Crossroads

by Jonathan Franzen

  The only sore points between them were religion and Becky. Nothing metaphysical made any sense to Clem, neither God the Father nor, still less, the absurd Holy Spirit, and something had gone wrong from the start regarding Becky, some jealousy or overprotectiveness on his father’s part. Being alone with Becky made Clem aware of a peculiar duality in himself. He would have had a fistfight with anyone who said a word against his father, but he couldn’t stop trying to undermine his sister’s respect for his father’s Christianity. What made this even stranger was that his own ethics were basically Christian. He admired Jesus greatly, as a moral teacher and a champion of the poor and the marginalized. But there was an imp of perversity in him, a sarcastically dissenting alter ego, and being alone with Becky brought it out. He walked her through the absence of evidence for immaterial forces, the lack of hard corroboration for the stories in the Bible, the unprovability of the proposition that God existed, the imperviousness of “miracles” to scientific experiment; and it worked. He made a junior atheist of Becky, and this became another thing that united them, another thing to love about his sister—the way her lip curled whenever God came up at the dinner table.

  If he was more circumspect with his own atheism, it was partly out of respect for Jesus and partly because he and his father worked so well together. His father was patient in teaching him to use tools, and Clem, no matter how tired he got, refused to be the first to quit when the two of them were moving earth or raking leaves or painting walls. He wanted his father’s approval, for his work ethic no less than for his politics, and he appreciated how frequently and warmly his father expressed it—he couldn’t have asked for a better dad in this regard. When he started tenth grade, and his father had the inspiration of reorienting his church’s youth fellowship toward a work camp in Arizona, Clem saw no reason to let metaphysics stand in the way of joining it.

  Rick Ambrose had come aboard at the same time. During the first year, when he was a full-time seminarian and only a part-time fellowship adviser, Ambrose had worn his hair short, shaved his face, and deferred to the associate minister. But after the political tumult of the following summer—Clem had campaigned for Eugene McCarthy, working alongside his father, who in August had his lip split open while trying to intervene between cops and protesters in Grant Park—Ambrose returned to the fellowship with long hair and a Fu Manchu. Some of the boys from the church, notably Tanner Evans, had adopted the same look. There was a new rowdiness on Sunday nights, a new impatience with authority, as long-haired kids from other churches, or from no church at all, started showing up at meetings, but it never occurred to Clem to worry about his father. Who cared if an ordained minister still carried a Bible and started every meeting with a metaphysical prayer? MLK had been devout, and no one had admired him any less for it. Clem didn’t know a man who worked more passionately for social justice than his father, and when you really loved someone, the whole person, you simply accepted the little things you might have wished were different. He could see eyes being rolled when his father waxed religious at a fellowship meeting, but Becky herself rolled her eyes like that. It didn’t mean she didn’t love him.

  By the spring of 1969, the group was so large that two chartered buses were waiting in the church parking lot on the first afternoon of Easter vacation. Two separate work camps were planned for Arizona, and it would have made sense to divide the group by destination. Instead, as quickly became clear, there was a cool bus—identified as such when Ambrose dropped his luggage next to it; promptly mobbed by the Tanner Evans crowd—and an uncool bus, with Clem and his father and the squarer kids from First Reformed. For Clem, a bus was only a means of transport to the thin air of the mesa, the smells of pinyon pine and frybread, the chance to haul rocks and pound nails for a people his country had robbed and oppressed. The whole notion of coolness was puerile. Nobody in New Prospect was more socially desirable than his sister, and he knew for a fact, from the stories Becky had told him, that popular kids had no more substance than unpopular ones. Because he had Becky, he’d never gone out of his way to make friends at school, and the few good friends he did have were not in the fellowship, but he was on friendly enough terms with many of the square kids. Even the sour fat girl, even the compulsive punster, even the immature blurter had interesting things to say if you put them at ease and took the time to listen. This was what Jesus would have done, and Clem felt good about doing it.

  His father, however, seemed restless and distracted on the square bus. Their driver was a little slower than the other driver, and his father sat directly behind him, ducking his head to peer down the road, as if he were anxious about falling behind. Clem went to sleep early. When he woke up in the night and saw that his father was still peering through the windshield, he put it down to excitement, anticipation. The real situation didn’t become clear until morning, when their bus caught up with the Ambrose bus, at a Texas Panhandle truck stop, and his father made Ambrose trade places with him.

  Theoretically, there was nothing wrong with this. His father was the leader of the group, and it was arguably correct to share his ministerial presence with the other bus. But when Clem saw how eagerly his father bounded onto it, without a backward glance, something shifted inside him. He sensed, in his gut, that his father hadn’t switched buses because it was right. It was because he selfishly wanted to be on the other bus.

  That evening, when they rolled into the town of Rough Rock, Arizona, Clem’s instinct was confirmed in the awfulest of ways. In the dark, in a dust cloud lit by headlights, there was a melee of baggage handling as the group sorted itself into the half that would stay in Rough Rock, with his father, and the half going on to the settlement at Kitsillie, up on the mesa, with Ambrose. Weeks earlier, when everyone signed up for one location or the other, Clem had chosen Kitsillie because its primitive conditions suited him, but most of the kids boarding the Kitsillie bus had chosen it because of Ambrose. Among them were Tanner Evans and Laura Dobrinsky, their musician friends, and the group’s cutest girls. The bus was fully loaded and ready to go, missing only Ambrose, when Clem’s father climbed aboard with his duffel bag.

  There had been, he said, a change of plan. It would be better, he’d decided, if he led the Kitsillie contingent and let Rick stay in Rough Rock, where there was dormitory housing. After a moment of stunned silence, the bus erupted with cries of protest from Laura Dobrinsky and her friends, but it was too late. The driver had already closed the door. His father took the aisle seat by Clem and clapped him on the knee. “This is great,” he said. “You and I get to spend a whole week together. It’s better, don’t you think?”

  Clem said nothing. From farther back in the bus came urgent, angry female whispering. His father had trapped him in the window seat and he thought he might die if he didn’t get away. The shame of being the son of this man was new to him and searingly painful. It wasn’t that he cared how he personally looked to the cool kids. It was how weak his father had made himself look to them, by abusing his petty authority to commandeer their bus. And now his father was using him, being all fatherly, so as to pretend that he’d done nothing wrong.

  The pretending continued on the mesa. The old man seemed willfully blind to how much the Kitsillie group resented him for taking Ambrose’s place. He didn’t seem to realize that he was nearly fifty, twice as old as Ambrose, not interchangeable. Yes, he was stronger and more skilled than Ambrose, and, yes, he was full of energy—returning to the mesa, reconnecting with the Navajos, walking the land he loved, always fired him up. But every morning, when he organized the work crews, no one volunteered to be in his. When he went ahead and selected a crew, and busied himself with tools and supplies for the day, a funny thing happened: every girl in his crew who was friends with Laura Dobrinsky traded places with someone from a different crew. He had to have noticed this, and yet he never said a word about it. Maybe he was too cowardly to make an issue of it. Or maybe he didn’t care what the girls thought of him. Maybe all he’d wanted was to prevent
them from spending the week with their beloved Ambrose.

  Clem was a crew leader himself, the only non-adult to whom his father gave responsibility. A year earlier, this expression of trust would have thrilled him, but now he was merely grateful that he never had to be in his father’s crew. During the day, hard physical labor dulled his fear of returning to the schoolhouse where the group was camping out, but the shame was always waiting there at dinnertime. He felt obliged, by his principles, to eat with his father, who was otherwise shunned, and to submit to his fraudulently hearty talk about the trench he was digging for a septic line. Seeing his peers all laughing and eating together, Clem felt uniquely cursed and isolated. He wished he were the son of someone—anyone—else.

  It was a fellowship tradition to gather as a group around a single candle after dinner and share thoughts and feelings about the day. Every night at Kitsillie, there was a wall of stony silence from the cool girls. Late in the week, his father went so far as to ask the prettiest of them, Sally Perkins, if she had anything to tell the group. Sally just stared at the candle and shook her head. Her refusal to speak was so pointed, the tension around the candle so high, that it ought to have triggered a full-on confrontation, but Tanner Evans knew exactly when to strike a chord on his twelve-string and lead the group in song.

  If Clem’s father was relieved to avoid a confrontation, he shouldn’t have been. The explosion that followed ten days later, at the first Sunday meeting after the Arizona trip, was more violent for having been suppressed. The evening was unusually hot for April, the fellowship meeting room as airless and rafter-smelling as an attic. Everyone was in a hurry to get downstairs for activities, and most of the room quieted when Clem’s father stepped forward to deliver his opening prayer. He glanced at Sally Perkins and her friends, who were continuing to talk, and raised his voice. “Heavenly Father,” he said.

  “This room could sure use an air conditioner,” Sally remarked, loudly, to Laura Dobrinsky.

  “Sally,” Rick Ambrose growled from a corner of the room.

  “What.”

  “Be quiet.”

  After a pause, Clem’s father tried again. “Heavenly Father—”

  “No!” Sally said. “I’m sorry, but no. I’m sick of his stupid prayers.” She jumped to her feet and looked around the room. “Is anyone else here as sick of them as I am? He already ruined my spring trip. I’m literally going to throw up if he keeps doing this.”

  The contempt in her voice was shocking. Whatever might be happening in the country at large, however angrily authority was being questioned, nobody could speak like this at church.

  “I’m sick of it, too,” Laura Dobrinsky said, standing up. “So that makes two of us. Anyone else?”

  En masse, the rest of the cool girls stood up. The heat in the room was suffocating Clem. Laura Dobrinsky addressed his father directly.

  “The younger Navajos don’t like you, either,” she said. “They’re sick of being ministered to. They don’t want a white guy condescending to them and telling them what his white God wants them to do. Are you even aware of how you sound to other people? Maybe you had a good thing going with the elders, way back when. And maybe they’re still cool with that. But they’re elders. The missionary bullshit won’t cut it anymore.”

  Rick Ambrose was glowering at his boots, his arms tightly crossed. Clem’s father’s face had gone white. “May I say something?” he said.

  “How about trying to listen for a change?” Laura said.

  “If I can do nothing else, Laura, I believe I do know how to listen. It is my job to listen.”

  “How about listening to yourself, then? I don’t see much evidence of that.”

  “Laura,” Ambrose said.

  Laura turned on him. “You’re defending him? Because he’s, what, the ordained minister? That’s a strike against him as far as I’m concerned.”

  “If you have an issue with Russ,” Ambrose said, “you should take it up with him directly.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “One on one.”

  “Fuck that. I have no interest in that.” Laura addressed Clem’s father again. “I have no interest in a relationship with you.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear you say that, Laura.”

  “Yeah? I seriously don’t think I’m the only one here who feels that way.”

  “I don’t either,” Sally Perkins said. “I don’t want to have a relationship with you. In fact, I don’t even want to be in this group if you’re in it.”

  More than half the group was on its feet now. Over the tumult of voices came Ambrose’s bellowing. “Sit DOWN. Everyone SIT DOWN NOW and SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

  The mob obeyed him. Though Ambrose was technically subordinate to Clem’s father, everyone knew who the group’s real leader was: who was strong and who was weak.

  “We’re going to skip the prayer tonight,” Ambrose said. “Is that okay with you, Russ?”

  The older man nodded meekly. He was weak! weak!

  “You’re not listening to us,” Laura Dobrinsky said. “You don’t get it. We’re telling you either he goes or we go.”

  There were shouts of agreement, and Clem couldn’t stand it. However ashamed he’d been of his father in Arizona, he couldn’t stand to see a weak person beaten up. He raised his hand and waved it. “Can I say something?”

  Immediately all eyes were on him. Ambrose nodded with approval, and Clem stood up unsteadily, his face burning.

  “I can’t believe how mean you guys are being,” he said. “You’re going to walk away because you don’t like a two-minute prayer? I’m not into it, either, but I’m not here for prayers. I’m here because we’re a community committed to service to the poor and the downtrodden. And you know what? My dad has been committed to that for longer than anyone here has been alive. He’s more committed than anyone in this room. I think that ought to count for something.”

  He sat down again. A girl next to him touched his arm supportively.

  “Clem is right,” Ambrose said. “We need to respect each other. If we don’t have the guts to work through this as a group, we don’t deserve to call ourselves a community.”

  Sally Perkins was staring at Clem’s father. She seemed to take cruel satisfaction in his inability to look at her. “No,” she said.

  “Sally,” Ambrose said.

  “Let’s put it to a vote,” she said. “How many people want to stay in this group if he’s in it?”

  “We’re absolutely not doing that,” Ambrose said.

  “Then I’m leaving.”

  She stood up again. More than half the group stood up. Clem’s father’s eyes were wide with pain. “I’d like to say something,” he said. “Hear me out, all right? I’m not sure where all this is coming from—”

  Laura Dobrinsky laughed and walked out of the room.

  “I’m sorry if I’m not the person you want me to be,” the old man said. “I guess I still have a lot to learn from you guys. I care about this group, deeply. We’ve been doing great work, and I’d like to help us continue to do that. If you want Rick to lead the prayers, or Rick to lead the group, I’m okay with that. But if you care about personal growth, I’d like the chance to experience it myself. I’m asking you to give me that chance.”

  Clem experienced a petrification so literal it seemed as if his body might shatter if tapped with a hammer. His father was begging. And not even to any avail. Sally Perkins had walked out, and half the group was following her, crowding the doorway in their eagerness to side with her. The old man watched them with dumb animal bewilderment.

  Ambrose, whose position was unenviable, suggested that Russ lead a breathing exercise while he went and reasoned with the defectors. Again the old man nodded submissively. Among the church kids who remained when Ambrose was gone, Clem was surprised to see Tanner Evans.

  “I want us all to breathe,” the old man said, a tremor in his voice. “I’m going to lie down—we’re all going to lie down and
shut our eyes. All right?”

  He was supposed to keep speaking, to lead the group in a visualization, but the only sound was the buzz of the defectors downstairs. As Clem lay in the heat and tried to breathe, his mind went back to Becky: how his father had always wanted her to be his special friend, and had seemed to resent that Clem was also her special friend, had tried to separate her and Clem and have a private relationship with each of them, and how peculiar it was that he’d singled them out, since Becky was popular and Clem could take care of himself. Neither she nor he needed extra attention the way, for example, their younger brother did. Perry was rich in gifts but poor in spirit, and their father, who in public made such a big deal of attending to the poor, found nothing but fault in Perry. And now the same thing had happened in the fellowship. Instead of ministering to the socially needy, his father had tried to separate the popular kids from Ambrose and take them for himself. He wasn’t just weak. He was disgusting—a moral fraud.

  Hearing footsteps, Clem sat up and saw his father following Ambrose out of the room. No one was even pretending to do the breathing exercise now. Tanner Evans looked at Clem and shook his head.