Safe from Harm (9781101619629) (31 page)

“It came out. We haven't really discussed it.”

“Why not?”

I stirred my coffee, tasted it, stirred it again.

Nat said, “Is it that bad, Bear? You can't even talk to her about it?”

“It's like . . .” I shook my head.

Nat threw his head back and laughed. Then he put a hand on my wrist and gave me a serious, concerned look. “Use your words, Bear—help me help you.”

I laughed, too. I had to, otherwise I was going to punch him. “Okay, Nat. Let me try this out on you. That nephew you're so proud of, what's his name again?”

“Nicolas. Nicolas Francis Braulio Tomas Nathaniel Fontana.”

“That's a lot of name to live up to.”

“He goes by ‘Nick.'”

“Well he might. Okay, say Nick marries a girl—”

“He's Catholic, Bear—that's the only kind of marriage we do.”

“And instead of spending Christmas at your sister's every year, or even every other year, he spends every Christmas at his in-laws. He spends every major holiday at his in-laws. How would you feel?” That didn't cover it. I tried again. “I mean . . . this is how it feels to me—it's as if Jo chose your traditions over mine. Your
family
over mine. As if she said, ‘I don't want to be a Wells anymore—I want to be a Fontana.' Only it goes way, way deeper than that.”

“I'd get over it.”

The door to Starbucks opened and a barista came out with two cookie-sized cherry pies. She put them in front of us.

“For Father Nat and his friend.” She included me in the beaming smile she had given Nat, asked us if we wanted free refills and went back to her job.

“It's
good
to be the priest,” I said, paraphrasing Mel Brooks.

“Yes. It is. It is when it isn't.” He ate his pie in two bites. I wrapped mine up to take home to Baby Bear. He loves pie.

“I can do you better than that, Bear. Nicolas doesn't attend the Catholic Church. His wife of fifteen years is Lutheran. He hasn't renounced the Catholic Church, but he goes to the Lutheran church and his kids are being raised Lutheran. Now, the Church of Christ doesn't have a policy on members switching denominations, does it?”

“The Church of Christ is nondenominational.”

“No it isn't, Bear. Don't be ridiculous. Answer the question.”

“I don't know of a Church of Christ that has a policy on members leaving for another denomination.”

“That's what I thought. The Catholic Church
does
have a policy covering that. It's not okay. It's a serious matter in the Catholic Church. It is a very serious matter for a Catholic not to raise his children Catholic. Ecumenism only goes so far in the Catholic Church.”

“So how did you handle it?”

Nat used a plastic spoon to scrape chocolate powder off the sides of his cup. “I didn't. I'm letting God handle it. I love Nick like the son I never had. He is a good man. From what I can see, he's not just going through the motions, he believes in the Christ.”

I threw my empty cup into the Starbucks waste can. “You're telling me not to do anything.”

“What
can
you do?”

•   •   •

That night after dinner, I asked Jo to walk Baby Bear with me. It was a cold, crisp night. November on the Gulf Coast is dry and cool and if we don't get the gorgeous foliage color, well, we don't often have to rake leaves, either. The sickle moon hung above us, clean-edged, crisp. Jo held Baby Bear's leash. We went down the sidewalk to the greenbelt. Baby Bear romped like a puppy, delighted with the cold weather and the novelty of having Jo with him on a nighttime walk. Houses back up to the shared greenbelt. Even so, it's private and wooded and a good place to have a conversation on a cool November night. Baby Bear lives in hope of catching one of the chittering squirrels.

I had prayed beforehand. I didn't want to put her on the defensive—I wanted to know, is all. Had I failed her in some way? Had my faith failed to satisfy, to answer her questions? Why had my child chosen a church that would cut her off from me? I wasn't being narrow-minded. It's a fact. The Catholic Church practices closed communion. If Jo became a Catholic, I could no longer share the Lord's Supper with her . . . no.
She
could no longer share it with
me
.

“Jo, can you tell me what you find in the Catholic Church that you don't find in the Church of Christ?”

Her head tilted up. “Yes.” Just that.

“Will you tell me?”

“I don't want you to be sad.” The dried grass and leaves crunched underfoot.

“It's not about how I feel. I need to understand.”

“If I tell you, you're going to try to talk me out of it. You're a better talker than I am and I'm not going to be able to answer all your doctorate of theology kinds of questions.”

I thought on this. I thought Jo was a very good communicator. She'd done a good job with that last sentence.

“What if I don't ask any questions at all? What if I don't answer back, and only listen?”

She blew out a long, gusty breath. “You aren't allowed to make me feel stupid.”

“I've never thought you were stupid, Jo.”

“Sometimes you make me feel stupid.”

We walked half a block before I could respond to that. “That's not okay. No one should ever make you feel stupid. I want you to tell me when I do that, and I won't get mad.”

She nodded. “I'll try to tell you about Catholicism, but if you say anything, I'm going to stop. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“The Catholic Church feels holy to me. Quiet and . . . I don't know the word I want. Like, awe. Like, more than that moon up there.” She pointed and then let her hand fall flatly to her side. “I'm not getting it right. Okay. I like that the Catholic Church goes back all the way to the beginning.”

I didn't say anything. I wanted to tell her that the Church of Christ has tried to restore the first church, the church of the apostles.

“I like it that the Catholic Church has saints.”

“All believers are saints, Jo.” It was out before I could stop myself. Luckily, it didn't keep her from talking.

“I don't
want
everybody to be only as good as I am. I
want
some people to be so good that they can make miracles happen. If everybody is the same, then . . . see, that's scary to me.” She remembered my promise. “Hey, you said you wouldn't answer back.”

“I'm sorry. Don't stop, Jo. I'm listening.”

“Don't listen just so you can work up arguments to change my mind.”

“All right.”

“Hold the leash, okay? Baby Bear's pulling me.”

I took the leash from her.

“I like it that everything is set out. Everything I need to know is out there, simple and clear. They don't chew the scripture to bits, everyone having a different opinion about what a verse means. It's all decided already. I like that it's settled.”

I nodded.

“I like it that we kneel in church. Why doesn't the Church of Christ do that?” I opened my mouth. “Wait! Don't answer. You can tell me another time. I'm just telling you that I like that—it feels holy to me. It feels right.”

I had not missed that Jo said “
we
kneel in church,” as though she were already apart from me.

“When everybody says the same thing at the same time, it makes me feel part of something really big.” To my surprise, she began to recite, “I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all things visible and invisible. I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God . . .”

Jo continued through the Nicene Creed. She had it pin perfect—an accomplishment for my dyslexic child. When she got to “the forgiveness of sins,” I joined in with her and we finished together, “. . . the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.”

Now she was surprised. “You know that?”

I nodded.

“Do you know the whole thing?”

I nodded.

“Do you believe all that?”

Again, I nodded.

“Huh.”

We had walked through the greenbelt and back out to the sidewalk and now we were nearly home.

“There's more but that's all I can think of for now.” She sounded exhausted. She probably was.

I moved the leash to my left hand and held my right out to Jo. She took it and we walked home that way. Hand in hand, together.

Together and apart.

•   •   •

That night I woke up sweating from a nightmare.

In the dream, Jo and I were walking in the greenbelt when the greenbelt lights went out and we were left in total darkness. I let go of her hand and told her to stay right there—I was going to feel around for one of the light poles, and I would get the light back on. I did get the light on, but I couldn't find Jo. She wasn't where I'd left her. She hadn't stayed. I called and called until my throat was raw, but she didn't answer. I couldn't find Jo.

No need for me to call a shrink and have that dream explained.

Twenty-one

A
fter that first successful weekend, we found ourselves called upon to babysit the pugs so often that Rebecca made us up a pug kit, including beds, food, special dishes and treats, and left it at the house. When they arrived, they walked around like they owned the place. Baby Bear almost never challenged this sense of entitlement except when it involved Jo. Jo could pay only so much attention to the porcine visitors before Baby Bear would push his way between her and the interlopers.

And where was Rebecca going all this time?

Rebecca had met someone. She wouldn't tell us much except that she had met him online, he met her criteria which was taller, stronger, smarter and better than she was (the first two maybe—I would not agree that he could be smarter and better), and she wasn't ready for him to meet the “boys” yet. That was wisdom—Rebecca had doubtless posted as a single/no kids. Not entirely honest when you take into account the relationship she has with those dogs. She wasn't ready for us to meet him, either. I liked that. It meant she was taking things slowly. It's a statement when you introduce someone to your friends.

Wanderley appeared at services on Sundays for exactly the number of weeks he had promised Annie Laurie, but no more.

Finally, Merrie came home for Thanksgiving. We hadn't seen her much since July—she'd had to go back to Tech early for track practice. All the scholarship athletes did. Then, between her away track meets, and our obligations here at home, there hadn't been one weekend when she thought she could get away, except for Jo's birthday.

We were lucky we got her at Thanksgiving. Merrie's boyfriend's family had invited her to go to their Hill Country home for Thanksgiving, and she wanted to. Annie Laurie said we should let her. Not me. I wanted to see my girl. Annie Laurie made me promise not to put a load of guilt on her so I didn't. I was glad when Jo called her sister and asked her to come home for the holidays. That's all it took. Jo asking. I paid for Merrie to fly. I didn't want her wasting the nine hours there, nine hours back drive time. I missed her.

Annie Laurie was working like a stevedore in the kitchen so I got to pick Merrie up Tuesday night at Hobby Airport. I was in the luggage area half an hour early. Ten minutes before her plane was due to land, I had stationed myself at the foot of the escalators.

I saw her before she saw me. My oldest is five feet ten inches of healthy, blonde American girl. A natural athlete and beautiful without being flashy. Don't laugh at me, but my eyes pricked when I caught sight of her. Then she saw me and gave a big wave. I hugged her so hard I lifted her off her feet.

“Merrie!” I said when I set her down. “You've lost weight!” She hadn't needed to lose weight.

She smiled and nodded. “A little bit.”

I stepped back and gave her a once-over. “More than a little bit. Are you okay? You look tired.” She looked tired. It was ten thirty now, but that's not late when you're nineteen.

She gave me a push. “Dad, you don't tell women they look tired—that's like saying they don't look good. You should say, ‘Merrie!'”—she did her Bear voice—“‘you look great!'”

I took her carry-on from her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Merrie!” I said. “You look great!”

She laughed and told me that was better. She hadn't answered my question, but we had all the long Thanksgiving holiday.

It was good to have my girl all to myself. I took her home by way of Telephone Road even though it wasn't the quickest way back. Merrie wanted to see Green Vista—she said hearing all our stories from a five-hundred-mile distance made it feel like a movie. She wanted to see the setting.

I asked if Jo had shared anything with Merrie that she hadn't shared with us. Like about skipping dance classes and going to RCIA and that flash mob—was that Jo's doing? Merrie told me she wasn't worried about Jo. Jo had her head together.

When we turned onto Telephone Road, Merrie got quiet. Green Vista and the green-and-white trailer Mitch DeWitt called home made her whistle softly between her teeth.

“Dad, I can't imagine doing what Jo did at fifteen. I don't think I could do it now. It's . . . Dad, it was a brave thing to do. You get that, right?”

“I think it was foolhardy.” I got a good look at Lacey Corinda's trailer for the first time It had an outside conversation nook with nylon-webbed folding chairs and a white plastic table, and a raised four foot section of garden, full of wildly blooming plastic flowers and a densely planted clan of garden gnomes. If there had been lights on, I might have stopped to thank her for taking care of Jo, but it was almost eleven and the mobile home park was quiet and dark except for a few bright windows.

•   •   •

The morning after she got home, Merrie grabbed a well-mouthed tennis ball and joined me and Baby Bear for a jog on the levee the way she used to when she was in high school. Baby Bear was ecstatic and stayed underfoot for the first fifteen minutes, nearly tripping Merrie up. Merrie took to throwing the ball far ahead of her—that kept Baby Bear safely in the forefront.

“Dad. I wanted to say something about Jo letting up on dance. I don't want you to worry about that, and I don't want you to worry Jo about that. Jo is trying to figure out which direction to go in. If she can't be a dancer, who's she going to be?”

I was recovered enough from the bullet hole so that I could jog and talk at the same time—it was cool weather, or it wouldn't have mattered how fit I was.

“See, Merrie, Jo took her rejection too personally—so much of this is subjective. Some teacher decides she likes an apple-polishing—”

“No, Dad.” Merrie picked up the spit-slicked ball and faked a throw. Baby Bear went tearing off. “Your hundred and ten percent speech, Dad? What if you're giving a hundred and ten percent, and it's still not enough?”

I focused on keeping my breathing even, my steps high through the dried, crackling weeds on the levee.

I thought about Merrie's question.

“What you have to do, Merrie, is buck—”

“Dad, no matter how hard you ‘buckled down' for UT, you didn't grow three inches taller, and you never weighed more than two hundred seventy. And that wasn't enough, was it Dad? Not for the pros.”

“Dance doesn't have those kinds of physical limitations, and—”

“Of course it does, Dad. Do the physics. The way your body is built, the length of your limbs, how long your legs are compared to your height? All that impacts how fast you can spin, how high you can leap. Jo worked her guts out. She worked harder than she ever has in her life, and it wasn't enough.”

Merrie was jogging easily—not winded. I threw the ball for Baby Bear, buying myself some breathing time. Merrie scooped the ball up without slowing her pace.

“Here, you hold it. Ick.” She wiped her hands on the seat of her shorts. “Jo doesn't think there were politics involved. The girls picked to stay were the girls she would have picked if she'd been in charge. Those dancers were better, that's all. You can be the best in high school, Dad, and not rank in college, or, you know, that ballet school. And it doesn't mean you aren't trying.”

We jogged in silence. I wasn't going to win the argument. Besides, she had all the air she needed for rebuttals. I could barely keep up with my daughter. Now, there was a time when I could run the forty in five seconds. I should have been jealous that Merrie could outrun me now. But I wasn't. She was so beautiful, no makeup, sweating, and wearing ratty Texas Tech workout clothes, she was so dang beautiful running in that effortless lope, that my heart nearly burst with pride. When we passed another jogger, I watched them to see if they appreciated the sight of my lovely daughter. When we passed a guy, I watched to see if he appreciated the sight
too
much.

I managed to get out, “Is she going to be all right?”

“Of course she is, Dad. Have a little faith. It's not the end of the world to change plans, Dad. You don't have to know at fifteen, or even nineteen, what you're going to do for the next ten years. Tell you what—with the ballet disappointment and all the angst she's wasting over whether or not she could have helped Phoebe, Jo could use a change now. What if I took her back to school with me? For a couple of days? We could leave Thursday night after Thanksgiving dinner and I'd put her on the plane Sunday night. She'll be at school Monday.”

I stopped to squirt some water into Baby Bear's mouth. I squirted some on his head and worked it into his coat.

“Let's head back,” I said, “Baby Bear has had enough.” Baby Bear has never in his life had enough.

Long-legged Merrie didn't call me on it. She tightened the band on her hair and turned around. Baby Bear watched us for a while, refusing to turn back when there was so much more of the levee that needed to be explored.

“You going to let me take Jo?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Your friends are too old for her.”

When he saw he couldn't change our minds, Baby Bear galloped ahead of us and waited, tongue out, for us to catch up.

“Dad, they'll be nice to her.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

“You think I'd let a guy hit on my baby sister?”

What I thought was I didn't want my fifteen-year-old daughter going off with her nineteen-year-old sister to a college campus where there would be a lot of athletes, all of whom would be drinking, twenty-one or not, and almost all of whom would be happy to cheer up a depressed, pretty girl who might look older than she was. “I don't think it's your responsibility to cheer Jo up.”

“Uh-huh. I'm going to ask Mom.”

“Not after I've already answered, you're not. Or if you do, you better tell her I've already answered, and then you're going to be in trouble with both of us.”

“Ohhh, Dad,” she said. And then she left me in the dust.

•   •   •

Friday after Thanksgiving, the girls invited all their friends over. We saw kids we hadn't seen since high school graduation. Nobody looked depressed. It was a good night, an extra thanksgiving.

Baby Bear and I made it a point to walk past the Pickersleys' home every couple of weeks, in case someone was out working in the yard. I wanted to know how things were—that's all. We never saw anyone but yard men outside.

Merrie came home for Christmas break and said she wasn't going back to Texas Tech and she didn't want to run track anymore. She wanted to take a semester off and get a job and live at home. I convinced her to see her sophomore year out and promised we could revisit the question over the summer.

I should have seen it coming.