Uncross My Heart (8 page)

“What should I do?”

“You might try praying for inner peace,” he said kindly.

* * *

I hung up and took my brandy and stood for a moment on the back porch, gazing out at the field dotted with fireflies twinkling under a harvest moon. The horses came up to greet me, and I walked down the back steps and a few yards farther to the slatted wooden gate and lifted the latch, letting myself into their pasture.

They followed me in a slow processional southward, where a large stone altar rose out of the high grass. Field stones, really, ingeniously propped up like Stonehenge by my grandfather years ago to allow one of his sick horses to eat and drink without bending over. I sat my brandy on the ledge at shoulder height and placed my palms down on the jagged stone top and bowed my head. The horses came up on either side of me and stood quietly breathing warm air on my shoulders.

Something in these animals took me back in time to a place where I felt I had fought more tangible battles. A place where people had the decency to “run you through” rather than “run you ragged,” where the horses and I had lived much closer to one another, their large spirits supporting and protecting me. These bizarre thoughts comforted rather than disturbed me—perhaps a sure sign of madness. Nonetheless, in times of joy or sorrow I often sought out the horses. Tonight they seemed to bow their heads with me in love and respect as I prayed.

“
Dear God, I am not the best priest you have ever had in your
following. I do more things wrong than right. But your love is infinite
and for that I am eternally grateful. I know most people think I should be sorry for what I say or do or believe. But deep down, I cannot believe
that this religion we have is what you want. Guide me, Lord.
” I held my brandy glass up as if it were a chalice and then drank as Ghostie nuzzled my neck.

I was wrong about Gladys’s reticence to report being kissed.

She’d fingered me without hesitation. When Hightower summoned me to his office the next day, I thought it was on a student matter and so I was caught off guard as he perspired and paced and then veritably shouted, “Did you kiss Gladys Irons?”

My career flashed before me along with the irony that in this theological kingdom I might be forgiven a lie, a slap, a curse, but a kiss was betrayal.

I refrained from answering Hightower’s question by artfully rephrasing it. “If I were to kiss a woman, would you imagine that it would be Gladys Irons?”

His visage sagged and he broke eye contact. It was obvious he could not imagine it. I could see relief in the slack of his shoulders, and I wasn’t proud of myself for having so easily escaped.

“Holy Mother of God, Alexandra, you’ve got to draw a ceasefire with Gladys Irons. You know she’s the most vocal, tediously religious tenured professor on this campus, and I do not want to have to listen to her discuss your unsuitability as a professor. First you irritate Thurgood III and now Gladys. I am beginning to wonder if this is the right venue for you. Hmm?” His eyebrows elevated about an inch and froze there as he sought an answer from me, but I didn’t know what to say. I was as tired of defending my actions as he was of experiencing them secondhand.

“You will make peace. Once and for all.” He turned his back on me as if I had left the room. Seconds later I obliged him, going out into the lobby where Eleonor sat at her post.

“Girl, you’re startin’ to rival Vivienne Wilde for makin’ his hair stand on end, and he doesn’t have that much.”

“Eleonor, do you believe any two adults go to hell for consensual sex?”“Honey, some of the consensual sex I’ve had
was
hell. No need to travel.”

I grinned at her. “You’re the smartest person on this campus.”

* * *

I walked across the commons toward the flat, low building housing the cafeteria. Off to the sides of this large, foul-smelling eatery, a row of larger rooms existed for students and faculty to reserve.

“It’s the best way,” Dennis said, shepherding me along as one would an errant child. We turned down the long cement walkway that would end at a single glass door smeared with remnants of finger foods.

“You’ll go, talk to her, ask forgiveness, and it’s done. Otherwise, she’ll talk about you all over campus.”

“Kissing her was simply my frustrated alternative to driving a pencil through her head for being so maddeningly shut down. Imagine my having to apologize for kissing her to make a theological point.

What century are we in?”

“So when do you see Vivienne Wilde? Not that I want to bring up the other woman in your complicated life.”

“Already saw her.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“She was at the conference in San Francisco and actually had the gall to ask me a question from the aisle.”

“It’s very strange that she was there. What did she ask?”

“If I
personally
believed Jesus was celibate.”

“What did you say?”

“I said probably not.”

“That’s the wrong answer, you know, in case you care. But of course, why would you care? You’re busy kissing Gladys Irons to make a theological point.” We halted in front of the cafeteria entrance.

“Okay, you’re on your own now. Report back to Daddy after you’ve apologized.”

“I hate low ceilings,” I said as I opened the outer door and thought about what it must be like to be in a bastion of liberal theologians.

Almost like going to heaven. Instead, here I was in this eclectic mix of God-fearing sects all struggling to brainwash one another.
I never used
to feel this way. What’s changed?

Moving down the interior hallway toward the first meeting room, I opened the door and immediately felt I could reach up and touch the big dirty-white tiles overhead, whose popcornlike topography surrounded fluorescent lighting. Gladys and her group were holding their prayer breakfast, and I quietly entered and stepped back against the wall.

Gladys spotted me and her shoulders noticeably jerked back as if the devil himself had entered the room and was about to stick a fork in her. She slammed her chin down to her neck like a nervous chicken and no doubt prayed to God I wouldn’t attack her again.

People beside her stood in front of their folding chairs, arms in the air, swaying back and forth like fans in football bleachers executing the wave. I noted Dennis had fallen by the wayside, his encouragement running out at the door.

An older man was leading the prayer but others were chiming in, so it was hard to tell who was talking to God and who was simply interrupting with “Amen, brother. Tell it to Jesus. Washed in the blood.”

I noticed immediately Roger Thurgood III was in the front row, looking pompously pious, and I wondered if I had some sort of homing device strapped to my ankle that drew me to Roger.

A young, trim man in a tight-fitting shiny blue suit leapt up and bounded to the podium. I recognized him as Bryan Bench, one of those students who never had an unhappy day because his happiness was manufactured, imported, and installed like parts from China. I suspected I could drive over Bryan with a four-wheeler and he would jump up clutching his Bible and shout, “Praise the Lord, it’s a glorious day.”
Nothing wrong with that, if only I felt he was sincere.
I mentally smacked myself for cynicism.

“Hold up the Good Book,” Bryan shouted to everyone gathered before him, and I contemplated how the Good Book had relegated all other books to “Bad Books.” “Today is a day to rejoice.”

I had never heard the word “rejoice” given quite so many syllables.

It sounded something like “re-joy-us” and made me think maybe that was the idea—to put joy back in us. Maybe I was being too hard on Bryan and I should accept his hard-core religion as a lesson in diversity, so I settled into my straight-back chair and listened.

But my tolerance was short-lived as Bryan hissed out words in crazy crusader-speak that was just short of born-again rap. “Je-ya-sus saaay-uvs-us. His mother Maaay-reee ble-yus-sus usss!” I mentally snapped.
Why can’t he say
Jesus
like a regular person? Does Bryan go
to a restaurant and place his name on the waiting list saying, “My na-yame isss Bryyyaaan Beyuuunch!”

Words were my hot button. The current inability of anyone under thirty to differentiate vowel sounds drove me mad. Simple words like

“mail” were pronounced “mel,” leaving people like me insane and confused when hearing them strung together, as in a tall dark mel was seen walking past a windmel carrying a postcard from today’s mel to Mel Blanchard, a melman. I called it mel-hell and everyone was headed there.

I must have wandered off in thought because the people around me were stirring out of their chair rows, chatting with one another.

I moved quickly toward Gladys, who recoiled like a drunk snake, sidewinding away from me, but I blocked the aisle between the row of folding chairs, making it virtually impossible for her to escape. She was hanging on Bryan’s arm, telling him what a good job he’d done. I echoed her sentiment at the first opportunity and he beamed.

“Well, thank you. The Lord provides the Word, I am but a mouthpiece, and I have benefitted from you, Reverend.” He turned the compliment around, and it was that very skill and his big broad smile that would most likely make his future church the fount of everlasting funding. “What brings you here?”

“I came to apologize to Dr. Irons.” Gladys squirmed and Bryan got even cheerier.

“I bet there’s nothing you could ever do, Dr. Westbrooke, that Dr. Irons wouldn’t forgive.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said with a smile, and Gladys turned the color of a candy apple. “I’m sorry, Gladys,” I said, my eyes riveted on her.

She stammered and then, perhaps fearful I would blurt out what I was sorry about, said, “It’s fine. Apology accepted.”

“Well, then the Lord God is King.” Bryan re-joyed-us, apropos of nothing.

“Amen. Amen,” Gladys said.

“Amen,” I murmured, and walked out of the meeting room, bumping smack into Dennis, whose eyes darted over my shoulder to see what mood I’d left the congregation in.

“And she said?” His voice teased the air.

“Amen.”

“Ah yes, Amen.”

“I would rather go to hell than another of Gladys’s prayer breakfasts.”

“Then don’t kiss her again,” he said flatly.

Suddenly, as if I’d offended God and the heavens, the earth shook slightly, then abruptly, and shifted under our feet as if the underworld had joined in, grumbling and rearranging heavy statuary.

I heard the screams first as the dining-room plate glass broke into ten thousands shards, slid to the ground, and splattered around frightened people who tumbled out of the cafeteria and onto the commons. By now the swaying of the earth was slow and rhythmic and had thrown us to the ground, and I realized the New Madrid fault must have shifted and for a moment given Illinois empathy with California. The green grass momentarily rolled like waves beneath us as if the lawn had liquefied, making us all sod surfers.

Bryan Bench had outstripped the rest of the prayerful, landing on all fours about thirty yards ahead of me, clutching the ground with his hands, and then rolling onto his side whimpering, “Oh, God.” His big smiley face was now petrified, his knees grass-stained, and the crotch of his shiny pants dark from dampness.

Dennis and I crawled to the nearest student injured by flying glass and ordered others away from the building and into the center of the grounds, being careful to avoid statuary and benches in case they became marble bowling balls striking us.

In a few minutes the earth quieted and people righted themselves.

Bryan was now crying overtly and I was amused that, despite constant conversations with God, Bryan wasn’t interested in a face-to-face meeting.

I noticed Gladys on the ground holding her ankle and rocking back and forth in obvious pain, and I asked if she could get up. She said she couldn’t put weight on her foot, so I sat down beside her. “I would bandage it, but all the first-aid supplies are inside and I can’t go into the buildings yet in case there’s an aftershock.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Her tone was kinder toward me.

“I’m completely worthless to you other than to keep you company. Sorry you’re in pain.”

“It’s all fine. Really. Don’t worry. Go help the others.”

I was happy to take her up on that offer and left her in pretty much the same shape I’d found her.

* * *

The aftershocks occurred all day and those who could leave campus did so. Others were finally allowed back into their dorms after security made a brief safety check, and so there was nothing left for most of us to do but go home. Ketch whined and shook and stuck by my side as I headed to the car to drive us back to the farm. I turned on the car radio to listen to damage reports and interviews with frantic people who told reporters it was a reminder that we survived at the discretion of a Higher Power.

“It’s okay, buddy.” I patted my quivering shepherd. “Every once in a while, Mother Earth gets tired of her children crawling all over her so she stands up and shakes her skirts.” Ketch wedged his head under my arm.
I wished I had someone to shelter me
, I thought.
Someone
earthly.

Friday morning my world was jolted again when I received a note from Vivienne Wilde saying she hoped the school hadn’t suffered damage in the tremor and apologized for having to postpone her meeting with me until the following week, saying she’d forgotten she had to do a live radio show and wouldn’t have time to get there.

I was undeniably disappointed. I’d looked forward to…the way the sunlight played on her blond hair.

I punched the radio’s tune-in button, seeing if I could find the station on which she was appearing. Exasperated when I couldn’t locate it, I called her office and asked Joyce, who gave me the call letters. I tuned in just as she was being introduced.

“Our guest today is Dr. Vivienne Wilde—activist, author, and friend. Dr. Wilde, welcome, and tell us…well, beginning with all the uproar over your criticism of our local seminary, Claridge.”