s eyes don’t leave the hymnal.
During the last verse, Kenzie looks at Mitchell only. He sings for part of the verse, then sees her looking at him. He smiles, closes the hymnal, makes a little wave in her direction, and steps toward the door. He warned her that he might need to leave before the very end of the service; sometimes crowds bother him. But they had already agreed that she would come by his house tomorrow, after the relatives leave.
Still, his disappearing jacket signals to Kenzie that the invitation is over. Mom and Dad and Grandma Rita close their hymnals as the music fades. Everyone is reaching for their coats, which have been scrunched down in the pews during the service.
Tonight, despite everyone’s best efforts, the aisle remained empty. No one walked forward to receive Jesus or ask for prayer. No one is interested in anything except feeling good for an evening, singing their favorite carols and watching the children dress up like shepherds and then having their cookies and coffee afterward.
It helps a little that Aunt Marty and Joe walk up immediately to tell her how much they enjoyed her song. They seem to mean it. Sharon does too. “That was really great—do you take voice lessons?” And then Dad scoots up and hugs her tight. He holds her for a long moment. “I’m so proud of you, baby. That was beautiful.” He kisses her cheek and keeps one arm across her shoulders as others come up to lend their compliments. He looks so happy, she thinks that maybe he really did walk up the aisle, only privately, in his heart.
PART FIVE
DECISION
13
GIVING GRACE
Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, he faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
—“Be Still, My Soul”
Jodie
It is immediately after the Christmas pageant, of all times and places, that Rita motions Jodie to join her in one corner of the fellowship hall. The crowd is still milling around, kids exuberant from a performance completed, standing with each other and their parents, gulping down cider, hot chocolate, and cookies. The long tables are luxurious against the discount paneling and concrete floor, their plastic tablecloths bright in reds and greens, and holiday platters heaped with treats. Three coffeepots are lined up on the table against the wall. The room is crowded and busy, and yet Rita is oblivious to everything and everyone except Jodie.
“Come talk to me,” she says. Jodie expected this order last night. Even with Marty and the kids there, with bodies scattered throughout the house, Jodie waited to be summoned upstairs for a private talk in the bedroom. But Rita showed nothing but a poker face throughout the holiday.
Now Jodie starts to say, “This isn’t a good place to talk,” but Rita has already staked out a space near the Christmas tree. It is against the room’s outer wall and therefore in drafts that seep under both the door and the south windows. Now that the children’s grab bags have been distributed, no one lingers there.
So Jodie walks over to stand in front of the fragrant pine branches. Her mother-in-law holds a plate that bears her own zucchini cake as well as some chocolate–peanut butter bonbons made by the pastor’s wife. She carefully cuts away a bite of the cake with her plastic fork.
Jodie considers saying something about how well Kenzie sang tonight, but she knows that it is pointless. So she waits.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Jodie. I really don’t.” Rita looks at her food while she says this.
“There’s not much you could say that I haven’t already said to myself.”
“You know my opinions on most things, after all these years. I don’t have to tell you what I think.”
The voice is so steady that Jodie relaxes slightly and takes a drink of hot chocolate from the cup that she holds in both hands. It occurs to her that Rita has chosen this place and time to protect them both. In the presence of friends and neighbors, neither one will do or say anything unseemly. Jodie sees the wisdom in this and knows that it is the only way Rita will ever operate. She is a woman above screaming matches. Everything she does is part of some larger strategy.
“You take a vow,” Rita continues. “‘For better, for worse, in sickness and in health.’ You take what’s given you.”
Jodie feels heat in her face. It has been a while since she was visited by true shame. She has spent virtually all her life until recently doing her best not to do anything she would be ashamed of. Now she is rooted to the floor. From one slender branch of the Christmas tree a crocheted angel dangles close to her left eye. God, I don’t want to be here. I just don’t. But where else could she be, in Beulah? If she went running from the scene, where could she possibly end up? She drinks more cocoa, which is already growing lukewarm.
“You know that life with Taylor Senior wasn’t easy sometimes.” Rita is watching the pastor, who talks with one of the other men. They are examining one another’s plates in the way that people always compare at church buffets.
“I know, Mom, and I don’t know how you’ve done it. You were a farmer’s wife for forty years, which is a feat in itself. Then in practically a day you lost it all.” She can’t bring herself to name those losses specifically. “And you just found something else to do. How can you do it—just shift gears and keep going?” She has marveled at Rita’s resilience, but never out loud. It’s something of a release to voice it now.
Rita looks at Jodie more deliberately than she has in years. Jodie knows her mother-in-law is more upset about this betrayal than she’ll ever show. She also knows that condemnation is not the fuel that keeps Rita going. Those hazel eyes that shine from delicate nests of laugh and worry lines will always be looking for some action to take, something to make everybody better.
“Well,” Rita says, “I’m a woman. And I’m old. Either one of those things teaches you to accommodate to changing situations.” She isn’t trying to be funny.
“I’m not seeing Terry anymore.”
“He’s the teacher, isn’t he—the Jenkins boy?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve known him since he delivered papers when he was a kid. He’s not a bad man.”
“Hardly any of them are.”
“But he’s not likely to take you away from all this—he has too many ties to here.”
Jodie looks across the room at her husband, who is talking with the parents of Jenna Braeburn, the girl who read the poem. “Actually, he wants to take me to Disneyland.”
“He said he’d take you to Florida?” Rita’s disbelief is clear.
“No, the one in California.”
“Do you want to go to Disneyland?”
Jodie looks at her mother-in-law and sees that the question is earnest. It gives her permission to ask herself, in that one, clear moment, what she really wants. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to see Dublin. My mother’s people were Irish.”
“Well, dear, Disneyland isn’t really on the way, is it?” Rita gives a sudden, short laugh that makes no sound but causes her tummy and bosom to bounce. The sparkle in her eye cuts Jodie clear to the heart, and she turns away from the room to examine the various angels that dwell in the thicket of evergreen. She finishes the cocoa, down to the sweet, grainy dregs, while blinking back tears. Then Rita speaks.
“You know what?”
“What?” Jodie sees that Rita is looking toward the coffeepots. The pastor has just broken into a loud laugh. He is holding a plate in one hand, his cup of coffee in the other. His elbow is out, jabbing at Bob Franklin playfully, in case Bob has missed some punch line, and his head is cocked the opposite direction toward another man, who is adding his own comments on something.
“A banty rooster and a Baptist preacher can look a lot alike,” says Rita.
Jodie stares at the scene. “He does sort of move like one, doesn’t he?”
“What a silly thing—I just looked over there this minute and thought banty rooster. Must be that potbelly.”
“I don’t want to ruin everything.” Jodie wishes she were a young bride, mourning a ruined gravy or sheet cake. More than once, Rita wrapped her in a hug and saved a culinary disaster, back when everything was so new and full of promise.
“Maybe nothing’s ruined yet. But you can’t expect a secret like this to stay secret.”
“Have you heard something?”
“No, thank the Lord.” She looks at Jodie, and for the first time her features register agony. She quickly reaches into her purse and brings out the envelope. Jodie takes it just as quickly and puts it in the large pocket of her sweater.
Mack
“I’m afraid that my family will always think of me as ill.” Mack has barely greeted George today. He meant to make small talk, something like, “Don’t you have a life of your own? I can’t believe you’re free to see me three days after Christmas.” But more and more, he is impatient with this room and these hours. At the same time, he likes George more all the time, wishing that he could know the man in another capacity. But how do you become friends with the person who’s been given the authority to dig around in your heart and soul? He keeps talking.
“They don’t have any confidence in me, and I can’t say as I blame them.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“I fell apart. And I still take enough pills every day to kill a horse. Who knows how long they’ll work, or if I’ll take another dip like before?”
George just looks at him. Mack spreads his hands across his knees. “In their minds, I’ll always be sick, ready to crack up.” He waits while the silence laps around them. “Jodie’s trying to trust me, because she’s obligated. But I’m afraid I’ve killed whatever respect she used to have. And the kids—I’ve lost all credibility with them. They don’t respect me—maybe they even fear me. They don’t really think I have a right to tell them anything now.”
“So. Prove them wrong.” George has the expression today of someone who won’t take crap from anyone. Mack wonders how tired George is of listening to all of this crap.
“How?”
“I won’t pretend that you’re not at a great disadvantage. The truth is, often the person who struggles the most is the very one who must prove the most. No one can fight your battles, and yet you must fight them. Another dynamic that’s important to note,” he says, picking at some lint on his Levis, “is the way a family can sometimes appoint one person to be the problem, so to speak, even for matters that are not his doing. A family may have a designated ‘sick’ one, and as long as they can believe that the family’s problems revolve around the sick one, no one else has to take responsibility or initiative.”
Mack considers this. “That doesn’t seem to fit. They’re all working hard. Except for a couple of things Jodie’s said when we’re in the middle of a fight, none of them have talked like I’m to blame. I just don’t think they can have much faith in me—because I’m…weak, or something.”
“Oh, I’m not talking about outright blame. Given what you’ve told me about your family, I don’t perceive them as being malicious. But there can still be a perception that all the family problems would just go away if you got better. So that in itself puts loads of pressure on you.”
