The Queen of Sleepy Eye (23 page)

Falcon propped one foot on a stool and leaned on his knee. “Of course, my brother and I were expected to perform perfectly in and out of the house. We knew the Bible better than anyone and memorized chapters of Scripture to recite for dinner guests. We knew how to greet visitors, depending on their age and position. We attended youth group faithfully and became Eagle Scouts before any of our peers. We did not go to movies, listen to modern music, play games of chance, or attend school dances. Above all, we never discussed family secrets.”

He pressed the glass cutter along a sweeping curve of marbled glass. As so often happened in the course of our work time, I felt
compelled to defend all Christians, especially from generalizations. “I know a few things about misbehaving parents, but I don't project that onto all parents. There are loving and morally upright parents out there, just like there are sincere, practicing Christians.”

“There are five pastor's kids living at New Morning. Their stories bear conspicuous similarities with mine.”

“Really?”

He laughed. “As long as I'm exposing family secrets, let's demystify my old woman. She drinks vodka straight from a vinegar bottle. Just like the widow's oil in the Elijah story, the vodka never ran dry. It fell to me or Kevin to tell her Bible study ladies that she had a migraine. We asked the ladies to pray for a quick recovery as Mom had prompted us. Nobody prayed harder than me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what? I'm happy. I've started a new journey with a new destination. Hop on board, Amelia.”

“Where, exactly, are you going?”

“I'm not going to hell, if that's what's troubling you. Amelia, I hate to be the one to tell you, but all that Bible reading and church attendance is a colossal waste of your precious time on this earth. There's more to life than
thees
and
thous
and rules only meant to be broken. Church is nothing but an antiquated money machine. Your sins won't send you anywhere. You won't be backstroking in a lake of fire for all eternity for having a little fun.”

“I believe in grace. There is nothing that can separate me from the love of Christ.”

“Oh yes, you've talked about
grace
before, but that's not how you live. You're all tied up in a knot, worried about what people will think of you. You're playing a role. You dress like a Christian, do your good deeds, carry your Bible, say your prayers for all the starving children
in India—and might I add that your chief goal in life at the moment is to escape your mother for embarrassing you by her decidedly unchristian behavior? Once in California, you'll lose her in the crowd.
Poof!
No more mother to worry about. That's not very Christian of you, Amelia. What about the fifth commandment? ‘Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother.' I know of no caveats for moms who don't fit their daughters' ideals.”

This was a typical conversation for Falcon and me. At first, I'd gotten red-faced and defensive, but then I realized he enjoyed seeing me flustered. That was his goal. He knew Scripture and theology, and he wielded them like twin blades, always able to one-up me with counterexamples from his life or mine. Still, my hypocrisy about my mother cut deeply. To end this round of our ongoing argument, all I had to do was yell “ouch.” Satisfied that he'd drawn blood, the conversation would turn to the adventures of his travels. Instead, I said, “Interesting. I don't remember caveats for mothers who drink vodka from vinegar bottles or for philandering fathers, either.”

His smile faded, and he bent over his work. “You got me there.”

The victory created a harrowing divide between me and Falcon. The air thickened. He worked less than three feet away, but I was alone. I jostled topics of conversation until I found something safe. “Can you even explain the hippie movement to me? Butter and Straw work a million times harder on their homestead that they ever would in an office job.”

Falcon met my gaze with grateful eyes. “The movement boils down to two ideas: freedom and making the world a better place. Not all longhairs are alike. We're like schools of fish—we gather with like-minded people. I spent some time in Boston and Chicago. There, the movement's all about politics. During the whole Vietnam fiasco, we concentrated on antiwar demonstrations. I did all that for a while,
but the urban groups are too uptight for me, even self-righteous in their take on the world, always ready to slay the next dragon. I won't put myself back into that again. I prefer the country life, but I think I might like the beach life too. California is by far the easiest place to be a freak. For one, the weather makes crashing much easier. The huge number of freaks out there, that's what makes life sweeter. You're never alone, and no one hassles you.”

“And New Morning?”

“Max, the head honcho around here, had an experience early on that opened a whole new reality to him.”

“The women talk about community trips when I'm working in the kitchen, and I don't think they mean field trips to the zoo.”

Falcon stopped smiling. “Amelia, you understand, don't you, that you can't tell anyone what you hear in the kitchen? They trust you. Things are different now. Back when Max first dropped acid, it was legal. A friend of his brought a beaker of the stuff home from the university laboratory. They'd been doing experiments in the psych department. Are you cool with that?”

I squirmed in my chair. “Maybe you shouldn't tell me anymore.”

“I want you to know, Amelia, we're not trippin' very often. For one thing, it's too hard to get the pure stuff. And there's a reason behind trippin'. Acid makes everything crystal clear. Your spirit is free to move around and through things.” He drew his cutter across amethyst glass. “There's a lot going on in this world that can't be reasoned away.”

An edge of glass slid along my index finger.

“Ouch!” I squeezed the finger and a line of blood oozed from yet another cut.

Falcon lay his hands, palms up, on the work table. “Give me your hands.” He wrapped his fingers around mine. “You have to get loose
to avoid cuts. Close your eyes.” His voice was weightless and captivating. “Okay, relax the muscles in your hands … in your palms … in your wrists … in your forearms.” He raised my hands to his mouth to kiss the cut. “Now, release all the tension and hold the memory of relaxation. Better?”

“Sure.” I picked up a burnishing tool. “I think I'll burnish for awhile.”

“Cool. I'll need your help to stretch the lead pretty soon.”

I poured the green-brown tea into Leoti's cup. “The tea was a gift. It's chamomile.” Sasha had given me a small bagful of the tea, harvested and dried from the New Morning garden. I didn't know how Leoti would feel about drinking hippie tea, but the thought of forcing down her black tea made my stomach burn. I preferred the decidedly straw-like flavor of chamomile.

“My mother gave me chamomile tea whenever I had a stomach ache,” Leoti said. “What a treat.”

I offered Leoti the sugar bowl.

“No thank you, dear. Sugar was a rarity in the house where I grew up. I think I'll enjoy the tea much more without sweetening it. Besides, peanut-butter cookies are my favorite. I don't want to lose my girlish figure.”

Girlish figure? Leoti's breasts covered the belt of her dress. She laughed at my surprise. “Amy, dear, it's okay to laugh. I haven't had a girlish figure since 1906, but I must say the boys liked to watch me walk by. I swayed my hips as much as I dared. When Father caught
me, he said he didn't raise me to walk like an overfed heifer. I thought he was terribly unkind with that remark.”

A bead of sweat rolled off my forehead, over my cheek, and down my neck.

“But that was years ago. I'm dying to know what you thought of
The Good Earth
?”

How honest could I be with Leoti? “I had some trouble getting into the story.”

“But did you like it?”

“I found the characters difficult to like.”

“You didn't enjoy the book?”

“No, not much.”

“Would you recommend it to one of your friends?”

Never.
“It would depend on the friend's interests.” Lauren would use the book for a doorstop.

Leoti rested her teacup and saucer in her lap. “The best conversations I've ever experienced are about books I tossed in the trash.”

“Really?” I smoothed the napkin on my lap. “I would toss this book.”

Leoti leaned forward, and I feared she would fall out of her chair. “Good. Tell me why.”

“All the characters worry about is what people think of them. Everything Wang Lung and O-lan do is for appearances' sake. And what good did it do them? O-lan barely stops her work to birth his sons, and still Wang Lung isn't satisfied with her. He buys a concubine to flaunt his wealth, and … well, you know, to have someone pretty to love, even though she is completely useless with her bound feet. And their sons are selfish pigs. And the aunt and uncle? What slobs.”

“That's more like it. Now, with nary a character to care about, was reading
The Good Earth
a redemptive experience for you, my dear?”

“O-lan strangled her baby.”

“Do you think the author supports infanticide?”

“How could she?”

“Were you aware of such desperate acts before reading
The Good Earth
?”

Before reading the book, I thought I was poor.

“I didn't think so.” Leoti held out a plate of cookies. “This is the first baking I've done since … since I don't know when. I hope you like peanut-butter cookies as much as I do.”

Leoti nibbled on a cookie, savoring each bite and washing it down with a sip of tea. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, refolded it, and laid it on the tray. “Whenever I read a story like
The Good Earth
, where the author has bravely chosen to create characters who are products of their culture and flawed by their natures, I think of the people Jesus chose to associate with. True, he visited the synagogues and met with Nicodemus who came to him under the cover of darkness. Otherwise, the pompous religious leaders of the day were the objects of his scorn. He sought out the broken people. Why, he accepted a tearful tribute from a prostitute and invited himself into the home of a tax collector, a profligate who stole from his own people and flaunted his wealth. Jesus even ate in the company of lepers.”

“He delivered Mary Magdalene of seven demons,” I added. “And he cured the centurion's daughter, even though the father was an enemy of Israel.”

“Yes, and the woman at the well, a Samaritan, a term used by the Jews as a curse word.” Leoti broke a cookie in half but laid both pieces on her plate. “I've often wondered what that woman was like. After
all, Jesus chose to walk through hostile territory to meet with her, and she'd rid herself of five husbands. Something tells me she didn't graduate from Miss Buckingham's Charm School for Girls.

“When I picture her, she is leathered from the sun with small flitting eyes, always looking to turn things to her advantage. I'm sure she was a crafty one. And contentious? Nothing satisfied her. She deserved better than her husbands provided, and she wasn't afraid to say so. Ambition wasn't a becoming attribute of a woman of the Middle East. It still isn't. You can be sure her behavior set her up as the brunt of gossip and the taunts of the other women of the village. Why else would she collect water in the heat of the day? I'll tell you. She did so to avoid running into the wagging tongues of her tormentors. But Jesus met her there, weary from meeting the needs of hungry and hurting people, and he must have been terribly thirsty.” Leoti sighed. “In that way, my Arthur exhibited the Spirit of Christ. I was always after him to stand up straight, but he carried the weight of this community on his shoulders.”

Leoti sipped the last of her tea and returned the cup and saucer to the tray. Her eyes were a deep ocean that kept its secrets, and then she blinked. “What I find so compelling about the story of the Samaritan woman is the grace Jesus extends to her when she speaks the truth. She admits her failings to him, a rabbi who had no business talking to any woman in public, let alone a hussy who lived with a man who was not her husband. He could have ordered her stoned for her sins, but Jesus didn't even gasp. He didn't give her a book to read or ask her to explain her past. No, he opened a door considered closed to the Samaritans—forgiveness—and she ran through it without a second thought. No other story in the Bible speaks more eloquently of Jesus' humility and grace.”

I sat there, steeping in the wonder of God's grace. And then
I remembered the door of friendship I had slammed in Lauren's face. I stood up. “I have to go.”

* * *

“THAT LETTER'S THE property of the United States Postal Service,” Myron said, arranging his rubber stamps in a straight line.

I leaned over the counter. “But I wrote it. It's mine, and I've made a terrible mistake.”

He tidied a stack of forms. “It's no matter. The letter's probably on its way to Denver.”

“How long will it take to get to Gilbertsville, Illinois?”

“It depends on the weather. Of course, this being summer helps things move along. You didn't mail it air mail, did you?” He tapped his chin. “That letter will take a week, give or take a day.”

If that counter hadn't been there, I would have kissed him. “Thanks, Myron. Thanks a lot.”

* * *

“HELLO, MRS. BROWN. This is Amy. Is Lauren there?”

“Amy, how are you?”

“I'm fine.”

“Lauren's volunteering at vacation Bible school. She'll be home in a couple hours. You can try back then.”

I needed to know when Lauren would be in the house alone, so she could talk. “Are you keeping busy this summer, Mrs. Brown?”

“Yes, I took a part-time job to help with Lauren's school expenses. I work in the office of Grant's furniture store, the one near the A&P. I work all day Saturday. Mr. Brown doesn't like that much, but he likes the money I bring home. He's started playing golf again, which is just as well. He isn't so grumpy when he's been out playing with the
boys. These are things you girls will discover. Recess is always a man's favorite thing about life no matter how old he gets.”

“Working at the furniture store sounds like a fun job. I'd love to hear more about what's going on in Gilbertsville, but I'm using a pay phone, so I don't have much time.”

“I'll tell Lauren you called, sweetie. She sure misses you. All she wants to do is mope around the house. That's why I insisted she help out with VBS.”

Saturday was the day to call Lauren. Hopefully, the letter wouldn't reach her first.