Embrace Me

by Lisa Samson

  He pretends he’s shot. “Point taken.”

  “So tell me, what’s it like for a guy like you to be in a church like Elysian Heights? It seems like you and that type of Christianity are miles apart.”

  He shrugs. “It’s a little uncomfortable. Of course I look around at all the facilities—a pool?—and think how the pool at the Y is plenty good enough, not to mention it would actually get people out into their community, and how much good that money could have done for people who are desperate.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “But then I feel bad for being so judgmental.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “No, Val, you wouldn’t, would you?”

  The water now boiling, I pour it through the grinds and into his cup. “I checked out that church, before I was burned.”

  He leans forward. “When was that?”

  “During the Drew Parrish days.”

  “What did you think?” He clears his throat and crosses his arms across his chest.

  I add some more water. “They were friendly enough, at least some of them, enough of them. But that preacher”—I shudder—“I couldn’t stand him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You could tell from a mile away he was just trying to prove something to himself.”

  “Really? He was pretty popular. How could you tell?”

  I hand him his cup and start on my own. “Some people see inside people better than others.”

  “I’ll have to admit you’re right there. I figured he was about power, pure and simple.”

  “Maybe.”

  We sit in the camper at the Elysian Heights parking lot and talk for a long time about, well, not much really, sideshows and ministries and the like.

  Rick steps into the kitchen two mornings later. “You gotta see this. Come out front.”

  We step out onto the porch and down the front walk. “Look.”

  “Oh my goodness!”

  Plastic Mary’s arms and legs are cut off and Joseph’s face is destroyed, eaten away by battery acid or something, I don’t know what. Spray-painted on the gift wrap on the front door in neon orange: Merry Christmas FREAKS.

  “This has never happened before in Mount Oak,” Rick says.

  “At least they left the Baby Jesus alone.”

  “Should I call the police, Val?”

  “No. Let’s just clean it up.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably best.”

  “We never hurt anybody.”

  “No. We never did. Maybe we touched a nerve at that show. You know some people just don’t like to be uncomfortable.”

  “Let’s not tell Lella.”

  “I’m with you there.”

  He unplugs the holy family. I tear down the gift wrap, my heart crushed.

  “Val?”

  I look up.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No, Rick. It’s just the cold wind.”

  Lella calls for me. “Merry Christmas, Valentine!”

  I click the play button on my iTunes. “Embraceable You,” this time by Tony Bennett. Love Tony. Love his crinkly eyes, his curly hair, his hooked nose, his slanted smile. Love the way he just loves singing and will sing with pretty much anybody and never feels the need to steal the show.

  “Merry Christmas! Be right there, Lell!” I throw back the covers and grab her present, wrapped in tissue paper even though I’ll have to unwrap it for her.

  “Oh, Valentine!” She nods, her way of pointing, in the direction of the gift. “You’re so kind!”

  I slip off the hot pink paper and hold up the sweater I embellished with beads and sequins. Saint Augustine found the plain, black, almostcashmere sweater for me at the Goodwill.

  “It’s divine!”

  “Divine? You’re priceless, Lell.”

  “And you kept the arms on for the prosthetics. You knew I’d want to wear prosthetics for a sweater like this!” She’s always so surprised at how well I know her.

  I ready my friend for the day and we head down to the kitchen. Around my neck a new necklace, a sparkly little green Christmas tree on a silver chain, tells me Lella loves me too.

  Need to get the turkey in the oven soon. Blaze declared the Thanksgiving dinner such a success, she enlisted me to knock myself out for today’s meal.

  Lella keeps me company in the warm kitchen, the smell of coffee brightening the air, reading off the measures in the recipes so I don’t have to keep looking back and forth. “This makes everything go so much quicker, Lell.”

  “Oh, dear, surely I wish I could do more.”

  “Lella, you completely undervalue your contribution to the world.”

  We listen to one of those LIFE compilation CDs. Not a pop singer in the bunch grunts out peace on earth, good will toward men.

  Augustine and several people from his mission thingy arrive for dinner. Poppy Fraser’s dinner to the street people went well and everybody loved my stuffing and mashed potato casserole, he said. Having already engaged the scarf, I sit at the table Blaze set with poinsettia-themed paper products and coordinating plastic cutlery. The ugliest old Santa centerpiece imaginable sits in the middle, looking a little demonic with white winged eyebrows.

  “Christ is born!” Augustine spreads wide his arms. He sounds like a hoarse John the Baptist and looks like John the Tattoo Artist. But his unapologetic proclamation surprises me.

  “He really lives and breathes this stuff, doesn’t he, Lell?” I whisper.

  “Oh, surely he does.”

  Blaze points everyone to the table. The scuffle begins amid the aroma of turkey, sage, and potatoes. The table filled, one person is left without a seat.

  “Rick. Doggone it, it’s Rick,” I whisper to Lella.

  “It’s always Rick in situations like this because he’s so nice and unassuming,” she whispers back.

  I get up. “Here, Rick. Sit here.”

  “No way, Val. You cooked this meal.”

  “And I tasted everything at least ten times. I couldn’t eat even one bite of this stuff.” I hold the corner of my scarf down to keep it from puffing out with each word. “I’m really insisting here.”

  Augustine stands to his feet and I point to him with a bold index finger. “Don’t even think about it. I’m so serious it isn’t even funny.”

  Blaze unfolds her napkin. “Don’t cross Val, Gus. Believe me, she doesn’t ask for much in this life, so when she does you’d just better listen.”

  “Nice, Blaze. Very nice.”

  “Do You Hear What I Hear?” ekes from the kitchen.

  Augustine sits back down. “I’ve never been one to argue with strong women.”

  I snort. “I’ll be back in a minute. Augustine, why don’t you say grace? You’re the minister here.”

  Lella helps me out. “Oh, please, Gus. That would be so lovely.”

  He stands to his feet, removes his bandana, and bows his head. His words of love to Jesus are all I need to send me packing, and I make my escape without a sound.

  Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you.

  This time, as I settle on my bed, it’s Nat King Cole. That man. That wonderful man. Speaking of Nat, who died from lung cancer, and this version was recorded when he was older and raspier, I feel like a smoke. I don’t think Blaze will kill me if I lean out my window just this once, considering I’m missing Christmas dinner and all.

  I pull my scarf down, and as I throw up the sash an ocean of air—filled with the aroma of cooking spices and roasting meat—rushes in with a snowflake or two. Holding my lighter up, guarding it with curled palm and fingers, I breathe in through the filter.

  Halfway through the cigarette, Nat ends his smoothness and believe it or not, Ethel Merman starts belting out the song.

  “Man! That’s the worst version of that song I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  I whip around.

  Augustine stands in the doorway, trying to completely push open the door with a booted foot while maintaining two fi
lled plates in his hands. I throw the cigarette onto the lawn and rush over, grabbing a plate.

  “You’re right. It proves even the beautiful can be made ugly and people will pay good money to see it. I have a lot in common with the woman that way.”

  “I’m not going to argue.” He hands me my plate. “I learned better than to do something like that ever again.”

  “I guess I was a little harsh the other night.” I set the plate on the bed then shut the window and tie on my scarf. “It’s cold enough upstairs in this drafty house without my help.”

  “We keep it cold at our place too. Fuel’s expensive.”

  “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Lella told me which foods were acceptable.”

  My plate overflows with stuffing, mashed potato casserole, broccoli cheese casserole, cranberry sauce, and turkey, shredded up impossibly small and held together with gravy. I point to it. “You did that?”

  He shrugs. “You really know how to cook, Valentine. I’ve been practically starving at Shalom.”

  “Oh. Shalom. Is that your church? Very granola Jesus.”

  “Yeah, I know. I like it though. You know what shalom actually means, I guess?”

  “Peace. Right?”

  “Actually, shalom happens when everyone is living up to their responsibilities.”

  “In other words, Mr. X isn’t lording power over Ms. Y, who isn’t lazing around while everybody else does the work?” I snicker.

  He flinches. “Yeah, sort of. There’s a little more to it than that. Are you one of those people wounded by church?”

  I turn away and fork a bite of potato into my mouth and shrug.

  “I’m a pretty strong guy, Val. I can take it.”

  “If I tell you will it shut you up?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Whatever. After I was burned I was pretty much thoroughly rejected. Nobody wanted to be reminded of the fact that God lets really, really bad stuff happen to people.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So you know how they twisted their way around it so they could still feel safe and secure? They said I probably wasn’t ‘saved’ in the first place. Ha!”

  “I’m sorry, Valentine.”

  I fork up some dressing. “Save it. Really. After a while you just got to put people like that behind you or they take over your mind.” I lay my fork back down. “And I think they were right. I hardly feel saved or anything else anymore. Don’t know if I want all that spiritual stress anyway. I can’t bear another salvation speech, as if faith is this sudden decision, like should I have pie or cake? And once having had the pie, does life stay relatively like it was, only I have pie inside of me? No thanks. I want more than pie. In fact, I tried the pie a long time ago and I still ended up like this.”

  “Sorry, Valentine.”

  “Save it. Really. And take the hint, Saint Augustine. I’m not going to tell you any more about anything else today, okay? So. What’s this shalom thing about?”

  “You’ll probably laugh.”

  “Probably.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Okay.”

  I eat my dressing while he tells about his “missional community.” This is one weird tale, one strange dude.

  “So basically you’re saying you and a couple of friends from Philadelphia decided to start a monastery. A monastery? Like chants and hoods and whacking yourself on the forehead with a two-by-four, monastery?”

  “Uh, well, a little less stringent, now that you mention that. And not at all Monty Python.”

  “Got it. So you Catholic or something? You don’t look Catholic.”

  “No. We’ve made up our own monastic rules.”

  I spoon up some turkey and gravy. “Are you allowed to do that sort of thing? Are there monastery police out there who go around and check to see if all the monks are following the rules?”

  “No monastic police that I know of. We have marks we follow. Some new monastic communities are stricter than others. Ours is pretty strict. We go with poverty, chastity, and obedience. Relocating to forgotten places and ministering to forgotten people. Hospitality to the stranger.”

  “Chastity. So you don’t have sex. Figures.”

  “Do you?”

  “Well no, but it’s not like I took a vow or anything. So is this chastity vow for a lifetime?”

  “Mine is. Not everyone’s is. Celibacy within marriage is fine too.”

  “No wonder there aren’t many of you over there.” I set my plate on the nightstand. “So you’re never going to get married?”

  “I can’t.”

  “That doesn’t sound really holy if you ask me. You sound like you’re escaping reality. I know another freak when I see one. You’re doing what I’m doing. You’re just acting all holy about it.”

  “I’m not holy, Valentine. Have I ever acted like I think I’m holy?”

  “I guess not. You got me. Most of these religious types you can blanketly accuse and they’ll accept it on behalf of all the morons who actually act that way. Maybe there’s something to be said for that, come to think of it, or maybe it’s just stupid.”

  “Maybe they’re just scared. And there’s something noble about sticking together, Val, in believing that all our victories and all our defeats belong to all of us. I mean, we think we can dissect the Body of Christ, but we can’t do that any more than we can dissect our own. So all bad things done in the name of Christ are mine to bear. And all the good things.”

  Augustine wears too many dreads and chunks of stainless steel in his flesh to be talking like he actually thinks about things.

  “Anyway.” I open the window. I’d rather smoke than eat right now. I really wasn’t lying when I said I’d eaten a lot when I was cooking. “So I still think you’re taking these vows to keep you from doing something you’ll regret later on.”

  This blanches the ruddy skin of his face. “Some people need more heroics to keep them from sinning like I’m capable of. Me being the primary example. It’s best for me to stay away from women altogether.”

  “Oh, you were one of those.”

  “It’s different than you could ever imagine.”

  “Try me.”

  “You can pretty yourself up with flower tattoos and still know a monster lies in wait beneath the foliage. And that’s all you’ll get from me today.”

  I light my cigarette. “Oh, so I share and you stay mum on your past. That’s typical. Want to hear all my gore but refuse to bare your own.”

  “Gore is a good way to describe it. Take comfort in the fact that I don’t trust a word you said anyway, Val. You’ve been lying about your burns.”

  I hand him my pack of smokes, the creep.

  “No thanks, Val. It took me years to quit. But you go ahead.”

  “I guess I’m lucky to wear my faults right on the surface.”

  His blue eyes appear earnest. “You may not believe this, Valentine, but you’re exactly right.”

  “People feel sorry for me. But the one advantage I have over normal folks—and I used to be one, so I know—makes me happy. My face is the greatest filter imaginable. I screen out the superficial, the easily sickened, and the self-proclaimed superior. I screen out the weak, the selfish, and the perfectionists. Usually what remains are people who see themselves the way I do, burned and deformed and able to admit it right up front. Like you.” I drag in deeply on my cigarette. “I have no time for anybody else. I’m an acquired taste for the select few. And believe me when I tell you, I’m okay with that.”

  “I believe you, Valentine. But will it be enough in ten or so years?”

  “Shut up, Augustine.”

  “Okay.”

  SEVEN

  DREW: 2002

  I meet Father Brian for lunch out at The Crepe and Omelet Place. His choice. Having ordered, we sit drinking coffee in the atrium-style restaurant, surrounded by plants and pink table linens.

  “Tell me how you became a priest, Father Brian. What made a young guy like y
ou want to give up your entire life? You aren’t gay, are you?”

  He shakes his head. “You know, I wish you’d just call me Brian. I’m not your priest. I’m new to this stuff, and right now I think God’s just calling me to be your friend. It’s a little lonely down here anyway. And no, I’m not gay. When I left high school behind, I left a very angry girlfriend too.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Ann Arbor.”

  “So were you Catholic all your life?”

  “Yep. Cradle and all.”

  “I think you have to be to swallow all of it.”

  If he’s offended, which he probably should be, he doesn’t show it. “You’d be surprised at all our adult converts. But that’s neither here nor there. You were asking about a calling.” He sips his coffee. “Did you have one?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ve never admitted that to a soul. I just thought it made sense for me.”

  “I’ve always loved the church, Drew. And God and Christ. Even the saints. You know, one of the biggest criticisms I hear from protestants is that Catholics don’t know their Bible, or even what they really say they believe.”

  “That’s true across the board.”

  “I think so. But I was always interested. And one day at school—I went to Catholic school—they had a special assembly where one of the local priests got up, and one of the sisters, and they talked about a vocational religious calling. It was like I had a personal Pentecost that day. I just knew I’d been called out by the Holy Spirit.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Basically.”

  “So then what?”

  “Went to college, Xavier in Cinci, for my undergrad. Then Mount St. Mary’s for seminary. You go to seminary?”

  The waitress delivers our food. Cheese omelet for me, bacon and cheese for Father Brian. You know, it just feels odd to see a priest eating real food. Why do they seem so unreal?

  “I went to Duke, majored in theology, and then went to Trinity.”

  “Which one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me everything.”

  “What did you mean by a personal Pentecost? I’ve never heard that term.”