Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Although we had arrived in plenty of time to get ready for church, we did something unimaginable in our family—we didn’t go. We had all slept in the car except for Dad, who had been awake for twenty-four hours. Instead, we all took showers and crashed into real beds for several hours of ecstatic sleep.

Sunday night we went to Uncle Mort’s church, the Church of Christ. My whole family on both sides had always been Baptist, with a capital Southern. I found out later that when my Aunt Wilma decided to marry Uncle Mort, it sent a few shock waves through the family. Not only did his church believe all that stuff about not having instruments in church, but they actually believed that nobody else but Church of Christ members would go to heaven. Of course, we knew the Baptists would be at the front of the line, and anyone else who really believed the right things but just happened to be a member of the wrong church would come next in line. After all, we lived in America, where we have a right to be wrong if we absolutely insist on it.

Being a PK, I rarely had the opportunity to visit other churches, especially ones that weren’t Baptist. As soon as we walked in I noticed something was missing—the piano. While Uncle Mort was introducing Dad to the minister, I looked around for an organ or something, but nothing was there. I turned back to the men standing next to me.

“Matt, here, is also from Texas,” Uncle Mort was saying. He was smiling, although I was at a loss as to why. I didn’t try to figure it out. Uncle Mort was always joking about something. He would walk up to complete strangers who had nametags, like workers in a fast-food joint, and greet them by name as if he had known them for years.

“Is that right?” the minister asked. He seemed to be in his late sixties, brown hair mostly gone gray. He had a weather-beaten look to him, as if he spent a lot of time outside. “Where in Texas?”

“A small town in East Texas,” Dad replied. I wondered, not for the first time, why he always said that instead of just coming right out and saying “Fred, Texas.” Perhaps he wanted to avoid the inevitable conversational detour that would require him to explain where Fred was and that he had no idea where the name came from.

“Brother Paul, here, is from Texas,” Uncle Mort said, still smiling. “It’s one of the reasons we picked this church. Nice to have a touch of home every week.”

“Yep,” Brother Paul said. “I grew up in Mansfield, south of Fort Worth.”

“Matt, here, pastors a Baptist church back home,” Uncle Mort said, and the penny dropped. Three men, three expressions: Uncle Mort smiling quietly, Dad subduing a brief look of irritation that flitted across his features, the minister raising eyebrows in interest.

“Is that right?” the minister said again. He inspected Dad as if looking for visible evidences of heresy.

“Yes.” Dad’s voice was even and emotionless. “A small church in Fred, Texas.”

It was a nice gambit, but Brother Paul didn’t pick up the bait. Instead he just said, “Well, I hope you enjoy the service,” and left with a nod. I could tell that Dad would have rather attended the service incognito, but he didn’t say anything to Uncle Mort, who seemed content to enjoy his little amusement without further comment.

When the song leader got up, he started off the first song by blowing a note on a pitch pipe, which I suppose didn’t qualify as an instrument. Reflections on the difficulty of using a pitch pipe as an instrument in an ensemble occupied most of my attention through the lackluster music. Then we all sat down, and the minister took over.

As the sermon progressed, it appeared to be aimed at a certain part of the room. In fact, it seemed to be an impromptu catalog of those points on which the Church of Christ differs from Baptist doctrine, with a full exposition of how they were right and we were wrong. At each point Dad bristled, certain the preacher was unsportsmanly shooting at fish in a barrel.

I treated it all as a purely academic exercise and eventually got bored and looked for some reading material. I picked up the bulletin. The front had a line drawing of the building and some words:

Grove Avenue Church of Christ
Minister: Paul Jordan

My head jerked backward as if I had been slapped. Indeed, I felt as if I had been slapped. Paul Jordan? A preacher from Mansfield, Texas? Not possible. I picked up the Bible I had brought with me and looked at the faded gilt letters on the front: Pauline Jordan. I flipped through the pages to the envelope that was still unopened and inspected the front, trying to decipher the smeared address. Was that a CA on the front? I searched for more clues, but the only legible items on the envelope were the Chicago postmark and the “Return to Sender” stamp, and the inscription “You made your choice” on the back.

I looked up at Brother Jordan, searching his face for a glimpse of Pauline’s features. It had been too long—five years—and I had only seen her a few times. His eyes were brown. Were hers? I couldn’t remember. I looked around the room and saw a slight woman sitting on the front row on the right. There was no doubt that this woman was Pauline’s mother. The resemblance was unmistakable. “I have the Mark,” echoed in my mind.

I was still staring at Mrs. Jordan when the sermon ended with a prayer and we were dismissed. Dad stood up and said, “Let’s go,” evidently hoping to avoid a confrontation with Brother Jordan, who was walking down the aisle like the proverbial canary-gorged cat. His wife followed. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. Dad grabbed my shoulder as he tried to exit the other direction. I pulled away and stepped into the aisle directly in front of Brother Jordan. He looked at Dad. I held out Pauline’s Bible toward him like I was holding a crucifix in front of a vampire.

“So, did you enjoy . . . ,” he started, but his eye caught the Bible and his voice trailed off. The satisfied look on his face faded into a blank stare. Mrs. Jordan stepped around to greet us, her gaze following his. Her gasp was so loud it even got Dad’s attention, and he reversed his retreat and came to stand next to me.

The silence was unnerving. I looked at Mrs. Jordan, whose hand fluttered at the collarbone protruding from the parchment skin stretched over her slight frame. Her eyes were wide and her breathing rapid with some emotion I couldn’t identify, almost like fear. Brother Jordan’s eyes were dull and his face had gone slack, as if the breath had been kicked out of him.

“It isn’t . . . it can’t be,” he whispered. Then he seemed to regain a sense of where he was. “Where did you get this?” He jerked the Bible from my hand. “How did you get this?” Around us people stood in small groups, visiting. Those closer looked up at the tone that carried across the sanctuary.

Dad put his hand on my shoulder and started to object, but I shook it off and blurted out. “In Ohio.”

“Ohio?” Brother Jordan looked confused.

“Yes, sir. I met your daughter in Ohio.” Mrs. Jordan took the Bible from his grip and opened it to the front. She let out a ragged breath and ran her fingers across the inscription. I looked back to Brother Jordan. “Pauline is your daughter, isn’t she?”

“I don’t have a . . . ,” he began, but then he saw the envelope Mrs. Jordan was pulling from the pages that had fallen open to Psalm 51. She turned it over and read “You made your choice,” scrawled on the back. It was more an accusation than a look that her green eyes flashed at her husband. She shoved the Bible into his hands and tore the envelope away from the letter. She read the letter aloud in a quiet voice.

Dear Papa,
I thought you ought to know you got a grandson.

Mrs. Jordan closed her eyes and swayed slightly for a second.

His name is Enoch, right out of the Bible, the one who pleased God. He’s 3 months old and ain’t got a hair on his head or a tooth in his mouth and looks like a little old wrinkled Enoch, sure enough.
Vic is gone and I’m not sorry, but he did seem like he was getting back to the old Vic for awhile. Oh, I guess you don’t know about that. It’s been rough on him and he got backslid there for awhile, but it seemed like things was getting better, but then he left. It’s probably all for the best, and God’s will be done.
Anyway, I wanted you to know. I didn’t try to write before because I didn’t think you wanted to hear from us after the things you and Vic said that nite a long time ago. It was hard on me at first, but now when I look at Enoch sleeping while I write this letter, I know you meant well. It ain’t always easy being the papa, or the mama I’m finding out, but you always want the best for your baby and sometimes it seems like your heart will break with carrying so much love in it.
So, now I know that you didn’t mean no spite. For a long time I didn’t think I could forgive you, but now I see that there weren’t nothing to forgive, there was only me not understanding how you loved me so much you just wanted the best for me. But now I know and there goes my heart again, too small to hold all the love God give me.
If you have a mind to see your new grandson, I will come bring him to you. Just me and him. I don’t know where Vic is, and that is probably just as well.
Tell Mama I love her and write me back if I can come home. I got some money set aside for the bus.
Love,
Pauline

Mrs. Jordan looked through her tears to her husband and clenched the letter in her fist. She held the inscription on the envelope up to him. “You made your choice?” she asked, challenging him to explain what she must have recognized as his writing.

A small group had gathered, some coming to visit, others attracted by the scene that seemed to be developing.

“I didn’t realize . . . How could I know . . .” Brother Jordan turned from his wife and glared at me. “How did you get this?” he demanded again, thrusting the Bible in my direction. The newspaper clipping fluttered to the floor.

Mrs. Jordan threw the letter at him. “Oh, you made your choice all right, but I never got to make mine.”

Brother Jordan flinched from the letter and bent over to pick up the clipping.

Mrs. Jordan composed herself with a visible effort and turned to me. “How did you meet Pauline in Ohio?”

“She was sick, and I brought her some soup.” I looked at her with a feeling of helplessness. How could I possibly explain all that had happened to this woman’s daughter? “She got better. She told me about you.” I said.

She struggled unsuccessfully to keep her composure. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of the Bible hitting the floor. The newspaper clipping fluttered back to the floor. Brother Jordan stared blankly ahead. Dad picked up the clipping and began reading it.

“What?” Mrs. Jordan rushed to him. “What is it?” Several people stepped from the crowd, reaching toward them.

“Gone,” he whispered to the air. “She’s gone. Dead.”

“My baby?” Mrs. Jordan dropped into a pew and began weeping.

Brother Jordan was startled to an awareness of his surroundings. He saw his wife crying and sat next to her. “She said there was nothing to forgive.” He took her in his arms ineffectually, unable to shelter her or himself from this storm. “She said she knew we loved her and there was nothing to forgive.”

The guy who had led the music stepped through the crowd. “What’s going on?”

Dad handed him the newspaper clipping, and he stared at it dumbly. “They have just received the news of their daughter’s death.”

The man looked up in confusion. “Their daughter?”

Dad nodded, and we left the Jordans to the care of those that knew them best. Or thought they had known them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The touristing we did en route to California was a mere hors d’oeuvre for the gluttonous feast we devoured once we arrived. Disneyland on the Fourth of July, Knott’s Berry Farm, Hollywood and Vine, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Sidewalk of the Stars, China Town, the Sequoia National Forest—you name it, we went there. Every day Mom and Dad and Aunt Wilma and Uncle Mort would plan out an itinerary of the classic tourist spots, and we would trudge through them. Not that Disneyland was boring. Actually, most of it was fun, but I was obsessed with finding some way of making contact, a close encounter of the third kind with a new and alien culture.

During every extravehicular activity, I scoured the landscape for hippies, Flower Children, the Beautiful People. To my dismay, it seemed that the counterculture didn’t frequent tourist traps. At least not openly. They may have been there incognito.

Convinced that the orthodox agenda was not going to produce the opportunity I needed, I attempted to effect a minor excursion of my own. After all it was Friday and I was running out of time. I selected Mom as the best target and shadowed her until she was alone. Then I sauntered casually into the room.

“Hey, Mom. Do you think somebody could drop me off at a record store or something?” If I had asked Dad this question, he would have said, “Well, which is it? Do you want to go to a record store or something?” Mom spared me the harassment.

“Why do you want to go to a record store? You can do that anytime.”

“Yeah, but they probably have a better selection out here.”

“Oh, you don’t want to spend all your souvenir money on records. You should use it on something that will remind you of the trip.” She was putting up more resistance than I had expected. Maybe I should have asked Dad.

“Yeah, but I think a record I bought out here would remind me of the trip. Besides, who really needs a set of Mickey Mouse ears or a mug shaped like a redwood tree? A record would be something I would use a lot.”

Mom must have been in an uncharacteristically contrary mood because she began to sound like Dad, the master of enumerating difficulties to get out of doing something. “But what if the record has a skip on it? You won’t be able to take it back from Fred.”

“I could listen to it on Uncle Mort’s stereo, and we could take it back if it was bad.”

“Honey, we’re on a vacation. We’re going to be really busy getting in all the sights. We don’t have time to make a lot of trips to record stores.”

I tried a last ditch effort, the plaintive cry of “Mom.”

She softened slightly. “We’ll see.”

I turned to leave in defeat. A verdict of “we’ll see” was the next thing to “no.”

“Maybe when we go to the beach this afternoon there will be one on the way,” she added as a consolation.

The beach! I left the room with my mind racing. Why hadn’t I thought of that? The beach was the perfect place to find the counterculture. Fate had come through at last.

The day turned out overcast, and the temperatures stayed low. Since it was Friday and we were scheduled to leave Saturday, we had little choice. If we were going to see the Pacific Ocean, Friday was the day. I was used to swimming in creeks that stayed cold, even in August, so I didn’t expect the weather to be a problem. Which showed just how limited my experience was.

We arrived at the beach, and I scurried into a bathhouse to hastily change into a pair of cutoffs, the swimwear of choice for Fredonians. Leaving everyone else behind, I ran to the water and plunged into the surf. And instantly turned a light shade of pale blue. Every nerve in my body sent panic signals to my brain, inquiring who was the fool who had just immersed my body in water on the verge of turning to ice.

I bounded back to the beach, running along the top of the water like a creature in a cartoon, bewildered and shivering. Salt water and waves were supposed to be warm. Anybody who had ever been in the Gulf of Mexico knew that.

But I purposed to tough it out. I was going to swim in the Pacific if I had to do so with an ice pick in each hand. Nothing was going to prevent me from being present when Destiny took a walk down the beach. I pressed resolutely back into the water, commanding my protesting body to ignore the distress signals from my nervous system. Swells of liquid ice poured over me. Still, I staggered stubbornly into the surf.

Heidi and Hannah ran out, touched the water with their toes, and ran back squealing. They wrapped themselves in towels and watched from a safe distance. Mom and Dad sat in lawn chairs, admiring the beauty of the ocean. I swam bravely, firm in my faith that if I persevered, Fate would reward me. Besides, motion was the only thing that prevented me from freezing into a block of ice and floating away.

After several minutes of agony, I squinted up and down the beach. It was practically deserted. Some old man wearing a sweater was flying a kite. A middle-aged man in hip-waders was surf fishing. Scattered here and there were a few courageous individuals submerging their ankles as they strolled down the shore. It looked as if Fate had taken a rain check. I was indignant.

Then my body unleashed a primal scream of protest. In a violent paroxysm of outrage, it demanded unequivocally that I get the heck out of Dodge. Relenting, I retired to the showers to change.

As I neared the bathhouse, a bright yellow VW microbus turned off the road and onto the beach. I froze in my tracks, mesmerized by the psychedelic designs painted in neon colors on the side. It couldn’t be! The van veered from the drive in my direction. I was incredulous. It was really happening! All those months of waiting, hoping, planning, yearning weren’t in vain. To my amazement, a girl with long dark hair under a woven headband leaned out of the window and hollered at me. The flowing sleeves of her paisley blouse rippled in the wind. Several sets of beads swung from her neck. She was the perfect incarnation of my fantasies, as if my dream creature had sat for a portrait and then walked from the frame into a minibus for a ride.

My pulse raced and my mind groped for the proper action. This was it! The rendezvous with the counterculture that would transform my mundane life to a romantic journey into Otherness. The specifics of this Otherness were hazy in my mind, but that didn’t concern me. Any Otherness at all was preferable to the cultural desert I had sojourned in longer than the children of Israel. I knew I would soon be drawn into a world where intelligence was not scorned, where awareness was understood and appreciated, where I didn’t have to shoot woodland animals, drink beer, play football, and spit tobacco juice in order to achieve acceptance. Where people wouldn’t say “Never heard of her” when I mentioned Alice Cooper.

As the van approached, I heard “Good Vibrations” on the stereo and saw a windowful of grinning faces staring in my direction. I was awakened from my reverie by the stark realization of what the girl was hollering. “Ooohhhh, look at those white legs!” she cackled.

I smiled and waved weakly as the van lurched past me, laughter spilling out like salty surf spray to the accompaniment of Brian Wilson singing, “I don’t know where but she sends me there.” I walked into the cinder-block showers, washed the sand of that western shore from my body, and emerged the same pale, skinny kid that had left Texas. We left California the next day.