Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  “I know. I had some good coffee in London. Of course.”

  “Of course. Did that Braden man meet you over there like he said he was going to do?”

  I nodded. Even saying the word yes to soon-to-be Reverend Solo felt wrong to me.

  “I don’t like that man, Fairly.”

  “I know.”

  “He does not respect you. And so then you fail to respect yourself. Jesus, now He wants more for you than that.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Don’t you dismiss me like that. You know I speak the truth. Now, let us change the subject.”

  “Good. I think that’s about all I can process on the matter.”

  He smiled. I love Solo’s smile.

  I reach forward to my drawing board and pull off a sheet of paper. Oh, I do adore the crisp feel of heavy paper. “Look. I’m designing a restaurant for a friend. I’ve never done that before.”

  “Ohhhh, Fairly Godfrey. Look at that!” He held the paper at arm’s length, obviously in need of some half eyes. “You are a talented lady.”

  I return the paper to the board.

  “Shame you wasting your time on that rapscallion,” he said under his breath.

  His worry anointed me.

  Georgia

  I plop back on UG’s couch, coffee mug ready for lifting. UG makes great coffee. I spooned a heaping mound of Golden Syrup straight into my mouth, and he laughed.

  Mornings with Uncle Geoffrey have always been quiet occasions. He broke the news of Fairly’s impending visit. Just what I needed to think about with this interview-audition at All Souls Church ahead of me. If I need personal grounding, Fairly is the last person I should be around.

  I really thought the death of Fairly’s parents would change her for the better. She’d always been a bit flighty, going through that phase some girls do of wanting to be a model, then a fashion designer, and practically having an affair with her art teacher, cutting her hair short, growing it long.

  We don’t have a lot in common. Fairly loves European techno music.

  Fairly makes her bed.

  Fairly reads cozy mysteries.

  Fairly wears Chanel perfume.

  Fairly stops at one glass.

  Fairly is twenty-eight, six years younger than I, bound to me only by common grandparents and Uncle Geoffrey.

  And she’s beautiful.

  I’ve never begrudged her that, to be truthful. Some girls possess a beauty so natural, so honest and carefree, you can’t even give them credit for it. While my brown hair falls straight to my shoulders, hers contains shoots of gold that swirl around in the loopy curls she was born with. She seems to take it in stride though. Accepts compliments easily and without false pride and gives them back lavishly. There’s nothing less appealing than a beautiful woman who’s stingy with her compliments.

  Sipping the coffee, I decide I’ll play at least one Mendelssohn. Too bad I can’t play a little Peterson! But I doubt old Oscar would be welcomed in an Episcopal sanctuary on a Sunday morning. But then again…

  One time, when Fairly was still in college, I was practicing at the Ten O’Clock on a Saturday morning, a rare solitary jazz session. She walked in unexpectedly and remained quietly in the back. I didn’t realize she sat there until I finished.

  I heard her sobbing as the last note faded off.

  “What’s the matter, Fairly?”

  “You made me feel like I could kiss the moon, Georgia.”

  Something rubbed up against my heart at her words, like a love-starved kitty in need of a good scratch behind the ears.

  It was the only moment like that we’ve ever had.

  Maybe Fairly knows more than I give her credit for. Maybe I should listen to her words right now. Maybe I should want to usher people to the moon so they can give it a big, beautiful kiss.

  Do I really want to be a church organist?

  I set down my mug, walk over to the window.

  It should be a no-brainer. I’m a good organist. Really good. But the thought of returning to that life … And shouldn’t I quit drinking before I get another job? So then, playing in clubs would be a really bad idea, right?

  I’m helping in my uncle’s kitchen, one of those great old city kitchens with magnetic knife strips on the wall, a porcelain sink, pot racks, pegboards with utensils. All of these, fueled by a little elbow grease, promised more of UG’s great meals.

  While I slice potatoes to “thin perfection,” as UG says, on a mandolin, he cubes lamb for a curry. Basmati rice will soak up his spicy gravy, the golden juice flowing in between the grains, the meat tender to the teeth, and we will eat to our hearts’ satisfaction, and we’ll talk about important happenings and people, and I’ll remember that the world is a much bigger place. Bigger than a little condo in a high-rise building, bigger than a stool at the Ten O’Clock Club, bigger than a hangover.

  It’s my second night here in Lexington. Tonight a group of people are gathering to eat with us. Some crazy commune type of group who are all about Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. I really thought Jesus freaks were ancient history. Don’t get me wrong. I love Jesus. Sean made sure of that before we married, and I’ve never regretted becoming a follower inasmuch as I really am one. I mean, when compared with the likes of Mother Teresa or someone, I’m just clinging to raw grace, you know? And verses like “make your calling and election sure” scare me silly. But I’m just not comfortable wearing Him on my sleeve, if you know what I mean. “Praise the Lord, Sister This and That” feels about as comforting as a bed full of sand.

  Anticipating the gathering doesn’t help my appetite any. Let’s hope they’ve had baths recently and aren’t trying to conserve water too drastically.

  I’ll bet they’re just plain weird.

  UG isn’t totally weird, but he tends to attract utterly weird people.

  Of course, he is unconventional—wears organic clothing and shoes that appear to be sewn by elves. He isn’t a vegetarian, and he just can’t quit the cigarette habit, which seems a little surprising given the stereotype of socially conscious people like him. He is down to half a pack these days, however.

  And is he gorgeous. Though fifty-two, he still possesses this fleecy head of dark-blond hair that’s never seen a blow-dryer and only occasionally a pair of scissors—kind of a Jesusy do. Always tan from being out in the sun of all seven continents, he screams Peace Corps. His eyes aren’t really blue or green or gray. They’re “light.” Every time I think I’ve nailed the shade, he turns his head and I realize I was wrong.

  With a lineup like that, I’m not sure why he’s never married. He’s never seriously dated anyone either. He says he’s just playing the Saint Paul rag, but I wonder if he’s really one of those people who just doesn’t need sex. But whatever. It’s his business.

  A loud knock practically shakes the house down. UG hurries out of the kitchen saying, “And that’ll be Old Al.”

  Old Al, always the first to arrive; Old Al, an electrician who used to be a drug addict; Old Al, who tells me all this right up front within thirty seconds of our introduction.

  “Oh, then!” I smile with both my mouth and my nostrils.

  Brian and Teresa are seminary graduates who work for almost nothing at the Catholic Action Center. He’s a Charlestonian, and she’s from Bar Harbor, and they’re trying to get pregnant. It’s anyone’s guess what that baby will sound like!

  Then I meet Gracen, Phil, Blaine, and Peg. All of them carry a bowl or a platter or a bottle to add to the meal, as well as a story they don’t mind telling right up front either.

  Gracen: searched for God all over the world, found Him in Jesus right here in his hometown of Lexington; homemade three-bean salad.

  Phil: still searching but liking what he’s seeing with this group, although he’s still not sure about all that violence in the Old Testament, or Jerry Falwell either, for that matter; hummus, pita chips, and Chilean merlot.

  Blaine: former alcoholic (Oh really? Hmm), businessman, originally from Cin
cinnati; potato salad from Kroger, a bag of nacho cheese Combos, a carton of Ale-8 ginger ale, and if that isn’t the best soda I’ve put in my mouth, I don’t know what is.

  Peg: one-time teenage runaway and almost prostitute; baked macaroni and cheese, totally fattening, and cheese bread, and I totally love her!

  I sidle up next to UG and his curry. “Well, they’re not ones to keep secrets about themselves, are they?”

  He bumps me sideways with affection. “Should they be? Haven’t you had enough of that?”

  “Oh, good night, yes.”

  “They already know about Sean, Georgie.”

  “What?!”

  “So you don’t have to pretend you’re not one of the walking wounded like the rest of us.”

  “Why did you tell them?”

  “So you don’t have to pretend you’re not one of the walking wounded like the rest of us.”

  “It’s my story to tell though, isn’t it?”

  “Not just yours. Mine too. Get out some salad dressing, won’t you?”

  I open the fridge. “How do you figure?”

  “If Sean had done right by you, I’d have a lot less worry in my life.”

  “Sorry I’m such trouble, Uncle Geoffrey.”

  He sets down his knife as I place the bottled dressing on the counter. Seeing a bottle of Kraft blue cheese comforts me. “Georgia, look at me. You’re not a drain. I worry for you because I want you to be happy. This thing with Sean …”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Do you ever hear from him?”

  “He hasn’t called since Dad’s funeral.”

  “You’ve got to decide one way or the other here. Do you want to stay married and make this work, or do you want a divorce?”

  “How can I choose something like that?”

  “I can contact him for you if you’d like. It’s time the man stepped up to the plate.”

  I take a deep breath, suddenly realizing that Sean’s continued absence, when faced with a viable alternative, is actually an easy out. How could I tell him about Jim and Jack? How could I just … be? “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.”

  He nods and continues cutting. “Okay. Let me know. But as your uncle, I’d just like to say this isn’t good for you. That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Thanks.”

  “For speaking or stopping?”

  “Stopping.”

  “Yeah, I figured.” He chuckles, shakes his head, and looks very uncley.

  Okay. So. Weirdest thing ever. This group passes around a loaf of the cheese bread that Peg made, fills up a glass of the Chilean merlot, and feeds each other communion before beginning the meal! Crazy.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with little cups and bread cubes, for heaven’s sake.

  But I watch as Peg tears off a piece of the bread that Gracen holds and dips it into the wineglass in his other hand, and a tear slips down her cheek as he says, “Peg, this is the body and blood of Christ, broken and shed for you so that your sins may be forgiven.”

  Before the elements can get to me, I excuse myself and head for the bathroom. But I make a detour into my bedroom first, unscrew the cap from a bottle of Stoli, and have my own sort of communion. A communion with myself, because with the way I’m headed, if I don’t kick this soon, myself is all I’ll ever have.

  Come on, Jesus! I’ve been waiting for You to commune with me for years. I’ve set out my bread, just the way I like it, filled my cup with my favorite wine, and still You do not come. I pray for deliverance, and still You do not come.

  I’m down at the Dame, listening to a regional band named the Crooked Sniders. The monthly calendar the club prints up makes me want to hoot.

  If you like the Dave Matthews Band—you’ll love Granite Encyclopedia.

  If you like Limp Bizkit—you’ll love Grounded Till Tuesday.

  If you like Coldplay—come hear Giddy Gadfly and the Sainted Redundancy.

  I’m sitting with Porky, Jones, Hildie, Amos, and Marty. We’ve been laughing like crazy and living it up. I haven’t had this much fun in years. Communal drinking is so much better than perching on the lonely stool at the Ten O’Clock.

  Jones brought me home. I know this only because Uncle Geoffrey told me.

  Remember that feeling when you know you did something wrong and you know you got caught, but still you’re hoping like crazy you won’t get a talking to?

  Yep. That would be about right.

  And tomorrow’s my audition.

  I slink into the kitchen. A skin-topped cup of chai sits cold on the counter. UG left the CD player on loop.

  Keith Green, oh my goodness, singing, “To Obey Is Better Than Sacrifice.”

  Man, is my head pounding.

  Clarissa

  The mother slams in through the door. No car in the driveway. The father is not at home apparently, the jerk!

  She walks over to the sofa, pokes the girl on the shoulder.

  “Clarissa.”

  The colorless eyes look up.

  “How many shows have you watched since your father left?”

  The girl thinks. Saved by the Bell, Full House, Saved by the Bell, Full House. “Four and this one.” Moonlighting.

  “Over two hours, then.”

  The mother’s lips disappear.

  “Turn off that TV.”

  Clarissa grabs the remote, praying the mother won’t sit down and hug her. She runs outside into the summer sun, hoping to find Leonard the Granddaddy Man.

  Last week, he took her to Six Flags for her birthday and let her ride on the carousel twenty times in a row. TV Mom came too. Leonard is TV Mom’s father. She said that sometime Clarissa could come over and spend the night if her mother ever goes out of town.

  Georgia

  This old church up on Sixth Street smells funny.

  Today is my audition, so I figured I’d better get some practice time in beforehand, and the rector seemed agreeable when I called him to ask. He’s from England.

  “Absolutely fine. Come when you’d like. I’ll be in the offices in the back. Just knock and someone will hear you and let you in.”

  An elderly woman with a thick Kentucky accent, mop in one hand, escorts me to the sanctuary, her other bony, dry hand resting between my shoulder blades, comforting and foreign and itchy all at once.

  Entering a church sanctuary for the first time is like stepping into a blooming rose. My feet clop on the wooden floor; light flickers in warm dusty streams through the large, arched window over the balcony; and there she sits, a relic of the glory days this church must have once enjoyed.

  Saliva pools in my throat and under my tongue, a thickened dread, and my pulse begins to slam in fear. How can I do this, really? After all this time? I am crazy, crazy, “Crazy as a loon. Sad as a gypsy serenading the moon.”

  Now or never, Georgie.

  I hear the words in my mother’s voice, and I find myself almost running down the aisle toward the back staircase, wondering who she is, this wooden, piped, genteel lady who lounges in humble submission, a work of art in her own right, yet bound to the whims of us humans. Poor grand thing.

  Oh, Mom.

  I believe it’s an Austin, which means I can do pretty much whatever I want on her, which also means this church’s past glory was indeed glorious! The walnut cabinetry, simple and refined, needs a good polishing, but I can return the dame to her place of honor. I’m glad she’s in the balcony. It’s about the music, not me. And I know this organ would say the same thing if she could speak in anything other than notes.

  And I truly mean that! I’m an artist, not a performer. Imagine me, a Liberace? I have to giggle at the thought, and yet, had it really been about me, maybe that would have kept me on the piano bench. Life always cuts both ways.

  “Now, sweetie, you just play to your heart’s content. We’ll all enjoy it from the back. The noggineers are meetin’ today, so we sure will appreciate your music.”

  “The noggineers?”

  �
��We knit booties and hats for the newborns at Saint Joseph’s. The sweet little things.”

  I smile. What a nice thing to do.

  And so I play the first song I learned, picked out really, at Mom’s piano years ago: “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Or “A-B-C-D-E-F-G,” if you prefer. And I begin layering in the harmony, the song content to stay within my right hand.

  Oh, little star, perfect little star.

  My left hand jumps up. How I wonder what you are.

  And when my feet find their places upon the long, narrow pedals on the fourth time through, the church is filled with stars, bouncing off the floor, flinging themselves against the sturdy beams overhead, peering out the window and whizzing away again to circle the baptistery, the lectern, and the pulpit.

  And I laugh! I laugh as they dance and spin in this forlorn little place, breathing life into the wood, the glass, the very air itself.

  The rector runs in from the door through which I’d come, hands waving in the air, yelling, “You’re hired! You’re hired!”

  I lift my fingers from the keys.

  “No! Do not stop! Please, don’t stop, Ms. Bishop. I’m a dry and very thirsty soul.”

  And I, of all people, understand. At least the thirsty part. The dry? Well, that is surely another matter.

  He sits on the first pew, and I continue, playing with all I used to be, and I throw it all the old man’s way, remembering the feeling of trying to fill the empty places in other people with my music. It has been so long since I wanted others to kiss the moon.

  Sean would listen to me play for hours, and afterward he’d kiss my cheeks and fill his fingers with my hair and say, “You own me.”

  I stop, lifting my fingers off the keys I don’t know how much later, after simply trailing through the book of hymns, playing my favorites, letting them bleed through my skin, letting the life of each song pump and slide like blood through arteries, letting stray chords and themes swim their way into my heart.

  The rector opens his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I was a little rusty. It’s been a while.”

  “Sh, now! You’re very gifted. When can you start?”

  I gather my music. Poor Bach. Never had a chance today. “I’ve got to close up my apartment in Baltimore. Find a place here, I suppose.”