We talked for maybe an hour, and it’s impossible to recount everything that was said, because it was mainly about nothing. Just one topic after another that changed suddenly to another that didn’t seem to have any correlation with the first but obviously did. Sarah had this thing she said she asked everyone new she came in contact with; it was three simple questions that supposedly told everything about you. The first was what CD you last listened to; second, who’s your favorite actor; and third, what’s your favorite movie of all time. They were tough questions, except for the CD one, so I asked her to give hers first.
“Easy,” she said. “Coldplay’s A Rush of Blood to the Head, Julia Roberts, and Pretty Woman, without a doubt.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. I had been hoping for more time. “In my car, the last thing I listened to was Alice in Chains. Their unplugged album. My favorite actor is ... well, if I have to pick one, I’d have to say Bruce Campbell.”
She said, “Who?” frowning like I’d just told her I was the offspring of an alien race.
“Bruce Campbell,” I repeated, then started to list off the movies and television shows he’d starred in, when I realized it wouldn’t be worth it. So in the end I shrugged and said, “I work at Blockbuster, what I can tell you. I see a lot of movies.”
“Good,” she said. “So then you shouldn’t have a problem telling me your favorite movie of all time.”
“Citizen Kane.”
Her face went blank. “You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No way. Orson Welles was a genius. That film’s amazing, nearly flawless. Way ahead of its time.”
“Oh my gosh.” Her voice had gone toneless. “You just said film.”
Grinning, I said, “Fine. For the less cultured, movie.”
“Okay then, how about this? Favorite chick flick.” She smirked. “If, of course, you’re willing to impart such private information.”
“Casablanca,” I said, without a beat, and she groaned and rolled her eyes, muttered, “How old are you anyway? Fifty?”
“Eighteen. But everyone says I’m very mature for my age.” I gave a too-wide grin, then leaned forward and whispered, “Except, between you and me, I can be as immature as the next guy.”
“Oh really.” She didn’t look convinced. “What’s the most immature thing you’ve ever done?”
For an instant I thought about Mel, and what I’d forced her to do three months ago.
I slowly stepped back, shaking my head. “There’s way too many to pick just one, I’m sorry to say.”
Then, somehow, we began talking about TV, then school, then somehow water polo, before starting up on fast food—the pros and cons of Taco Bell. She found out that Lily Myers was my grandmother, mentioned how nice of a lady she was, and told me about her dad, who drove truck, and her brother, who was a senior and would be graduating in another week. I noticed her mother had been absent from the list of family members but decided not to mention it.
Twenty minutes later, after discussing the worst hypothetical pizza toppings of all time (hers was onions and asparagus, mine Spam and black licorice), I wasn’t thinking straight and just came out and asked her if she’d want to hang out sometime.
“Not like a date or anything,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. “But I’m visiting for a while, and there’s really nothing else to do, so ...”
She made a smile which looked somewhat forced, and said, “Sure.” Then the smile faded, and her face became hard for the first time. She stared up at me, appeared like she was going to say something, but then only sighed and closed her eyes. She slowly stood up. She had to, because of the extra weight she was carrying. Her belly, which had been hidden behind the counter this entire time, pressed against her T-shirt. For another instant I thought of Mel, and then Sarah opened her eyes. Something had changed in them—the fun, happy look there now gone. When she spoke, her words had become dull, almost lifeless.
“Unless, that is, you’re having second thoughts.”
And her hands moved to her belly, where they stayed, as if wanting to protect the fetus from my response.
• • •
LUANNE’S, AS MY grandmother told me, is one of those special diners out in the middle of nowhere that’s become almost legend. It’s so well known, people from all over Chemung County come to get something as simple as a grilled BLT and fries, and supposedly college students from Cornell trek down at least once a semester, to order Luanne’s famous waffle and ice cream. “As big as a tire,” Grandma said, on the drive down, “and topped with six scoops of ice cream.”
The place—like much of Bridgton—was small and tiny, but it was clean. Besides a long Formica-topped counter where a few lonely old men sat drinking coffee, there were twenty red-leather upholstered booths, ten on each side of the main doors. Despite its supposed notoriety, it wasn’t completely packed that Saturday night. There were a few spots open at the counter, and two open booths, one of which we took in the far corner. We looked at our menus, ordered drinks, and five minutes later, my uncle arrived.
He entered in his gray deputy’s uniform and talked, shook hands, or just said hello to at least a half dozen people before making his way to our booth. Grandma and I sat opposite each other, so he slid in beside me. He said hello to both of us, apologized for being late, then grabbed a menu.
“I talked to Steve earlier today,” he said to me, as he glanced over the specials. I noticed that his posture, his face, even his voice, were much different than they had been back in Lanton. He looked less restricted now, not as uncomfortable.
“How are things down there?”
“About the same.”
That’s where the topic died, and for the next minute or so there was silence. After we ordered from an older waitress with orange hair named Doris, Grandma reached across the table and patted my hand with a smile.
“Christopher met Sarah today,” she said.
“Really.” There was something in Dean’s voice I didn’t like, the tone stressing a point he wanted me to hear. “Nice girl.”
“She’s a very nice girl.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Dean said. “Too bad she’s pregnant and doesn’t even know who the father is.”
“Dean, please. Keep your voice down. All I said was—”
“Yeah, I know what you said. Let’s just drop it, okay?”
I was beginning to regret even mentioning my meeting Sarah to Grandma. It was on impulse, really, having not much else to talk about, and when she asked me if I’d done anything interesting the rest of the day, I just came out with it.
“So will you be joining us tomorrow at church?” Grandma asked Dean.
He glanced at me. “You’re going?”
Grandma said, “Of course he’s going. Why wouldn’t he?”
“I’m sure Chris can answer for himself, Mom.”
“Besides, that nice man is speaking. You know, the one who’s staying on The Hill with his son. I forget his name.”
“Cunningham.” Dean’s voice was indifferent. He seemed to have quickly become interested with something across the diner. “Moses Cunningham.”
“That’s right. Christopher, you really should meet him. He’s a very nice man.”
I nodded but remained silent. I didn’t like the tension that had suddenly developed.
“Still,” Grandma said to Dean. I hated hearing the slight whine in her voice. “Won’t you at least consider coming? Please?”
Dean looked back at her, forced a smile. “Sure, Mom,” he said, like any good son wanting to please his mother. “I’ll consider it.”
Twenty minutes later, after tense and token conversation, Grandma talked me into ordering dessert. Before, I’d been skeptical about Luanne’s famous waffle and ice cream, but when it came the Belgian was thick and golden and just as big as the plate. And instead of six scoops of vanilla, there were seven.
Chapter 6
Sunday morning service at Bridgton Calvary Church started at t
en a.m. Grandma made us pancakes and eggs and, with Mrs. Roberts in my car, we arrived at the church a quarter till. The parking lot was already filled, just a few spaces left, so after dropping both of them off at the door, I parked the car. Then I stood outside and stared up at the building. It wasn’t large—quite tiny, in fact—yet still it intimidated me.
Besides meeting with James Young and going to a wedding six months prior to my parents’ murder (it had been one of my mom’s friends who’d gotten married, one of her friends who hadn’t even come to the funeral), this would be my first time stepping foot inside a church in nearly two years. When exactly I made the unconscious decision to stop going I couldn’t say; I don’t think anyone who once had gone to church every Sunday can determine the specific date when they stopped. For most people—at least in my experience—it doesn’t happen abruptly, but over the course of months, where first one week is missed, then another week maybe a month later, until it becomes two consecutive weeks missed and so on.
I do know it was sometime after I turned sixteen, right after my parents had loaned me an extra few hundred dollars to buy my Cavalier, because before then my parents drove me every Sunday. We’d sit together during the service and then have breakfast afterward, at one of the nearby restaurants. Then, when I stopped going, they never said anything but would always ask if I’d meet them for breakfast. And somehow I actually agreed until I stopped showing up to that, too.
It was the morning I first skipped breakfast that my father knocked on my bedroom door. I’d been out late the night before. Curfew was midnight but my parents never really enforced it; I could come home at three o’clock in the morning, as I’d done early that Sunday, and they never would have known because both would already be asleep.
I was lying in bed, hung over from a busy night partying. I really shouldn’t have driven home—and how I managed it without getting in an accident or pulled over is a miracle in itself—but I’d rolled in a few hours before the sun rose, ready only for my bed and sleep. I knew I didn’t have to get up early; I hadn’t been to church in months, and my parents hadn’t said a word to me.
Then my father knocked.
I rolled over in bed, saw he hadn’t opened the door, and asked him what he wanted.
He never stepped foot inside my bedroom, just poked his head in and said, “You missed breakfast.” He was dressed like he always was on Sunday mornings—dark khakis and a button-down shirt. No tie. He’d told me once God didn’t require a tie when going to church; He only required you actually went.
My eyes half-open, I glanced at the alarm clock beside my bed. It was nearly one in the afternoon. This didn’t surprise me—I actually figured it was later—but still I acted surprised. “Oh jeez,” I said, yawning. “I guess I overslept. I’m sorry. I won’t miss it next week.”
“Are you sure?” There was something in his voice that gave me pause, something that said he was asking about more than just breakfast.
I yawned again, my head still on the pillow. I didn’t trust myself sitting upright—at least not yet—and wasn’t about to try in front of my dad. “Yeah,” I said, and then frowned. “Why?”
But my father only shook his head. “No reason. I’m just curious. But Christopher, are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? Remember, I’m your father. You shouldn’t be afraid to come to me about anything.”
He knows, I thought. I must have hit something on the way home. Or maybe I threw up in the driveway. Or on the porch. He knows and he’s trying to let me confess on my own, instead of having to force it out of me.
“No,” I said. “There’s nothing. Why?”
My father, the majority of his body still standing in the hallway, shrugged. “I’m your father. It’s my job to ask.” He paused, appeared as if he might say something else, before he smiled and nodded his head. “I love you, son.”
He waited a few seconds for a reply—a simple I love you, Dad would have sufficed, of course it would have—but I only nodded and told him, “Yeah, thanks.”
If something changed in his face, I never noticed it. Most likely because I was still hung over and didn’t feel like making conversation in the first place. But still I doubt anything did change, because just like me my father refused to show emotion. It was the one trait of his I knew I possessed.
Without a word my father leaned back and closed the door.
I stared at the door for a long time, the past couple of minutes catching up to me. I hardly remembered a thing about the conversation; it would only come later that the memory would solidify itself in my mind. When it did I would think about my father’s face, his solemn impassive face after I hadn’t returned his I love you. And the real reason he’d poked his head inside my room that day.
Now, standing in front of Bridgton Calvary Church, I thought of that morning when my father made his last attempt to understand his son. He had never wanted to smother me but never wanted to give me too much distance, either. He’d wanted to be the perfect father, just as nearly every father wants to be. The only problem, I realized as I started up the three steps to the door, was that the only way a father can be perfect is with a perfect son.
• • •
THE DOORS OPENED into a small bright foyer, where probably thirty people stood talking. Two tables were set up: one with two coffee pots and Styrofoam cups and bagels on top, another with pamphlets on what looked like missionary work. Three small coat racks, only a few hooks used now for light jackets. In each corner some kind of green plant. At the back of the room were two large wooden doors, which led into the chapel.
I found Grandma talking to fat man with a full beard. His tie was bright red. “Christopher,” she said, “this is Henry Porter.”
“Nice to meet you, Christopher,” the man said, shaking my hand. His pinkie finger was missing. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I thanked him for letting me use his trailer.
He shook his head. “No problem at all. Stay as long as you’d like.”
The last name should have tipped me off, but it was from his blue eyes that I realized he was Sarah’s dad. I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it before, then wondered, since she was his daughter, did Sarah know the real reason I was here?
Henry Porter’s smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear about your folks, too. It’s a real shame.”
I nodded, told him thank you.
Grandma began talking to him then, asking him something about the water pressure on The Hill, but already my attention had drifted away. I glanced around the foyer, surprised not everyone was dressed in suits and dresses. A few of the men had on ties, and a few of the women wore blouses, but for the most part everyone was dressed causally. It made me think about what my father always said about not wearing a tie.
Someone tapped my shoulder.
I turned, recognized the black kid from yesterday, and said, “Hey.”
He stared up at me, his eyes magnified through his thick lenses. “Joey,” he said.
“Yeah, Joey, I remember.”
“No you don’t.”
It was true, I didn’t.
He said, “Did you ever wonder how t-tall the T-T-Tower of Babel was? I mean, do you think it got as big as the Sears T-Tower?”
Like yesterday, I didn’t know what to say. Now that he’d reintroduced himself, I remembered our encounter very well, and I remembered the question he’d asked me then.
“I’ve never been to Shinar myself,” Joey said. “Actually, I’ve never been anyway outside America. But I’ve heard from some p-p-people what the land’s like out there.”
From inside the chapel, piano music began playing. Everyone in the foyer, amid the murmur of their hushed conversations, started heading toward the two opened doors.
“My dad’s speaking,” Joey said. “I t-told him about you.”
Told him about me? Told him what?
“Christopher?”
My grandmother stood at the chapel doors, her weight resting on her wooden
cane.
“I’ll t-t-talk to you later.” Joey smiled at me one last time, then weaved his way through the people toward the church’s entrance. An older lady with white puffy hair dropped her napkin that she was using to carry a bagel, and at once he picked it up for her, before continuing on.
I watched him for only a moment, wondering why he wasn’t staying to listen to his dad speak, then turned and joined the rest of the stragglers into the chapel.
• • •
GRANDMA AND I sat with Mrs. Roberts in a pew two rows behind Sarah Porter and her father—just the two of them, her brother and mom nowhere in sight. They were the old kind of wooden pews, though someone not too long ago had donated enough money to have both the seats and backs cushioned. We filled in and left a space on the end, in case Dean decided to show. Grandma believed there was a chance he might; I was more realistic but kept it to myself.
The church was mostly full—maybe one hundred people, many families with children, some older couples. After singing a few hymns and listening to special music from Lindsey Bowyer—an eleven-year-old with an amazing voice, who sang “My One and Only God”—Reverend Peart stood up in front of the large wooden cross hanging on the wall behind him. He was a short pale man, who wore horn-rimmed glasses and a cheap gray suit. He said a short prayer, made some announcements, then introduced their guest speaker for the next two weeks.
The Calling Page 5