Road to Paradise (25 page)

“Oh, nuts,” said Gina, not teasing. “So she is coming with us? I thought we might leave her.” She waved her hand with irritation. “You know what? Get me to Bakersfield, then do what you like. I won’t care then. I’ll be with Eddie. But let’s go.”

Slowly I shuffled back to the guest room to get my things. “Still don’t know what the rush is,” I kept grumbling. “After the dogs and the aunts, and two days at the casinos, everybody’s acting like their dog’s on fire.”

“I’ll sing the Psalms for you in the car,” Candy said. “Any one you want. You see they repeat them so that they sing all 150 every two weeks. Every two weeks, for eleven years. I know them all by heart.”

Gina was skeptical but apathetic in the muggy morning, which, she pointed out, was hardly morning as it was nearly noon. “Sloane, how far do you plan to drive today?” she asked sourly. “More than sixty miles, I hope. Because that’s about what we drove three centuries ago when we first got to this godforsaken place.”

Estevan was at the car with Candy. I sat behind the wheel, while Gina stood impatiently, tapping her foot, waiting for them to say goodbye so that Candy could get in the back.

“You know,
you
could get in the back,” I suggested pleasantly. “That way you don’t have to wait.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” snapped Gina. “No way. She’s not even supposed to be here. She gets in the back.”

I strained to listen to Candy and her father, but they were saying things to each other I didn’t understand.

“Remember the Publican first, child,” said Estevan.

“I never forget,” said Candy. “I don’t raise as much as my eyes.”

“Remember Cassia. Remember what she wrote, what she sang about Luke 10. No one is deprived of absolution, no one. He is forgiven much who loves much.”

“And I love much,” Candy whispered. “Which is good, since I have to be forgiven for much also.”

“Out of my heart for you flow rivers of living water,” said Estevan. “I never condemn thee. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Dad. Don’t speak about me to anyone. Please. And keep safe what I gave you.”

“All right.”

“Unless something happens to me. And then …”

“Nothing is going to happen to you. All things that are impossible are made possible. Now go with God. Be a lamb among wolves.”

“Can I be a wolf among lambs?” She smiled and took his hand.

“Be of good cheer, Gracie.”

“Always, Dad. You, too.”

He kissed her head and blessed it. I watched them in the side-view mirror. She stood in front of him for a little while longer, buried in his cowl and tunic, then got in the car. Estevan looked in. “May you be filled with joy,” he said to Gina, blessing her. “It is a privilege of your age.” She rolled her eyes. To me he said, “Go ahead, Shelby. Make it as secure as you can.” In mass confusion I drove out of the parking lot, and before the curve in the road, Candy turned and waved to him through the rear window. I watched him. He waved back.

“How does it end?” I asked. “You dragged me away, and I couldn’t understand all the words, but how does that unending Psalm 119 end?”

“Much the same way it began,” said Candy. “
I have gone astray,
like a lost sheep. I long for salvation. Let my soul live
.”

For a while we drove in near silence, with Candy directing us out of the rambling roads of the monastery. We were trying to find U.S. 20.

Between Gina’s boredom, Candy’s compline and my barely felt apologies, it was implicit that Candy would come with us; we would drive her out of state and across the country. Nothing was spoken, it was just understood that was how it was going to be.

I’m pretty sure Gina wanted it to be another way, because the first thing she said was a combative, “You know your father’s logical error in that story about the Pharisees and the tomb? I mean, he’s your dad and all, Candy, and I respect that, but you know his error? It’s that you have to make anything secure at all. I’ll give you an example. Say I don’t believe there’s a Loch Ness monster in a Scottish lake. And the reason I don’t believe there is one, is because there isn’t one. Would I really need to make my boat secure against it?”

“I don’t understand your comparison,” said Candy with a puzzled stare into the rearview mirror at me. She scooted to sit toward the middle between us.

I said, “That’s because you haven’t taken the SATs, Candycane, and don’t know about analogies.” I glanced at Gina. “Don’t make trouble. And in any case, your analogy sucks.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It does,” I said. “The Loch Ness monster is something horrible that eats people.”

Gina was quiet with meaning. “I rest my case,” she said. “How can you have faith in something like that?”

“Oh, come on.”

“You come on.” We hadn’t been on the road five minutes. Maybe this was Gina’s payback for Buddha. I sped up. Maybe if I drove eighty, she’d stop talking.

“I’ll give you another comparison,” Gina said. “Witches. Warlocks. Ghosts. Ghouls. The Cyclops. Zeus. If you don’t believe in them, why would you need to secure that rock?”

Candy’s expression was too serene for a fight. She wasn’t in it. She was still trying to guide me onto U.S. 20, to scratch the soles of her feet. She casually said, “Honestly, I don’t get your comparisons. Are you mocking God with metaphor? The Pharisees and high priests, who didn’t believe he was God, like you, still asked for the stone to be guarded. Why would they need to do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they suspected foul play.”

“That’s what they said, yes,” said Candy.

“Maybe they suspected the disciples would steal him away and pretend he had risen.”

“Are these the same disciples that abandoned him and hid away in fear of their own lives, fully believing that all they had been taught was gone and God was dead?”

Gina said testily, yes, those same disciples. “Clearly the Pharisees thought they might kidnap him.”

“Imagine their surprise, then, when Pilate, instead of saying, don’t be silly, you lumpfish, said to them dryly, ‘Go ahead. Make it as secure as you can.’ What do you think they made of that?”

Gina tutted impatiently.

“Why would he say that?” continued Candy. “Was he laughing at them? And why would they need to make it secure? To use your
Loch Ness analogy, would you need to make anything secure against something that had no probability of being true? If someone told you, you needed to close your windows because locusts the size of cats would fly through your curtains, you’d laugh, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t go to the mayor and say, perhaps we need to cement our windows in case cats with wings come calling in the next day or two? Dear Mayor, we’re afraid the Joneses down the road might fake people out by rigging some flying cats. What can we do?” Candy chuckled in good humor. “Clearly the Pharisees were afraid Jesus rising from the dead
might
come true,
could
come true, and Pilate, calmly, and without himself questioning anything, said the worst thing, from their point of view, he could say. He didn’t say they were silly to worry. He wasn’t skeptical. He didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t even tell them to make a superfluous effort. He said: Go ahead. Keep watch. But by all means, do your best. Make it as secure as you can. That doesn’t sound to me like Loch Ness, is my point.”

“It’s all nonsense, is
my
point,” Gina said. “You can live out your whole life, and never think about any of this, never sing the Psalms and die unrepentant and completely happy.”

“You’re so right,” said Candy with a hearty nod. “You can live out your whole life and never think about any of this.”

Up and down the hills I drove, between fields and trees, corn husks littering the road, beneath a relentless gray sky filled with swift-flying swallows. The morning was overcast and thick and all I could hear was the echo of the monks singing.

“What does that mean?” Gina said after an hour had passed. “Why do I have a feeling you were trying to insult me and I missed it?”

“Candy, can you sing Psalm 150?” I asked.

“Don’t change the subject, Sloane,” said Gina.

“I didn’t know there was a subject.”

Turning up Supertramp on the radio, Gina turned to the window. “Well, I don’t want to hear the Psalms,” she said. “I’m all psalmed out.”

“I think someone is afraid of the spiritual pressure of the monastery,” said Candy lightly.

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful …

When that song was over, Gina turned down the radio. “You want to know what your problem is?”

“No,” replied the amiable Candy.

“You refuse to accept that you could be wrong, that other people might have a different opinion.”

“What opinion?”

“About your little abbey, and your little Psalms and your little God.”

“My little
God
?” Candy repeated.

“Yes. My aunt believed in God. Look where that got her. Dead.”

“Do you think she got dead
because
she believed in God?”

“Clearly it didn’t help!”

“Clearly.”

“That’s my point.”

“Um—can I ask what god was this?”

“No.’ Cause it’s a stupid question. A god that couldn’t help my poor aunt, that’s what god. In other words, a useless god.”

“But that’s what I’m asking. When Moses went to Mount Sinai to meet God, his people prayed to the golden calf. He was pretty mad when he came down that mountain. Smashed the stone tablets to pieces.”

“My aunt didn’t pray to the fucking golden calf, Candy,” Gina said slowly, turning around. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re right, nothing. Let’s drop it.”

“Yes, let’s,” I said. “Candy, sing me Psalm 100.”

“No Psalms, I said!” said Gina, cranking the radio volume.

Just as quickly, she twisted it down. “I have a goal,” she said to Candy. “I’m going to get married to a young man I love. He’s the only one I want to be with.”

(What about Todd from South Bend? I wanted to say, but of course,
of course
, didn’t.)

“We’re going to make a family,” she continued. “That’s what I want to do. I’m going to go to school, then teach elementary school. Get a little house. Have kids. Does that sound so wrong to you? What do
you
want to do?”

“Gina, that’s good,” said Candy. “It’s good to know what you want at a young age. I’m glad you have your ducks all in a row. My father said he thought you did.”

“I don’t think I do—I
do
!”

“That’s what I meant.”

Were my ducks all in a row? I had thought so, but I couldn’t say. I didn’t want to invite Gina’s scorn.

“So, Cand,” I said, “look at those well-planted trees, those silos. Is Iowa a rich state or what?”

“And I’d know this how?”

Gina didn’t let me change the subject. “I like spiritual people. That’s why I followed the Swami for a while.”

“The Swami,” Candy said slowly. “Is that who you not three seconds ago called a useless god?”

“No! He was very spiritual for the living, and taught wonderful and helpful life lessons. He was kind and forgiving. Nothing could have helped my aunt.”

“Okay, Gina.” I tried to diffuse her.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Candy. “Then again, perhaps you’re not.”

“Candy, come on, let it go,” I said quietly.

“You don’t think I’m right!” Gina exclaimed.

“Gina, I’m allowing for the possibility you may not be right, yes,” said Candy. “There is at least that possibility, no? That another God, one of comfort and love, might have helped your poor aunt?”

“I hate religious people,” Gina declared. “They’re so judgmental and dogmatic.”

“What’s the difference between spiritual and religious?”

“Spiritual people are
good
,” said Gina. “Religious people are always telling you how to live. They’re zealots. They have this
holier-than-thou attitude I can’t stand. Spiritual people just believe what they believe and don’t bother anyone else. That’s what I like. Not to be bothered.”

“Well, sure,” said Candy. “Who wouldn’t? But am
I
telling you how to live?”

“Yes! You and your father. You think I’d be better off being like you.”

“Not at all,” said Candy. “Not in the slightest. I’d never wish that on anyone.”

“Who are you to judge?” Gina went on. “Who are
they
to tell me I’m living wrong, just ’cause they wear a robe and have a cross around their necks?”

“Is there a right way to live?” Candy asked.

“I don’t know. No one knows! They’re guessing, just like me. We all have to figure it out for ourselves.”

“Do we need a little help now and again?”

“Not from them.”

“Who is this them? And if not from
them
, from who, then?”

“From other people. People you respect.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Other people. Teachers. Politicians. Your friends. The voice inside your head. Listen to that, Cand.”

“But what if the voice inside my head tells me to hope in God?”

Gina shrugged. “That’s your trip, man.”

“But priests know nothing?”

“Right. They’re always on the news, saying, don’t do this, don’t do that. A lot of stuff we
can’t
do. It’s just not appealing, to be perfectly frank,” said Gina. “All that parochialism, that arrogant attitude.”

Candy said nothing.

“They’re living in la-la land. They can’t keep up with the times. All these people who don’t know me, telling me what to do,” Gina continued. “They don’t know what’s good for me. What’s good for one person may not be good for another. I hate
being dictated to by complete strangers. Really turns me off.”

“You’ve been a church goer, then?”

“No, I never go. I
choose
not to go. The likes of you keep telling me I have free will.”

“So who’s dictating to you?”

“They would if they could,” said Gina. “I won’t let them.”

“All these barricades you’ve set up for yourself,” said Candy. “Is it to prevent yourself from thinking?”

“What barricades? I think plenty, just not about your stupid bullshit. Nobody owns me. Nobody owns my life. Sloane here agrees with me. She wants to have the free will to kick a puppy,” said Gina. “Right, Sloane?”

“Leave me out of your little analogies.”

Like I hadn’t spoken. “What I’m asking is,” said Candy, “are there absolute things that it’s bad to do?”

Gina stared at me. “I guess,” she said. “A few of them.”

“Like what?”

“Look, can you two stop this?” I snapped, speeding up.

“We need to be more forgiving,” said Gina. “We’d all be better off.”

“Where did this whole concept of forgiveness come from?” asked Candy. “Forgiveness means, you did something wrong, and someone said, it’s okay, don’t worry. But the wrongdoing is essential. Otherwise there’d be nothing to forgive.”

“Well, maybe forgive is a wrong word then,” Gina amended. “I mean more, like, let it go, man. Just let it go.”

“Like all things, let it go?”

“Sadly, yeah.”

“It’s all okay?”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “Clearly, not all is okay. Kicking puppies, for example. And other things.” She took a breath. “But some things are up for dispute. Why is the church always telling me I can’t have premarital sex, or use contraception, or have an abortion, or whatnot? That’s the kind of stuff I mean.”

“Okay, sure, abortions are good,” said Candy, “but what about
the other stuff? Like burning the houses of people you don’t like, or putting water in someone’s gas tank, or siccing your dog on a human being, or—”

“Jeez, Candy, you’re so literal. Obviously,” said Gina, “those things are wrong.”

“Says who?”

“Says society.”

“Where’d society get all that from? Why did they decide that you stealing money from an open cash register is wrong?”

“Because it hurts other people.”

“Ah. So things that hurt other people are wrong?”

Gina tried very hard not to look at me. “Yes.”

“What about things that hurt yourself?”

“See, no. If you hurt yourself, it’s your choice.”

“Isn’t stealing also your choice?”

“But it affects other people!”

“What if you steal from someone who is very rich and barely notices? What if you take a diamond necklace from your friend, and she’s got three of them. You don’t have any, she’s got three. Is that wrong?”

“Yes, stealing is wrong.”

“What if you eat the dog’s food and the dog starves?”

“That would also be wrong.”

“But a dog is not a person.”

“God, you’re so literal! Other living things, okay?”

“Plants? Ants? Snails? Lilypads?”

Gina rubbed her face. “Shelby’s right. This conversation is ridiculous.”

But we were trapped in the car on the open road with nowhere to go, and the Top 40 was boring us to tears. Gina refused to allow the Psalms, and we couldn’t talk about Erv because he was all too real, so we talked about this.

“What you do to yourself affects other people, too,” said Candy. “Say you take drugs. And your kids run around neglected. That’s hurting somebody, no?”

“Yeah, but if you take drugs and you don’t have kids? Who does it hurt, then?”

“I don’t know. Do you have parents who love you? Brothers? Sisters? An elderly aunt? Your best friend? What about the dog that’ll die if you don’t feed him? Or the cat that needs a drink while you’re strung up on smack? You say you’re free, but aren’t you just as enslaved, to drugs or drink or whatnot? Aren’t you enslaved to sin?”