by Cara Wall
Her father was a minister. He had a deep and abiding faith in the Lord, as he called him, and a deep and abiding empathy for Those Less Fortunate. He thought Nan, despite her privilege, should have a true view of the world, so he took her with him on his pastoral rounds to hospital beds and jail cells, to small, musty houses and foster homes filled with crying children. Nan was expected to smile cheerfully and shake the hand of everyone she met.
“And I mean everyone,” her father said. Nan adored him. He was serious and calm; he never rushed her or shushed her, never expected her to know things she had not been told. He simply kept a guiding hand on her back as she shook hands with an army colonel and his wife who was dying of cancer, drunken men on narrow sidewalks outside of bars, and garage mechanics who left grease on her palm. He taught her to say How are you today? and What can I do to help? He might correct her if she had not made eye contact, or if she had stepped back as someone had leaned toward her, but he nodded proudly when she corrected herself, and as they drove home he always said, “Thank you for coming with me today.”
Nan’s father wore khaki pants and short-sleeve shirts on these visits. Nan’s mother would have preferred him to wear his collar, but he said, “That’s for the pulpit, Ellen—the only place where I should be seen as separate.”
Nan’s mother was a gracious woman. This meant, in their congregation, that she was somewhat stern but impeccably mannered. She ran everything in the church that did not take place in the sanctuary: coffee hour, Bible study, youth ministry, Sunday school. She organized them with diligence and efficiency, and her best friends were the women who helped her, who came over for coffee to discuss who should be made an usher or a deacon, whether girls should be required to wear gloves at the teen social, which flowers were best in each season at the altar. They also talked about the school board, the football team, who’d had words with whose husband in the grocery store, whose mother was drinking again, who’d bought a new car they couldn’t possibly afford. But at the end of the afternoon, Nan’s mother always said, “I think it’s time to pray,” and they all took hands, begged forgiveness for their gossiping, guidance for their leadership, health for their families, and love for one another. Nan often watched them kiss each other goodbye, waving as they started their cars, secure and happy in their places as confidantes to the minister’s wife.
Nan was known as a lovely girl. This meant she was well behaved to the point of boring, which was her only acceptable choice. Bright would have meant she was too smart for her own good, popular that she flirted with too many boys, troubled that she’d done much more than that. Her father was known as remarkable, because he raised eyebrows in the congregation for his populist leanings, and also earned respect with his easy charm and deep commitment to Christian principles.
Nan hoped that, when she was allowed to outgrow lovely, she would become both gracious and remarkable, a perfect union of her parents. She was often reminded, however, that there was a distance to bridge between them. “It takes a backbone to be a minister’s wife,” her mother said. “And devotion to be his child.”
Sometimes, Nan was not sure to whom that devotion was owed. When she was eight and a half, before a pastoral visit with her father, she tried to dress herself in jeans and a sweater, telling her mother, “If Daddy doesn’t want to be separate, I don’t want to be either.”
“Mary Nan Louise,” her mother answered, pulling the sweater away from her and holding out a blue-and-white Swiss dot dress. “Your daddy may want to look like everyone else,” she said, “but everyone else wants us to look better. When we look nice, we give them hope that there is a reward for giving up sin.”
Nan scowled. She knew her father did not believe that; he believed everyone was equal in God’s eyes.
Her mother pointed a finger at her. “You are a minister’s daughter. It’s a very particular position. My job is to teach you how to handle it well.”
So, from her mother Nan learned how to host coffees (serve cookies, not cake), how to write thank-you notes (in blue pen, not black), and how to make everyone feel at home (ask after children and dogs).
And from her father she learned that not everyone went to school, or ate three meals a day, or had a bathroom inside their home. Some people broke the law, some people hurt their families, some people didn’t even believe in God. But everyone deserved God’s mercy and her respect.
Together, they taught her the vital importance of manners. “Manners exist so that everyone feels comfortable,” her father told her.
Her mother continued, “So that in any situation you will know exactly what to do.”
Crafted of love and certainty, Nan’s life cruised pleasantly in its well-marked lane until the Sunday, when she was ten, that a man took his clothes off in the middle of church. Overcome by the spirit, as her father explained it afterward, a man they had known for years took off everything he was wearing and stood naked in the aisle. Nan was on the dais, part of the children’s choir, singing “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Her father came down from his place behind the altar, put his hand on the man’s shoulder, said something low in his ear, and led him out of the church into the vestry, where they sat until someone brought the man’s pants and sweater.
Her mother, frantic, rushed from her seat in the front pew to cover as many children’s eyes as she could. But in the moments before her mother reached her, Nan stared at the man, stunned by his pale pink skin, the blond hair on his chest, the blond hair down below, and the flaccid pink member, the same color as her little pink jacks ball. He seemed so clean to her, so scrubbed and shiny in the morning light.
Later, her father said, “You must not be embarrassed by what you saw. It was a human body. The human body is a clear and honest thing.”
For the first time in her life, Nan did not believe him. If the human body was clear and honest, why had the entire congregation gasped and turned away?
Her mother said, “It never happened. Forget you saw anything at all.”
Nan did not think she would ever forget, but she did as she was told. The next time she saw the man, she shook his hand and looked him in the eye. She did not let him see how much he had unnerved her, how hard it was to see him again, even fully dressed. She did not let herself think of him as different, or as troubled, or as dangerous. And she tried not to let the incident change her; she continued to sing in the choir, practice her piano, use her manners with her teachers and her friends. She tried not to wonder why it had happened, why she—who had always been the best lovely girl—had seen a naked man, standing there, staring at her. She tried to have faith that there was a purpose to it, that God had a greater understanding of these things, a purpose and a plan, no matter how much of a shock the sight had been.
Toward the end of his senior year of high school, James turned eighteen and went to register for the draft, as the law required him to do. The registry office was a storefront by the L tracks, with an army-green awning and three American flags flying on the sidewalk. James stood at the counter and filled out his card next to another boy who looked remarkably like him—worn coat, old boots, no hat. A thick-necked man in uniform approached them, slid a brochure across the plywood counter.
There was a war on again, this one in Korea. The sober fathers clenched their jaws when they read about it, said little, stared into the distance. Their stillness frightened James; it confirmed his fear that there was nothing to be done about the tragedies of the world, no way he could escape his father’s disgrace.
“Let me tell you what we’ll give you if you sign up,” the army man said. His fingers were thick; his wide wedding ring reflected the American flag in the upper right corner of the flyer. James wondered if his wife was proud of him.
“Nope,” James told him without looking up. “I’m going to finish my senior year.”
This was his coin, his difference. He was smart, and he liked school—all of it—the petty bullying, the gossip, the sports, the books, the classes. He didn’t un
derstand the kids who sat in the back and passed notes. He knew it was important to look tough, to seem uninterested, but he didn’t understand kids who actually were. Didn’t they see that this was their only opportunity to experience something beyond their small, immediate lives?
The other boy took the brochure, folded it in half, and stuck it in his chest pocket.
“You don’t want to take your chances?” James whispered to him.
“I know my chances if I stay here,” the boy answered, putting down his pen.
James thought about that all the way home. Maybe the boy had a point. Maybe the army was a viable escape. Maybe a uniform would keep him from drink, instead of pushing him toward it. Maybe he would be sent to Korea. Maybe he would come back strong and capable. Maybe once he left he would never have to come back. He was propping up that hope like a tarp over his fear when he got home. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her hair frizzier than usual, cheeks flushed, twisting a letter in her hands.
“Oh, James, sit down with me,” she said desperately. “I’ve got something you need to know.”
He sat down. He had never before seen his mother in this state—sitting on the edge of one of their hard chairs, back straight, face tense, eyes so open as to look crazy.
“Right, I’ve got to tell you before your father wakes up,” she said, glancing nervously toward the living room. “So just let me talk.” She took a breath. “My brother Phillip, you know about him . . .”
James nodded.
“Don’t say anything, James,” his mother cried, jerking forward toward him, “I’ve got to get it out.”
“I didn’t . . .” he began. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. He fell silent. He looked at the dishes in the sink.
She began again. “My brother Phillip, the one I’ve told you about . . .”
James did not nod.
“He wanted to become a priest. You know my mother was Catholic . . .”
He had not known her mother but did not shake his head.
“Well, she was, and she went to Mass every single day, left us kids at home so she could sit through it in peace. But my brother Phillip was curious about church, and he snuck off after her one day, followed her right in and sat in the back. When he came home he said to me, ‘It was so beautiful, Alice. Right there, I knew everything I ever needed to know.’ Well, that made me a little jealous, I don’t have to tell you, because I’d like to know everything there is to know, too, but I don’t.”
James, unused to his mother telling stories, was caught so off-guard by this one that it left him slightly out of breath. But he managed to think that he, too, might like to know everything there was to know, especially about school and war and managing not to have a life that made you drink. He listened carefully.
“He didn’t come with us to America when we moved here. He stayed in Ireland, and I understood. He stayed behind, presented himself to a church, and almost became a priest.” She took a breath and leaned forward. “He didn’t quite make it—you’ll have to ask him why. He ended up a banker. But he’s always lived a life of faith, and now he says he’s managed to save up quite a bit of money and he doesn’t know what to do with it, really. He told me, in this letter, that he should give it to the church, but he’s at quite a wealthy parish, see, and he thinks they have enough, really, so he’d like to do something nice for you instead.”
James almost said something, in his surprise. His mother held up a hand.
“I’ve written to him about you and told him that you’re smart, that you’re in your seat at school every day, and that except for that, I think you might be down at the bar. He asked if your brothers are drinking, and I told him they are, not terribly, but still. I told him you’re going to start, too, if nothing keeps you from it. If you get stuck here, in a place that feels like a prison, you won’t have anywhere else to turn. Don’t think I don’t see that part of your father in you, because I do.”
James stayed still and upright. He noticed that the tree beyond the window was flushed green, about to bud.
“I told your uncle how you have to register for the draft, and that I can’t let you go into the army. Can’t let you, James,” she said, striking the table with her finger, her voice urgent as a rifle. The late-afternoon sun was bright behind the branch. His mother sighed.
“He wrote back and asked me if I thought school kept you from drinking, and I considered it, and I wrote that yes, it did, because it gave you something else to think about. He wrote back again and said we should keep you thinking, and he’s sent me money now, quite a bit of money, and you’re to use it for school.”
James sat silent.
“You can talk now,” his mother said.
“School’s free,” was the only thing he could manage.
“Not college,” his mother corrected him.
He was as stunned as he would have been if she had punched him in the kidney.
“He wants me to go to college?”
“Yes.”
Unexpectedly, James thought he was going to cry. He felt hot tears race up behind his eyes, his nose swell, and his throat close as if it were on fire. This man, this uncle he had never met, had somehow seen the constant struggle it was not to give up, to keep hoping for an alternative to boredom and despair. He had known that black graduation gowns and dull army uniforms were pushing James to desperation. He had known, had somehow known, that the long, clean halls of school, the hard games of basketball, the fresh, curled hair of the girls who stood in front of him in the lunch line were the only things keeping him from giving in to it. His uncle had understood, and his mother had understood, and they wanted to help him. It had been a secret for so long, and now it was in the light.
“I want to go,” James said, and so he did.
When Nan was a senior in high school, her father asked her to meet him in his office after school. It was an oddly formal request, because Nan often spent the afternoon hours in that office, working on her homework as he wrote his sermons. He could have spoken to her informally on almost any day of the week.
Her father’s office was attached to the house by a door off the front hall; it was an easy trip from the cushioned and curtained domain of her mother into the dark wood and straight planes of her father. She had gone back and forth a million times without a thought, but that day she paused and knocked on the door.
Her father opened it for her, instead of calling her in, which put Nan on edge. “Come and sit down,” he said, which made her worry. This was not the way they did things in their family, not one-on-one. News was given at the dinner table, with the lace tablecloth under their plates and their napkins on their laps. She felt pale and small in the shadow of the book-lined walls and the large antique desk that faced the window. Silently, she took one of the two leather visitor chairs; to her surprise her father did not retreat behind his desk, but sat in the chair next to her, pulled it closer, and took her hand.
“This will be hard for you to hear,” he said, “but I don’t want you to go to Ole Miss next fall.”
Nan went numb and completely still. Everyone she knew went to Ole Miss. All of her friends, their boyfriends, her mother, even her father. It was the only future she had ever contemplated.
“Why?” she asked without moving, as if her stillness could preserve her.
Her father sighed. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long while,” he said. “I can’t in good conscience just let it lie. Your life is sheltered, Nan, too sheltered. Shelter stunts the soul. It keeps us small and makes faith easy.” He squeezed her hand. “You have a lovely faith, Nan. A sweet and loving faith in God, in me, in your mother, and your friends. But I want more for you than that.”
Nan wanted more than that, too. She wanted to be a Kappa, study home economics, go to dances, and get good grades.
“What will I do instead?”
“There is a school in Illinois. Wheaton. A good friend of mine teaches there. It’s Christian, and it has a world
-class music program.”
“Illinois?” Nan asked. The word was oily and slick on her tongue.
“I want you to think of this as your mission, Nan,” he said. “I want you to get out of this small town. I want you to see a bigger picture. I want you to decide for yourself what kind of person you want to be.”
“Does mother think I should go?”
“No,” her father said. “She thinks you’re too young.”
Nan felt sick; she bent her head to her lap. She realized, with a jolt, that her parents had been fighting about this for months. Just last night, Nan had stopped herself from entering the kitchen when she heard their voices.
“She’ll miss the season,” her mother said. “She’s been waiting her whole life for this, and if she’s gone, all the good boys will be taken.”
Her father said, “The season is at Christmas, and she’ll be home for that. She hasn’t been waiting her whole life to be a debutante, and if a boy likes her and isn’t willing to wait for her, then he isn’t much of a man.”
“You’re filling her head . . .” her mother said.
“With what?” her father interrupted. “With a challenge? With independence?”
“Yes.”
Her father sighed. “I have to,” he said. “No one else will.”
Nan thought they had been talking about a Bible camp or a ministry trip. Nan had thought her mother would win.
In her father’s office, Nan covered her ears with her hands so she could hear herself think. Her parents had fought. Her father had won. His prize was to send her away. She felt blank, like the church after a service, filled with the silence of having been full and then emptied.
Her father kept talking. “It’s an overnight train ride, and you can come home for all your vacations.”
“Can I go for one year?” Nan asked. She sounded like a child; she could feel the petulance in her voice like a thorn. Her father closed his eyes.