The Color of Ordinary Time (2 page)

It is worth noting here that the day I told my father about the project was the first time I contemplated a lie before I told it to my father. Always before I had lied to him badly and in the moment. Mostly, I had gotten caught. That day, on the way home, I knew he would rage at me for “willingly going among sinners”, that his hand would sharply meet my cheek, or the back of my head, when he found out I was a member of Ivy’s group. So I came up with the lie before I ever got off the bus.

When his hand connected to my cheek and he started to yell at me, I told him the teacher had assigned the groups. That made him rethink my news. Suddenly, I was a noble warrior for God, walking among the sinners to convert them. Carrying God’s Word where he himself could not. When he charged me with saving all of their souls I nodded gravely, and excused myself to start my homework.

It would not be the last lie I would tell him, and which he would foolishly believe. I was about to become an expert.

That summer, the summer Ivy and I were twenty-five, started auspiciously — at least for me. I had wrapped up my classroom, already signed my contract with the school to teach the following year, packed, and found someone to water my plants, all with ease and even dispatch. As I drove south toward Cahokia, where I would meet Ivy, I checked off the landmarks in my mind. The rusted thresher left out in a field for at least a decade. The Lutheran Church that I always swore I’d stop and look around one day. A man-made lake next to a corn field. The tumbledown farm house with the antique ferris wheel out front.

It started to rain as I got closer to Cahokia. Not one of those weak rains that only left the air hot and cloying, but a nice, strong, steady rain that would leave the air cooler. I didn’t consider it a bad sign, but a blessing. There was no thunder or lighting, no flooding. It seemed to be an omen boding no ill.

When I got to Cahokia I pulled into the gravel lot at the base of Monks’ Mound. Ivy was very much one for tradition, and this was ours. Every year, before I joined her at her parent’s house for two or three weeks of vacation, we stopped off here. We had climbed the mound together for the first time the summer we were eleven, and we’d climbed it together every summer since. We always have nacho chips and cream soda at the top.

I will say that in order to understand how good nacho chips and warm cream soda taste at the top of Monks’ Mound you have to have started the habit early. Also, it’s best not to invite the park police to your impromptu picnic.

Ivy is almost never late. So after I had waited ten minutes in my car, with the rain slipping down the windshield, I began to worry. After fifteen minutes I fervently wished that I had given in and gotten a cell phone when everyone else started to get them. At the twenty minute mark I started to consider going over to the interpretation center and seeing if they had a pay phone. I was saved the trip when Ivy’s blue sedan pulled into the parking lot two minutes later.

The rain had mostly let up by that point, so I slipped out of my car, relieved to see her, and not at all bothered by the remaining sprinkles. The air had cooled, and a breeze had come up from the east. At least it smelled like the east. Like damp corn fields and grass, instead of the city to the west.

When she stepped out of her own car, I thought Ivy looked pale. I didn’t remark on it as we hugged. Then, empty-handed, Ivy turned down the gravel and dirt path that led to the base of the mound. I followed her.

In silence we started to climb the mud-slicked train-tie stairs. Only twice before had I seen Ivy struck silent. I pondered this as we climbed, our sneakers squishing.

When we reached the the top of the first level, Ivy glanced over at me. “I read somewhere that the ancients believed that climbing their temple was a meditation that would bring them closer to heaven.”

“Heaven or Nirvana?”

Ivy shrugged.

“Sounds like Angkor Wat,” I offered. Again Ivy merely shrugged. In my stomach I felt a sharp pain that made me suck in my breath hard as I realized the truth of what was going on. Someone, somehow, had broken Ivy’s heart. Or maybe not broken her heart, but struck at the very essence of her being. This was no unfaithful boyfriend, or even a lost job. This was disaster.

When we reached the top of the second level, Ivy led us over to the far railing that would allow us a view of the green plane below. If it had been a clear day we could have seen all the way into St. Louis — the Arch, and the vague skyline beyond. That day what stretched out before us was wet grass and trees made brighter by the gray clouds overhead.

“I forgot the nacho chips,” said Ivy, leaning on the rail.

“No biggie,” I said, consciously mirroring Ivy’s attitude.

I let her be quiet for a while. I could hear her mentally sorting and straightening. Putting all the information I was sure she was going to give me in neat little stacks on the desk of her mind. This would be an important step. Ivy didn’t like turmoil. If I allowed her all the time she wanted, I would get the facts. If I rushed her, I would get emotional vomit she would later be embarrassed that I heard and saw.

“I’m going to tell you a story, and I want you to tell me what you think,” she said after several minutes.

“Okay.”

“Back during parent-teacher conferences, one of my student’s fathers came in, and seemed quite taken with Mom and Dad’s wedding picture — the one I keep on my desk. I thought it was odd at the time, but I let it go. Then I started seeing him around town. Lots. Really lots. And he always wanted to talk. But the questions he was asking were... I don’t know. They were
off
. He didn’t just want to know what part of Illinois I was from, he wanted to know my parent’s names, and the ages of my siblings. Things that seemed nosey. So I started avoiding him.”

I nodded and licked my lips in a way to show I was listening, even though I was staring into the distance.

“Today, I ran into him when I stopped to pick up coffee and nacho chips on my way out of Anna. He stopped me, and asked me about Mom’s chocolate toffee cookie recipe. He acted like he’d eaten them before. Like maybe she’d made them just for him, and asked me to get him the recipe. Said he missed them. I told him no, that we didn’t give out that recipe to strangers. He said that he wasn’t a stranger. He was family, or at least he was my family. When I asked what he meant, he said that I should go ask Mom why she’d kept us apart. I left.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dylan Morris.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar. Long lost uncle?” I guessed.

“Unlikely. He was so indignant. Like somehow he was owed a relationship with me.”

“How old was he?”

“Maybe three or four years older than Mom.”

“So an uncle is possible. And definitely not a grandparent, or something like that.”

“Yup.”

“Doesn’t seem likely though.”

“So, I should just ignore him right? Just go home and pretend that he doesn’t exist? I mean he’s clearly mistaken,” said Ivy.

“I guess it depends on what you want,” I said to her.

“I want to know the truth.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I need to be able to go back and tell Dylan Morris to shove it. He has no business going around spreading half-rumors about my parents.”

I tottered a moment between telling her she was crazy, and telling her what she wanted to hear. I picked the middle road. “Is it possible he’s not implying what you think he is implying?”

“Even if I don’t have the details right, Kay, he’s clearly implying they are in the wrong, somehow. That they’ve been covering something up. That’s not right. They wouldn’t do that.”

“They wouldn’t do that? Are you sure about that? What if they thought they were protecting you and your brothers? Would they cover something up then?”

She was quiet. I knew she resented what I had just done. I was supposed to agree with her. If I agreed she could go home and not worry about Dylan Morris anymore. If I agreed with her then she could put this all behind her without digging any deeper. But she also wanted the truth, which she was not going to get by ignoring too-obvious hitches in her plan.

A strange kind of friend I must seem to be, not letting her let herself off the hook. The simple truth was that Ivy wouldn’t let herself off the hook, either. She would worry and pick at the situation until she was frustrated and said something outrageous, potentially rude, and most certainly destructive to her mother. Which would only make the situation worse. Here, at the top of an old Indian mound, I had one chance to at least put the brakes on her inquest. In order to apply the brakes, I had to bring her around to planning her approach. Which meant bringing her around to dealing with the obvious possibilities opened by Dylan Morris.

Finally, grudgingly, like a displeased bull dog, she turned to me. “I guess if they thought they were protecting us, they might hide some details from the past.”

“Okay, so let’s think of a way to approach this that isn’t going to lead to yelling and tears.”

“Like what? ‘So Mom, did you sleep with anyone before Dad? Is it possible I was the product of an unwise affair? I don’t think that’s going to play well in Charity.”

“Why not work his name into the conversation? Just see what she says. Approach it slowly. Give her lots of time to come clean with you, or at least admit she knew him back in the day. You’re probably going to get more truth from her if she doesn’t feel attacked.”

“The indirect approach.”

“Yes.”

“I always hate that. It seems like I’m trying to trick her,” said Ivy.

“You aren’t trying to trick her. You are trying to give her some unpleasant information gently.”

“I don’t think I’m going to get any information that way,” she said with a scowl. I was relieved to see her scowl. She was slowly pulling out of heartbroken and getting her fight back. Even the color was coming back to her face.

“You need to remember that whatever did or did not happen may not be any of your business. It may be something private that Dylan Morris should never have brought up. You need to be prepared not to get all the answers right away, or ever.”

She glowered and glared. I met her gaze without flinching. “You know I’m right.”

“Yeah,” she said, finally.

For a while we both leaned on the railing. A change of topic seemed necessary. “You know, on average, new teachers quit after three years in the classroom.”

“I’d heard,” said Ivy.

“I’m thinking of quitting after next year.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s not your thing.”

“I’m not sure what else I’ll do.”

“Maybe what you need is a younger grade. High School can be difficult.”

“No. I’m a really bad teacher. I’m not patient. I spend time day dreaming about being able to hand out corporal punishment. I’m not even sure I really like kids anymore.”

Ivy laughed. “I’m not sure all of that makes you a bad teacher. I’ve wanted to spank a couple too.”

“I’m pretty certain it’s not a good sign.”

“You could always go back to school.”

I shrugged. “Seems like a waste when I don’t really know what I want to study.”

“We’ve got three weeks, we’ll put our heads together and come up with something.”

I looked up at her and smiled. She’s tall, I’m not. “What we lack in practicality, I’m sure we’ll make up in quantity.”

“I’m scared,” Ivy said, going back to our previous topic without preamble.

“I know. But you can’t find the answers you want up here. So what are we going to do?”

“How am I going to face her?”

“What’s the worst that could happen? We’re talking about your mother here. The woman who is — right now — pacing from the kitchen to the living room window and back, waiting for you to come home. Do you think she would disown you for asking a few questions?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure Dad makes those stories up.”

“I don’t think he does.”

“You know we’re not close. Not friends. Just mother and daughter. She’s always liked the boys better than me.”

“She loves you. She’s just not good at communicating with you.”

“Kay Kay, what if it’s the worst possible explanation?”

“Which would be what?”

“I’m not Dad’s daughter.”

In a way I was relieved. Whatever the truth was it would be easier for her to deal with if she’d prepared for the worst. In a way it saddened me. A beautiful daughter, three good looking sons, parents that loved each other, and who loved their children. The Brandts’ were my idea of heaven when I was little. They were, in my mind, still the picture of a happy family. How I had envied Ivy her family. I’d been careful to hide that particular sin from my father. My craven little covetous heart. Always accepting the scraps of the love that encompassed my best friend and which she accepted as her right.

Ivy was watching me carefully as I started off into the distance trying to find some words of comfort. I was coming up low on the comfort and I knew it, so I decided to tread softly into the romantic. Hoping all the time that I wasn’t painting a picture for her that was even less true than the one she’d originally had.

“I think you’re used to a certain story. We’re story-telling creatures. It only makes sense. Your story is about two people that loved each other in spite of a twenty-year age difference. It’s a story about how they were thrilled to know you were on your way into the world even before they got married. It’s a story with hearts and flowers all tied up with a neat bow. I’d give you even money it ends
... and they lived happily ever after.
And I’m sure it is very comforting. I don’t know how it could be anything else. It provides you with a pretty high ideal of life and love. I think you need to prepare yourself for a different sort of story.”

“I like that story.”

“Sure, I do too. It’s a great story. But if what you are afraid of is true, then there is another story too. One about character and compassion, and what makes a person worth loving for a lifetime. Doesn’t make the first story untrue. In fact, it may make the first story more true.”

“Always you with the paradoxes and the riddles,” said Ivy. I wasn’t looking at her, but I could hear the eye roll.

I smiled to myself. That was Ivy. All about the upstanding character and the personal honor. No shades of gray. No in-between places. Now, if Dory would just level with her and put this whole mess to rest one way or the other. I didn’t hold out much hope for that, though. Dory, along with being the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in real life, was a very private person. She didn’t like to talk about the past. Especially if it was before she married Linus. She had never liked answering Ivy’s thousands of questions. Which made a lot of sense in light of Dylan Morris.

Then I had a horrible thought. What if
Dory
didn’t know the truth either? Which could mean that
Linus
didn’t know the truth.

In an instant the part of me that was raised by my father jumped to judge. Dory, as much as I had always adored her, was a whore too. Bad enough that she had gotten pregnant by the man she married before she married him, but to compound that sin by sleeping around on him, too. The mere thought enraged me. In that moment, I was certain that Dory deserved to have retribution called down on her by Dylan Morris. Had I been all-powerful I would have wiped her off the earth with thunder bolts. Had I been my father, I would have driven her from the midst of my congregation with a roaring indictment.