Can I Get An Amen? Read online

  The front doorbell chimed and my mother’s eyes widened. It was showtime. “Roger, the door,” she commanded, though my father had already sprung into action.

  I heard the greetings from the kitchen. From their tones, I could visualize the scene as easily as if I were standing right there. My father and Ed would engage in a robust, who-has-the-firmer-grip handshake, while Lynn waited, smiling, her scarlet lips never parting. Then my father would politely turn to Lynn and kiss her chivalrously on the cheek, helping her off with her jacket before hanging it in the foyer closet, which my mother had just straightened. I stood as they entered the room but let my mother rush to greet them first. After she complimented Lynn on her shoes, classic Ferragamo flats, she turned to me. “And you remember our daughter, Ellen,” she said in her most exaggerated southern drawl, cueing me to follow suit and charm the Arnolds.

  “Mrs. Arnold,” I said, extending my hand. “So lovely to see you again.”

  “Hello, Ellen dear,” replied Mrs. Arnold with practiced warmth. “What a pleasant surprise.” She was plumper than my mother, with full breasts and overly coiffed anchorwoman hair.

  Mr. Arnold then turned on his campaign-trail smile and, like a politician, attempted to put the single fact he knew about me to good use. “How’s Boston?”

  I saw my father shift uncomfortably, but I flashed a winning, easy smile. “Well, I actually returned to the New Jersey area a couple of months ago, so I may need to get back to you on that.” Recognition clicked on Mrs. Arnold’s face and she shot her husband a discreet look, wordlessly instructing him to drop all talk of Boston.

  “Can I get you a drink?” my mother offered.

  “Thank you, Patty. I’d just love a glass of ice water,” answered Lynn.

  My father and Ed immediately stepped off to the sidelines and stood shoulder to shoulder holding their scotches, easing in with talk of football. I stood with my mother, while Lynn regaled her with the trials and tribulations of planning the various charity events that were coming up during the busy holiday season.

  “Every year, it just seems to start earlier and earlier,” sighed Lynn.

  “Isn’t that the truth?” agreed my mother. “Why, half the stores in town already have their Christmas decorations up and it isn’t even Halloween!” Both women shook their heads as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse were going to arrive just after Labor Day, pulling a tinsel-festooned sleigh.

  After studiously ignoring the spread of food for a polite interval, my father and Ed finally began slicing off great hunks of oozy cheese and dunking fat shrimp into horseradish-flecked cocktail sauce. They sipped their drinks a little more heartily, their voices got a bit louder, and Lynn finally made herself a spritzer. Fearful of being stranded with Lynn while my mother attended to dinner, I graciously offered to plate the soup. “Why, thank you, darlin’,” gushed my mother, playing up the happy family for the Arnolds.

  “Ed,” began my father, when we were finally seated around the table, “would you lead us in prayer?” We formally held hands and bowed our heads. Though we always said grace before a meal, I thought this was a bit much.

  Ed said a perfectly nice prayer and Lynn looked adoringly at her husband. She took a dainty slurp of her soup. “Patty, this is absolutely delicious; you must give me the recipe.”

  “I’ll write it down for you, Lynn,” said my mother. “It really is so simple.” This was a lie. I had seen her painstakingly remove the meat from the lobster and boil the shells to make the stock.

  We had just finished clearing the soup plates and getting ready for the second course when I heard Kat’s voice call from the foyer, “Elle? You up there?”

  Fleeting panic washed over my mother’s face. Kat never dropped by unexpectedly, and though she had mentioned that she would check up on me later, I never imagined that it would be in person. My parents had no choice but to pretend that theirs and Kat’s relationship was placid and unstrained, that the long-standing issues and decades-long grudges had vaporized. Kat, on the other hand, was under no such obligation. The Arnolds were exactly the type of people whose hypocrisy Kat loved to flout.

  “Katherine, sweetie,” called my mother, trying to disguise her unease, “we are in the dining room.” She glanced nervously at Lynn and Ed as she fiddled with a strand of her silver hair and forced her face into a look of pleasure. “We have company. Come and say hello.”

  Kat walked tentatively into the dining room and, upon seeing Lynn and Ed, broke into a beaming smile. “Oh, it’s the Arnolds! How wonderful!” I was sure that everyone could identify her sarcasm. Kat, like me, knew the Arnolds only nominally, so her overexuberant greeting was deliberately out of place. I shot her a pleading look, begging her to fall in line, but I could tell that she was feeling sadistic.

  “Why don’t you join us for dinner, dear?” asked my mother, hoping to defuse the situation with camaraderie. “We’re just digesting a bit before the main course.”

  Kat cocked her head and stared at my mother with that same obnoxious, plastic smile. “Oh, the main course! Why, thank you, Mother. I would love to.” Kat seemed to have zeroed right in on the sad, desperate way in which my parents were courting the Arnolds. But in Kat, rather than uneasiness, it spurred only rage.

  “Oh good, honey,” replied Mom, trying to figure out Kat’s angle. “Why don’t you go get yourself a plate?”

  Kat ignored my mother’s suggestion and walked purposefully over to the bar and poured herself a hearty glass of red wine, while my mother tried to get the conversation back on track, immediately taking refuge in the safe and familiar.

  “So, Ed, Roger tells me that you’ve arranged for Eugene White to come and speak at church.” Eugene White was a rock-star preacher who presided over the enormous New Light Church in California. He had a bestselling book, a television show, and household-name status throughout much of the country. His coming to Christ Church was a very big deal and would have been unthinkable were it not for Mr. Arnold’s connections and, I suspected, deep pockets.

  “Yes, sometime in December. We’ve had some difficulty finalizing the date,” replied Edward.

  “Well, I can imagine, as busy as he is. But won’t that be wonderful?”

  Kat returned to the table and dramatically sat, leaning back and taking a long sip of her wine, while Lynn picked up the thread of conversation. “Well, after I read Journey Eternity, I told Ed that we just had to get him to come.”

  “You know, Roger hasn’t read that book yet,” said my mother.

  “Oh, Roger, it’s fabulous,” chimed Lynn. “It really provides a road map for putting Jesus’s teachings into practice in your life.”

  Lynn would have probably launched into a book report had Kat not abruptly and impatiently interrupted. “So,” she began, “did you all hear the latest about Richard Farrington?” Here it came. I shot Kat another desperate look. Richard Farrington was a right-wing member of the Senate who had built his career on his socially conservative agenda, preaching family values and calling for an end to the “homosexual hold” on our country. A few days ago, he had been caught in a car with a male prostitute, and yesterday he had announced that he would be stepping down from his seat.

  Though Lynn thought she was being gracious and diplomatic, she took the bait. “Unfortunately,” she said, keeping her gaze on the rim of her plate, “there are terrible people on both sides of the political spectrum.”

  “Tell me, Lynn,” said Kat, leaning in for the kill. “What makes him terrible—the fact that he got his dick sucked by a prostitute or the fact that it was a man?” Lynn winced at the vulgarity and averted her eyes. Ed looked down at the table and shook his head.

  “Katherine,” my father said, indignant and stern, “that is terrible language.” My mother knew that any comment she made would only incite Kat further, but my father made an attempt to placate everyone. “Besides, I think we can all agree that what is most unfortunate is the impact on his family.”

  Lynn was still too sh
ocked and offended to speak, but she rolled her head around in tight-lipped agreement.

  “That’s right, Roger,” offered Ed.

  But Kat was not finished. Looking directly at the Arnolds, she asked with mock innocence, “Speaking of family, tell me, how is Christian?”

  My father was furious; he shot Kat the look that used to curl my toes when I was younger. His nostrils flared slightly and his eyes narrowed and he exhaled through his nose like a bull. Christian was the Arnolds’ beloved youngest child and only son. Though I never really knew him, he was in Kat’s year at school and was the subject of a good deal of gossip. He had married a pretty British girl when he was in his mid-twenties but proceeded to cheat shamelessly and unapologetically. There were rumors that he sometimes used a high-end escort service and would disappear for days at a time with no explanation, but it was still shocking news when it was learned that his wife had left one night without warning for England, taking their two children with her. From what I understood, Lynn and Ed were quite sensitive about it.

  After that, the evening was unsalvageable. My mother pushed the food around on her plate but didn’t take another bite, as she made desperate attempts to regain the evening’s prior momentum. The Arnolds sat quietly and stiffly in their seats before making an excuse to retire early. My parents walked them to the door, leaving me alone with Kat as I cleaned up the dinner dishes. I simply shook my head.

  “What?” she asked defiantly.

  “Why would you do that to Mom and Dad?”

  “I didn’t do anything to Mom and Dad,” retorted Kat dismissively. “All I did was say the word dick and ask the Arnolds about their son. If they felt uncomfortable with that, well, then, maybe that’s their issue.” Kat had an irrational compulsion to make people see what they didn’t want to see. Watching it was like seeing the Ludovico technique performed. And though tonight’s victims were the Arnolds, the real target was always, always my mother.

  We heard the front door close and immediately my mother’s angry footsteps came charging into the room. She was shaking with fury.

  “Katherine Susan Carlisle!” she shouted with a punctuating stomp of her foot. “How could you? How could you behave that way?”

  Kat made no attempt to answer, continuing to lean casually against the refrigerator.

  My father, who had not rushed into the room, but walked slowly and purposefully, was now behind my mother. While Mom turned angry, Dad turned ice cold. “I have never, never been so disappointed in anyone,” he said in a low voice filled with rage.

  Kat rolled her eyes. She was her seventeen-year-old self all over again. “I don’t see why you’re so upset. So I made an off-color comment. Aren’t the Arnolds supposed to be Christians? Judge not lest ye be judged and all that shit.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare pretend that all you did was ‘make a little comment,’ ” hissed my mother, taking a breath before the tears came. “You have no idea what you just did.”

  “I want you out of this house right now, Katherine,” commanded my father.

  Kat’s chin lifted, almost regally, before she turned and walked silently toward the door.

  “I will never forgive you for this,” whimpered my mother after her, her hand cupped over her mouth to stifle the sobs.

  Kat stopped in her tracks and wheeled around. “Well, then, now we’ve both done something unforgivable.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I got in my car and drove. After everything that had just happened, I needed to get out of the house. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I found myself in a dark parking lot with Ted, and over the course of a single dinner, the cease-fire between my parents and Kat had ended explosively. I told myself that I had no premeditated destination, but I knew exactly where I was going. I slowed to a crawl, peering into the enormous front windows of the bar as I passed, trying to make out the faces of the figures around the bar and looking for one in particular. I never planned on going in.

  Though I had known before I got in the car that Mark wouldn’t be there, I circled the block and drove by again. I looked for Ted, too, expecting to see him with a woman perched next to him. The bar was packed tonight with the Friday night crowd, and it was hard to see through the thicket of people, so I double-parked and cautiously opened my car door. I had neglected to bring a jacket with me, so I crossed my arms to ward off the chilly air. Standing a few feet from the glass, I watched the scene, the din of which was dulled and muted by the thick windows. I studied the casual glances, given over the shoulder or across the room, under the guise of looking for the restroom or at a painting, but all the while surveying who was deserving of attention, whether as competition or as prey. Mark could not have been at the bar, as those glances would all have found their way toward him. He had that kind of pull.

  I dared Ted to be there, dared him to walk out onto the brightly lit street. The speech that had failed me the night before would come this time. Then Mark would appear, suddenly and clearly like he had before, and then Ted would be gone, a lure that had served its purpose. Mark and I would walk together back inside and I would ask him what books he was reading and if he liked to travel and whether he was close to his family. These were the questions that I wondered if I would ever ask another man, because I couldn’t allow myself to be in a position to have to answer any in return. So why did your first marriage end? Do you want a family? They were the questions that haunted me. As if I was waking from a trance, my head snapped up and I walked abruptly back across the empty sidewalk to my car. I got in and drove home. Tomorrow I would call Gary.

  . . .

  “Ellen,” he said, answering on the second ring. I had waited all day to call, hoping that at seven o’clock he would be out to dinner or watching a game with friends. I would be able to escape by leaving a message.

  “Hi, Gary,” I said sheepishly.

  “I’ve been hoping you would call.” His tone was reprimanding, but only slightly, his mind logically figuring that since he was the one leaving, I deserved a grace period.

  “So, I was thinking that we should probably figure out a time for me to come up, to get my stuff.” There wasn’t much, just the few boxes that I had packed up before the drive to Jersey. During early discussions about our settlement, I had told him that all I wanted was money. Not things, bought together during happier times, not mementos or furniture. Just nice, clean, amnesic money, so there wasn’t much room for incendiary debate or argument. When I was at my most hurt, I had threatened to contest the divorce, lashing out wildly behind the protective cover of e-mail, bluffing that I was having second thoughts, that I wouldn’t sign the agreement. That was when Gary backed off, stopped pushing, and allowed me to adjust to the fact that he no longer considered me his wife. He treated me like a troublesome client rather than the woman with whom he once swore to spend the rest of his life.

  He cleared his throat, a nervous tic that plagued him in the courtroom, where it was his only sign of weakness. “Well, actually… I can just have everything sent to your parents. And you don’t need to be physically present at the final hearing, so…”

  “No,” I said, my shock turning to indignation at his presumptuousness. “No.” He thought that our marriage could be packed up, disposed of neatly and efficiently. “I’d like to be there, Gary. I think it’s important.”

  “I just thought it might be easier this way.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did,” I said, thinking that this was supposed to be hard. It was supposed to be painful and tragic and difficult.

  “That’s fine, Ellen,” he said, quickly seeking to placate me and prevent more months of limbo. “We can do it however you’d like.”

  “I would like to see your mother and Daniel when I’m there, to say good-bye to them.” I hoped he felt a sting of guilt, as he hadn’t sent so much as an e-mail to my parents, who I know thought of him like a son.

  We ended the conversation like the diplomats of nations with opposed interests, each cord
ially saying good-bye, claiming that great progress had been made, when really all that was agreed upon was that things could not continue as they had been. I fell asleep that night wondering who, besides Gary, was sleeping in my sweet little cape.

  . . .

  It was seven in the morning when my mother walked into my room without a knock and sat down on my bed. “Ellen, honey. We’re going to the eight-thirty service this morning.”

  I lifted my head and looked foggily around the room. “What?” I asked. I was disoriented from the abrupt awakening.

  “Ellen, you agreed to go to church, and your father and I think it’s very important that we go this morning.”

  “No, yeah… I know. I just… Don’t you usually go to the ten-thirty service?”

  “We’re going to the early service today,” said my mother tersely, standing up. “You need to get ready, honey.”

  I realized then that the Arnolds must attend the later service.

  The mood on the way to church was somber. My parents barely spoke and my mother stared distractedly out the window.

  “We need to stop at the store on the way home,” she muttered. “Luke’s coming for dinner.” I felt a rush of relief. Telling Luke everything would be cathartic, and only he would fully understand what had taken place between my parents and Kat. Even Jill, who knew everything about my family, couldn’t possibly fathom the ramifications of that relationship, which had lurched back fourteen years to when the bitterness started.