One of her earliest recollections was being put to bed by her father. She needed nothing more to bond with him. Of course there were many other occasions when the two grew close.
The Wheatleys were a family that visited during meals. George encouraged his children to talk about what was going on in their world, to discuss events with their parents and with each other. Nan listened, corrected, and loved.
All three children wanted—even vied for—their parents’ attention. But Alice, particularly, felt that she was her father’s special favorite. That feeling was reinforced at bedtime. Nan was always there to tuck them in. George made it a point to do likewise as often as possible—when there were no parochial meetings or banquets to address.
But he always made special time for Alice. And somehow he managed to do this without making the boys envious.
It became routine. When she no longer needed to be carried, he would take her hand and accompany her up to bed. He would tuck her in and then tell her stories. Stories often from books she would later read when she grew older. They meant so much to her when she read them because from babyhood they had been served up to her with love and in the most beautiful voice imaginable—her father’s voice.
Sometimes he would sing to her. He sang all sorts of melodies. The pop songs with which he’d grown up. Snatches of operatic arias. Everything but the music of her age. He told her—and she never forgot—what Jimmy Durante once said to Frank Sinatra: that rock and roll consisted of three chords, and two of them were bad.
Those memories were evoked now as she held Sue’s hand. But not just those memories; a flood of images washed over her—images of her parents, especially of her dad.
As a child, only gradually had she begun to understand what her father was doing in church. At first she was dumbfounded and mystified to hear the churchgoers calling him “Father.” She was afraid to voice this puzzlement. Her big brother was not hesitant to poke fun at her. She waited, and listened for someone, anyone, to ask the question, and satisfy her curiosity.
Eventually, she came to perceive that he was Father to his congregation, leading them in prayer, in eucharist, and through life’s trials and crises.
But she would always be his special girl.
She was endearing in so many ways. But she was not a beautiful child in the accepted sense. Her peers, with characteristic thoughtless cruelty, sometimes picked on her. She always found refuge and support in her father’s lap.
If she had been born just a few years earlier, she would have bumped up against the iron curtain that blocked women from the Episcopal priesthood. But, as it happened, she was born in the late nineteen-seventies; the barrier had been breached in the mid-seventies.
The walls came a-tumblin’ down when eleven courageous women were ordained without official approval by a retired bishop or two, who at that stage of the game had little if anything to fear. Up till that time in the Anglican Episcopal Church, girls could yearn all they wished to follow in their priest father’s footsteps, but their wishes were for naught. As for the Roman Catholic Church, a girl’s chances were definitely less than nil.
Once ordained, the original eleven posed a problem that nagged for a solution. After some little thought and a lot of prayer, the House of Bishops acknowledged the validity of the women’s orders and they became the charter members of a growing society of female priests. This solution also was ratified by the Anglican mother Church.
The Roman Catholic Church stands fast in its prohibition of women as priests for the specious reason that Jesus did not ordain any women, and that women do not resemble men.
Alice Wheatley was spared all this folderol by the accident of her birth date.
She never knew the initial frustration of being unequivocally barred from the priesthood. Like many of her generation, she was oblivious of the bravery and determination of the women and the bishops who had brought all this about simply by not asking permission. They just went ahead and did it. And changed history.
Thus, in practical terms, Alice was free to select the priesthood as her vehicle for life. And, following the example of her dad, she did. She graduated from Western Michigan University cum laude and went about the business of selecting a seminary for the three-year training that would lead to ordination.
First, she discussed the selection with her father. She explained that she wanted to attend a seminary far from home. He was so popular and so successful that she feared she would always be compared with him to her detriment. There was enough pressure being a woman seminarian without the added association with her father.
He tried to talk her out of this. He did not share her concern over comparisons. On the contrary, he felt he could help her in many ways. But in the end she had her way.
She was accepted by the Dallas seminary. She was happy. Her life was on track, proceeding nicely, as planned.
And then her father dropped the bomb.
Alice and her brothers knew something of great importance was in the offing when their father invited Ron and his wife, Gwen, over for dinner, and said he had something to tell all of them, but not till after they’d eaten.
That meal was not easily digested. Nor was there much chitchat.
After the dishes were cleared, the family gathered in the living room. George was in high spirits. He had fought a painful and lonely battle within himself over the future course of his life.
That battle was concluded, and he was at inner peace. He wanted to share that peace with his loved ones.
He had already talked it all out with Nan. Naturally, it had come as a shock to her. Her life had settled into a rewarding routine that fulfilled her. She voiced her opposition vigorously. Her resistance was overwhelmed by his conviction. Reluctantly, she promised to support him. Hers had always been the motto, “Whither thou goest, I shall go.” George’s startling deviation was proving the most difficult test of that maxim yet.
The conclave, following The Last Supper, as Alice and Ron later christened it, began with a prologue by Nan. After which, George, with measured enthusiasm, spelled out—as best he could in one sitting—the reasons for his decision.
Ron and Alice were stunned. Richard seemed merely bemused. Gwen, who one might have supposed would be personally unaffected, mirrored her husband’s reaction.
Alice would argue she herself was hit hardest. On the threshhold of preparing for a career—a career that had been planted in her heart by her father—she had subconsciously been relying on her dad for support through seminary and into the priesthood. Now, in just a few minutes, her hope—her expectation—had been demolished.
Betrayed! Betrayed by the one person she held most dear in all the world.
Her joy turned to sadness. Her erstwhile tears of happiness were now bitter, burning drops.
Once George had finished his explanation, Ron and Alice quickly abandoned substantive questioning and turned to pleading, begging for a change of heart. Gwen, “the outsider,” quietly but incisively echoed their pleas.
To no avail. George was the soul of understanding and compromise in all considerations except the bottom line. Which was that he was leaving the Episcopal Church to become a Roman. If all worked as it should, within a year he would be ordained a deacon, and then a priest in the Roman Catholic Church.
He expounded on what a tortuous journey this had been; in a sense, somewhat similar to that of a domestic priest who becomes a foreign missionary. George hoped that his children would try to understand and, one day, even come to share his sense of satisfaction in having made the right choice.
Richard, when he could get a word in edgewise, assured his father that the move was perfectly all right as far as he was concerned. A typical teenager, he tacitly wondered how his life would be altered—if, indeed, it would be affected at all.
Ron’s fury was unabated. He snapped on his clerical collar and stormed from the house, leaving Gwen to follow after observing the niceties of departure.
Alice, sobbing, ran, alm
ost blindly, up to her room.
George looked helplessly to Nan. He had expected a measure of negative reaction. But nothing like this. Had he erred in his presentation? Had he not expressed himself adequately?
Nan could have taken this occasion to once more dispute the wisdom of his decision. She might have supported Ron and Alice, and asked him to reconsider.
But she knew him too well. While he had agonized over his course, he had not once consulted her in arriving at this decision. He didn’t want to pull her into this murky world he had created in his mind. He’d gone through it alone, except for his prayers to the Almighty, and emerged exhausted, but content, with his mind at rest.
Once she determined that he was convinced he was on the right course, she knew he would not, could not, turn aside.
She would not stand with her children against their father. She would be at his side. She would assure him: Ron’s and Alice’s reactions were merely temporary. It was natural and to be expected. They would come around. Give them time.
Having bolstered him, reassured him, alleviated his doubts, she would be the sounding board for the children. She would, as she had so many times before, be the conciliator. It would drain her. But she saw herself as the adhesive that held the family together.
Later that night, all was quiet. Only the faint sound of contemporary music could be heard. This was long after Ron had slammed out of the house and after Richard had gone up to his room to listen to CDs and further weigh how his father’s action might change his own young life.
Nan puttered in the kitchen until she could delay no longer, then went wearily up the stairs, spent from this evening’s discord.
George, as was his wont, made certain everything was locked and secure. He paused before the closed door of Alice’s room. What sounded like low, broken sobs reached his ears. He knocked lightly. He wanted so to tell her a story or sing her a quiet song. He waited, but there was no response to his knock—although the soft sobbing seemed to have stopped. He hesitated. But he would not violate his daughter’s privacy.
He moved on down the hall, heartened by his wife’s assurance that all would be well. Time would heal.
But all wasn’t well. And time would not heal.
TEN
They sat in silence. The sort of silence that all too often was the routine conclusion to angry, bitter words.
He was lost in his own thoughts, she in hers. But their thoughts, their daydreams, were similar. They dreamed of what they’d diligently planned for many years. For both, thoughts of his becoming a bishop had been on their minds from the beginning: It was manifest destiny.
Not only Gwen and Ron, but most of their friends—several of whom were Anglican clergy—simply took it for granted that Ron would not only be a bishop but that he would minister to a significant diocese. Chicago, Los Angeles, or even New York.
The couple had what it takes and they were utilizing those faculties to the utmost.
Gwen toyed with a spoon while memory led her back to her childhood. She saw the small farm in central New Jersey where she had grown up, an only child. Her father ran the farm with the help of his wife and, eventually, his daughter. She saw the primitive building where she had attended grammar school.
Not only did her father own and operate the farm, he was the pastor of the only church in that farming community. Those who preferred one of the mainline religions could drive some distance to one of the villages or larger towns that were not a natural part of the farming life. Gwen’s father knew his Bible—and could relate the biblical teachings to life on the farm. So many of the Gospel stories involved fields to be planted, crops to be harvested, trees that were fruitful or barren, and many like examples that were second nature to farming families.
Clem Ridder, Gwen’s father, was addressed as “pastor.” He possessed neither diploma nor ordination. He was the only one in that backwoods farming community who had read the entire Bible. Cover to cover. Three going on four times.
It was for this feat that he had been acknowledged—not elected—leader of this ragtag congregation. He received no salary for his preaching. He was given the collection money, which might buy a plump chicken for Sunday dinner—except that the pastor already had chickens on his farm.
Gwen’s Sabbath memories were of a day devoted to worship. She would slip into one of her cousin’s hand-me-down dresses, all of which were far and away measurably better than anything Gwen owned. Then it was off to the small decaying shack that served as a church.
The Ridders would meet with ten to twelve other families—give or take a few—and conduct their services.
Clara Ridder led the hymn singing. She had a lovely, clear voice with only a hint of vibrato. Gwen accompanied her mother on the ancient pump organ, half of whose stops were inoperative. Gwen was, by and large, self-taught, although her mother had given her a few lessons to begin with.
Clara was a mousy woman. She was continually reminded of the many biblical passages about woman’s place. Rumor had it that Clem Ridder beat his wife—just to get and keep her attention.
For cause or groundlessly, he would also switch or strap his daughter. “Spare the rod …”
The Ridders’ income was roughly the median income of that community. Gwen didn’t realize they were poor; she had nothing to contrast it with.
Gwen’s grammar school comprised three rooms—three grades to a room, from kindergarten to eighth grade. As older students learned the multiplication tables, history, English, etc., Gwen, with her quick, retentive mind, learned them, too. By the time graduation neared, she was tutoring her classmates. This practice of helping her fellow students would continue throughout high school.
Every Christmas the students drew names to exchange presents. In the sixth grade, one classmate, a loutish boy who was always picking on her, drew Gwen’s name.
Part of Gwen’s morning routine included milking the two cows, gathering eggs, and, in the winter, breaking the ice in the watering troughs. What with all that, Gwen barely had time to wash up and grab a quick breakfast. Thus, more often than not, she looked a little grubby, her clothes a bit untidy, her hair unkempt, and her fingernails badly in need of a manicure.
That was the reason—and it did not escape Gwen—that her spiteful classmate’s Christmas “gift” to her was nothing more than a large but flimsy kitchen matchbox filled with dirt.
The little monster’s “present” gave added meaning to the maxim, “Kids can be cruel.”
Gwen kept her face emotionless; she wouldn’t give the rotter the pleasure of knowing how much he’d hurt her.
Two years later, Gwen went off to high school. The boor took his eighth-grade education and went off to work in his father’s gas station.
At first, high school was frightening for Gwen. It was so large. Each class even had its own room.
Gwen may not have had a carefree childhood, but she had a significant number of pluses. By anyone’s standards, she was bright, even brilliant. She had learned well many lessons, some from the schoolroom, others from the school of hard knocks.
Something else happened gradually over the years, with some subtlety. Gwen had grown into a smashingly attractive young woman.
She started slowly. For years she was as skinny as the proverbial rail. Pert, with straight blond hair and icy blue eyes, she participated in every sport available, from softball to field hockey. Still, she was, as another nasty classmate observed, “as flat in front as she was flat behind.”
All that was to change. Gwen was about to fill out like an inflated balloon and grow curves in all the right places.
By the time she graduated from high school, as valedictorian, she was almost incredibly beautiful—a knockout. Motion picture perfect.
Now, she could call her shots. The very first was to leave home. As soon as she stowed her mortarboard and packed her suitcases, she was out of there.
One of the girls Gwen had tutored had become pregnant in her junior year. She left school, marri
ed the baby’s father, and moved with him to Detroit.
That couple, Dan and Frieda Young, now were a foursome with two young babies. They lived in an upstairs flat in Detroit’s inner city. The flat was too small for the Youngs and their children, let alone another adult. But Frieda remembered with gratitude Gwen’s patience and help.
The Youngs had a verbal battle that almost ended in a Mexican standoff. But Frieda had the last word, and Gwen became a nonpaying boarder. At least for the time being.
About a week after Gwen moved in, Frieda had to take both children to the doctor for a checkup. Gwen, wary of Dan, volunteered to accompany them. Frieda wouldn’t hear of it. The doctor’s visit would use up the entire morning, and Frieda knew that Gwen’s job-hunting schedule was full.
By the time Frieda and the kids left, Gwen was dressed and almost ready to go. She was applying her lipstick when, in the mirror, she saw his face behind her.
It happened so quickly. He was all over her, forcing her toward the bed as he spewed the filthiest language at his considerable command.
She managed to turn and drive her knee into his crotch. He fell, moaning, to the floor. She gave him one final contemptuous glance, stepped over his writhing body, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door.
As she left, she knew that this day had to be it. She would have to find work and somewhere else to live. Staying here after this was unthinkable.
Luck was with her. She found a secretarial position with an up-and-coming law firm. And, that afternoon, she took a room at the Y. Not that much better than the Youngs’ flat, but without Dan. That in itself was worth the price of admission.
She returned to the flat to retrieve her clothes. She figured correctly that Dan would have recovered sufficiently to go to work. In any case, Frieda was there with the kids. She was thrilled about Gwen’s job and her new residence. She helped Gwen pack and all but pleaded with her to come back for visits.
Gwen would have agreed to almost anything if it would hasten her departure before Dan’s return. But privately, she was certain she would never darken this miserable hole again.
The Sacrifice Page 12
