by Cara Wall
He heard about a meeting being held on a Tuesday afternoon at the Greenwich Village Peace Center and walked over to it, arriving just as it was starting. He slid into a seat in the back of the auditorium, expecting to hear speeches about the ideals of nonviolence, the organization of protests, letter-writing campaigns. Instead, the moderator proposed that a boat be rented to sail up and down the Hudson River, simulating an invasion of New York by the North Vietnamese. James was astounded by the intensity of the fantasy—the idea that war could be stopped by a college prank.
He wandered back to the church, into the office, and sat down across from Charles, dismayed. “There’s no leadership,” he said. “No clear message. No vision. No shared certainty of mind.”
Charles nodded. “You want to preach about it,” he said uneasily.
“You don’t want me to,” James replied.
“I think it’s dangerous. Especially now.”
James stood up, opened his mouth, closed it, paced to the window.
“You can’t talk about the war, James,” Charles said without looking up. “I’ve made that impossible. You can talk about anything else. But the war is incendiary. Some people here believe in it. Others don’t. You’re going to pit them against each other. You’re going to start a fight.”
“I think it’s time,” James said.
“If you preach about war this week, after the meeting we just had, I think you’re going to get fired.”
“Well, then, it’s really time,” James shrugged. From his point of view, Charles had opened a door, and James wanted to walk through it.
He wrote a stirring sermon about the escalating conflict and the propaganda surrounding it. He did not give any warning to Nan or Jane. He simply walked up the stairs to the pulpit, took out his notes, and proclaimed, “Anything that speaks of violence, hatred, warfare, torture, or murder, that robs children of their youth or any other living being of their dignity or of their life, even when done in the name of God, is not about God. That kind of thing is about frail humanity—our impatience and selfishness, our thirst for power, our greed, our fear, and our defiance of God’s purpose. It represents not our faith, but our lack of it. None of it is worthy of God’s name or blessing.”
Nan clutched her handkerchief as she listened to him. He was blistering, rippling like the heat rising off a scorched summer road. He was preaching with conviction, with clarity and a wisdom she had not heard before. But he was doing the one thing her father said no minister could ever do: He was trying to make his congregation feel ashamed. She sat in the pew until the church emptied, until he had finished greeting everyone who still wanted to shake his hand at the door. She was sitting there when James walked back up the aisle from the street door of the sanctuary and Jane Atlas entered from the church side.
“You are a very special kind of fool,” Jane said, voicing what Nan so longed to say. “Hang on to your hat, because change is coming, and you’re not going to like it.”
The next morning, he and Charles were called to meet with members of the session. The invitation was written on thick church letterhead, a copy on each of their desks.
“A meeting to discuss your future,” James read from the sheet in his hand. He looked at Charles, the first twinge of dread dark in his stomach. “This can’t be good.”
“They wanted me to type them up,” Jane shouted from her desk. “I told them to do it themselves.”
“I thought it would just be me,” James apologized to Charles. “I didn’t think they’d drag you into it.” Charles, full of his own prickling misgivings, wondered how James could be so naive.
As at their interviews, they sat in chairs at the long table in the library. Coffee was set out on the sideboard; the session members helped themselves to it as they made their way in, laid their coats on the backs of chairs. James and Charles stared at them, took note of who would and would not meet their eyes.
Alan Oxman called the meeting to order. “We need to decide how to proceed,” he began. Charles felt James stiffen in his chair. He almost put a hand on James’s shoulder, but stopped himself. The session members were wearing expensive wool sweaters, silk ties, gold earrings, watches with leather bands. Alan Oxman opened the manila folder in front of him. “I want you to know,” he continued, “that there are just as many letters of support as there are letters of outrage. But the rules of this congregation are clear.”
James stood and paced to the fireplace. No one spoke. A couple of women bowed their heads.
“And you would like me to uphold those rules,” James said. He came back to the table and put both hands on it.
“Yes.”
“You hired me,” James said. “You read my dissertation. You knew what I believed.”
Alan looked down at the table. “We did,” he said. “But now you’ve crossed the line.”
He looked to Betsy Bailey. She straightened up and pointed at James, her finger blunt and calloused.
“You keep reminding us how flawed the world is,” she said. “About all the problems you expect us to solve.” Then, unexpectedly, she pointed to Charles. “And he keeps talking about doubt, and how it’s okay.”
“Please don’t bring him into this,” James said. “He’s your biggest ally.”
“Nevertheless,” Betsy Bailey continued, “doubt and disaster are a frightening combination. Especially in this day and age.”
James returned to the fireplace, tapped the mantel with his fingertip. Charles bowed his head.
“We recommend,” Betsy Bailey started, but James stepped forward, raised his arm. He didn’t want to hear them say it.
“We understand,” Charles said.
The committee wanted them to restrain themselves. No wonder James was furious all the time. It felt terrible to be told your church did not support you, that your congregation wanted you to be different, to be theirs instead of your own. For the next week they did not speak to each other about the meeting, because they did not know what to do.
FOURTEEN
Nan did. She called Charles, James, and Jane Atlas to a meeting at the manse. Jane was the first to arrive.
“The boys are freshening up,” she said as Nan walked her into the living room. “I told them they couldn’t leave the church before they rolled their sleeves down and combed their hair.” She sat down on the red sofa by the coffee table. Nan had laid out a pot of hot tea, a pitcher of iced tea, shortbread—which was James’s favorite—and cheese crackers, which were her own.
“Are we eating?” Jane asked. Not long ago, Nan would have taken this as a criticism, but now she knew that Jane’s deep voice made her comments seem more critical than they were.
“Yes,” Nan said. “It’s the end of the day, and we’ll all need something.”
Jane took a cracker and a cup of hot tea, settling into the cushions as she looked around the room.
“You know, it’s almost impossible to fire a minister,” she said. “That’s why so many churches are so awful.”
Nan had been on edge all day; nervous about convincing others she knew just what to do. Jane’s invocation of possible dismissal did not help.
“I don’t think James is going to get fired,” Nan answered. “But I want him to succeed. Otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise they’ll both quit,” Jane interrupted. “James won’t stay where he’s not wanted, and Charles won’t stay without James.”
They heard the two men come in the front door, talking loudly as they finished their conversation.
“Don’t keep us waiting!” Jane shouted at them. “Come in and listen to what this woman has to say.”
Nan had purposefully taken the armchair at the head of the coffee table, so James and Charles had to sit side by side on the sofa facing Jane. They were in a fine mood, given the circumstances, which made Nan angry and flustered. To get them to agree to her plan, she needed them to be more chastened. James looked at Nan impatiently. Nan looked at Jane. Jane cleared her throat.
“I be
lieve Nan has called us together to propose a solution to the mess you’ve gotten yourselves into. Which is a good thing, because if you two go, I go. And I’d like to stay.” Her voice was stern and sharp.
“Is this an ambush?” James asked.
Jane cut him off. “I believe it is a much-needed intervention.” She nodded at Nan and motioned for her to begin.
Nan took a deep breath.
“James is going to take some time off,” she said, holding up a hand as James leaned forward. “He and I are going to visit my father, who is unwell.” She shook her head at Charles’s look of concern. “Charles is going to decide that he wants to preach a series—six Sundays—on the historical context of the scriptures. He wants to follow the liturgical calendar to the letter, illuminating what each week’s scripture would have meant to the people of the time.”
Charles and James sat back, reluctantly catching on.
“James and I will return sooner than we thought we would, and James will be in his office and do his outreach. But he won’t cut Charles’s series short. He will lead the prayers and blessings. And on his first week back in the pulpit, the children’s choir will sing.”
James frowned. “You want me to run away?” he asked. “And lie?”
“I want you to take a break,” Nan said.
“And I’ll do the lying,” Jane Atlas assured him.
Charles looked at both women, concerned. “I think this is going to exacerbate the situation,” he said.
“I agree,” Nan told him. “And that’s why we need Lily.”
Charles looked stricken, but Jane Atlas hooted in delight. “A distraction!” she exclaimed. “A magician’s sleight of hand!”
“Yes,” Nan responded. If she had been at all sure this would work, she would have smiled.
Charles nodded. “So I have to ask her?”
“No, I’ll do it,” Nan said. “She already doesn’t like me.”
Charles telephoned Lily to tell her that Nan was coming over, and Lily had to let her in. Lily had been working on a lecture; stacks of library books and papers were piled neatly on the rug around the couch. She had just made herself a cup of tea. She held it between her hands as she looked out the window to watch Nan walk up the street. Nan was brightly dressed, as always, in a light green sweater and darker green skirt. From her high perch, Lily could see the top of Nan’s head, where her blond hair was darker along the part. It was pulled back from her face with an emerald bobby pin, and Lily wondered for a moment if the stone was real. Then she watched Nan pull open the lobby door and listened for her steps on the staircase.
She had decided not to clean up her work; she wanted Nan to see the evidence of her job, to perceive that she was busy and productive. And she was not going to offer Nan a cup of tea, though she was going to open the door with her own porcelain mug in hand. She wanted Nan to know this was an interruption and Nan was not welcome to stay.
Nan knocked. The hair on Lily’s neck and arms stood up. She opened the door.
“Hello,” Nan said. Her face was intent. Lily stepped back so she could enter. Nan looked around the room for a moment; Lily saw her take in the uncurtained windows, the dark blue kilim, the navy sofa, the white walls crosshatched by framed lithographs. She imagined Nan’s living room was soft and floral.
“I need you to come to church.” Nan turned to Lily, still standing. “We all need you to come to church. For six weeks. Starting as soon as possible.”
Lily laughed. It was not a cold or mean laugh—simply startled and incredulous. “That’s what you came to say?”
Nan’s expression did not change. “Yes,” she said, clutching her beige purse in her hand. “Will you do it?”
Lily knew little about what went on at church, but she did know that Charles was worried about James, that the talks she had attended were offending people, and that Nan had to be desperate to ask her for a favor in her own home. She sat down on the couch, still holding her tea. After a moment of hesitation, Nan sat in the leather armchair across from her.
“Why?” Lily asked. Nan leaned forward.
“Because our husbands are in trouble.”
Lily leaned back. “Your husband is in trouble,” she said.
“They’re a set,” Nan corrected her.
No, Lily thought, Charles and I are a set. They had found their places: both working, both reading, writing, and thinking deeply. Both lecturing; neither dependent on the other for support or company. Bookends; an equal pair.
“I don’t think so,” Lily said.
Nan put her purse on the floor, clasped her hands together, and leaned forward even more, her elbows on her knees.
“Do you have any idea what goes on—what really goes on—at church?” she asked Lily, her voice challenging. Lily realized she had expected Nan to beg, perhaps cry. But Nan was looking at her as if she were a child threatening not to do as she was told.
“No,” Lily said.
“Your husband is an excellent minister,” Nan told her. “He really is. He has a way of seeing the world that expands it for people, so they have more room to breathe. James admires him more than almost anyone in the world.”
“Of course I know that,” Lily said. “I edit his sermons.”
Nan nodded without comment. “And my husband is working to counter injustice. A pursuit of which I know you approve.”
Nan had her there. Lily was impressed by James, by his dogged fearlessness in the face of expectations. She felt they understood each other. They both knew the effort it took to pull up every root they had, to gather them into their arms, to tug them free whenever they tried to burrow their way into the ground.
“They’re close to being fired,” Nan said. “They are close to being asked to reconsider their calls. That can’t happen.”
But it could, and for one shining moment, Lily imagined the possibility. If Charles left this church, he might not want to look for another one. He might decide to become a professor. He and Lily might not have to work in entirely different places, devote themselves to entirely different philosophies. Lily might know his colleagues and their wives, and she might feel comfortable with them—might not feel, as Nan was making her feel now, contrary and unkind. She could be herself, her whole self, and she and Charles could go to dinner parties together, instead of Lily drinking with her colleagues alone.
But Charles did not want to leave Third Presbyterian. Lily knew that. He was confident now, full of purpose and goodwill. He was happy. She had almost forgotten that she wanted him to be happy, that she had chosen him carefully, that he had not been a terrible choice.
“What do I have to do, exactly?”
Nan exhaled, and Lily caught one quick glimpse of how scared Nan had been of her, how terrified that Lily might say no.
“You have to come to church,” Nan said, speaking quickly in her relief. “And to coffee hour. You don’t have to talk to anyone—in fact, it’s probably better if you don’t. You need to stay long enough for people to see you and Charles together.”
“Because?” Lily asked, skeptically.
Nan sat up, straight and certain. “Because it will remind the congregation that if one of them stumbles, the others will catch him. That we are stable and reliable. That four of us are better than one.”
Lily hated the idea of the congregation’s attention. She felt vaguely nauseous at the chance that it might lead to handshakes and small talk and invitations. But Charles needed her help and she had not known it, and that made her angry and ashamed.
For a long moment, Nan thought Lily would say no. Her heart began to race and her throat tightened in fear. Where would they go if Lily turned her back on them? Nan wanted to jump up and shake her, make her see how important this was, how precarious and urgent. But she knew Lily would despise an open show of feelings, might even refuse to help out of spite, simply to extricate herself from any tendril of obligation or despair. So Nan sat motionless, almost invisible, as Lily chose a course of action.
Lily stood. “All right,” she said. “I’ll show up and look mysterious and keep my mouth shut.”
Nan relaxed so fully she did not know if she would be able to get up from her chair. “Thank you,” she replied.
From the first Sunday of Nan’s campaign, Charles recognized its brilliance. It had been a joy to write his sermon; he was thrilled to return to the familiar trails of history, to ponder questions he knew he could answer, to lay down the cobblestones of a story rather than submerge himself in the existential depths of saving people’s souls.
And it was a pleasure to see Lily in the congregation, to know she had chosen to sit in the pew on his behalf, and James’s, and Nan’s. It grounded him, more securely than he could have imagined, to have the two sides of his life stitched together in the same room.
James was not so certain about it. For the first time, he resented Nan. She was denying him the chance to defend himself to his antagonists, and he abhorred the oily residue of defeat. He fell silent on the train to Mississippi, read his newspaper and looked out the window, trying not to catch her eye. It did not seem to bother her. She was delighted to be going home, content to read her book, to knit, to smile at the other passengers as they passed down the aisle. He was annoyed by the lightness of her being and burdened by the heaviness of his own.
But, once at her parents’ house, it was difficult to remain indignant in the face of her happiness. As she washed dishes with her mother, weeded the church path with her father, laughed with her childhood friends in the living room, James saw the Nan he had first met: full of hope and charm and cheer. He had taken her away from this life; he had changed her, and though he could not have charted their life differently, he lamented what it had cost her to follow him.
They went to service at her church, and James was spellbound by her father’s presence. He was not only in the pulpit but was, somehow, also of it—an alloy of man and minister, fearsome and approachable, exacting but kind. James felt the tension of the current, upheaving times in the church, but also the long rudder Nan’s father had put in the water, his strong hand on the wheel. He wondered how he would ever attain that wherewithal, that command.