Lacking air-conditioning, the administrative decision was to cross the desert at night. I knew from my vast, self-administered reading program that regardless of how hot it seemed now, the desert was supposed to be cool at night, perhaps even cold. We might have to turn on the heater, but we had nothing in that car if not plenty of heat. I wondered how long it would take for the temperature to start dropping.
Darkness closed in quickly. By the time we had the ice chest loaded, it was genuine night. We had already traveled more than two hundred miles, and Los Angeles lay four hundred miles away, a good day’s drive by anyone’s definition. Being without air conditioning, we had no choice but to forge on ahead.
Forge on, we did. I had told everyone about how deserts get cold at night, and now Heidi and Hannah began looking at me like it was my fault the temperature was still in the nineties. The windows were down, and we were continuing our regimen of sweating every available molecule of moisture. Surely, I thought, anytime now the last of the absorbed heat will dissipate and prove me right. I kept waiting for a change.
About midnight we got a change; the wind began to build. At last, I thought, it’s going to cool down. I tried to get comfortable enough to sleep in the oppressive heat when I was rudely awakened by stinging pinpricks peppering my face. “Ow!” I put my hand up and felt a layer of grit.
“Oh!” Heidi echoed. It was Hannah’s turn in the middle, and Heidi had been sleeping with her head against the door. “Yuck, what is this stuff?”
“Roll up the windows,” Dad ordered.
“But it’s ninety-five degrees.”
“Just be quiet and roll up the windows quick.”
I looked up and saw a cloud racing toward us on the ground. I recognized it from my research on deserts. It was a haboob, a wall of sand on the leading edge of a windstorm that could reach as high as five thousand feet.
I grabbed the handle and started rolling. In seconds we were enveloped. Cries of pain, astonishment, and indignation rang out. Dad had to fight gusts of wind to keep the car on the road, and visibility was on the level of a dense fog. We slowed down and crept through the sandstorm, for that is what now assaulted us. The sauna heat in the car was unabated as we were forced to proceed with our windows up. I closed my eyes to avoid the sullen stares of the girls and finally drifted off to sleep in a delirium.
Sometime in the night we made it through the desert. Dad just kept driving, possibly under the delusion that he was the Vacationing Dutchman, cursed to forever roam the highways with a camper, a camera, and Bermuda shorts.
Just after dawn, Sunday morning, the trance broke and he took an exit near San Bernardino for a pit stop. The rest of us were awakened by his exclamations and the swerving of the car as he attempted to pull to the side of the road. I looked up to see what had happened. The windshield was a blaze of glaring pinpoints, sparkling in the sunrise. I looked behind. The back window was obscured by some brown, opaque film.
Dad rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and drove around the cloverleaf to a truck stop. When the car turned away from the morning sun, we were able to see again. He pulled into the truck stop, and we got out to inspect the phenomenon. We discovered that the sandstorm had pitted the windshield with millions of miniature pinpricks, which caught the sunlight and transformed what was once transparent glass into a sparkling wall of light. But only when we were heading into the sun.
The back window was another story. During the sandstorm, soapy water from the laundry drum had leaked down the back of the car. The heat caused the water to evaporate quickly, leaving a sticky film of soap that was covered with sand and then baked rock-solid, like pottery in a kiln. Once again, all eyes focused on me, the keeper of the laundry drum.
“Mark, it looks like you didn’t put the lid back on right,” Dad pointed out.
“Yes, I did.” If I had possessed greater presence of mind, I would have accepted the blame and sorrowfully admitted that the task was beyond my abilities. However, I hated to take the blame for anything, even things I had done. And I knew I had put the lid on tightly Saturday morning.
“I think the evidence shows otherwise.”
I unlashed the drum from the luggage rack and inspected the lid. It was sealed perfectly. Then I noticed a trail of soap and sand that led to a hole in the drum, evidently eaten through by the sandstorm. “Aha! There’s the leak,” I announced triumphantly.
Dad took a closer look and cleared me of all charges of incompetence. Feeling like the Hebrew children delivered from slavery after four hundred years, I tossed the drum into the dumpster since it could no longer hold water. However, being acquitted of the charge of incompetence didn’t relieve me of the chore of chipping away the spontaneous cement from the window. Nothing could be done about the windshield except to avoid driving into the sun. Fortunately it was dawn and we were headed west, only a few hours from our destination, barring carburetor delays. We hit the road again.
So it was with a defaced windshield, an erratic carburetor, a new fuel pump, and an inexpressible sense of relief that we coasted into Los Angeles and to the home of Aunt Wilma and Uncle Mort seven days after we had left Fred. I had arrived in the Mecca of Mystical Hipness at last. We parked that car and didn’t touch it again until it was time to return to Texas.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Although we had arrived in plenty of time to get ready for church, we did something unimaginable in our family—we didn’t go. We had all slept in the car except for Dad, who had been awake for twenty-four hours. Instead, we all took showers and crashed into real beds for several hours of ecstatic sleep.
Sunday night we went to Uncle Mort’s church, the Church of Christ. My whole family on both sides had always been Baptist, with a capital Southern. I found out later that when my Aunt Wilma decided to marry Uncle Mort, it sent a few shock waves through the family. Not only did his church believe all that stuff about not having instruments in church, but they actually believed that nobody else but Church of Christ members would go to heaven. Of course, we knew the Baptists would be at the front of the line, and anyone else who really believed the right things but just happened to be a member of the wrong church would come next in line. After all, we lived in America, where we have a right to be wrong if we absolutely insist on it.
Being a PK, I rarely had the opportunity to visit other churches, especially ones that weren’t Baptist. As soon as we walked in I noticed something was missing—the piano. While Uncle Mort was introducing Dad to the minister, I looked around for an organ or something, but nothing was there. I turned back to the men standing next to me.
“Matt, here, is also from Texas,” Uncle Mort was saying. He was smiling, although I was at a loss as to why. I didn’t try to figure it out. Uncle Mort was always joking about something. He would walk up to complete strangers who had nametags, like workers in a fast-food joint, and greet them by name as if he had known them for years.
“Is that right?” the minister asked. He seemed to be in his late sixties, brown hair mostly gone gray. He had a weather-beaten look to him, as if he spent a lot of time outside. “Where in Texas?”
“A small town in East Texas,” Dad replied. I wondered, not for the first time, why he always said that instead of just coming right out and saying “Fred, Texas.” Perhaps he wanted to avoid the inevitable conversational detour that would require him to explain where Fred was and that he had no idea where the name came from.
“Brother Paul, here, is from Texas,” Uncle Mort said, still smiling. “It’s one of the reasons we picked this church. Nice to have a touch of home every week.”
“Yep,” Brother Paul said. “I grew up in Mansfield, south of Fort Worth.”
“Matt, here, pastors a Baptist church back home,” Uncle Mort said, and the penny dropped. Three men, three expressions: Uncle Mort smiling quietly, Dad subduing a brief look of irritation that flitted across his features, the minister raising eyebrows in interest.
“Is that right?” the minister said again. He inspect
ed Dad as if looking for visible evidences of heresy.
“Yes.” Dad’s voice was even and emotionless. “A small church in Fred, Texas.”
It was a nice gambit, but Brother Paul didn’t pick up the bait. Instead he just said, “Well, I hope you enjoy the service,” and left with a nod. I could tell that Dad would have rather attended the service incognito, but he didn’t say anything to Uncle Mort, who seemed content to enjoy his little amusement without further comment.
When the song leader got up, he started off the first song by blowing a note on a pitch pipe, which I suppose didn’t qualify as an instrument. Reflections on the difficulty of using a pitch pipe as an instrument in an ensemble occupied most of my attention through the lackluster music. Then we all sat down, and the minister took over.
As the sermon progressed, it appeared to be aimed at a certain part of the room. In fact, it seemed to be an impromptu catalog of those points on which the Church of Christ differs from Baptist doctrine, with a full exposition of how they were right and we were wrong. At each point Dad bristled, certain the preacher was unsportsmanly shooting at fish in a barrel.
I treated it all as a purely academic exercise and eventually got bored and looked for some reading material. I picked up the bulletin. The front had a line drawing of the building and some words:
Grove Avenue Church of Christ
Minister: Paul Jordan
My head jerked backward as if I had been slapped. Indeed, I felt as if I had been slapped. Paul Jordan? A preacher from Mansfield, Texas? Not possible. I picked up the Bible I had brought with me and looked at the faded gilt letters on the front: Pauline Jordan. I flipped through the pages to the envelope that was still unopened and inspected the front, trying to decipher the smeared address. Was that a CA on the front? I searched for more clues, but the only legible items on the envelope were the Chicago postmark and the “Return to Sender” stamp, and the inscription “You made your choice” on the back.
I looked up at Brother Jordan, searching his face for a glimpse of Pauline’s features. It had been too long—five years—and I had only seen her a few times. His eyes were brown. Were hers? I couldn’t remember. I looked around the room and saw a slight woman sitting on the front row on the right. There was no doubt that this woman was Pauline’s mother. The resemblance was unmistakable. “I have the Mark,” echoed in my mind.
I was still staring at Mrs. Jordan when the sermon ended with a prayer and we were dismissed. Dad stood up and said, “Let’s go,” evidently hoping to avoid a confrontation with Brother Jordan, who was walking down the aisle like the proverbial canary-gorged cat. His wife followed. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. Dad grabbed my shoulder as he tried to exit the other direction. I pulled away and stepped into the aisle directly in front of Brother Jordan. He looked at Dad. I held out Pauline’s Bible toward him like I was holding a crucifix in front of a vampire.
“So, did you enjoy . . . ,” he started, but his eye caught the Bible and his voice trailed off. The satisfied look on his face faded into a blank stare. Mrs. Jordan stepped around to greet us, her gaze following his. Her gasp was so loud it even got Dad’s attention, and he reversed his retreat and came to stand next to me.
The silence was unnerving. I looked at Mrs. Jordan, whose hand fluttered at the collarbone protruding from the parchment skin stretched over her slight frame. Her eyes were wide and her breathing rapid with some emotion I couldn’t identify, almost like fear. Brother Jordan’s eyes were dull and his face had gone slack, as if the breath had been kicked out of him.
“It isn’t . . . it can’t be,” he whispered. Then he seemed to regain a sense of where he was. “Where did you get this?” He jerked the Bible from my hand. “How did you get this?” Around us people stood in small groups, visiting. Those closer looked up at the tone that carried across the sanctuary.
Dad put his hand on my shoulder and started to object, but I shook it off and blurted out. “In Ohio.”
“Ohio?” Brother Jordan looked confused.
“Yes, sir. I met your daughter in Ohio.” Mrs. Jordan took the Bible from his grip and opened it to the front. She let out a ragged breath and ran her fingers across the inscription. I looked back to Brother Jordan. “Pauline is your daughter, isn’t she?”
“I don’t have a . . . ,” he began, but then he saw the envelope Mrs. Jordan was pulling from the pages that had fallen open to Psalm 51. She turned it over and read “You made your choice,” scrawled on the back. It was more an accusation than a look that her green eyes flashed at her husband. She shoved the Bible into his hands and tore the envelope away from the letter. She read the letter aloud in a quiet voice.
Dear Papa,
I thought you ought to know you got a grandson.
Mrs. Jordan closed her eyes and swayed slightly for a second.
His name is Enoch, right out of the Bible, the one who pleased God. He’s 3 months old and ain’t got a hair on his head or a tooth in his mouth and looks like a little old wrinkled Enoch, sure enough.
Vic is gone and I’m not sorry, but he did seem like he was getting back to the old Vic for awhile. Oh, I guess you don’t know about that. It’s been rough on him and he got backslid there for awhile, but it seemed like things was getting better, but then he left. It’s probably all for the best, and God’s will be done.
Anyway, I wanted you to know. I didn’t try to write before because I didn’t think you wanted to hear from us after the things you and Vic said that nite a long time ago. It was hard on me at first, but now when I look at Enoch sleeping while I write this letter, I know you meant well. It ain’t always easy being the papa, or the mama I’m finding out, but you always want the best for your baby and sometimes it seems like your heart will break with carrying so much love in it.
So, now I know that you didn’t mean no spite. For a long time I didn’t think I could forgive you, but now I see that there weren’t nothing to forgive, there was only me not understanding how you loved me so much you just wanted the best for me. But now I know and there goes my heart again, too small to hold all the love God give me.
If you have a mind to see your new grandson, I will come bring him to you. Just me and him. I don’t know where Vic is, and that is probably just as well.
Tell Mama I love her and write me back if I can come home. I got some money set aside for the bus.
Love,
Pauline
Mrs. Jordan looked through her tears to her husband and clenched the letter in her fist. She held the inscription on the envelope up to him. “You made your choice?” she asked, challenging him to explain what she must have recognized as his writing.
A small group had gathered, some coming to visit, others attracted by the scene that seemed to be developing.
“I didn’t realize . . . How could I know . . .” Brother Jordan turned from his wife and glared at me. “How did you get this?” he demanded again, thrusting the Bible in my direction. The newspaper clipping fluttered to the floor.
Mrs. Jordan threw the letter at him. “Oh, you made your choice all right, but I never got to make mine.”
Brother Jordan flinched from the letter and bent over to pick up the clipping.
Mrs. Jordan composed herself with a visible effort and turned to me. “How did you meet Pauline in Ohio?”
“She was sick, and I brought her some soup.” I looked at her with a feeling of helplessness. How could I possibly explain all that had happened to this woman’s daughter? “She got better. She told me about you.” I said.
She struggled unsuccessfully to keep her composure. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of the Bible hitting the floor. The newspaper clipping fluttered back to the floor. Brother Jordan stared blankly ahead. Dad picked up the clipping and began reading it.
“What?” Mrs. Jordan rushed to him. “What is it?” Several people stepped from the crowd, reaching toward them.
“Gone,” he whispered to the air. “She’s gone. Dead.”
; “My baby?” Mrs. Jordan dropped into a pew and began weeping.
Brother Jordan was startled to an awareness of his surroundings. He saw his wife crying and sat next to her. “She said there was nothing to forgive.” He took her in his arms ineffectually, unable to shelter her or himself from this storm. “She said she knew we loved her and there was nothing to forgive.”
The guy who had led the music stepped through the crowd. “What’s going on?”
Dad handed him the newspaper clipping, and he stared at it dumbly. “They have just received the news of their daughter’s death.”
The man looked up in confusion. “Their daughter?”
Dad nodded, and we left the Jordans to the care of those that knew them best. Or thought they had known them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT The touristing we did en route to California was a mere hors d’oeuvre for the gluttonous feast we devoured once we arrived. Disneyland on the Fourth of July, Knott’s Berry Farm, Hollywood and Vine, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Sidewalk of the Stars, China Town, the Sequoia National Forest—you name it, we went there. Every day Mom and Dad and Aunt Wilma and Uncle Mort would plan out an itinerary of the classic tourist spots, and we would trudge through them. Not that Disneyland was boring. Actually, most of it was fun, but I was obsessed with finding some way of making contact, a close encounter of the third kind with a new and alien culture.
During every extravehicular activity, I scoured the landscape for hippies, Flower Children, the Beautiful People. To my dismay, it seemed that the counterculture didn’t frequent tourist traps. At least not openly. They may have been there incognito.
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