The Beresfords (13 page)

“It makes life colorful,” he declared. “The emotional part.”

She peeked around him at me. “I shouldn’t say that, though. Frannie here seems pretty even-keel.”

Seems colorless enough, she meant. Nor did she retract the bit about adolescents being physically awkward.

“
Frannie’s
steady as a rock,” agreed Jonathan. “The whole world might go up in flames or be swallowed in an earthquake, and she wouldn’t crumble.” He meant it as praise, but what fourteen-year-old wants to be compared to the Rock of Gibraltar when a vibrant butterfly flits along next to her?

Speaking of which, Caroline returned the focus to herself. “I’ve never been the steady kind, sadly. Maybe it’s because I did Debate in high school.”

“Really!”

“Uh-huh. Team captain. So you see, I can’t be steady. You never know if you’ll be assigned Pro or Con, so a good debater prepares to argue both sides of a topic. Especially we practiced arguing the side we didn’t believe in. Our team took district my senior year.”

“What was the topic?”

“School prayer—would you believe it? So-o-o boring, but Reagan had just made that statement about Nazis and the KKK marching on public property while children were ‘forbidden’ to say a prayer in school, and I think the officials thought it was a hot button.”

There was a short pause, and then Jonathan asked, “Which side did you get?”

“Against, thank God!” Caroline said. “I only said we
practiced
debating both sides. We knew our facts, of course, but it helped to have some fire behind us. Not that school prayer lights anyone’s fire, but if a spark is all you have…”

“My uncle is very disappointed that President Reagan doesn’t fight for school prayer,” I put in again, when I saw Jonathan was still wrestling with what to say. “After saying he supported it in his campaign.”

“Oh, honestly! I think the Leader of the Free World has bigger fish to fry. Reagan just said that to get the religious right onboard.” She fluttered her fingers at Jonathan. “From what Tom says, it sounds like your dad is even to the right of Reagan, politically. What’s your opinion, Mr. Former-Swimming-
Bigshot
?”

“You tell me you’re a debate champ, and then you want me to argue with you?”

“It’s only an argument if you’re on the opposite side.”

“Let’s just say that, legal or not, I did plenty of praying in school. Calculus was a bear.”

We were standing by now in front of the booth where people were throwing rubber baseballs at weighted milk cans with varying results.

“Oh, you won’t be serious,” she chided. “Well, I’ll let it pass because, like I said, I don’t honestly care either way. Religion is, of all topics, the most boring to me. So freshmen dorm.”

Another hesitation. “Why do you say that?”

“Because what’s the use of debating something that can’t be proved? Everyone just digs in with their opinion, nonsense or not, and
shouts
at each other.”

‘Nonsense’! It was an open-and-shut case which side Caroline Grant was referring to. The sounds around us—laughter, milk cans tumbling, music drifting from the field—faded, I was listening so hard to what Jonathan would say. As if I could will him into speech. He was torn, I knew, as he had been that day by the pool, between wanting to keep things light and wanting to share sincerely.

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “Those kinds of discussions aren’t very fruitful. I’m not interested in debating the existence of God just for the sake of debating. But when people have genuine questions—when they’re really looking for answers—I’d have to say there’s nothing I love talking about more.”

Caroline was shaking her head. Not in the belligerent way Tammy would when she and Jonathan got into it, but gently, regretfully, as if she was sorry such things had to be talked about. “I know. Or, at least, I suspected. You are one of a kind, Jonathan Beresford. Most of the Bible-thumper types
I
met at Santa Clara gave it up by Spring Break, if not by Thanksgiving. They were cured of their thumping once they met other people who didn’t think exactly like their parents and priests. And then, after they recovered, they settled into a—a happy double life: behaving themselves when they went home and doing what they liked when they were at school. You, on the other hand—”

Jonathan ran a hand through his hair. Gazed absently at one of the inexperienced dads, who was twisting and torturing a skinny balloon into the semblance of a wiener dog. It came out with two tails and no head.

“Caroline,” said my cousin, “I can’t tell if you’re serious or just having fun. You can’t really think anyone would be happy leading a double life. I know I couldn’t. I guess some people might catch faith like the measles and then get over it—and be inoculated against it for the rest of their lives—but I—I don’t view it as a sickness. Or something that invaded me, that I have to fight off. My faith…
is
me.”

I wanted to skip and cheer for him, I was so proud, but I confined myself to giving his arm a squeeze. Jonathan didn’t acknowledge it. He was looking steadily at Caroline to see how she responded.

She colored briefly, looking back at him just as steadily. Then she shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say I had a problem with religion. I only said it bored me. You can be as religious as you like.”

“As long as I don’t bore you with it.”

“Exactly.”

“And how would I do that?”

Now a note of impatience crept into her voice. I almost thought she would stamp her foot. “I already told you! By talking
talking
talking
about it or thinking you have to convince others of something. Religion is fine,” she said again, “as long as you don’t—I don’t know—go off the deep end and become one of those
weirdos
wearing a sandwich board or—or join a monastery or go crazy and become a priest.”

I gasped at this last, my eyes cutting to Jonathan’s face. His was impassive. Only by his complete stillness did I know he was stricken and waiting for his mind to catch up with the blow it had received.

“Jonathan!
Yoo
hoo
!” Caroline waved a hand before his eyes. “He’s been turned to stone. I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”

He shook his head and mustered a faint smile. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just what you said about becoming a priest—you were raised Catholic, I gather?”

“I wasn’t raised anything. My mom’s a lapsed Catholic—I don’t think she’s been to confession since before she married my dad. But who cares?
You’re
not Catholic. Why should you mind a few priest jokes?”

“Because—because if I were a Catholic, I think I would be a priest.”

She raised puzzled eyebrows. “…Okay…and if I were a Catholic, I think I’d be Mother Theresa.”

“No, Caroline,” said Jonathan, his voice steadier now. “I mean, I’ve thought very hard about going to seminary and becoming a pastor after I graduate. Like a priest, you know, but for Protestants.”

“You’re kidding.”

He didn’t answer, only holding her gaze, watchful of her reaction. As for me, I was torn. On the one hand, I was thrilled he had shown his hand at last—take that, Caroline Grant! Surely Tammy didn’t know what she was talking about, saying some girls liked to corrupt good guys. Surely this would be the end of Caroline Grant’s interest in him. On the other hand, however, I
felt a stab of loss for Jonathan’s secret. It was one thing for him to share his hope of becoming a pastor with Tammy—she whose family tree was littered with pastors and missionaries—that was not so much revelation as it was self-defense. But to tell Caroline Grant! Caroline Grant, who didn’t know a pastor from a priest from a pocketbook.

“Why would you ever want to do that?” she asked, when it was clear he was not going to speak. “You, who could do so many things.”

“What things would those be?”

“Anything—anything! A pastor! Giving boring sermons and holding old ladies’ hands on Easter—what would be the point of that? Think about it, Jonathan. Wouldn’t you rather do something practical—not to mention lucrative—like getting an MBA and taking over your father’s business?”

It was his turn to look stunned. “Study business and run Core-Pro? There’s a difference between a summer job and what you want to do with your life. You make it sound like changing channels on the remote.”

“Why not? Some channels are more interesting than others.” She planted her hands on her hips and turned her back on us. The message was clear: we could talk all we wanted, but
she
was through with the topic. “You know what sounds really interesting to me right now? Checking out the fun house over there.”

“It’s more for little kids,” I said. “I helped set it up this morning.”

“Oh—then you probably don’t want to see it again, Frannie. But I certainly do. Come on, Jonathan. We’ll catch you later, okay, Frannie?”

“Do you want to wait here?” Jonathan asked, as she tugged him away.

I shook my head. “No. I—I have to work the dunk tank soon.” As in, an hour from then.

Off they went. For a minute I stood rooted, uncertain where to go or what to do until the balloon man looked my way. He had worked through his line—or else the line had melted away after the first people were handed their misshapen mutant creatures. “Want a balloon animal?”

“No, thank you.”

“A heart, then. You girls like hearts. I worked on this one last night.” Before I could respond, he attached a red balloon to the tank and inflated it. “Hearts are easy. Bubble at each end, see. Tie it off. Then I’m gonna squeeze the air out of the bend, see that? And…let the air back in slowly…okay, that didn’t work so well. Let me do it again.”

“It’s okay,” I said, but he was already back at it, squeezing, shaping, squishing. Slowly he released the bend and let the air flow in again. “It worked!” I exclaimed. “That looks like a heart.”

Pleased with himself, he handed it to me. “Now don’t give it away to just anyone, you got it?” He winked.

The only thing more awkward than being at the Carnival by myself was being by myself and holding a heart balloon. As soon as the balloon man couldn’t see me, I handed it to a little girl.
What next? It was too early for the dunk tank, and I didn’t want Aunt Terri to spot me standing around with nothing to do. I didn’t want anyone to spot me, as a matter of fact, and, in the throes of my adolescent angst, my solitary state made me feel like everyone must be looking at me and pitying me.

I fell in with the stream of people headed out to the baseball diamond, but, having no desire to watch Greg’s pitching clinic, I split off and headed behind the bleachers. The shade underneath the metal stands was hardly shade at all, and I was afraid someone above me would spill their drink through the gaps, so I moved on.

A thick border of trees outlined the Warm Springs High fields, hiding the unsightly chain-link fence beyond from view. Tom used to crack jokes about the smokers and stoners who would steal away to the “woods” during lunch to light up, but I figured they had other places to get high in the summer, and even if they didn’t, being on campus during the athletics carnival would be anathema.

The shade was quiet and inviting. I wandered far enough in that the cigarette butts, beer cans, and other litter grew less plentiful, finally taking a seat with my back against the chain-link so I wouldn’t have to look at it.

Were Jonathan and Caroline done with the fun house? I thought of the ramps where she must have laughed and caught at his arm for balance, the trick mirrors inside that made you look pencil-skinny or pumpkin-squat. What would he say about her now, if I asked? She might say what she liked about religion or his life dreams and he would think about how he could change her mind. Or his own. His vision of her was as warped as those mirrors.

Nor was there anything I could do. No young man sought love advice from his under-age cousin. No under-age cousin would dare to offer any. Tammy, maybe? No—she had compromised herself with her outlandish prophecy. If she told Jonathan she thought Caroline Grant was bad news, he would just think it was sour grapes. Maybe Pastor Donald—? But how would Pastor Donald ever find out about Caroline Grant, unless Jonathan went to him, seeking advice?

It was my only hope. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please, God. Please. Caroline Grant is all wrong for him. She’ll encourage him in all the wrong things and not appreciate all the good things about him. Please may he hear the truth! Please, please, please, may he go to Pastor Donald for advice! Please—”

My whispered mutterings were interrupted by sounds. Breathless laughing, running footsteps coming nearer.

“You jerk!” a girl shrieked. “How am I going to explain this to Greg?”

It was Rachel.

I barely had time to shrink back behind the closest tree, pulling my feet in and my cap lower before she burst into sight, holding her torn t-shirt to her chest and stumbling in her Candies slides. Behind her, catching her by the waist and tackling her, was Eric Grant. He was attacking her! I thought Rachel would scream when they landed on the ground, rolling over until
he was on top of her, and I tensed, ready to spring to her aid, but instead she grabbed his head between her two hands and smashed her lips to his.