Can I Get An Amen? (8 page)

Kat cocked her head and stared at my mother with that same obnoxious, plastic smile. “Oh, the main course! Why, thank you, Mother. I would love to.” Kat seemed to have zeroed right in on the sad, desperate way in which my parents were courting the Arnolds. But in Kat, rather than uneasiness, it spurred only rage.

“Oh good, honey,” replied Mom, trying to figure out Kat’s angle. “Why don’t you go get yourself a plate?”

Kat ignored my mother’s suggestion and walked purposefully over to the bar and poured herself a hearty glass of red wine, while my mother tried to get the conversation back on track, immediately taking refuge in the safe and familiar.

“So, Ed, Roger tells me that you’ve arranged for Eugene White to come and speak at church.” Eugene White was a rock-star preacher who presided over the enormous New Light Church in California. He had a bestselling book, a television show, and household-name status throughout much of the country. His coming to Christ Church was a very big deal and would have been unthinkable were it not for Mr. Arnold’s connections and, I suspected, deep pockets.

“Yes, sometime in December. We’ve had some difficulty finalizing the date,” replied Edward.

“Well, I can imagine, as busy as he is. But won’t that be wonderful?”

Kat returned to the table and dramatically sat, leaning back and taking a long sip of her wine, while Lynn picked up the thread of conversation. “Well, after I read
Journey Eternity
, I told Ed that we just had to get him to come.”

“You know, Roger hasn’t read that book yet,” said my mother.

“Oh, Roger, it’s fabulous,” chimed Lynn. “It really provides a road map for putting Jesus’s teachings into practice in your life.”

Lynn would have probably launched into a book report had Kat not abruptly and impatiently interrupted. “So,” she began, “did you all hear the latest about Richard Farrington?” Here it came. I shot Kat another desperate look. Richard Farrington was a right-wing member of the Senate who had built his career on his socially conservative agenda, preaching family values and calling for an end to the “homosexual hold” on our country. A few days ago, he had been caught in a car with a male prostitute, and yesterday he had announced that he would be stepping down from his seat.

Though Lynn thought she was being gracious and diplomatic, she took the bait. “Unfortunately,” she said, keeping her gaze on the rim of her plate, “there are terrible people on both sides of the political spectrum.”

“Tell me, Lynn,” said Kat, leaning in for the kill. “What makes him terrible—the fact that he got his dick sucked by a prostitute or the fact that it was a man?” Lynn winced at the vulgarity and averted her eyes. Ed looked down at the table and shook his head.

“Katherine,” my father said, indignant and stern, “that is terrible language.” My mother knew that any comment she made would only incite Kat further, but my father made an attempt to
placate everyone. “Besides, I think we can all agree that what is most unfortunate is the impact on his family.”

Lynn was still too shocked and offended to speak, but she rolled her head around in tight-lipped agreement.

“That’s right, Roger,” offered Ed.

But Kat was not finished. Looking directly at the Arnolds, she asked with mock innocence, “Speaking of family, tell me, how is Christian?”

My father was furious; he shot Kat the look that used to curl my toes when I was younger. His nostrils flared slightly and his eyes narrowed and he exhaled through his nose like a bull. Christian was the Arnolds’ beloved youngest child and only son. Though I never really knew him, he was in Kat’s year at school and was the subject of a good deal of gossip. He had married a pretty British girl when he was in his mid-twenties but proceeded to cheat shamelessly and unapologetically. There were rumors that he sometimes used a high-end escort service and would disappear for days at a time with no explanation, but it was still shocking news when it was learned that his wife had left one night without warning for England, taking their two children with her. From what I understood, Lynn and Ed were quite sensitive about it.

After that, the evening was unsalvageable. My mother pushed the food around on her plate but didn’t take another bite, as she made desperate attempts to regain the evening’s prior momentum. The Arnolds sat quietly and stiffly in their seats before making an excuse to retire early. My parents walked them to the door, leaving me alone with Kat as I cleaned up the dinner dishes. I simply shook my head.

“What?” she asked defiantly.

“Why would you do that to Mom and Dad?”

“I didn’t do anything to Mom and Dad,” retorted Kat dismissively. “All I did was say the word
dick
and ask the Arnolds about their son. If they felt uncomfortable with that, well, then, maybe that’s their issue.” Kat had an irrational compulsion to make people see what they didn’t want to see. Watching it was like seeing the Ludovico technique performed. And though tonight’s victims were the Arnolds, the real target was always,
always
my mother.

We heard the front door close and immediately my mother’s angry footsteps came charging into the room. She was shaking with fury.

“Katherine Susan Carlisle!” she shouted with a punctuating stomp of her foot. “How could you? How could you behave that way?”

Kat made no attempt to answer, continuing to lean casually against the refrigerator.

My father, who had not rushed into the room, but walked slowly and purposefully, was now behind my mother. While Mom turned angry, Dad turned ice cold. “I have never,
never
been so disappointed in anyone,” he said in a low voice filled with rage.

Kat rolled her eyes. She was her seventeen-year-old self all over again. “I don’t see why you’re so upset. So I made an off-color comment. Aren’t the Arnolds supposed to be Christians?
Judge not lest ye be judged
and all that shit.”

“Oh, don’t you dare. Don’t you
dare
pretend that all you did was ‘make a little comment,’ ” hissed my mother, taking a breath before the tears came. “You have no idea what you just did.”

“I want you out of this house right now, Katherine,” commanded my father.

Kat’s chin lifted, almost regally, before she turned and walked silently toward the door.

“I will never forgive you for this,” whimpered my mother after her, her hand cupped over her mouth to stifle the sobs.

Kat stopped in her tracks and wheeled around. “Well, then, now we’ve both done something unforgivable.”

I
got in my car and drove. After everything that had just happened, I needed to get out of the house. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I found myself in a dark parking lot with Ted, and over the course of a single dinner, the cease-fire between my parents and Kat had ended explosively. I told myself that I had no premeditated destination, but I knew exactly where I was going. I slowed to a crawl, peering into the enormous front windows of the bar as I passed, trying to make out the faces of the figures around the bar and looking for one in particular. I never planned on going in.

Though I had known before I got in the car that Mark wouldn’t be there, I circled the block and drove by again. I looked for Ted, too, expecting to see him with a woman perched next to him. The bar was packed tonight with the Friday night crowd, and it was hard to see through the thicket of people, so I double-parked and cautiously opened my car door. I had neglected to bring a jacket with me, so I crossed my arms to ward off the
chilly air. Standing a few feet from the glass, I watched the scene, the din of which was dulled and muted by the thick windows. I studied the casual glances, given over the shoulder or across the room, under the guise of looking for the restroom or at a painting, but all the while surveying who was deserving of attention, whether as competition or as prey. Mark could not have been at the bar, as those glances would all have found their way toward him. He had that kind of pull.

I dared Ted to be there, dared him to walk out onto the brightly lit street. The speech that had failed me the night before would come this time. Then Mark would appear, suddenly and clearly like he had before, and then Ted would be gone, a lure that had served its purpose. Mark and I would walk together back inside and I would ask him what books he was reading and if he liked to travel and whether he was close to his family. These were the questions that I wondered if I would ever ask another man, because I couldn’t allow myself to be in a position to have to answer any in return.
So why did your first marriage end? Do you want a family?
They were the questions that haunted me. As if I was waking from a trance, my head snapped up and I walked abruptly back across the empty sidewalk to my car. I got in and drove home. Tomorrow I would call Gary.

. . .

“Ellen,” he said, answering on the second ring. I had waited all day to call, hoping that at seven o’clock he would be out to dinner or watching a game with friends. I would be able to escape by leaving a message.

“Hi, Gary,” I said sheepishly.

“I’ve been hoping you would call.” His tone was reprimanding,
but only slightly, his mind logically figuring that since he was the one leaving, I deserved a grace period.

“So, I was thinking that we should probably figure out a time for me to come up, to get my stuff.” There wasn’t much, just the few boxes that I had packed up before the drive to Jersey. During early discussions about our settlement, I had told him that all I wanted was money. Not things, bought together during happier times, not mementos or furniture. Just nice, clean, amnesic money, so there wasn’t much room for incendiary debate or argument. When I was at my most hurt, I had threatened to contest the divorce, lashing out wildly behind the protective cover of e-mail, bluffing that I was having second thoughts, that I wouldn’t sign the agreement. That was when Gary backed off, stopped pushing, and allowed me to adjust to the fact that he no longer considered me his wife. He treated me like a troublesome client rather than the woman with whom he once swore to spend the rest of his life.

He cleared his throat, a nervous tic that plagued him in the courtroom, where it was his only sign of weakness. “Well, actually… I can just have everything sent to your parents. And you don’t need to be physically present at the final hearing, so…”

“No,” I said, my shock turning to indignation at his presumptuousness. “No.” He thought that our marriage could be packed up, disposed of neatly and efficiently. “I’d like to be there, Gary. I think it’s important.”

“I just thought it might be easier this way.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did,” I said, thinking that this was
supposed
to be hard. It was supposed to be painful and tragic and difficult.

“That’s fine, Ellen,” he said, quickly seeking to placate me
and prevent more months of limbo. “We can do it however you’d like.”

“I would like to see your mother and Daniel when I’m there, to say good-bye to them.” I hoped he felt a sting of guilt, as he hadn’t sent so much as an e-mail to my parents, who I know thought of him like a son.

We ended the conversation like the diplomats of nations with opposed interests, each cordially saying good-bye, claiming that great progress had been made, when really all that was agreed upon was that things could not continue as they had been. I fell asleep that night wondering who, besides Gary, was sleeping in my sweet little cape.

. . .

It was seven in the morning when my mother walked into my room without a knock and sat down on my bed. “Ellen, honey. We’re going to the eight-thirty service this morning.”

I lifted my head and looked foggily around the room. “What?” I asked. I was disoriented from the abrupt awakening.

“Ellen, you agreed to go to church, and your father and I think it’s very important that we go this morning.”

“No, yeah… I know. I just… Don’t you usually go to the ten-thirty service?”

“We’re going to the early service today,” said my mother tersely, standing up. “You need to get ready, honey.”

I realized then that the Arnolds must attend the later service.

The mood on the way to church was somber. My parents barely spoke and my mother stared distractedly out the window.

“We need to stop at the store on the way home,” she muttered. “Luke’s coming for dinner.” I felt a rush of relief. Telling Luke everything would be cathartic, and only he would fully
understand what had taken place between my parents and Kat. Even Jill, who knew everything about my family, couldn’t possibly fathom the ramifications of that relationship, which had lurched back fourteen years to when the bitterness started.

As we turned onto the main drag, Christ Church stood gracefully occupying a long, verdant stretch of the road. It was a large white building with a series of satellite structures, including the Arnolds’ enormous wing, all protecting a private and well-tended cemetery. Mercedes and BMWs flipped on their turn signals at the church’s driveway, idling to allow older couples—the women in quilted Burberry jackets and Hermès scarves, the men in sport coats—to make their way across the lot. The sanctuary was very traditional, with rows of pews and stained-glass windows, though it was light and bright and lacked the medieval feel of some churches. I took this Sunday’s program from a slim, gray-haired man who looked slightly younger than my father, and whose face might have graced corporate newsletters with titles like
Q4 Earnings Exceed Analysts’ Predictions
. They greeted each other by name in quiet, church voices before we proceeded down the aisle to take a seat in the front left side of the church. My mother closed her eyes and began what I can only describe as meditating, though she would bristle at that description. “I’m getting in the spirit,” she’d say. “Leaving the flesh and getting my eyes on Jesus.”
Not
meditating. Meditating was like a false idol, an empty, dangerous substitute for what she was doing.

A few couples came over to offer hushed greetings to my parents before the processional started and the pastor came quickly toward the pulpit in his traditional black robe. Upon seeing who, from the church’s handful of ministers, would be giving today’s sermon, my mother elbowed me in the ribs. “It’s John Blanchard today; you’ll like him.”