Sweet Jesus (13 page)

Zeus really needed Fenton to get over this cancer and get better, come back to work. Salvage your fighting spirit, he begged out loud in the humming cab of the Ford Ranger as Fenton slept beside him like an astronaut in his puffy silver parka.

H
arlan did not come home the night after their big blowout. Connie invented a story to tell the kids but thought Emma could sense something was up. Emma threw a tantrum and took a pair of scissors to her favourite pink wool blanket, then was inconsolable over the loss. After dinner, Simon stabbed Theo above the knee with a pencil. Connie couldn’t squeeze the lead out. When she finally got to bed, she was exhausted but wide awake. A car turned into the drive and the headlights through the curtains projected a bright pattern of lace onto the wall. The pattern slid sideways, bent in the corner, and scurried like a colony of ants over a lampshade. The car reversed and pulled it all back, leaving a thickness in its absence that made her aware of her own breathing.

Harl did not come home the next day either, and it was the first time he’d ever left her like this. The phone rang and she rushed for it. It was a call from a collection agency. She told them they’d have to speak to her husband and hung up. Harlan was probably at Jodie’s. She was the only one of his sisters he was
close to, but when Connie had called her place earlier, there’d been no answer. She was furious. Then her mother called.

Am I disturbing you, you sound funny?

No, Connie said and felt as if she was being tackled by a big, soft, rubber balloon.

You’re not in the middle of lunch, are you? I’m not interrupting some delicious meal you’re in the process of whipping up?

No.

How are the kids? Good. Fine.

And how’s Harlan? Did he get that spotlight fixed?

It’s fixed, Connie said. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to tell her mom what was happening at home.

Dad just bought a bunch of automatic timers for the lights here, for when we go away. So they’ll go on and off inside the house when we’re not here. All you do is plug whatever lamp you want into this little timer.

Ah-huh.

Have you ever seen one of these things before?

I don’t know, Mom.

They’re really a very good little invention.

I’m sure Harl knows all about them.

I could pick some up for you.

Can we talk about this later? Connie said, more impatiently than she would have liked. Too often her mother’s phone calls were like the sudden appearance of an unnamed request that left her guessing at what she’d failed to provide. A gravy boat full of love. What? it made Connie want to scream. What what what what what?

Well, I don’t really have anything to say, Rose said, and her tone meant she was injured by what Connie had said but
wasn’t going to mention it. Her mother’s ability to dissemble was champion. She did it in the name of love – of a thoughtfulness that was so emphatic it formed a barrier to that love. I just called to say hello, she said. So, hi there, my dear!

Hi, Mom, she said.

Rose gave a nervous laugh into the phone. She didn’t like empty spaces – even her walls were covered in pictures.

Is everything okay, Con?

I’m fine. I’m just a little stressed out, that’s all.

Can we do anything for you?

Not really, but thanks.

Well, just so you know, my dear, I’m really proud of who you are as a woman. I really delight in the woman you’ve become.

Connie wondered how much praise it would take before her mother felt she had made up for a lack of ever complimenting her daughters when they were growing up. And then her heart broke out of remorse. She could be so hard. Look, Mom, Connie said, thanks for calling, but I’ve got to go.

Okay, Rose said. Well, love you!

I love you too. And they both hung up.

Connie took a deep breath. The kitchen was fragrant with steam. She had pinto beans on the stove, cooking in a chicken broth, with saffron and onions. She stirred the pot and the smell was deeply satisfying. On the surface, things seemed so normal in the house. Emma was in the den on the piano, plunking away at a Mozart waltz and singing along in a crazy operatic falsetto. Connie thought she could hear Simon and Theo dropping bombs downstairs, fighter jets flying across the room, smashing into army bases, screams of agony. For a moment, she felt a deep, exhilarating pleasure in domestic life, then there was a knock at the side door and Mary-Beth standing in the rain with a tote bag and a bouquet of flowers, as if someone had died.

I bought you some pink gerberas, she said and gave them to Connie. Mary-Beth put her bag on the floor and reached back out the door to close and bring in her wet umbrella. Look, she said, I have to make up two dozen gift bags for a promo tomorrow morning. I have my sewing machine in the car. I’ll set it up in the dining room and we can finish them off together.

Mary-Beth had come over yesterday when they’d finally connected by phone and Connie told her what was going on, and now here she was again, with the purpose of distracting her. Connie marvelled at her care and generosity. She submitted herself willingly, and felt grateful for the friendship.

Your
TV’S
not on, Mary-Beth said.

It’s not always on around here, you know. Connie threw her hands up. I haven’t exactly been thinking about the election. Aren’t you sick of it yet?

I’ll tell you what I’m sick of. I’m sick of waiting to find out who the new president is going to be, Mary-Beth said. The suspense is awful. She turned on the small
TV
in the kitchen and angled it towards the dining room.

They sat across from each other and Connie lost herself in the sorting and assembling of small pink and gold sachets of hair serum and conditioner. Mary-Beth’s hands were lit up under the bright arch of her sewing machine. The rain fell outside and the sliding glass doors to the patio were slightly open to let the saffron steam out.
CNN
churned out the news while Mary-Beth kept up a spirited commentary. The sound of her children’s voices in the house, the chug-chug-chug of the machine, it reminded Connie of when she was a child. The rumble of her mother’s sewing machine, the gorgeous smell of freshly baked bread. That time her sister ran down the hall and sunk her bare foot into a huge metal bowl full of bread dough,
which had been sitting on the floor over a hot air vent, with a tea towel to cover it. Hannah had laughed so hard. Sometimes all three of them would laugh until the tears streamed down their faces. Her mother was so beautiful when she was happy. A string of dark beads against a soft wool sweater. A silver watch band. A brooch she used to wear that Connie had always loved, with a three-dimensional cream-coloured Bakelite rose, fastened to a smooth, dark brown, wooden oval.

Connie looked at Mary-Beth and said, as if there was no shame in the thought, I wonder what it means to feel so peaceful here on my own, without Harlan, wherever he is. She didn’t feel like chasing him down, it was up to him now. He was the one who would have to make the next move.

In the morning, Connie dutifully carried out her usual pre-church routine with the kids. She sat in the kitchen with Emma between her legs, pulling her daughter’s hair into a tight French braid. The night before, Emma had asked again where her father was. Connie had said, Daddy’s tired. He’s just taking a little break. He’s sleeping in a fancy hotel, on a big soft cloud-bed, with a blue silk eye-mask on his face. And fuzzy slippers.

Emma said she didn’t know about those hotels.

Connie nodded. I’ll take you there one day. Now Emma rested her hands on her mother’s knees and patiently let her finish her hair. Simon was dressing Theo. They came and stood at attention like a small outfit of recently recruited militia. They were pleased with themselves. They looked as if they’d been dressed and then shaken. Excellent, Connie said, snapping the final loop on Emma’s hair elastic and twirling her around. You all look fabulous.

Connie stood up and loosened her shoulder, then bent forward like a baseball pitcher, with one hand behind her back,
and squinted. Spit in your eye, she said and ground her foot into the floor.

Why are you doing that? Simon asked.

Connie shrugged. I don’t know, I just felt like it. And she did it again, her children glancing at each other for confirmation, then permitting themselves to laugh. Connie hugged them all at once, closing her eyes briefly against their hair to mask the anxiety she felt. She bundled them out of the house and saw her husband step out of his Jeep and into the daylight, still in his light blue summer suit. He didn’t look like he’d been gone for three nights. He looked ready for church. Connie was so relieved at not having to go there on her own and make her explanations, she almost forgave him everything. The consequences of his actions were still so theoretical and vague, perhaps nothing had changed. Harlan waved from the driveway and motioned for them to get in.

Daddy! Emma yelled and ran to meet him in her black patent-leather shoes.

The family all piled into the Grand Cherokee and Harlan reached back to give Simon his pink superball. Attached to it by an elastic band was a small piece of paper folded many times. Si snapped off the elastic and opened the paper and reached across Theo to give it to Emma so she could it read out loud. Bounce – 96% (awesome). Colour – 75% (too pink). Smell – 33% (nasty). Texture – 85% (very nice). Overall rating – 72.25%. Theo tried to grab the paper from Emma and she shouted, Stop that! Simon said, Give it to me, and Theo got a hold of one corner and ripped it, and then all three of them were screaming. Harlan produced two more superballs from his suit pocket and gave one to Theo and the other to Emma, and then it was Simon’s turn to sulk. Harlan pulled a pen out of his other pocket, one with a scuba diver
kicking back and forth in a vial of water, and gave it to him. Here, Si, how’s that?

Things are going to be fine, Connie said, touching Harlan’s thigh. What could be so wrong? Then she noticed the sweat on his upper lip. She’d never seen him sweat like that before. She looked up at the dark green spears of the trees against the bright blue sky and a vicious fear dug its claws into her chest. How helplessly I sit, she thought, in the middle of a crisis.

They arrived at church and the kids bolted, ran to meet friends and head down into the basement for Sunday school. Connie and Harlan joined the informal procession through the open doors, immersing themselves in the warm, muted buzz of conversation that a demure crowd will generate, organ music in the background, and took a seat in their usual pew. The sun was pouring through the stained-glass windows at the front of the church. The shiny pine of the altar was honey-coloured. The organist struck an extended, portentous note and the congregation all rose for the processional hymn.

At some point in the middle of Reverend Finch’s sermon, one of the older kids brought Theo back upstairs and he slid along the pew until he was sitting next to his father. Harlan stroked his son’s hair and, after a while, Theo fell asleep with his head on his dad’s lap.

Because his name is
Wonderful
, the reverend was saying. Counsellor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace. Because it’s in the
name
of Jesus that we are healed. For his name is
holy
. You can’t separate Jesus from his name. Blessed be his holy name.

My name, Connie thought, used to be Constance Cybil Crowe, an embodiment of constancy and flight, at the centre of which, a prophetic voice. But I don’t know a single thing anymore. Maybe I never did. I have no clarity, she whispered into Harlan’s ear. I’ve been praying for a sign. I want God to show me
a sign. Because I’m stuck here in the darkness, Harl, and I want something for myself now. I’m going to give him an ultimatum.

Don’t do that, Harlan said. Don’t bargain with him, Con. Trust me.

How can I trust you?

Don’t punish yourself, sweetheart. You haven’t done anything wrong.

Connie felt such an oppressive inhibition, as if she was lacquered in a veneer of propriety. She wanted to crack through appearances – stand up and lift her hands to heaven. Shout, Oh Jehovah! Run down the aisle to the front of the church and fall on her knees. And why not? This congregation was supposed to be her spiritual family, her community in God. Feed and nurture her spiritual hunger. But all she saw around her were people whose souls were crying out, but trapped beneath a prim reticence. Where was God in that reticence? In this tight, formal house of worship. Connie had never fully expressed herself. She was living in a prison, guarded by the threat of embarrassment. She couldn’t break down in front of anyone. She feared their judgment. But then, while she was having these very thoughts, she found herself standing up where she was and raising her hands into the air. She shouted, Lord, we praise you! Why don’t you show yourself to us? She woke Theo up.

The reverend froze in mid-sentence, his mouth an O-shaped hole, his hand about to come down and curl around the edge of the pulpit. He was leaning forward with the full thrust of his argument, and it took a moment for him to reverse his momentum and settle back on his heels. Harlan was hauling Theo onto his lap, as if to protect him, while an overweight woman two pews ahead swivelled around like a tractor, in several laborious stages, to gawp in amazement and admiration. Connie’s eyes darted around the congregation. She lowered her
face, nodding, closed her eyes, and gave an apologetic wave and sat down again. She was blind and deaf with mortification. The reverend, in his own awkward but heartfelt way, prayed quickly and moved on to the offertory hymn.

In the parking lot after the service, Connie was dismayed by how automatically her face clicked into an expression of false cheer. She could sense that people were giving her looks and assessing her as they hadn’t before. She was desperate for something wilder than what she knew right here in this parking lot. It feels very lonely to pretend when you’re about to rip the pearls off your neck and smear your chest with gravel. But Connie just tilted her head like all the other mothers and made sympathetic small talk. Her shiny brown hair was up in a loose bun, and she was wearing her fitted wool skirt, pink cashmere sweater, expensive high heels. She was the picture of wealthy respectability. It should have been someone like odd Mrs. Sachton, she thought, standing there in her blue tuque, running shoes, and thick tan-coloured nylons, who had shouted out during the service.