Can I Get An Amen? Page 19

  As we finished our meal, I eyed her, hoping she would move on before we left. I saw the men behind the counter glance cautiously at her as well. Make her leave, I thought. Go out there and shoo her away. But they didn’t.

  “Ready?” Mark asked after I had tossed the last bit of my crust onto a grease-stained white paper plate.

  “Sure,” I said. So I wiped my mouth and pushed in my stool and planned to mimic everyone else, to widen my berth and walk by with my gaze focused straight ahead, ignoring the filthy, raving woman a few feet away. But as I opened the door, with Mark’s hand on my back, I heard her let out a mad cackle as she pulled down her grimy gray sweatpants and lowered herself into a squat. I was close enough to see the spray hit her legs, close enough to see the urine pool before running back down the sidewalk, her left foot like a boulder in a river.

  I felt myself cringe and turned my head.

  “Go on,” said Mark as he gestured down the block. “I’ll catch up in a second.”

  Without a word, I obeyed, walking quickly and stopping in front of an electronics shop a few storefronts away. It wasn’t until I was staring through the glass window into the display, pretending to be interested in DVD and MP3-player pricing, that I surreptitiously peered back toward Mark. The homeless woman was standing with her pants around her ankles in a puddle of her own piss, her face contorting as she growled nonsensically. She was oblivious, lost, as Mark bent down and—taking the waist of her pants—pulled them back up over her body. He said something that I was too far away to hear, but something awoke in her eyes, snapped back into place almost, and she finally saw him. He pulled out his wallet and handed her a few bills, the denomination of which I couldn’t see. She took the money and was quiet, looking at him curiously.

  Mark jogged up to me. “Sorry,” he said, offering no explanation. I forced a smile. I didn’t know what to make of what Mark had just done. I was humbled and awed and repulsed. It was kind, to be sure, to cover her up, give her a shred of dignity. But I couldn’t help but recoil at the thought of it. He could have chosen to bestow his kindness on one of the dozens of other homeless people we had seen today, including the Hallmark homeless man near the MoMA, the one you could imagine feeding flocks of pigeons in the park and helping lost children. But Mark chose the most vile, repellent one. He chose the one who would have made me run. We walked in silence for a couple of blocks. I found myself glancing at his hands.

  “Here’s the lot,” Mark said. I would have passed right by it. “Do you want me to drive home?” he asked, looking a little concerned.

  “Sure,” I said, reaching into my purse for my keys. “I think that wine went to my head.”

  He drove steadily home, as if he was on autopilot. The huge arms of the lights that stood stationed at regular intervals along the highway straddled the lanes, making the road almost as bright as day. As the city faded behind us, any awkwardness disappeared and was replaced by the anticipation of finally being alone with Mark. I didn’t care whom he had touched or what, and I played out the sequence of events I was sure were coming. We would get to his house, and then he would invite me in. My breathing became heavy as I looked at him next to me, how he squinted slightly at the road, even with his glasses on. He saw me staring and reached over to rest his hand on my thigh.

  When we pulled into his driveway, we came together like magnets, instantly and without restraint. His lips found my neck and my head dropped back as he breathed my name. The car was still running, but I urgently unbuttoned his coat and ran my hand up his warm chest.

  “Let’s go inside,” I whispered.

  His lips stopped, his forehead fell against mine, and he took a deep breath. “I can’t tonight, Ellen,” he said, sounding pained.

  A confused, blank, “Oh,” was all that I could manage.

  He stroked my hair, worked his face into the crook of my neck. “I wish I could. I really do.”

  “Why can’t you?” I asked in a small voice.

  “I just…” He glanced at the time on my dashboard. “I told a friend that I would meet him at his place at nine thirty tonight.” It was nine. “He’s kind of going through a rough time. He called when you were at the ATM, and I said that I thought I’d be back in time.”

  “No, yeah,” I said, making no sense. “No problem.” I pulled away. “I should be getting home, too.” I reached for my door.

  “Ellen,” he said. It was a plea.

  I gave him a brave smile and got out of the car, walked around the front to take my seat on the driver’s side.

  Mark looked defeated as he opened the door and stood up. “I really don’t want you to leave, Ellen.” Taking a step toward me, he pulled me into him. “You know that, right?”

  I ignored his question. “I hope your friend is okay,” I said sincerely. And I meant it. I tried to imagine if Jill needed me tonight.

  I gently pulled away and took my seat behind the wheel.

  “Ellen,” he said again.

  I closed the door and rolled down the window. “Have a good night. Drive safely.”

  . . .

  I drove quickly home, flooring the car down the windy narrow streets by my parents’, letting my mind go to all the dark places that I had been trying to ignore. Before getting out of my car, I checked my cell. I had received two texts on the way but hadn’t dared to look at my phone.

  I took a deep breath; they were both from Mark. The first read:

  Next Friday, my place? I’ll make dinner.

  The second was:

  My friend better be seriously messed up when I get there…

  I wiped my eyes and couldn’t help but let out a relieved, manic laugh. I texted him back:

  I’d love to come over Friday. I’m sorry if I left abruptly… I just thought you needed to get going.

  It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was a safe one. And though I felt better after our exchange, reassured by the invitation, I still thought back to that night when we’d walked through the college green. My stomach lurched as I replayed our conversation in my mind. I wished I had settled on a safe truth then, rather than revealing everything. I wished he didn’t know that I was broken.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I nearly slammed into the back door when it didn’t open. It was never locked—none of our doors were—and so muscle memory caused me to propel myself forward as soon as I turned the knob, but the dead bolt was latched. I walked around to the front, the grand ceremonial door that was never used except for company. It opened easily and quietly, with no resistance.

  The lights were out in the family room. I had seen from outside that there was only the dim flicker of the TV in my parents’ room. Not wanting to wake anyone, I came in quietly. I was right outside the kitchen when I heard their hushed voices, my mother’s and Aunt Kathy’s.

  “The Lord has always provided for us before,” said my mother. “We just need to keep trusting him.”

  “Oh, Patty,” said Aunt Kathy. “You know I told you that if Bill and I can help at all…”

  My mother let out a grim, sad laugh. “Don’t think that I don’t appreciate it, but this is just so much bigger than that. We are in way over our heads.”

  “Do the kids know?” asked Kathy.

  “No,” said my mother hopelessly. I knew exactly the expression she had on her face, that resigned, limp look. “Roger is still hoping that things will work out somehow. But the only way that’s going to happen is if the Lord intervenes…” She sounded angry, betrayed, as she continued. “You don’t know how hard I’ve been praying, Kathy.”

  “He tests us,” affirmed Kathy. “He tests us to strengthen us.”

  “I tried to tell Roger that,” said my mother sadly, “but he won’t even hear it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so depressed.” The heater kicked on, making an almost inaudible rumble from deep in the basement before I felt hot air gush from the vent by my feet. I imagined my mother noticing it, the breath of the house. “Listen, let’s drop it. I don’t th
ink Roger’s even asleep yet. He’d just die if he heard us talking about this.”

  I waited a solid three minutes before I walked loudly into the room, overcompensating, overplaying. Aunt Kathy and my mother were seated at the counter with two cups of chamomile tea in front of them. My mother’s face was washed clean of makeup and she was wearing a red flannel nightshirt. Aunt Kathy still looked freshly made up, with her hair pulled into an updo. She was wearing leopard-print silk pajamas.

  “Hey, you guys,” I said, placing my keys on the counter with a little less entitlement than usual.

  “Ellen!” said my mother, adopting her upbeat mask. “Did you just get home?”

  “Yeah. I just came in through the front. The back door was locked.”

  “Oh, I must have done that, honey,” said Aunt Kathy. “It’s just habit for me.” No one understood why my parents were so lax about home security, especially Aunt Kathy, who lived in a gated community but still acted like her neighborhood was under siege. “I guess it’s just different where we live.”

  “Kathy and I were talking about tomorrow,” said my mother. “We think we’re going to go to the eight-thirty service with your father so we can make the eleven o’clock service over at Prince of Peace.”

  I knew she was telling me so that I could commit to one or the other, and I wasn’t about to deny her. “I’ll go to the eight-thirty with you guys,” I said. “That way I can pick up Luke if he decides to take an early train.”

  “Oh, is Luke coming?” asked Aunt Kathy.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “I met him in the city tonight for a drink”—I was always careful never to mention Mitch—“and he said that he was going to try to come for dinner.”

  My mother frowned. “But I was just going to have that leftover gumbo that I have frozen.” She always liked to make a big deal about Luke coming home, clinging to the notion that if she could present him with the perfect, idyllic home life, he might turn away from his “lifestyle” and decide to start a family of his own. It was as if homosexuality was a disease to which she simply needed to find a cure.

  “Luke will be fine with gumbo, Mom. Don’t worry,” I said.

  She wrung her hands. “Well, maybe I’ll just get some Gulf shrimp to add to it.”

  . . .

  At church the next morning, I sat between Aunt Kathy and my father. It was the contemporary service, and Christ Church pulled out all the stops, including rock-concert lighting and a video montage of inspirational scenes. A dramatic photo of the silhouette of a cross at sunset, two sets of footprints along the water’s edge of a sandy beach: it was the Christian version of motivational office posters.

  The first half of the service was devoted to the type of music that to me sounded like the religified version of easy listening. A dozen or so men and women stood on the stage, closing their eyes and swaying. They tapped tambourines against their thighs and spontaneously lifted their hands into the air. It was clearly supposed to appeal to a younger, hipper audience and seemed to fit perfectly into my mother’s definition of “cool,” so I was surprised that she didn’t care for it. “I wish they’d just sing the old hymns,” I heard her whisper to Aunt Kathy between songs.

  As an overly coiffed blond woman took center stage for a solo, my mother again leaned toward Aunt Kathy. “That’s Reverend Cope’s wife,” she explained. “She leads the worship team.” Mrs. Cope didn’t seem to be following the humble-preacher’s-wife model and instead was decked out in gold jewelry, a fluttery black shirt, and tight boot-cut jeans. Her highlights were freshly done and expensive looking. Though she was in her late forties, she had a youthful, Pilates-toned body. As she sang, a close-up of her face, fraught with dramatic emotion, was projected onto the enormous screens on either side of her. She would periodically turn her head away from the microphone, to offer the cameras a nice profile shot, while she tapped her hand on her thigh to keep the beat. I felt as if I had accidentally found myself in a TV studio audience.

  The contemporary service did have one thing going for it: Parker wasn’t there. A weekend respite from her presence was much welcome, particularly while I was in the throes of event planning. I had spoken with her several times over the week, to confirm and reconfirm that everything for the party was being taken care of. The flowers were set; the head count was in; personal gifts had been ordered. Parker had me check with the restaurant to see if the waiters would be wearing their standard all black. “So you can coordinate and wear all black, too,” she said. “That way the guests will know that you are part of the staff. You know, in case they need anything.” I would be attending the party, but only in service to the Kents. On hand to answer questions from the restaurant, hand out gifts as the guests left, and generally oversee the evening, my presence would free up Parker and Philip for schmoozing.

  When the collection plate was passed that morning, I watched as my father pulled his checkbook out of the breast pocket of his sport coat. My mother tried to catch his eye, tried to give him a look that I couldn’t read, but he resolutely ignored her. He uncapped his pen and wrote out a check. It was for one hundred dollars. He dropped it unfolded, right side up, in the collection plate, then passed it down our aisle. It went first to me, then to Aunt Kathy, then to my mother. Mom looked at the check and pursed her lips.

  After the service my mother and Aunt Kathy headed off in my mother’s car to Prince of Peace, while my father and I rode back home together.

  “Your mother says that Katherine hasn’t called her to make plans to see Aunt Kathy yet,” said my father. His use of Kat’s proper name always indicated his displeasure with her. “You know, she really should make the effort to see her aunt.”

  “I know,” I said, once again finding myself in the role of Kat’s spokesperson. “She plans to.”

  “Aunt Kathy has done a lot for her. She needs to understand the importance of family.” His jaw shifted as he stared at the road. “She needs to understand the importance of a lot of things.” Had he elaborated, I knew exactly what he would have said. Manners, dignity, propriety—my father put tremendous stock in such things. And Kat had thumbed her nose at them that night with the Arnolds.

  I didn’t argue with him; I sat there as if I were the one getting the lecture.

  When he pulled into the driveway, he didn’t shut the car off. “I have some errands to run, kiddo.” His tone had softened. “If your mother gets home before I do, tell her I’ll be back for dinner.”

  I eyed him nervously. “Sure, Dad.”

  He gave the top of my head a sad, paternal pat. “You’re a good girl, Ellen.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, wondering what I had done to be labeled “good,” the designation sitting uneasily.

  I got out of the car and my father pulled away, his car gliding smoothly over the long, blacktop driveway. In a few hours he would be back, carrying a small brown paper bag that he would immediately stow in a never-opened drawer in his desk.

  . . .

  Luke ended up taking a later train from the city, so I found myself alone in the house. I was never alone there. In our old house, the rambling center-hall colonial, you could tuck yourself into one of the many small rooms and feel hidden away, but here, in this cavernous space with the vaulted ceilings, the emptiness was amplified. I grabbed my keys, got in my car, and went to Jill’s.

  Jill had already started the pregnant-person waddle, resting her hand on her lower back and sticking out her nonexistent belly as if she were in her ninth month, not the seventh week.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked, knowing that Jill had been dying to tell me.

  “Ugh, so sick!” She took a sip of herbal tea. “I haven’t wanted to touch food. And meat?” She looked like she was about to vomit. “I can’t even watch Greg eat it.”

  “I’ll bet he loves that,” I said sarcastically. Bacon and eggs, Philly cheesesteaks, and prime rib were the core of Greg’s diet.

  “No, you wouldn’t even believe how sweet he has been about it. He’s been
going to Whole Foods and getting us salads from their salad bar every night.”

  I warmed at that endearing image, of thick-necked, bulky Greg lining up with his recyclable container in hand, using the tongs to grab the mixed greens and suspiciously eyeing the dressing assortment, wondering what the hell tamari was.

  As if on cue, Greg walked into the room, swaggering toward the fridge to get a beer. “Ellie!” he said as he jerked open the door. “You came to see the little mama?”

  I gave Jill a look, unsure whether to acknowledge her pregnancy. Last I had heard, it was still top secret, with Greg not aware that I knew.

  Jill rolled her eyes. “He knows you know.”

  I stood to give Greg a hug. “Congratulations.” I wrapped my arms around his thick body. It was like hugging a steer.

  Greg snapped up the tab on his Coors Light. “You’re next,” he said, pointing at me with a sausagelike finger. “Fuck all this infertile business. Those doctors don’t know shit. You just need yourself a Polack.”

  “Greg!” scolded Jill.

  Though I felt myself redden, I wasn’t offended. Greg meant no harm. And though I never knew how much Jill told Greg about what had happened with Gary and me, I assumed that it was everything. “It’s okay,” I mouthed to Jill, meaning both Greg’s comment and his knowledge.

  Greg sat down at the table and readjusted his Mets cap.

  “So, how’s business, Greg?” I asked.

  “Ah, you know.” He shrugged. “The shops aren’t doing so bad. We got two more opening up over the next couple of months. If I’d have known the freakin’ economy was going to shit the bed, I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. But people still need their gas and their Powerball, right?”