“I’m not coming back home tonight. I’m staying with a friend from Christian Life.”
She is punishing me for slapping her.
“This is a school night, Sarah. You’ve been gone enough as it is.”
I try to lighten my voice. I don’t want to argue with her.
“I thought we’d go out and get a steak.”
“Listen,” she says, her voice high with emotion.
“I’m almost eighteen. I’m not a child anymore. I don’t have to do what you say.”
I nearly drop the phone. Never has she talked to me like this. No child has ever been more obedient. I have never had a moment’s trouble out of her. In fact, Rainey has remarked that Sarah has been almost too perfect.
“Legally, you’re wrong,” I tell her crossly.
“Until your birthday, you’re still a minor.” Though this is technically true, it’s meaningless.
“I’m very sorry I slapped you, but this isn’t going to help matters any if you begin acting like this.”
Sarah’s voice becomes firm.
“I’m not being kidnapped, so don’t start acting like a lawyer, please.”
What am I supposed to act like? Who does she think she is? I’ve put food on the table, bought her clothes, been a taxi service, not to mention raised her singlehandedly since her mother died. I make an enormous effort to control my voice.
“Do you think your mother would approve of how you’re acting? The least you can do is tell me who you’re staying with so I won’t worry about you.”
Sarah gives a little cry of frustration.
“Don’t try to guilt me like you usually do, all right? It won’t work.
And I’m not telling you where I am, because I don’t trust you not to come get me. I’m staying with a friend, okay?”
Guilt. I’ve always used it. For the last year she has sniffed it out every time. For God’s sake, why shouldn’t she feel guilty? This is inexcusable. It’s that damn church.
“At least let me talk to one of the parents, so I know it’s okay.”
There is silence for a moment. In the background I think I can hear a radio or maybe a tape. It sounds like that stuff they played the Sunday I went.
“It’s just a couple of friends who have an apartment. They don’t live with their parents.”
“At least one of them is a boy,” I suggest.
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
I can see Sarah rolling her eyes.
“I knew that’s what you’d think! You just don’t understand anything about me. That’s why I left. You don’t want to understand.
You think all these people are deluded sheep who can’t think for themselves, and that’s just not true. You think it’s just about belief. You don’t get it that faith and love are inseparable. We don’t use each other at Christian Life. That’s practically all you do. You don’t care about people; you just care about winning. That’s become your Bible. I don’t want to be like that.”
Left? Does this mean she won’t be coming back?
“What time,” I ask carefully, “will I see you tomorrow?”
She stammers, “I-I-I don’t know. I’m okay though.”
The phone clicks in my ear, and I tear back into her room to see what she has taken. I throw open her closet door and see there is nothing left except a couple of dresses she never wears. I go through her drawers and find almost nothing. Practically the only thing left in her room is a poster of Tom Cruise from the movie Top Gun and the collage of her friends, none of whom she has mentioned since she started this Christian Life business. She must have called someone immediately. My heart begins to race. I can call Shane Norman and ask him to track her down. Somebody in her so-called “family” surely can find out where she is. Yet, as I am looking up his number, I realize that Christian Life has thousands of members, and he won’t know off the top of his head who to call either. And what do I say? I slapped my daughter because she defended you and she ran off, and I want you to bring her back? Instead, I dial Rainey’s number, thinking Sarah may have mentioned somebody to her.
Rainey answers on the first ring, and I yell, “Sarah’s gone. Do you know any of her friends from that church?”
“What are you talking about?” Rainey asks, sounding alarmed.
“What do you mean she’s gone?”
I lower my voice and quickly run through the last hour and a half.
“Gideon, have you lost your mind?” Rainey says, when I am finished.
“I don’t blame her for leaving. It makes me sick to my stomach that you would even consider trying to implicate Shane without any more evidence than this. You’re slandering one of the most decent human beings I’ve ever known. And I can’t believe you slapped Sarah. What is wrong with you? Were you drunk?”
I eye the six-pack on the counter and think I’m going to be soon if I have to listen to any more of this self righteous crap.
“It didn’t leave a mark,” I defend my self; but I feel terrible.
“I guess I shouldn’t expect you to understand. You’ve been such a perfect parent. And, no, I wasn’t drunk.”
I wait in silence while Rainey takes in my snide comment Her daughter, Bern, went through a rebellious period of her own as a college student. She is now a contented first-grade teacher in Mississippi, again close to her mother, but at one time they were barely speaking I know what Rainey is thinking. She never hit her daughter in the face. I can’t believe I slapped Sarah either. She’s right. I must be losing my mind.
“I know this is killing you,” Rainey says.
“But if you try to drag Sarah back home tonight, you’ll regret it the rest of your life. I know you think she’s being brain washed, but it’s not like that at all. As sincere as I think Sarah is about Christian Life, this is directed at least as much against you as toward something else. Believe me, I know.”
I lean back against the wall in the kitchen and think what else I can say to hurt the people I care about the most. Bern, I recall, thought Christianity was a con game run by, I believe the phrase was, “mostly male prostitutes in the service of Mammon.” I rub my eyes, exhausted.
“What have I done?” I wail.
Rainey says quietly, “Right now, Sarah sees you as the antithesis of everything good. I know this will hurt your feelings, but right now she sees you as tainted, even corrupt. You personify for her the compromises human beings make with the Devil.”
My heart begins to race. I can’t stand any more of this. That’s ridiculous! Sarah wasn’t like this before she started going to that church. Granted, she didn’t think I was perfect, but I sure didn’t have horns and a tail.
What in the hell do I do that every attorney in Blackwell County doesn’t?
“This is ludicrous. I can’t begin to touch the stories about Chet Bracken. What makes him such a saint and me such a sinner?” .
Rainey’s voice grows softer as mine becomes louder.
“He’s accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Lord and Savior.”
I want to smash the phone against the wall. If I hear that phrase one more time, I’m going to get some dynamite and blow Christian Life to kingdom come. She is so blind! Shane Norman is probably a murderer, and the man he hired to represent his daughter is letting him get away with it. I stop myself. I don’t trust Rainey any longer. How incredible! This is a woman with whom I have entrusted every doubt I’ve had for the last two years.
“chet’s a candidate for one of the apostles, all right,” I say sarcastically.
“Give Sarah some time,” Rainey advises me, ignoring my last remark.
“She’ll come home. I’ll try to find out tomorrow where she is and make sure she’s okay.”
Her voice is a little too soothing. I think Rainey already knows, but Sarah has sworn her to secrecy. Yet I don’t have the slightest proof. Like Dan, I see conspiracies everywhere.
“I’d appreciate that,” I say dryly.
“What about starting to
night?”
“If I can,” Rainey says after a pause.
“I’ve got a meeting up there in a few minutes, so I’ll ask around a little.”
For a moment I want to tell her not to bother. I am embarrassed. I have never had a moment’s trouble from Sarah. She is my greatest success. I feel I have failed Rosa. If she were alive, Sarah would be home now.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Rainey promises, “unless I run across some information. It’s possible she may call me.”
I hang up, feeling more depressed than I have since my wife died. I take out a beer and walk out in the backyard to let Woogie do his business. I should take him for a walk, but I don’t feel like it. When I come back in, I put away the groceries but realize I don’t feel like eating and decide to go out. The house is driving me crazy. I’d like areal drink. I put food in Woogie’s bowl and check his water. He gives me a sad look as if to say. Is this all the attention I get? I reach down and pet him, but I can’t stay here a moment longer.
I decide on Kings amp; Queens, a club on the south side that, despite its name, is definitely not a hangout for homosexuals Like a dog returning to his old haunts, I set the Blazer on a familiar course down College Avenue while I brood on my daughter’s actions. I shouldn’t have slapped her, but she shouldn’t have run off. Have I kept too tight a rein on her? I don’t think so. She dates whomever she wants, has a 1 a.m. curfew on weekends, spends her money from her part-time job on the week end at a video store however she pleases. Spoiled like most kids (we pretend to divide the chores but neither of us really cleans the house), she nevertheless makes do without a car and doesn’t demand money for clothes.
The fact is, I don’t have a thing to complain about. She knows that we’re at the lower end of middle class and I am still paying loans off from my belated law school debt. She wants to go out-of-state to college, but it will depend on scholarship money. Why am I worried about college? At the rate she’s going, she will end up as a janitor at Christian Life. Surely Rainey is exaggerating.
The antithesis of everything good! Since when does trying to find out the truth make a person corrupt? Give me a break, Sarah. Yet is that what I am really doing?
Or is it the way she says am I just trying to win?
What Sarah won’t realize is that our system of justice is set up that way. It’s supposed to be adversarial. From the battle in court with all its lawyers and procedural rules the truth is supposed to emerge. Do I want the truth or do I merely want Shane Norman to lose his luster in my daughter’s eyes? The truth is, it wouldn’t break my heart at all to find out Norman killed his sonin-law. I feel a hardness somewhere inside me from all of this I can’t seem to break down.
Kings amp; Queens does not cater to your yuppie lawyer and “bond daddies,” but over the years has attracted a loyal, albeit eclectic, clientele because of its total commitment to a delicate mix of crossover country music and golden oldies that range from Willie Nelson to Vicki Can. Throw in the cheapest hard-liquor prices in the county, a modest cover to discourage a crowd that is too young and rowdy, and you have a nice environment in which to pick up a woman something I have done on occasion in the not-too-distant past. Granted, it has been a couple of years, but Kings amp; Queens is like the drinking water: unless something busts loose, you can count on it.
Inside, I am not disappointed. Some things never change. The smoke and noise level I would recognize anywhere. The crowd looks a little younger, probably because I am a couple of years older. Over the din of conversation I can make out an old Dave and Sugar hit.
I make my way to the bar, which is dotted with a few empty spots, and grab a stool next to a couple of women who look like schoolteachers who have vowed never to teach junior high kids again. The decor of Kings amp; Queens, unchanged since I started coming here after Rosa died, won’t win awards for originality, but still commands my attention. Royalty and their families are everywhere. What we don’t have, we love. Unhappy or not, they (Diana, Charles, Fergie, Andrew, Elizabeth, and Philip) stare down from every wall at their Arkansas admirers in what I decide is perpetual amazement that their most un royal deeds attract such ardent attention from the most republican of their former subjects.
I order a bourbon and Coke, not caring it will be the house brand. For some reason, cheaper bourbon mixes the best or maybe just seems the sweetest, which apparently is all I require in the way of taste.
“Why get fancy?” the older of the two presumptive teachers asks when she hears my order. She gives me a smile that says she isn’t saving the seat for anybody.
Why indeed, I think, giving her the once-over. No ring (this could be girls’ night out), frosted short hair;
she is wearing a long-sleeved green turtleneck and dress jeans. Either she went home to change or is the play ground supervisor. Yet maybe teachers dress more casually these days.
“No sense trying to fool anybody, is there?” I respond, pleased I don’t have to think of something clever to break the ice. Her younger partner is prettier, but given her lock jawed expression, she won’t be running for president of my fan club any time soon.
For the next thirty minutes I compete head to head with Lockjaw for her friend’s attention (Jennifer spelled with a “J,” she says with a practiced smirk, no doubt having used that line more than once but still getting a grin out of me she has no idea how easy-to-please I am tonight). Finally Lockjaw gives up and calls it a night, pissed, but obviously not for the first time. Men spoil everything, her parting glance says. If I had known, I would have brought a friend. Preferably some body with rabies.
Jennifer, who turns out to be an accountant for a wholesale food club, and I seat ourselves at a table and share some nachos and cheese dip while we trade selected poignant vignettes from our pasts. She donated one of her kidneys to a twin sister who died from cancer anyway; I tell her about Rosa. Realizing she has topped me (I would have been glad to donate a breast), she lets me talk, which is progressively easier to do as the bourbon slides down. I tell her about a former divorce client who served her husband rat muffins for breakfast; on the dance floor I regale her with the continuing saga of Jason and his spiritual development classes. Steadily drinking dos Equis (our table is beginning to resemble a missile silo with multiple warheads), she laughs appreciatively.
In my arms, slow-dancing to “Bridge over Troubled Water,” Jennifer feels nice, her body warm and as user friendly as buttered toast. I used to be pretty good at this once. I am almost six feet tall, with only a slight paunch, and most days I can look myself in the mirror without wincing until I put in my contacts. Then I can see the warts. True, the bald spot on the back of my head looks, according to Dan, like spreading tree blight (what are friends for?), but Jennifer, with her slightly pug nose and weak chin, doesn’t appear on the verge of launching a campaign for mrs. America. Actually, compared to what else is out on the dance floor we stack up fairly well. The hard-body competition is agreeably thin, if you throw out a couple of women who could be hookers judging by their makeup and out-of-season sundresses that reveal more than repair work. Jennifer’s body, pressed against mine, is, if not overly firm, not of the Jell-0 variety either. Up close and personal, she looks around my age. Staying away, for once, from the subject of Sarah (usually, by this time I have whipped out my wallet and showed off her senior class picture), I work into the conversation that I have never been through a divorce, a fact that surely must be alluring to a single female patron of Kings amp; Queens.
“I’ve never been married,” Jennifer says, as we leave the dance floor hand in hand to return to our drinks.
I look down at her, amazed by this disclosure, feeling in some vague way she has again topped me.
“Imagine,” I say, bumping her slightly, “two middleaged adults without a single child-support check to show for it.” We sit down and drink.
“How come?” I ask, drunk enough to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. We’re not exactly
at the point where we exchange life stories.
“Doubtless, you’ve had plenty of chances.”
She smiles a little more brightly than necessary.
“It’s not that I don’t enjoy men, but I guess I’ve never liked the odds.”
Enjoy. I smile, too, pleased at my good fortune. I want to go to bed with this woman, but I’m not in the mood to listen to any bitter stories. Around nine, after we’ve danced again, I ask, “Would you like to come to my place?”
Obviously considering, she waits until we are back at our table to speak. She reaches down and finishes off the last of her beer. I should have ordered a six-pack and a bucket of ice.
“Thank you, but you seem a little too sad, Gideon. I appreciate the offer though.” After picking up her purse, she reaches up and lightly kisses me on the cheek and then slips away, leaving me to find our waiter to pay the bill.
Me, sad? I thought I had been witty and charming. I drive home in an alcoholic daze, on the lookout for cops. All I need to cap this perfect day is a ticket.
Damn.
At home the only thing on the machine is an incomprehensible message from Pearl Norman. Skunked worse than I am, she is saying something about “trying ever since Leigh was ten …” to do something. Most of it is her crying into the phone. I run the tape twice, and then erase it to get away from the sound of her voice.
Her self-pitying whine reminds me of my father’s voice when he was on the sauce. Jesus Christ. An alcoholic and a schizophrenic. No wonder my mother shipped him off to the state hospital. I felt terrible I never went to see him, but I was glad he was gone. Embarrassed the shit out of us sometimes. The asshole!
“Drunk and crazy, drunk and crazy,” Marty would hiss under her breath at him at the dinner table. I’d sit there scared to death he’d understand, while mother tried to act as if nothing was wrong. Glad those times are past. In the den on the sofa I sit as still as I can to make the room stop spinning. Woogie hops up beside me to wait for Sarah. Good boy. No wonder Leigh and Shane try to hide Pearl. I would, too.
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