I turn up the radio station in the car to play over my thoughts. It never seems to work, however.
33
THE FIGURE ON THE STREET is as still as one of the trees lining the pavement. Amy sees him standing there, watching her, and can’t help but jump a bit. His smile doesn’t provide any comfort. It actually scares her a little.
“I’m sorry I’m just waiting out here like a stalker,” Marc says.
“What are you doing?”
“You moved.”
“You broke up with me. Did you expect me to leave a forwarding address?”
He begins to walk down the sidewalk toward her. Amy thinks about heading back inside or maybe getting in the car and leaving without another word. But she stays there, next to her car, keys in her hand. She might need to use them to gouge out his eyes or something like that.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” he tells her, up close now.
“And I’ve been trying to send you a message.”
“Okay, fine. I got it. Message received loud and clear.”
Then what are you doing here?
Marc’s face looks tired and a bit swollen, the way it used to after he’d gone on one of those weekend-long “boys’ trips.” The kind of debauchery she didn’t want or need or even understand.
“I know you’re angry,” he says. “So let’s talk.”
“Marc, I’m not ‘angry.’ I was angry after you told me I meant nothing to you. But more than that, I was hurt. I’m neither of those things now.”
“So what are you?”
“I’m over it.”
He inches closer. Amy backs up against her car, refusing to let him touch her.
“Mina said she’s seen you lately.”
Amy nods. She glances around to see if anybody is nearby. She’s not worried about Marc being violent or anything like that. She just doesn’t want to create some kind of scene.
“You look great,” Marc adds, studying her like he always used to do. “Your hair looks great.”
There was a time when she loved those looks he gave. It took his leaving for her to realize she wasn’t a piece of art in a room locked away for only him to look at. She had no price tag on her, no value that could go up and down.
“You abandoned me, Marc. I really—really—got this one wrong.”
“What do you mean? What did you get wrong?”
The dimple she used to love now just seems like an empty pocket on a smug face.
“I got you wrong. I got us wrong. I needed a wake-up call, and God certainly sent me one.”
“God did, huh?”
His smile makes her seriously want to hit him. “Marc—I’m going to tell you this once. I don’t need your condescending airs. I don’t need you looking me over like I’m a car on display. And I certainly don’t need your attitude about anything I might feel or think or believe in. Do you understand?”
He fakes backing up while he mouths an ooh.
“I’m serious, Marc. Don’t come around. I’ll get a restraining order.”
“Really? It doesn’t look like you’d have the money to do that.”
“I know people,” she says.
Which is sort of true but not really true. But that doesn’t matter.
“I’m just trying to repair the bridge. In case you want to—”
“There’s no bridge that you can build between us. There’s an ocean ten times greater than the Pacific. Do you hear me? It’s a black hole that Matthew McConaughey couldn’t fly out of.”
Marc is no longer grinning. He tightens his lips and looks down at the sidewalk.
“Leave,” she tells him again.
This time he does exactly that.
Amy watches him go and vows to do something about him if he calls or texts or comes to see her again.
You left me to die, but I didn’t. The only thing that died was any possible feeling I might have for you.
She gets in her car and drives to the coffee shop where she’ll work for a while. Amy is strong and leaving the scene and forgetting about what just happened. It only takes about five minutes before she begins to cry.
34
GRACE KNOWS I’m coming over around dinnertime. She doesn’t know I’m carrying dinner with me. I knock on the door with my right hand while the plastic bag in my left feels like I’m bringing dinner for a dozen. The backpack over my shoulder contains the important stuff.
“What’s all this?” she asks after the door opens.
“I brought a giant bag of food . . . and an armful of files.”
“I think I can smell both of them,” Grace jokes.
“Church-versus-state cases or Chinese food? I say we eat first.”
“I say you’re a genius.”
I can’t help but notice the ponytail and jeans. She seems younger than before, even though she’s already years beneath me. The number of years doesn’t matter, I’ve come to realize. What makes people attractive is the way they look at things and the humor they carry and their ability to turn up the music really loud.
Soon I realize there’s another thing: their ability to eat takeout straight out of a container.
Grace and I sit on barstools across from each other at the island in the middle of the kitchen. It’s not a massive kitchen, but it’s large and well used. In front of us are about eight boxes.
“How did you know I like Chinese?” Grace asks me while taking a bite.
We’re both using the chopsticks that came with the meal. I finish my mouthful before talking. “Greasy, fried, salty, and spicy . . . What’s not to like?”
“Have you tried this one? What is that?”
I nod since I’ve tried all of them. “It’s Szechuan chicken.”
The ordering was a bit chaotic since I called and spoke to a lady whom I couldn’t understand and who couldn’t understand me. I kept suggesting things and she sounded like she didn’t know what I was saying, so I changed it to something else. She was probably born and raised in Hope Springs and just happened to be a really good businessperson.
“I need to try an egg roll,” Grace says.
She’s looking cute in her black T-shirt that says Hillsong United. I haven’t heard of them but am guessing they’re probably a Christian band. As we eat, I keep looking over my shoulder to the open doorway that leads into the living room. “Does Walter wanna join us?” I ask. “There’s certainly enough food.”
Grace just shakes her head.
“You can go tell him it’s fine if he doesn’t know how to eat with chopsticks,” I say.
“He’s hiding in his room.”
“What? How come?”
“He’s treating this like a date. Which should give you some idea of what my social life is like.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t worry. I won’t tell. It falls under attorney-client privilege.”
There’s a very natural smile widening over her face. I love seeing this and so far haven’t seen it much since being around her. I want to tell her this, to say it really fits her, to encourage her to use it to her advantage. But I remain silent with a mouth full of kung pao something-or-other.
For a few moments, we talk about simple nonessentials, not to fill up time but simply to try and get to know each other a little more. Small talk is tedious, but talking about the small things that matter isn’t. Eventually we coast down the conversational street and head up the driveway to something a little more important.
Grace is the one who initiates it. Perhaps that’s because I’m still eating enough for several people.
“So . . . is this what you always saw yourself doing? The lawyer thing?”
“No,” I tell her with a deadpan face. “I wanted to be Batman.”
It’s nice to hear the laugh echo in the kitchen.
“Did you ever want to be anything other than a teacher?” I ask.
“I didn’t know, honestly. After I went to college, everything changed.”
I figure she’s talking about her faith. She must be. That’s
the reason I’m here, the reason she’s living with her grandfather, the reason her parents are nowhere to be found.
“Is that when you found faith?”
Grace is folding together the top of a half-full box of Chinese food as she smiles. “That phrase—‘found faith.’ It’s so general.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I say. “Is college when you decided Kanye was right when he said, ‘Jesus walks’?”
“I can’t believe you just said that,” Grace says with the deadpan face this time.
“Oh, you know I’m kidding.”
“No, I just can’t believe you’d ever listen to Kanye West.”
I hold one of the chopsticks in each hand and say, “Touchdown.” But then I tell her I really want to know what went on in college. How did something so big happen to her?
“You never expect some kind of divine appointment to arrive, you know?” Grace says. “One evening in college, I was walking home from class. It was dark and I was struggling. With a lot of things. And I was scared. And alone. And I turned the corner and right there in front of me was a church. It had this old sign out front.”
I’m tempted to say one of the ten witty comments that go through my head, but I force my lips to stay shut.
“It was dim and hard to read. I think only one of the bulbs still worked in the thing. But it just stopped me in my tracks. The sign said, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ And as I read it, I could hear the Lord speaking to me. I couldn’t get that question out of my head for days. That was the start of a journey that didn’t end until I found the answer.”
“And what was the answer?” I lean over and rest my elbows on the island, expecting a long story about faith and miracles and God talking to her.
“Win the case and I’ll tell you,” Grace says before grabbing a couple of boxes of food to put into the fridge.
Women are all the same. They reel you in and pull you close enough just so you can flap and feel the hook and wait for something to happen. Then they unhook you and throw you into a bucket and go do something else.
I’m so tired I’ve brought out my reading glasses. I’m usually vain enough to only use them when I’m alone, but I can’t hold out anymore. We’ve been reading documents and reports and files as the lights in the living room have seemed to be slowly dimming with each half hour. There are some true aha moments for me, and I’m not talking about that group from England that sang “Take on Me.”
“You know, before I started researching this case, I didn’t know the term ‘separation of church and state’ never appears anywhere in the Constitution,” I say.
“Really?” Grace asks in genuine surprise. “I might need to reconsider lawyers.”
She’s on the couch with her legs stretched out and the rest of her leaning on the arm.
“I’ve always known it means that government can neither compel nor prohibit religious exercise, but still. I guess I always assumed it was somewhere in there.”
Grace looks down at one of the reports in her hands.
I continue. “Congress intended that religion may be recognized and accommodated only if it doesn’t compel people to participate and engage in religious exercises against their will. That’s what they wanted. But this was the same Congress that proclaimed a national day of prayer after signing the Constitution.”
I’m going through this really long report from a periodical entitled Equity & Excellence in Education. The report is called “Christian Privilege and the Promotion of ‘Secular’ and Not-So ‘Secular’ Mainline Christianity in Public Schooling and in the Larger Society.” Talk about bad titles. It’s dense stuff that I’ve already gone through once and highlighted.
“Listen to this,” Grace says. “This is from Paul Michael Herring v. Dr. John Key, Superintendent of Pike County Schools. The Jewish parents of four public high school students sued the Alabama school system, stating their children’s religious freedom was being violated. An official press release issued by the ACLU back in 1997 lists over a dozen allegations claiming students, teachers, and school officials were persecuting the children for being Jewish. Here’s how it starts: ‘The American Civil Liberties Union of Alabama, which represents the family, argues that the Pike County School Board and administrators violated the constitutional right of the students to freely exercise their religion. In addition, the lawsuit says the district failed to stop the harassment, intimidation, and threats to the students. . . .’”
Grace puts down the paper and gives me this look of disbelief. “All of these things,” she says. “I didn’t do any of these.”
“I know.”
“So why are we even looking at this?”
“Because it’s the ACLU representing a plaintiff in a civil suit. Except in this case, it was a whole bunch of plaintiffs.”
“What eventually happened?” she asks.
“They won, but the original family who sued eventually moved after still feeling the persecution.”
“Well, that’s wonderful to hear,” she says in a grim tone.
There are more case files and transcripts to look over, and I feel like I’m back in law school. The only thing is that this time it’s not Sienna I’m studying with. It’s someone very far away from the shores of Sienna.
Which is a very good thing.
I’m tired and wish I could ask for a glass of wine, but I’m guessing Grace doesn’t have any.
How ’bout you, Walter? Got any whiskey or moonshine hidden around the house?
Eventually I toss one of the files across the room. I’ve read enough. “Kane doesn’t make mistakes.”
“But didn’t you prove bias? With Principal Kinney and Mrs. Rizzo?”
My glance goes over to the wall, then the ceiling.
I didn’t prove anything.
“Those are jabs. We need a knockout punch.” I look over at her. “Why did you feel so compelled to bring up Jesus in a history class, Grace?”
“I didn’t. Brooke did. But why shouldn’t I have?”
I rub my nose, tired and knowing this woman isn’t about to back down. Good for her and bad for her lawyer.
“Look, I’m not here to debate the—”
“No, Tom, listen—I think you’re missing the point. This isn’t about faith. This is about history.”
Her ponytail bounces back and forth and makes me even more tired.
No, it’s about saving your job and paycheck and allowing me to get one as well.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” she says. “I mean, I’m not the law expert here, but it seems like maybe we’re making the wrong argument.”
“I don’t follow,” I say.
“Their whole attack—it’s about me ‘preaching in class.’ But I didn’t. The things we’ve looked at—I’ve done none of those. I’m not reading the Bible over the intercom like one of the Supreme Court cases. I didn’t post the Ten Commandments. I didn’t put up a nativity scene. And heaven forbid did I actually pray.”
“They’ll say you were preaching. You cited Scripture and talked about Jesus’ teachings as if they were just like any other verifiable fact.”
“But what if they are just that?” She uncrosses her legs and drapes them over the side of the couch, then leans toward me. “Just because certain facts happen to be recorded in the Bible doesn’t mean they stop being facts. We can separate the fact-based elements of Jesus’ life from the faith-based elements. In my classroom, I didn’t talk about Jesus as my Lord and Savior. All I did was comment on quotations attributed to Jesus, the man.”
I feel a kung pao go off in my head.
“And I did this during AP History,” Grace says. “There was nothing wrong with the context.”
I’m nodding now, leaning over in my chair and getting her line of thought. So I continue phrasing it out loud. “Any rule saying you can talk about every human being who ever existed except for Jesus is discriminatory. The school board can’t institute it.”
“And every credible historian admits Jesus existed. There’
s just too much evidence to say otherwise.”
Maybe it’s been that simple all along. Sometimes the simplest tactic is dangerous. In this case, however, I think it’s direct and decisive. “Grace, I love it. That’s our defense: Jesus as a historic figure like everybody else. And you know what?”
Her eyes are wide and she’s waiting for me to finish my thought.
“Kane won’t be able to attack it. He can’t rewrite the history books. Right?”
She jumps up and walks to a bookshelf behind us, then searches the rows for a moment, eventually pulling out a title. She hands me the book, called Man, Myth, Messiah by someone named Rice Broocks.
“You’ve got more reading to do,” Grace says, just like any good high school teacher might tell her student.
35
IT’S TWO IN THE AFTERNOON on Sunday, and Amy feels restless. This morning she woke up and got ready to go to church. She found the name of the one Mina had mentioned—Church of the Redeemer. A church Amy has heard of on the north side of Hope Springs. Reverend David Hill is the pastor there. The picture of him on the website makes him look like a nice guy. She swears she knows him from somewhere, but she can’t think where.
There are two services to choose from on Sunday mornings. Three. Eight, nine thirty, and eleven. Yet somehow, even though she was dressed in an actual dress and made up and wearing high heels by nine, she still didn’t go. Eventually she put on some jeans and a T-shirt and ate ice cream for lunch.
What’s your fear? a voice inside asks. Why so scared?
She knows a part of her is still ashamed and embarrassed at the mockery she piled on the church and the Christian faith over the years.
But isn’t that what grace is all about? Wiping the slate clean?
There’s something more, though. Something deeper.
A text on her phone alarms her. She finds the device on the kitchen table. A glace at the screen reveals it’s her niece texting her.
We’re going to protest outside the courthouse tomorrow.
Don’t you have school?
We’re ditching, Marlene writes back.
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