“You’re the only one I can ask questions, Jonathan.”
“You can ask anyone questions, Frannie. You don’t have to save them up for me.”
“But Tom and Rachel and Julie laugh at me.” He didn’t answer, an admission of truth. “And Aunt Marie always says I don’t know and Uncle Paul is busy and scary and, if I ask Aunt Terri, she always tells me more than I want to know and then gets impatient.”
Jonathan tapped his long fingers on his knee. We were sitting on a bench in Aunt Marie’s flower garden. Because I was so pale I was in full shade to avoid sunburn. I picked at a mosquito bite, scoring a cross on it with my fingernail so it wouldn’t itch. It would just hurt. A stray sunbeam backlit my cousin, making his light brown hair glow golden at the ends.
“It doesn’t always have to be me,” he said again. “I don’t mind your questions, but there’s someone else you can talk to, too.”
“There is?” I wondered. Did he mean my mother? I wrote her dutifully once a week and had spoken to her on the phone maybe three times since the Beresfords took me. I never asked Mom questions, not even ones like Will you visit me? or, When will it be time for me to come home?
“There is,” said Jonathan. “You can talk to God.”
“God?” I forgot my mosquito bite to stare at him. Asking God questions sounded as abstract as writing into newspaper advice columns for answers. “How would I ask God a question? And how would he answer me? I think I would be scared if he answered me.”
“You ask by just asking. He answers different ways.”
“You mean out loud? Have you heard God, Jonathan?”
His blue eyes met mine. There was a smile wrinkling their corners. “One time. A long time ago. Tom and I were fighting about something and I went up to his room because I wanted to rip the covers off his favorite comic books. I was in his closet and had a hold of one. Then I heard my name: ‘Jonathan.’ Just that. I was so scared I dropped everything and ran.”
“It wasn’t Aunt Terri or your dad?”
He shook his head.
“But was it a big scary voice?”
“It was quiet, but it…boomed…somehow.”
“Because—God was mad?”
“That was the funny thing. When I stopped running and calmed down enough to think about it, I realized he wasn’t. Mad, I mean.” Jonathan beamed at me. “I’ve never told anyone that story.”
I felt my face heat up with happiness. He was my sole confidant, and I longed to be his. “But Jonathan—God was trying to warn you not to do something. That wasn’t answering a question.”
He looked away, his face in profile. “He was, in a way. He was telling me he noticed. That he was paying attention because he cared. That answers most questions.”
Did it? I pondered this. When I wanted to know why Aunt Terri was so mean all the time or why Rachel and Julie didn’t love me or why my mother didn’t want me back. When I didn’t understand math or couldn’t remember my Bible verses or pass spelling tests. Did it make a difference to know God was paying attention, and that he cared?
I felt butterflies in my stomach. Was he paying attention right this very second? Maybe he only spoke to Jonathan because he couldn’t help loving Jonathan. I couldn’t.
“I would be scared to hear God talk out loud,” I said finally.
“There was only that one time,” said Jonathan. “But sometimes I’ll read something in the Bible, and it will jump out at me, and I know that’s God trying to tell me something.”
“You still read the Bible?” I asked. “Even though you know all the stories?”
“I do. And sometimes,” he continued, “someone will say something to me, and I’ll have this…feeling. Like, ‘yes, that’s true.’ Like God is saying something to me through that person. It makes sense but I can’t explain it.”
“I had that feeling,” I burst out. “When you explained Solomon and the baby to me. You said God cared what happened to the baby, so he would be okay. And the mom knew God cared what happened to the baby, so she was okay.”
He grinned at me. “She knew God was paying attention. See? I told you it answers every question.”
Maybe.
“I still would rather ask you, Jonathan.”
“So ask. But I won’t always be around, Frannie. And what will you do if you ever have a question about me?”
“I would ask you!”
“Or we have a fight and you’re mad at me?”
“Wh—what?” That wasn’t possible.
“Well—” he shrugged. “Never mind. I’ll always do my best to answer, if I’m around. But keep God in your back pocket, just in case.”
This conversation took place shortly after Jonathan’s thirteenth birthday. I remember because bouquets of helium balloons lingered on the grass, the breeze occasionally bouncing them in slow motion. Enrique the gardener would dispose of them when he came on Friday.
If Jonathan was thirteen, I was seven-and-a-half. The thought of not being able to talk to him filled me with dismay, even if it was only hypothetical. I had no intention of giving up my flesh-and-blood confidant for One who might scare me out of closets with a booming voice or chant at me through Bible verses or inhabit the mouth of Tom or my aunt Terri. No. Jonathan knew everything, but on this he was wrong.
So I thought then.
Out of obedience to my cousin, I began talking to God. More like you would include a stranger in your conversation from politeness, rather than a desire to get acquainted. God was the friend of a friend; if Jonathan found him worthwhile, I would like him for Jonathan’s sake. God rarely answered that I could hear, but perhaps that was the fault of my listening. He seemed talkative enough in the Bible. In my life, though, I pictured him as an amiable Uncle Roger, never saying much, but a comforting presence.
Obedience became habit. Habit became necessity. As Jonathan got older and busier with high school sports and studies and activities, I either had to share my thoughts and feelings with God or keep them to myself for days on end.
But I still preferred Jonathan.
Chapter 4
Eric and Caroline Grant were not Tom’s first questionable friends.
He had been partying for years. Since the time he traded bedrooms with me. When his parents dropped him off for youth group at the church, he would wait for their car to pull away before leaping in the waiting vehicle of a friend. He kept spare clothes and a bottle of shampoo tucked in Rachel’s choir room cubby, and I more than once found him outside the house, washing the odors of cigarettes and pot away with the hose. He would put a playful finger to his lips and squirt the hose at my feet to make me jump.
“When’s the fall retreat going to be this year, in case Aunt Terror asks me?” Tom demanded of Jonathan one afternoon. Jonathan was reading on the porch. I was in the treehouse, long abandoned by the other Beresfords, struggling over fractions and decimals.
“Are you coming?” his brother responded.
“Not a chance.” Tom leaned against the railing. “But I am thinking of taking some friends up to the cabin while I’m supposed to be retreating.” The Beresfords’ cabin at Lake Tahoe was more of a big vacation home which Aunt Terri had decorated in a “rustic” style.
“Why not invite the friends when the whole family’s at the cabin?” Jonathan suggested. “You know Mom and Dad always say we can.”
Tom ruffled Jonathan’s hair. “Precisely because we don’t want to be at the cabin when the whole family’s there, Genius. We have our own…plans and activities…and I’m guessing Dad and Aunt Terror wouldn’t approve.”
“Then why not simplify your story and leave the youth group out of it? Say you’re going camping with your buddies.”
“Gimme a break. You know how Dad hates Steve and Dave. He’d never let me, even though it sounds like he was pretty wild and crazy before he married Mom. Now quit hassling me, Reverend Jonathan, and just tell me what I wanna know.”
Jonathan flushed and got to his feet. Tom had grown t
all and well-built—as a sophomore he was already first-string on the varsity football team—but Jonathan was still his equal in height, and at fourteen just beginning to fill out. “Quit calling me that, Tom.”
“Oh, come off it! I hear you and Frannie talking church church God God all the time while she gives you those big dumb moony eyes. It’s totally sickening. You’re just a couple of sheep. Baa! BAA!”
That did it. Jonathan lowered his head and barreled into his brother. Backward went Tom, over the railing and into the hedge, his brother on top of him. The bushes shook; twigs snapped; leaves flew into the air. They came tumbling out, still locked together, a scratch on Jonathan’s cheek bleeding freely and a swatch of Tom’s shirt in his hand. Tom was stronger, but Jonathan was dead serious.
Horrified, I threw myself on my stomach and army-crawled to the edge of the treehouse platform to watch the fight.
Aunt Terri busted out the front door just when Tom was sitting on Jonathan’s chest, dangling a spit loogie over him like he used to do to me and his sisters when we were littler. “Tom! Tom—what on earth? Get off of Jonathan right now.”
Leisurely, Tom hocked the loogie off to the side, rolled off and smiled up at his aunt. “Just goofing around. He wouldn’t tell me when the youth retreat was, and I really wanna go.”
Jonathan sat up, his eyes dark. He swabbed his cheek with the piece of Tom’s shirt. I could see the tension in his body. I knew him so well it seemed I could read the thoughts in his clenched muscles. He was debating what to do, but Tom’s choices were Tom’s choices. He, Jonathan, could speak his mind, but he wouldn’t rat on him. “It’s October 10-12.”
“Thanks,” said Tom. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What is it about boys,” complained Aunt Terri, “that everything has to be decided with a wrestling match? Well, at least you did it outside. But just look at the hydrangeas!” A falling object caught her attention: my pencil, rolling off the platform where I still lay hunkered. Aunt Terri’s eye flew up and spotted my night-light hair. Relieved to have a new object on which to vent her feelings, she went after me. “Frannie, how many times have I told you to change your school clothes before you go climbing trees and getting dirty? And I suppose you couldn’t have reminded your cousins that I don’t like rough-housing? Come down from there right now! You should be inside doing your homework.”
“I was doing my homework,” I replied breathlessly, scrambling down with my backpack and loose papers. “But I’ll finish inside.”
“And just look at your hair! How is it that barrettes and combs fall out, but leaves and lint stay in, no problem?”
“Aww, go easy on her, Aunt Terri,” said Tom, inclined to be generous after his victory. “Except for not keeping her clothes nice and having messy hair, Frannie never does anything wrong. Right, Frannie?” To me, he mouthed baa, baa!
I ignored him and made to go past, not meeting Jonathan’s gaze because I was embarrassed. Embarrassed that he might think I was spying on him and embarrassed on his behalf, if he minded me seeing Tom whip him. But there was a tug on my hair and I turned to see him holding the twig he’d pulled out of it. His blue eyes were calm again and almost smiling. He gave a tiny shrug. I nodded. Yes, I knew. Tom would be Tom. But he had tried.
I went inside.
• • •
When Tom left for Colorado College, Uncle Paul no doubt breathed a sigh of relief. Even the little he suspected of Tom’s misdeeds was enough, and Colorado College was far, far away from those most questionable influences, Steve and Dave. He would have preferred Tom go to a Christian college, but Tom balked. In Colorado Springs, he would be in the heart of Evangelical-Land, he argued, sharing the library carrels and the slopes with all kinds of Christians Focused on Their Families—wouldn’t that be enough? Off he went, and there the Beresfords’ troubles began. Or, I should say, there began Uncle Paul and Aunt Marie’s awareness of troubles. And then I should amend that to say that, even when full-blown, the troubles and worry fell mainly on Uncle Paul and his sister. Aunt Marie continued unruffled as ever, as when a tsunami overwhelms a distant shore, crosses the Pacific, and finally washes up on the beaches of North America a mere ripple.
The first phone call the Beresfords received after Tom went to college was not from Tom himself, but rather from the hospital, to report that he had been rushed there for alcohol poisoning.
“Whatever is alcohol poisoning?” asked Aunt Marie, when Uncle Paul hung up the phone.
“It means he drank too much too quickly. They’ve got him on an IV and breathing support. I’m going to go out to the airport and see if I can catch a flight.”
“But Tom doesn’t drink,” said Aunt Marie.
“All the more reason he should have been careful. Those damned Resident Assistants! How much tuition am I paying that place? They should keep an eye on the freshmen. All it takes is one foolish choice at a party, and next thing you know, someone winds up dead.”
“Can I come with you, Dad?” Jonathan’s voice sounded choked.
“Dead?” marveled my aunt.
Uncle Paul put a hand on her shoulder. “Not Tom. He’s going to be just fine. Yes, Jon, you come. Throw some clothes in a bag, and let’s get going. Rachel—call your aunt and tell her to come over while I’m away.” Fifteen minutes later, they were gone.
The garage door rumbled back into place before Julie let out a groan. “No fair! Jonathan gets to miss school, and we get a double-dose of Aunt Terri.”
“Is Dad bringing Tom home, Mom? Because I wanted his room,” Rachel added.
Aunt Marie wiggled her fingertips. “Girls, girls. Your father will decide all that.”
“Meaning Aunt Terror will decide all that,” said Rachel under her breath.
Jonathan returned after a couple days, quiet and shaken, but it was two weeks before Tom came home. He was pale and sheepish but still grinning weakly. Uncle Paul had withdrawn him from Colorado College. He was now to spend the fall at the local community college to recover his health and get back on track. After that, he was to enroll at a Christian school or whichever nearby university would let him transfer. He was going to be watched. “I’m sorry, sir,” he told his father. “I know I disappointed you.”
“Choices have consequences, Tom. I know college is a time to experiment—but now I hope you’ll be wiser for it.”
“I do too, sir. I will.” But when his father had left the room, Tom threw his head back against the reclining chair. “God! First there was the anticipation of the lecture and then the lecture itself! I thought it would never end. Dad should look on the bright side: think of the money I’ll save him, going to JC for a while.”
“You had a close call,” said Jonathan.
“Not that close, Reverend. I made it to the hospital, didn’t I? Man—I wish I waited till spring to screw everything up, though. I didn’t even get one ski season in. It’ll have to be Tahoe again this year. No way am I going to Westmont or Azusa or Biola, though. I’m thinking Santa Clara or Santa Cruz. The girls are better looking at Santa Clara, but at Santa Cruz…” He trailed off, lost, I was certain, in visions of marijuana plants.
Jonathan came and found me in the treehouse.
“I feel partly responsible, Frannie.” He was in his senior year of high school and busy with many things. Schoolwork, SAT prep, swim team, youth group leadership, and—worst of all—his first girlfriend. I had only myself to blame for the last. Tammy was a volunteer counselor at my church day camp the previous summer, and I had spoken so constantly and admiringly of her that Jonathan took note. Worse yet, I couldn’t hate her, though I wanted to. She was cute and chipper and devout and unfailingly kind to me. And on the genuine plus side, she was homeschooled with very strict parents, which meant she and Jonathan were only allowed to go on group dates or be over at each other’s houses when the parents were home. (An allowance was made for Aunt Terri, after Tammy’s parents met Aunt Marie in church.) Had Jonathan been a different sort of boy—been Tom, for in
stance—he might have spent his energies attempting to bend rules and outwit Tammy’s parents, but as it was, his relationship with Tammy remained as innocent as her mother and father hoped. All of which is to say, Jonathan was still the best friend I had in the world, but I rarely saw him by himself and our conversations dwindled sadly.
I hugged my knees, hoping I didn’t look too gleeful that Tom’s brush with death brought my cousin to me. “It’s not your fault,” I said.
He smiled at me. “You mean, any more than it’s your fault, or Rachel’s, or Julie’s, since we’re the only ones who know this wasn’t Tom’s first time getting falling-down drunk?”
“Everyone his age gets falling-down drunk,” I said stoutly. “At least, lots of kids brag about it.”
His smile widened. “Don’t tell me—even the sixth graders at Mission Elementary are doing it? What’s the world coming to?”
“No-o-o…but their older siblings are. And the kids my age talk about it like it’s something fascinating that they can’t wait to do. Get drunk and get stoned.”
Jonathan was silent a minute, fingering the fringe of the worn bathmat Aunt Terri grudgingly allowed me to take from the Goodwill pile and use as a treehouse carpet. “It’s too bad about you growing up with cousins so much older than you, Frannie,” he said at last.
“Rachel and Julie aren’t much older than I am,” I pointed out. And nothing could be bad about growing up with Jonathan, I added to myself.
“You know what I mean. Tom hasn’t set the best example. You shouldn’t even know what the word ‘stoned’ means in sixth grade. I bet Tammy still doesn’t have the clearest idea.”
The Beresfords Page 3