* * *
On the way home, I asked Anna, “Doesn’t Bobby have family that can help him?”
“Not to the extent he needs, Heather. He never married, so he has no children. That we know of, anyway.” Her laugh sparkles like a sequined scarf. “His only sister had a couple of kids, but they don’t know him. She lives on the West Coast. He’s most surely a forgotten man.”
“Mercy.”
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“How come you’re doing all that stuff for him, though? He seems more than competent.”
“Can you imagine the depression that has overtaken him? He’s quite debilitated that way. Turn down that road there on the left, dear. Anyway, there’s more than one way to support the troops, isn’t there?”
“I guess it’s pretty easy to wave a flag and mutter some words, isn’t it?” I thought of my car flags when the war in Iraq broke out. But men like Bobby were totally off my radar. In some ways I wish he still was.
“We can cheer them when they go away to die for us, but most of us don’t want to think about them when they come back and suffer the rest of their lives for us, do we?”
“I guess not.”
“I’ve exposed myself to what happens on the back end the way not many other people do.” She looks out the window, then turns to me. “And I’ve seen them die and suffer on the front end too. I appreciate their sacrifice for me, but I can’t help but believe there’s a better way to shore up our freedom. That we don’t have to rely on the deaths of these precious men and women to do it.”
I’ve never heard talk like this before. I don’t even know what to think, really. But we don’t have to agree on everything to appreciate one another, do we? I mean, my father was a Marine when he was young. “But God used death all the time to get His will done.”
“Jesus didn’t. And He’s really all we have to go on, isn’t He?”
Ah, my goodness, there it is, more of that vein Will has been thinking about. I don’t know if I can handle all this deep thought. Lord, I came to get direction, not to become even more confused.
I continue on down the road, our speed consuming the fields and fences of Harford County. “Are you hungry?”
“Oh yes! I always eat a little lunch on the way home. Would you like to stop in Bel Air?”
“Okay. Do you have any place in mind?”
“There’s a little tearoom called Tea by Two. I love their scones and watercress sandwiches.”
“Definitely.”
Anna tells me about her parents. Her father was a doctor at Johns Hopkins who specialized in pediatrics; her mother ran a local chain of supermarkets with her father. Anna and Liza grew up downtown in well-to-do Mount Vernon, went to all the best schools, had the greatest advantages children could have. “But always with a great attention to love and responsibility. My mother didn’t always make life easy for us! Oh goodness, no. I was doing my own ironing by the time I was eight, and Liza and I volunteered at the hospital all the time or stocked shelves at the store. Mother was quite the woman.”
We enter the tearoom and are seated at a table draped in white damask, a china sugar bowl and creamer holding down the center.
After ordering, I ask, “Did you grow up Quaker?”
“No. My father was an agnostic and Mother was too busy.”
“How did you find Christ?”
“In a still, small voice.”
And I can tell by her tone that’s as much of the tale as she is willing to tell.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before, Anna.”
“Well, you’ll find if you open yourself up to the possibility that God is found in locales you’ve never imagined; you’ll meet Him in all sorts of faces and places you never thought possible.”
“How do you know when you’ve heard the Spirit speak?”
The waitress delivers a serving tray loaded with three plates: sandwiches, scones, and cookies.
“My way of hearing may be different than yours, Heather. So it isn’t for me to say. I don’t want to put my fences around you.”
“This isn’t helping me any.”
She raises her brows and lifts a tiny sandwich to her mouth. “On the contrary. One day you’ll look back and see I did you the greatest favor I possibly could by keeping my mouth shut.” She bites down into the soft white bread.
NINETEEN
I’ve settled into the same earthy, restful room. Peace. They talk about it around here, and I sense it in these walls and long to feel it inside of myself. How do they make it seem so easy? And is it easy? Can you truly feel at peace?
And is freedom the result of peace? Or is peace the result of freedom? I look around me and shake my head. I’ve always believed the latter. But now I’m not so sure. I want to be free. I want to be at peace. At present I am neither.
Then again, the sisters are in their nineties, and their peace arrived with a hefty price tag. The late afternoon sunshine casts the shadows of the hills onto the loch, deepening the waters, blocking the reflection of the sky. I can gaze out into the nature scene from where I sit on my bed. It’s easy to feel peaceful here, really. Maybe that’s their secret.
Ah, yes. I have much the same view from my bedroom at home, don’t I?
But then, the answer couldn’t have been that easy.
I slip my Bible from my suitcase and turn to Matthew, remembering what Anna said, what Jace and I talked about. Jesus is all we have to go on, really, as far as who we imitate, as far as what God looks like as a human being, and we’re supposed to be like God, right? I’ll start with Jesus. And I’ll pay great attention to the red letters.
Teach me, Lord.
I don’t pray these words through a great holiness. I pray them through a clawing sense of desperation. I don’t want to run away anymore. I want to find my way right here, inside my skin, the skin of those I love so much, and the skin of those who have gone and are going before me.
* * *
Laney picks up on the sixth ring.
“Can I ramble?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in service to my family; first to Jace and his medical degree and then to Will. I don’t regret that.”
“But . . .”
“But I could have listened to the Lord more, Laney. I let my service to others drown out His voice. We can do both, right? Listen to His voice and serve our families.”
“Yes. But usually we sacrifice one for the other when they’re supposed to go hand in hand.”
“What does it look like when a woman does both?”
“Well, don’t look at me for the answers, Heather. My life is about as balanced as the federal budget.”
Next I call Jace. “How’s the prep work going for the Chicago trip?”
“Good. So how are you doing at the sisters’?”
Next I call Lark. I tell her about Jace. “I’m hurt. Should I be?”
“Maybe. But can you blame him? Really, Heather, have you thought of what that tennis court you’re planning must feel like to him? You might as well put jail doors on the entryway and lock him inside.”
* * *
Liza, dressed in midnight blue crushed velvet lounge pants and an ivory satin blouse, sets a record upon the turntable of the old stereo in the corner of the family room. The sounds of the Glenn Miller Orchestra and “Little Brown Jug” enliven the space, the piano’s bass launching the piece, the throaty trombones grabbing the melody, the trumpets lying down on top for the breezy ride.
“I loved the way he sometimes played big band with a different equation, the trombones playing the melody so much.” Liza claps in time with the song. “It’s why you can always tell it’s Glenn Miller.”
Really? They did that?
I just nod, and she reaches out her be-ringed hands toward Anna, who walks into the room with a tray, our coffee mugs steaming on its teak surface.
“Come on, Anna, let’s dance a little!” She wiggles her fingers.
Ann
a doesn’t hesitate. She sets the tray onto the blond coffee table and snaps up her sister’s hands, and they slide into a thrifty jitterbug, right through “In the Mood” and onto the depot in “Kalamazoo.”
Their blue eyes sparkle, the notes settling upon their features like dew, their smiles stretching their faces young. Anna’s short hair feathers in the wake of their movement, moving in the same direction as the hem of Liza’s velvet pants.
I want to weep in the presence of these lives well lived. I’m witnessing the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I know it.
When “Pennsylvania 6-5000” disconnects, Anna sits down and takes a sip of her coffee. Black coffee. “So do you know how to knit, Heather?”
Okay, then.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then let’s get started right away.”
Liza lowers herself onto a rocker and draws out a crochet hook attached to a length of work about a foot wide and thirty or so inches long.
“A scarf?” I ask.
“How did you ever guess?”
Anna. “Oh, Liza!”
Thank goodness Anna is a patient teacher, because clearly knitting is as natural to me as American cheese. I’ve already knotted up the yarn a dozen times, knitted when I should have purled, and how can anyone possibly find this soothing?
“I think I’d better go to bed.”
“I don’t blame you.” Liza.
“Liza! She’s done a wonderful job for her first try!”
Liza winds the free length of yarn around the ball. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to crochet. You may find that easier.”
“Who said easy is the best way?” Anna.
Ah, a sisterly fight.
Now this is more like it.
“Please, Anna. People are either crocheters or knitters. It’s that simple.”
But Anna shakes her head. “You can do both, dear. I know it.”
I hug them and head into my room for more Matthew, more Jesus, and hopefully a little more light.
“You do both, Liza. You just happened to pick crocheting tonight.”
I smile.
And the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, a net, a hidden treasure. She who has ears to hear, let her hear.
TWENTY
“Mary! Mary! Dirty Mary!”
The children sing softly so the bus driver won’t hear.
Mary sits in front of us, dirty blonde hair waving in clownish, kinky, matted chunks that jump up and down in the stream of air from the open bus windows.
It’s always warm in my school memories. The bus windows always clicked open. The children always boisterous and yelling like police sirens.
Donald pulls a straw out of his pants pocket, wads up a bit of notebook paper, and places it in his mouth. He chews on it, letting the saliva soak into the very core.
He positions his lips around the straw, loads the spitball with his tongue, aims it at the back of Mary’s hair, and blows with all the force he can push from his lungs.
The projectile whizzes out, lodging in the hair just above her shoulders. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t turn around or yell at us or even remove the spitty wad from her hair. Maybe she’s learned that no matter what she does, we’ll make her life miserable, and that in the end, we will always win. People like us always win.
I reach forward and push her head with my hand. “You’re so gross, Mary. You’re a disgusting, filthy little piece of nothing. You’re nothing now; you’ll be nothing tomorrow and clear into the rest of your life.”
I stare up at the ceiling from the womb of my bed, breathing heavily, the dark air breezing off the loch and into my window.
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
* * *
I call Lark. It’s 1:00 a.m.
“Hi, Heather.”
“Do you have caller ID?”
“No. It was either you or Flannery, and Flannery’s out of town at a gallery showing, so I figured it wasn’t her.”
“Were you up?”
“Uh-huh. Working on a proposal for some renovation supplies for the Hotel.”
“You don’t have someone to do that for you?”
“This is my backyard, Heather. So what’s up?”
“I had a horrible dream. Something’s happening to me, and I can’t figure it out.”
“Oooh, what a surprise.”
“Let me wipe my chin a sec. A huge drop of sarcasm dripped out of the phone.”
Lark laughs. “Just spill it. I’m wide-awake anyway.”
“How come?”
“Mother had a terrible night last night, and I ended up sleeping until two this afternoon. My sleep schedule is all screwed up.”
“Is she okay?”
“I think she’s slipping. I won’t be surprised if they find even more cancer.”
“Will she go on chemo again?”
“I doubt it.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No way. Not at 1:00 a.m. I doubt I can process anything yet, and her doctor appointment isn’t until next week, so I’d just be obsessing about something I don’t even know is the case. So tell me about the dream.”
I tell her the dream as well as other episodes of tormenting Gary and Mary. The way one of us would crawl up underneath the bus seats and slip something out of her book bag and throw it out the window. Or grab her lunch. Or cut a hole in her tights. The songs we made up, the many notes that said, “Take a bath” or “Brush your hair.” The drawings of her, buckteeth sticking out with mile markers along them, or mice and bugs living inside her hair, dialogue bubbles saying, “Help! I’m stuck in here!”
“And that much would happen in a week! It was constant, Lark.”
“Oh, Heather. You really did all that?”
“Yeah.” And that wasn’t the worst of it. But I can’t even think about it yet, much less confess it to anyone.
“Wow.”
“Were you ever made fun of, Lark?”
“A little, by the stupid kids. Never had all-out war declared on me, though.”
War. Interesting metaphor.
“So why do you think I’m recalling all this now? I went for years without this bothering me so much. I mean, I always felt bad, but now . . . it’s plaguing me.”
“I don’t know. Just sounds like God’s doing a number on you in general. Cleaning you up inside and out, maybe.”
And I always thought I was so squeaky clean. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Get some sleep, Heather. Call me in the morning.”
“Okay.”
Squeaky clean or whitewashed tomb? I mean, honestly? No, I don’t murder or steal or commit adultery, but inside, God knows I’m filled with unconfessed sin. Pride. A lot of pride.
A light knock.
“Come in.”
Anna opens the door. “Are you all right, honey?”
“I’m sorry. I had a terrible dream and called my friend to talk about it.”
“Oh, then. I was hoping everything was all right. It is all right, isn’t it?”
“I’m having a crisis of guilt, if you want to know the truth.”
“I always want to know the truth.”
I believe her.
“I’ll tell you about it over breakfast tomorrow.” I’m sure she’s tired, and it’s so late.
“All right. If you change your mind, that’s fine as well.”
She sure knows how to take the pressure off.
“Thanks, Anna.”
“My honor, friend.”
“Anna? Did your pacifism lead you to being a Quaker, or was it the other way around?”
Anna leans against the doorjamb. “Quaker is actually a nickname, Heather. We are the Society of Friends. And even that is shortened. It was originally the Society of the Friends of Truth. Truth being Jesus. I met Jesus first.”
“I thought I met Jesus, but now I’m not so sure.”
She rests her hand on the doorknob. “Jesus comes to us in many ways, Heather. Don’t discount your journey s
o far. He may be leading you down different paths now, but that doesn’t mean your previous paths were rabbit trails, does it?”
“I guess not.”
“God knows you, Heather. Every little part of you. Good night, my dear.”
I check my cell phone for the time. A message came in earlier. I’ll get it tomorrow.
* * *
Liza shakes her head. “My golly, you were awful, Heather.”
Anna. “Liza!”
“Well, it’s true! What did that poor girl ever do to any of you?”
“She obviously feels bad about it or she wouldn’t be bringing it up.”
“You’re right.” Liza lays her hands flat on the kitchen table. “Sorry. I’m not nearly as sweet as my sister.”
I grip my coffee mug with both hands. “I’ve been trying to find them. So far, I’m up to 1982 in Michigan where Gary graduated from high school. But I’m wondering if I’m doing the right thing.”
Anna. “Well, only you can say. Why do you want to find them?”
“I want to apologize, I guess. I want to see if they’re okay, if my treatment of them, especially Mary, affected their lives for the worse.”
Liza. “And if it did?”
“Then I want to try and make it up to them.”
Anna puts her hand over mine and squeezes. “I guess all we can do is pray that what you’re doing is coming from the Spirit.”
“And if it’s not, that you’ll meet a door you just can’t open and that’ll be that.” Liza.
That’ll be that.
I wish.
But I’ll move forward. I believe I must.
Anna stands up, scraping her chair backwards. “Just try to make sure you’re not doing this for yourself, to assuage your own guilt and feel better. If that’s the case, Heather, then you don’t want to drag Mary through the pain again.”
Heaven help me, but how Mary might feel never entered my mind. I guess I really haven’t changed all that much, have I?
* * *
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