Embrace Me

by Lisa Samson

  Our holy covering. Our holy hair.

  More hair. More hair. Air works its fingers next to my scalp. I nick the skin near the front.

  Who’d believe a word that guy in mirror would say?

  Blood trickles down my forehead and beside my nose.

  My father would have laughed in Jesus’s face if He appeared before him today and said, “What do you mean by all this garnering of power and wealth for yourself, Charles Parrish?”

  “Well, there’s where you’re wrong, Jesus. This is for you.”

  “When on earth did I ever do anything utilizing political power or wealth?”

  “It was the time period. Everybody was poor and downtrodden. You made us children of the King, don’t forget. And maybe you’re really not Jesus at all if you’re such a pansy as all that. Be a real man! That turning the other cheek stuff is highly impractical. See, Drew?” He’d turn to me. “It’s up to us to keep things the way they ought to be. Jesus doesn’t have an English accent anymore. This guy needs to go away.”

  Maybe Jesus needs to go to one of those “Hooray for Men” conferences, which have always seemed a little strange to me even though I encouraged our men to attend. I mean, aren’t they basically a stadium-sized coffee-klatch for men? How manly is that?

  I press the top of the shaving cream can, depositing a mound of foam in my hand. Skimming it over my head, I imagine the apostle Paul. He’d do something categorically crazy like this. The man had a glint in his eye for sure.

  The razor slices off the remaining stubble, taking bits of skin with it at times, and after I’m finished, the face staring back at me is crowned by seams of foam, blooms of blood, and nakedness.

  The blooms gather strength and turn to rivers as I pick them raw. Naked isn’t enough. I stand beneath the bare bulb, lined in scarlet.

  Being a pastor affords the greatest excuse in the world if you have a parent you can’t stand. Yeah, that sin’s still with me tonight. The Christmas season filled up with activities, each small group and sub-ministry scheduling a party, the Christmas concert that all of Mount Oak seemed to turn out to see and, hey, some turkeys for the poor people none of us knew personally except Patsy Barnhouse, who at least gave our church a little bit of clout in the social justice arena.

  I hear you laughing, Father Brian.

  “Dad, I’ll be stuck in Mount Oak for Christmas again this year.”

  “Oh, we’ll be all right. Senator Randall and his family will be celebrating at the house.”

  “Great.” I’ll miss you too.

  Back to the Trail for Christmas, I decided a few days before. Because if I stayed home, I would awaken Christmas morning, make some coffee, and turn on the television. And with my luck the choices would be It’s a Wonderful Life or The Longest Day. Most of this existence, although I didn’t know it then, is lived somewhere in the middle.

  This whole exercise seems apropos, Father, in a way. My mother encouraged me to write.

  She gave me a blank book my tenth Christmas. “You’re a person of words, Andrew.” Each week she’d give me an assignment I’d dutifully complete. We’d read them together on Saturday, and most often, our talks would turn to the Lord. That’s what she called God. The Lord. She had the utmost respect for Him.

  Monica desired only to fit in with God’s plan—unlike my father, who wanted God to fit in with his.

  “Just your father?” you ask, Father Brian?

  I’m not ready to go there.

  It’s late Christmas Eve. Tomorrow I’ll reshave my head and see if Hermy wants to go down to KFC and get a meal with all the sides. But the walls are closing in on me. Catholics have midnight mass, right? Isn’t that some sort of obligation or something? Maybe I’ll fall asleep before then. That would be a good thing too.

  An hour before the Christmas Eve service an inch of snow fell. I remember losing myself in the view out the window. Mount Oak made a picturesque scene around Christmastime, wreaths on almost every door—each one competing with the next—garland, tasteful white lights. Except for Charmaine Hopewell’s place. She loved colored lights. Strung them from the roof, the chimney, around every bush and every tree. Motion figures waved or swayed as they sang carols. Santa and his sleigh landed on the roof. Cars filled their cul-de-sac to get a peek from December first forward.

  From my second floor apartment window over Java Jane’s, I watched the town square slowly disappear under the soft flakes. I wondered why the world couldn’t always be like that, but like everyone else, I felt clueless how to make it happen.

  A hunched figure crossed the perfect white surface, marring it. Dressed in layers, he or she shuffled alone. And I felt a strange stirring inside of me I couldn’t, and still don’t, understand, Father. I ran down the street but the person had disappeared. I stood in the cold, my tracks a mess behind me.

  By the time I realized I’d zoned a little, I was fifteen minutes behind schedule. I hurried back up to my apartment, threw on my suit and tie, and sped over to the church as the snow died down.

  I snuck up a side aisle and sat in the second row. Christmas Eve lay completely in the hands of Jim Ignowski, our music and arts director. But I had to show up. Jim wasn’t someone to cross lightly. Our financial pastor had basically strong-armed me into suggesting a love offering for the evening, and Jim put his foot down, almost on top of my own. In return he agreed to do a Christmas in America segment despite the fact he didn’t see what the two had to do with each other and didn’t mind saying so. I knew I had to watch him closely or up his salary. Either one would work.

  It was the usual fare besides the Christmas in America segment. Olde English choral numbers and a few from Handel’s Messiah. A fun interlude where people strolled arm-in-arm down an avenue singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” and “Winter Wonderland.” Kids singing Baby Jesus-type songs. Jim knew how to put on a show, get people in the door, and keep them coming back. Well worth the lack of an offering to showcase our talent and goodwill.

  My favorite part always closed the show—Mary and Joseph in a darkened stable with the silver beam of starlight shining on the Baby. Our sound effects guy piped the breathing and muffled sounds of barn animals, crickets, even a breeze around the auditorium. We paid a fortune for that sound system.

  We sat in the stillness of those effects, a Bethlehem stable becoming reality in that auditorium. Sort of. For about twenty seconds the starlight collected into a stronger beam, then lying down upon the scene like a dove alighting on a rooftop, a single note of a violin. Then light taps on the bongos and Mary sang “Lullay, Thou Little Tiny Child.”

  Even during my most determined times, Father, the seed my mother left behind didn’t die. It was a miracle, I know. But I sat there and yearned to be a better man, a better Christian, more like Mary who wasn’t proud and who gracefully shouldered a full load of shame.

  Mary sang. The notes filling the air with power and grace, much like the real Mary’s life must have done around those who knew her.

  And I’d never heard a voice like that before. It was perfect. That’s all I can tell you. Clear and perfect. No former Mary had sung like that, and nobody ever will again.

  I quickly turned to the cast list at the back of the handout.

  That Mary was Daisy. I didn’t realize she was still coming to the church. Good for Jim for finding her talent. I knew we’d hired the right guy for the job! She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she had an undeniable presence.

  At the closing prayer, I left my seat and made right for the green room. We actually called it the green room.

  I found her, already dressed in her street clothes. Plain khakis and a Christmas sweater. Her hair was still pulled back in a simple ponytail for the veil she wore onstage. She looked much better like that, without all that teasing and hairspray.

  She smiled, right into my eyes, like she’d known me all of her life.

  It’s the rare person that can make someone feel so comfortable right away. And I’d see
n the congregation’s reaction to her as she sang. She pulled them right in, caught them in a spell. She was amazing. Maybe it was the fact that she had such a beautiful voice, but it was more than that. She could minister.

  You saw all that right then, you ask, Father?

  I did. I’d been sizing up people for years. I’d learned from the master. And I knew we could use her. She’d be in my hands. Together, we’d figure it all out. What surprised me was that I hadn’t realized we needed a major female player before that. She had something this male-heavy church needed, a woman up front, someone they could relate to.

  “Hi, uh, Daisy, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Beautiful job. The best Mary we’ve ever had.”

  “Thanks.”

  She still exuded that bit of confidence, but like before, it came from a surface place, the same place where you learn nobody with class wears white shoes after Labor Day or if you really love the Lord, you’ll dress in only your best clothes for Sunday worship. Moldable, moldable, moldable.

  She might be the key to the next big step of growth now that we’d gathered all the coffee-bar types.

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say what a great job you did.

  We’re blessed to have you.”

  “I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to meet my mother around back.

  Sorry.”

  “No problem. Well, Merry Christmas.”

  “Same to you.”

  She walked down the hallway, her blonde hair picking up the beams of the recessed lighting. Halfway to the door, amid kids in costumes running up either side of her, lots of chatter and relieved sighs, she turned. She hurried back to me. “I don’t know why I’m asking this, because I’m sure you’re busy, but if you aren’t doing anything tomorrow evening, my mom and I are having a little get-together. Just deli trays and meatballs, the best red velvet cake you’ll ever eat, shrimp spread, that sort of thing. You’re welcome to come, although like I said, I know you probably have plans.”

  I smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Great. Take care.”

  I drove back to my apartment afterwards, heated up some soup, and slid in a DVD of The Port of Peace Hour. After the New Year I would begin my role as “dorky young guy on the couch.” I wanted to get to know the Hopewells’s on-air personalities, how I could spring-board off of them to create my own persona. I certainly didn’t want to be oil to their water. I prided myself on being able to get along with everyone.

  Christmas morning came, I called my father. He was due at Senator Randall’s at one o’clock. I suspected him to be doing exactly as I was, making a turkey sandwich and watching some football games or that old movie.

  I could’ve refused Daisy’s invitation and gone camping. But she was too valuable and completely worth a solitary Christmas day in my apartment.

  It was a lonely life, yes. But I saw myself as a man on a mission.

  You can fool yourself about your needs for a long time, about what you can give up, what it takes to be successful. Whatever your definition of success happens to be.

  I showed up at Daisy’s house at seven p.m. She let me in with a smile and a blush that told me, no doubt, she was interested in me. She sang at the piano while her mother played, and everybody joined in on the caroling. A few people begged her to sing a few songs alone and she kept declining, until finally I said, “Please, Daisy. Sing us a song.” I wanted to see how magical she really was—if I’d been wrong the night before.

  She sang us a song. Intimate, without a mic. And it was even more beautiful. Everyone in the room sat breathless, waiting for the next note, and the next.

  Yes, we would make a great combination. She was definitely what the church needed.

  I pulled Trician aside and asked about her daughter’s singing. Was it a career? What had she done previously? Oh, pageants and talent shows, contests and state fairs. That sort of thing. Daisy was first runner-up for Junior Miss in the state competition.

  Trician nodded like a weed in the wind. “I’ve led her every step of the way. We’re going to the top. We just need to figure out how to do that, but I know we can.”

  “She’ll go far with that voice.”

  “It’s the best voice you’ve ever heard, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “Yes. Other than opera.” I had to keep her in her place.

  “Well, yes. But that’s a different ball game altogether.”

  Yes, it was.

  It was the start of Drew and Daisy—with a little Jesus thrown in for good measure.

  But if that had been the case, I wouldn’t be sitting here with this bald scabby head and all these cigarette burns on my arms and legs now, would I?

  Speaking of cigarette burns.

  This time, I slather on the Neosporin.

  Hermy’s research said cigarette burns can get infected if left untreated. So. Thanks for that, man.

  Hermy knocks on my door. “Hey, Drew. It’s almost midnight. You done writing?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  He holds up a half-gallon carton of eggnog with both hands. “So, how ’bout a little sharing of the nog?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Nothin’, man.”

  “Got any statistics on eggs?”

  “Naw, not tonight. Just a little Christmas spirit. For some reason you can forget your troubles on Christmas Eve. Feel holy in a way.”

  “Did you know that in wars, on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day there’d be a ceasefire?” I take the carton and pull down my mug and my glass.

  “Sure did. Except for George Washington. He desecrated it during the Revolutionary War.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  Figures. We were mixing the wrong things from the beginning. My father would approve.

  “It’s still the holiest night of the year though. God coming down and all,” he says.

  “So why didn’t Christ’s birth make more of a difference? Why didn’t His death, Hermy? Do you believe in that stuff?”

  “Oh yeah. Suckled on it from day one.”

  “Do you have any of the answers?”

  “Naw, man. I just know this stuff in my heart. You can’t prove any of it beyond a shadow of a doubt. I’ve seen all the statistics. You just gotta know it, like you know the way your nails are shaped or how far your heels stick out behind your foot. You don’t got to know why, just that it is.”

  “Maybe it’s like that for you.” I pour the eggnog into the glasses.

  “Maybe. But if it isn’t for you, too, if you don’t find faith, find Jesus around the place, then maybe I’m wrong; maybe He’s really not here. Do you believe He’s really not here, Drew?”

  I hand him the mug. “I don’t know, Hermy. I don’t know about it anymore, I guess.”

  He raises his arm in a toast. “Can we agree it’s a holy night? A night of stars and stables and shepherds?”

  “Yeah. We can.”

  But then, Hermy’s not really all there, is he? I mean, that was a pretty corny speech he just gave there.

  “You want to walk down to midnight mass?” I ask after downing the eggnog.

  “Sure.”

  Hermy’s game for pretty much anything.

  We head to the corner of Baltimore Avenue and Talbot Street toward St. Mary’s. A handbell choir is playing “Silent Night” as we enter. Very nice.

  Everyone sits in their pew. It’s quiet.

  “Catholics sure know how to do reverence,” Hermy whispers.

  You can feel it.

  And I just let myself ooze into it. I don’t sing the songs. I don’t sit and stand, sit and stand. I just sit in the very back corner and watch Father Brian do his thing.

  Or the church’s thing. Or whatever it is.

  What I do know is that he doesn’t expect any more or any less than what he’s doing right now. I think he’s fine with that. A year ago I would have pitied him.

  Now I’m not so
sure.

  SIX

  VALENTINE: 2008

  Augustine has shown up every day since Thanksgiving, drinking coffee, sitting with Lella and me to watch a movie. While Lella sits in her stroller and directs, he helps me string lights in all the shrubbery and along the rooflines, cover the front door with gold wrapping paper, hang the ugliest wreath in town, and figure out how to get the molded plastic nativity set Rick found at a flea market from blowing over in the wind.

  “Thanks for the help. Last year it was a mess.” I hand him a cup of hot chocolate as we rest on the porch. “Who wants to keep running outside to rescue the holy family every time an errant gust of wind rolls down the street? Lella nearly choked last year when she saw Mary and Joseph scattered across the lawn.”

  “Oh truly, Val! It seemed so sacrilegious! A little shameful, don’t you think?”

  “It’s bad enough to make a plastic baby Jesus in the first place, but to allow him to be blown on his face a good twenty feet from his manger feels downright sinful. I’m not the most religious person in the world, but even I know this isn’t right.”

  “Well, it won’t happen this year, friends.” Augustine had hauled over some weights from his bench and affixed them to the bottom of the figures with electrical tape.