“Keep an eye on Lisa,” she said to Peter, retrieving her coin purse from her handbag. “I’m going to make sure there’s still time on the meter.”
“I don’t think they’ll ticket you if we run just a little over,” he said.
“I’m just going to go check the meter,” she said.
There were still eight minutes left on it when she got to the car; she put another dime in. Better safe than sorry. On the sidewalk a few meters down she saw a young man with a beard reaching into a garbage can. He had a long army-green overcoat on; it was wrinkled and dirty. She could see the crust of a sandwich poking up from the coat’s breast pocket.
The scene made her feel terrible; it was November now, and getting colder, and the shop windows were all lit up with Christmas scenes and snowflakes. In her purse was a doggie bag with the rest of Lisa’s pancakes from breakfast; they’d probably sit in the refrigerator for two days before getting thrown out, and Lisa wouldn’t miss them.
“There’s a little breakfast left,” she said, approaching—gingerly, without making eye contact.
He took the pancakes out of the bag and began eating, quickly, with his hands. She turned away, not wanting to stare, but he said: “Ma’am?”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“‘To knowledge, temperance; to temperance, patience; to patience, godliness; and to godliness, brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness, charity,’” said the bearded man, delivering the verse very quickly, as if passing along a recipe he knew by heart. It was hard to understand him; he was still chewing. With his free hand he retrieved a crumpled tract from the pocket of his coat. “Here.”
“I’m sure, yes,” she said. She tucked the tract into her purse.
“We have meetings on Sundays,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“That’s fine,” she said, turning now finally, heeding an uncomfortable feeling in her chest that told her it was time to go; the bearded man returned to his garbage can, rooting around shoulder-deep. But the exchange stayed with her as they rode back. She’d found a church in Crescent, but she seldom got the chance to go; she didn’t like to bother Peter on his days off. He worked so hard. On their visits to Tama she thought of her attendance at Grace Evangelical as a sort of inoculation, a booster shot to carry her through next Christmas.
Outside the car the wind was blowing; Peter had to focus on the road. Lisa sang a little song to herself whose melody Irene didn’t recognize, then nodded off to sleep, and then the car was quiet, except for the engine and the sound of the wind.
* * *
This is what it said on the tract that the man eating from the garbage gave Irene:
And if thy hand serve as a snare to thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having thy two hands to go away into hell, into the fire unquenchable; where their worm dies not, and the fire is not quenched. And if thy foot serve as a snare to thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter into life lame, than having thy two feet to be cast into hell, into the fire unquenchable; where their worm dies not, and the fire is not quenched. And if thine eye serve as a snare to thee, cast it out: it is better for thee to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into the hell of fire, where their worm dies not, and the fire is not quenched. For every one shall be salted with fire, and every sacrifice shall be salted with salt. Salt is good, but if the salt is become saltless, wherewith will ye season it? MARK 9:43–50
We are called as witnesses to the wickedness of the last generation; as it was in the days of Noah, so also shall be the coming of the Son of Man (MT 24:37). We are called to be light unto the world, but the world apprehends it not (JN 1:5). He that receives you receives me, and he that receives me receives him that sent me (MT 10:40). Many are called ones, but few chosen ones, says the Lord (MT 22:14). We seek not Jehovah in the earthquake, nor the wind, nor in the fire, but in the still small voice that speaks to us after these things have passed (1 Kings 19:12). He who hears the Word of God is of God. If God did not want to speak to you, you could not hear (JN 8:47). It is no accident that you have received this tract today.
Answer the call of the Lord who speaks to you and reject this doomed generation. You are invited to join us in worship at
—and here the print broke off, and there was a space for the zealot to rubber-stamp the name and address of his local congregation: but the space on this one was blank.
There was a drawer at the house in Crescent named after a similarly purposed drawer she’d known from the dining room service at her grandmother’s house: the anything drawer. Things went there that weren’t ready to be thrown away—savings account passbooks, bifocals, buttons. The day after their excursion to Omaha, cleaning out her purse, Irene read over the verse from Mark on the front of the tract. She scowled mildly—it seemed a little dour—but tucked the tract down into the anything drawer. It wouldn’t take up much space. It didn’t seem proper just to throw it away.
3
There weren’t any preschools in Crescent just yet. Mothers who worked in Omaha or Council Bluffs found places near work to drop their kids off during the day; there were churches and private schools, all sorts of choices. But mothers who stayed in Crescent during the day had to fend for themselves. Many of them had grown up there and been friends since childhood; they made room in their web for Irene, the engine of simple social obligation humming along at its audible Midwestern frequency. Everyone was nice to Irene, and she felt welcomed, though it’s one thing to feel welcome and another to feel like you belong. Irene struggled with this in the privacy of her heart, and worried sometimes that the others would somehow detect it.
To make errands easier, they all traded afternoons on Fridays; Sharon Lumley’s mother would come get Lisa one week and walk both girls down the street to the Lumley house, where they were usually joined by either Gail Ehlers or Liz Gunderson. The following week all three might go instead to the Ehlers place, and the next to the Samples. The rotation gave rhythm to the increasingly busy routine of motherhood. More than three children at once was too much, they all agreed, so each week one girl stayed home with her mother; every kitchen had a calendar with off days marked in red. Particular arrangements as to who played where varied from week to week, a preventive measure against bickering.
It was April 20, 1972: Lisa’s day home. She grew a little taller every day; she ate constantly—“like a boy,” her father said. There was a big day ahead. She was working early with her mother in the garden behind the house: they grew beans for canning, and carrots and zucchini, and kept a small raised bed of marigolds for color. Lisa’s favorite color was yellow. Fridays out in the backyard before it got too hot were magical; Lisa would rake the dirt and poke at it with her finger, her mother working while long stretches passed with no conversation, just the mellow ease of shared time.
But the garden was also a practical concern. Peter’d lost seniority when he moved to Tama; now the owners at the stockyard were reducing several positions to part-time, saying they couldn’t afford to stay in Nebraska unless they contained costs. So he worked Monday through Thursday and didn’t complain, but on Fridays Irene stayed out of his way. Being home and idle on a weekday made him irritable. Left to himself, he might work on small projects that kept his hands busy and left him feeling satisfied by the end of the day, but if Lisa and her friends were running around he found it hard to focus.
Trips into Omaha were rarer now. But summer would be coming soon, and Lisa needed new clothes; Irene could sew dresses, but shoes were another matter. All the other kids had sandals: she knew because Lisa had told her so. It was important that her daughter not be made to stand out from the others.
It’s said that you don’t retain many memories from before you turn five, but years later Lisa remembered. She was sure of it. She’d played in the garden early that morning, and later they rode into town, just the two of them. It was a Friday, her turn to be home with her mother.
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br /> * * *
Lisa’s small hand tightened suddenly around Irene’s index and middle fingers: she had spotted the Astro Theater across the street. Its marquee was framed by incandescent bulbs. She’d been to the movies only once in her young life, to a children’s matinee at the same theater one Saturday last year; the whole family had come. For a whole week afterwards it was all she’d talked about. Even the dolls in her dollhouse had taken up the theme: “Where did you go today?” one doll would ask another. “Oh, we just went to see a movie,” the other would reply, pouring imaginary tea from a tiny teapot.
“Mommy!” she cried; Irene smiled. “Mommy” represented the heavy artillery. She was “Mom” when the circumstances were less urgent.
“Oh, Lisa,” said Irene. “I don’t know if we have time.” But it was only a little past noon; she was stalling while she ran a few calculations in her head. They’d eaten cheese sandwiches from a sack lunch on a bench in the library’s courtyard; she’d found good clothes for girls on the discount rack at Brandeis & Sons. The sandals she’d had to pay full price for, but even then she’d come in well under budget. Lisa pulled with both hands at her mother’s wrist, dragging her toward the crosswalk.
The recessed entryway to the Astro shone like a cave mouth, glowing with the promise of hidden treasure. Lisa’s face lit up in reverent wonder. Irene thought it might be all right to sit in a comfortable seat for a few hours instead of walking around downtown; her feet were tired. There was a woman in a brown dress standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater. As they approached the entryway, Lisa took off at a sprint, unable to resist all the colorful movie posters housed in shining glass. She pointed at one, arm outstretched. “It’s cartoons!” she said.
It was Disney’s Bedknobs and Broomsticks. “This one might be for bigger kids,” said Irene, her eyes scanning the five-by-seven lobby cards that framed the poster—a magician with his hands above his head, fire shooting from white-gloved fingertips; a headless ghost floating across a room, trailed by a hat in midair and two disembodied legs walking by themselves; and a strange family portrait, showing three human actors flanked by cartoon animals—two grinning vultures, a bear in a sailor suit, and a lion with a golden crown on its head.
“I’m almost five,” Lisa said.
“Four and a half,” Irene corrected her.
“Almost five,” Lisa said again. She was good with numbers. The heat of the bulbs radiated outward from the ticket booth out front; it felt like she’d entered a dream.
“Are you a churchgoer?” asked the woman from the sidewalk, keeping a respectful distance. Her dress was plain but not frumpy; it had pockets on the front that stood out like Roman numerals on a watch. She offered a tract.
“When I get the chance,” said Irene, flashing on memories of her young life in Tama and then smiling, delighted, as she took up the tract: “I have this one! I’ve read it!” Ahead, Lisa was lost in all the giant movie posters behind glass: Silent Running. The Cowboys. Conquest of the Planet of the Apes.
“Oh!” said the woman in the brown dress. “I haven’t seen you.”
“I got it last winter,” she said. “Or just before winter, anyway. A young man”—she caught herself quickly—“a man with a beard gave it to me.”
“Michael!” said the woman, her eyes big: “You met Michael!”
“I—yes, I suppose so,” said Irene. “Anyway, our church is across the river, where we live.”
It seemed to Irene that the woman was looking very deeply into her eyes. It was unusual. “Is your church alive?” she asked in a tone that hinted at uncertainties, unforeseen outcomes, vague worries: concern.
“Oh, there aren’t so many of us,” she said: she’d taken the question to be about the liveliness of the congregation. “Not everybody makes it in every Sunday.” It was true; most Sundays Irene herself just couldn’t find the time no matter how she tried. Life seemed so busy.
“Oh,” said the woman sadly. “Your church is not alive.”
“Well, it’s not so bad as all that,” said Irene. She brooked so few offenses in her daily life that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with this one. She liked the Church of the Redeemer; it made the town feel less small.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” said the woman, adjusting her tone. She located a stubby pencil in her dress pocket, taking the tract back from Irene and circling something on its reverse in one quick motion before handing it back. “There are a lot of fine churches but time is short now.”
Irene tucked it away in the pocket of her cardigan. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from?” she said, meaning only to make small talk, to steer things into happier terrain: she’d been good at this in her waitressing days.
“Michigan, originally,” said the woman. “I’m Lisa.”
“That’s my daughter’s name!” said Irene, pointing over at Lisa, whose face was now pressed up against the glass doors of the theater: she could see the popcorn machine inside, yellow light beckoning above a plush red carpet.
“It’s harder when you have children,” the woman said. Irene looked again at her eyes: there was something locked away in there, not quite buried.
“That’s strange,” said Irene; she didn’t want to seem stern, but she felt mildly insulted.
“Oh, I have children myself,” said the woman, smiling for the first time, deep lines suddenly appearing at the corners of her smile. Irene noticed that she was very beautiful, and wondered why she hadn’t seen it earlier. “It just makes life busier, I mean. Harder to find time.”
“Mom!” said Lisa, turning.
“We have to go,” said Irene.
“Do come to church, if you can, sometime,” said Lisa in the brown dress, grown-up Lisa from the church whose name and address had been absent from the tract Michael’d given Irene last fall but whose address—still headless, still without a name—was printed and now circled in dark pencil on the otherwise identical tract now being urged into Irene’s hand: just a number and a street in Council Bluffs. In the margin, in pencil, someone had written: Wed. 10 a.m., Fri–Sun 9:30 a.m.
“Well, I hope we can, sometime,” said Irene, beginning to turn.
“Good luck,” said Lisa.
“Mom!” said Lisa Sample, now standing in front of the box office, holding a place for her mother.
* * *
In open spaces people begin to think about the world of possibilities, about things that might happen that they couldn’t have foreseen: possibly our daughter will grow up to be president, possibly swords will be beaten into plowshares, possibly we will all climb into spaceships and go live on the moon. The substance of things hoped for, an endless open field. But there’s another region in that realm, and it’s actually the biggest spot on the map: that place in which none of this will happen at all, and everything instead will remain exactly as it is—quiet, unremarkable, well ordered and well lit, just exactly enough of everything for the people within its boundaries. A little drab from the outside, maybe: slow, or plain. But who, outside, will ever see it, or learn the subtleties of its textures, the specific tensions of its warp and weft? You have to get inside to see anything worth seeing, you have to listen long enough to hear the music. Or possibly that’s a thing you just tell yourself when it becomes clear you won’t be leaving. Sometimes that seems more likely. It’s hard to say for sure.
Irene was up before everybody else. She had gone out to the street while it was still dark. Friday dinner had been fine: taco casserole; Lisa and Peter both loved it and said so. Lisa related the story of Bedknobs and Broomsticks excitedly for her father, entirely in the present tense, scene by scene: “And then they fly to an island on the flying bed, and they get to meet the King, and play soccer with him. But then they trick him and take the star necklace because they need it for the final spell. So he gets super mad and comes running, but Miss Price turns him into a rabbit and he hops away and they fly back home, but when they get there, the star is gone!” Irene watched Peter while h
e listened to their daughter, saw how attentive he was. The story of the movie went on until almost bedtime.
Every quiet house is different. Sometimes this one felt like it didn’t have enough air in it. She woke up a little after four, her mind wholly awake; it was Saturday. She lay in the dark for as long as she could stand it. She kept seeing the smile on the face of Lisa in the brown dress, Lisa from somewhere in Michigan now standing in front of an aging movie palace in Omaha. Irene was attempting to square that smile with the God talk and the end-times message-making—there was a through line to draw somewhere, a path, however long and wandering. But there were only the two coordinates. In the quiet of the dark, she considered these as they might appear superimposed on a map of someone else’s life: anybody’s. Peter’s, for example—the traces of fatigue at the corners of his eyes while he listened with visible pleasure to Lisa at the dinner table. The fatigue traced one arc, the pleasure another; they were impossible to hide. Place to place to place. Tama to Crescent. Where was the young woman who’d gone off to Ottumwa Heights College in 1957? Hiding around here somewhere: she has to be. People don’t just go missing. She got up, dressed quickly, and slipped out through the front door.
It was very dark; she’d turned on the porch light, but her restlessness extended as far as the steps leading down to the bricked walkway. She had her yellow cardigan on. She loved it even though it made her feel her age: she was thirty-five. Thirty-five is not old, but it can feel old.
She fumbled in her pockets, but there was nothing in them: she’d emptied them into the anything drawer when she got home. We are called as witnesses. The horizon began rippling with hints of the earliest blackish purple. There are witnesses to weddings, but also to crimes; it was a word that led to a number of places, she thought. The world apprehends it not. She wished Peter harbored a little more natural curiosity about church, just a little interest, but he mainly worried about whether there was enough money: “To keep this whole operation afloat!” he’d said once in his joking manner, never wanting to make anyone worry. But Irene, despite herself, had not been able to forestall a vision of their whole operation as a vessel losing its buoyancy, their modest ranch house sinking into the earth, rain gutters filling with dirt and then breaking away from the frame, the dirt covering all, the house and everybody who lived inside it, the noise and the squall and the panic all resolving into a patch of untilled ground that betrayed no hint of the life that had once gone on above it.
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