by R.P. Burnham
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On a chilly mid-April Saturday afternoon, with ugly blackened remnants of snow marring the sides of the street and spring seemingly a distant prospect, Charlie was walking with Martha to their church and thinking about her mother. They were going to clean the church to get it ready for the annual meeting of the congregation where church elders would be elected or re-elected, prizes to the best Sunday school students awarded, Reverend Harris would give his state-of-the-church speech, and new members would be introduced. Charlie had hoped for a long time that her mother would be one of those new members, and now she was thinking about all the reasons she knew it was not going to happen.
“You seem lost in thought, Charlene,” Martha said. “What are you thinking about?”
“My mother.”
“Isn’t she well?” Martha asked, responding to something in Charlie’s tone.
“Oh, yes. She’s much nicer now that she doesn’t drink.”
“But it’s Jesus, isn’t it? Why doesn’t she accept Jesus? My mother told me my father talked to her about it.”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said. She wished she could talk to Martha about the real reasons, but all she dared to say was, “She doesn’t seem to like religion for some reason.”
“Maybe it’s because of the northern Baptist Church. My father says that when they went to church as kids it was bad. He says it wasn’t Christian enough. They don’t feel Jesus as a personal savior. The minister would preach without conviction or feeling. Have you told her that?”
She shook her head.
“You know my father won’t accept her unless she accepts Jesus.”
Charlie thought of her mother and then the face of Jeremy came into view. “Some people just aren’t religious.”
“Well, they’re wagering their souls.”
“I think my mom has taken a huge step in stopping drinking. Maybe in time she’ll find Jesus.” She said that knowing how unlikely her mother would come to Jesus and knowing that she herself still did not feel the joy she was supposed to feel from the Lord. Again, she wished she could talk about these things to her cousin—or anyone, for there was no one she did talk to who would understand. Sometimes she thought Aunt Cora might, but she didn’t dare take the chance.
She realized Martha was speaking. “Sorry, I was thinking of something. What did you say?”
“I was saying yes, you’re right. She has taken a big step. And we can take comfort from knowing that Jesus will always be waiting.”
“From what I understand, though, it’s that if you’re an alcoholic, you’re always one. It takes effort continually to not drink. I looked it up on the computer at Courtney Academy.”
Martha seemed troubled to hear this. She glanced at Charlie and then dropped her eyes. There was a computer in Uncle Edward’s office, but the kids were not allowed to use it. Martha seemed to think they were very dangerous things.
“There’s all kinds of information on the internet, you know. Plenty of stuff about evangelical Christianity, for example. I was doing some work on school stuff and finished, so I looked up alcoholism and found out a lot.”
“Does my father know?”
“That I used a computer? Oh, sure. I’ve showed him how to do some stuff.”
“Yes, I know. But does he know you do stuff beyond school work?”
“I don’t know. The only thing I’ve looked up outside of school stuff is alcoholism. I didn’t think he’d mind that I was trying to understand my mother.”
“I see. But I think Jesus would be the best help to keep away from drink. That could be a motive for her too.”
“Yes, it could.” She thought for a moment. “She doesn’t like it, you know, that she can only see me at home. She’d like to take me shopping and stuff like that.”
“She can do that when she’s a Christian. But you understand why my father puts down these restrictions.”
Charlie nodded. “Because she’s not a Christian. Maybe it’s a brother-sister thing, who knows?”
Martha didn’t understand the reference, and Charlie regretted making it. “I mean sometimes differences that brothers and sisters have as kids persist. My mother was the older child. Maybe she’s stubborn.”
“Jesus waits,” Martha said, repeating her thought.
They were approaching the church now. Charlie always thought that it looked unbalanced. It had a high concrete foundation of ten feet below a single story of about the same height, and it made the white vinyl clapboards look overwhelmed. She had never dared criticize it, of course, because Uncle Edward approved of the design, but she had hinted at her feeling that architectural dissonance was the first impression the church gave to Martha once, and she had understood Charlie’s point. Martha explained that her father wanted enough steps to give the parishioners the feeling of ascending to God as they entered the church. The building, though one story, had a high peak topped off in the front by a short steeple with a white cross. The windows were all plain and unadorned in good Protestant style that suited people to whom the Bible was the one and only anchor of the faith. Inside the peak allowed a high altar which had a large cross, also white, over the altar, which again in good Protestant style was plain and unadorned. There was a lectern for the Bible and a large baptismal fount. At the other end, above the entrance was a balcony that could hold thirty people, but because of the small congregation it was never used. The pews consisted of two rows of twenty separated by a central aisle. These too could accommodate many more people than the current congregation, but that was by design and a sign of well-placed optimism—for every year new members joined the church, including a new family who had just joined last week on Easter. That meant that since this time last year seven more families had becomes members, and the baptismal fount had soaked many a reborn soul.
Elizabeth Pogue was sitting on the stairs waiting for them. She, the daughter of the woman who home-schooled her and the Harris kids, was a big girl, very plain and very quiet. Under a waist-length gray jacket she was attired, like Martha and Charlie, in what amounted to the female uniform of the church—a high-necked dress that at the waist ballooned out, thanks to a petticoat, and went to just above the ankles. On her feet were black shoes. She wore her hair in an old-fashioned bun just as her mother did and peered through thick lenses at the world with an imperturbable face. She was fairly intelligent, Charlie thought, but seemed to be totally lacking in curiosity and personality so that she appeared dull-witted. Martha thought that she was a good Christian, which was the most important thing.
“Hello, girls,” she said in her phlegmatic way, her voice flat and emotionless. She saved her enthusiasm for the hymns and responses on Sundays. She stood. “What shall we do first?” she asked, addressing Martha. As the minister’s daughter her opinion was the one that counted.
Just then a car went by and someone hooted derisively, “Watch out! The devil lurks everywhere.” Another voice, which Charlie recognized as that of Bob Parole, yelled, “Creationism sucks!” He lived at the other end of the street and never went by the church without yelling something derisive. He was also probably the one who periodically sprayed graffiti on the church, four-letter words that made Uncle Edward apoplectic.
Martha frowned, but Charlie having grown used to these verbal attacks, had become inured to them. She had enough doubts and confusions in her own mind to keep her occupied. “Let’s do the chairs first,” she suggested.
They walked up the steps. At the door, Elizabeth said, “It must be awful to have to go to school with boys like that.”
Charlie shrugged. “It used to bother me. I just ignore them now.”
Inside they went down to the basement where the meeting would be held. It had a kitchen at one end and tables and chairs placed across the entire basement so that it looked like a cafeteria. Getting their cleaning materials from the utility closet, Elizabeth, still brooding on the anti-Christian boys, said, “I don’t understand people who don’t believe the Bible. Everything is s
o plain. The truth shines from every word. Why can’t they see it? They wouldn’t mock creationism if they actually read the Bible.”
Charlie had a thought but stifled it. To avoid saying anything too dangerous, she had to think first. She busied herself looking for the spray cleaner. Martha was pulling the chairs out from the tables; the phlegmatic Elizabeth stood and waited.
Charlie had never been the same after her talk about faith and science with her biology teacher Mr. Adamson and her talk later that same day a year ago with her uncle. But her faith still reigned; still she carried Jesus in her heart. She understood that while her uncle saw the world simplified into black and white, she still believed her uncle was right in saying that Jesus was the only way to salvation. Good and evil were black and white. Jesus and Satan were black and white. Science, though, was not, and she also saw that science was right. Her solution to the seeming antagonism between the Bible and science was to follow Mr. Adamson’s advice that as long as she had Jesus in her heart nothing else mattered. Believing that, she could stand on solid ground, even if the solid ground was in the middle of a swamp. Something her mother had said this very morning about Charlie getting straight A’s at Courtney Academy complicated things even further. She was proud of her daughter and also mystified by the source of Charlie’s intelligence. She always thought her parents were stupid, and she was no brainiac herself, so it must have been from her father, though she wasn’t sure who he was. Then she looked at Charlie with a strange longing in her eyes as she thought for a moment; and said, “Charlie, you use that intelligence. It’s a gift—from God, I suppose. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
She was talking about Uncle Edward, Charlie knew, but she wasn’t sure what she was warning her against. Charlie suspected that she was trying to deflect her from religion, and she had had to remember her uncle’s warning about Satan being everywhere. But she had grown to trust her mother. That’s why everything was so confusing. She had lost respect for her uncle while still fearing him. She wanted to have her mother; she wanted to be a good Christian. She believed science was right; she believed the Bible was right. Elizabeth believed the Bible explained creation perfectly and that a good Christian accepted it totally without question; she knew it was a human explanation of mystery and she wanted to believe she too was a good Christian. Most of all she wanted to talk to somebody and didn’t dare to say what was on her mind. Elizabeth’s question had an answer. It was there on the tip of her tongue. Dare she say it? Would she understand? Would Martha? Would they help her to understand herself? How could a Christian doubt? She knew both girls were better Christians than she was, but they didn’t have her nature. They hadn’t seen a mother drunk and shameless; they hadn’t felt scared and lonely; they had not been ripped from their home and familiarity and gone to strangeness.
The thinking wasn’t doing any good; it wasn’t making anything clearer. So for lack of any clear alternative, and because she needed to find out just what kind of a Christian she was, Charlie decided to trust her first impulse. What had been stifled was spoken. She turned with the spray cleaner in her hand and said:
“Elizabeth, you know those prophets and writers of the Old Testament weren’t scientists. They were putting the Word of God into language human beings could understand.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed in—what? Suspicion? Perplexity? Fear? “What do you mean?”
“I mean the Bible story of creation is contradictory. Genesis 1:1—2:3 starts with the dark void and then light is made. The sky is separated from the seas. Then the water pulls back to make land. But Genesis 2:4 starts with dry land; then a stream arises to water the world.”
There, she’d said it. She’d voiced a contradiction that was her contradiction as well. Her heart pounded waiting for Elizabeth to speak.
But Elizabeth didn’t speak. She looked stunned.
“It doesn’t matter, you know. They weren’t scientists, remember. They were men of God. They were speaking to men and women about the Word of God. No matter how you look at it, God made the world. That’s indisputable.”
Elizabeth looked at Martha, who had stopped moving chairs and was listening. She too looked perplexed and fearful. “But that’s just saying the same thing. The Bible is never wrong.”
Her voice cracked, and hearing it Charlie wisely refrained from mentioning the contradiction about the different versions of Adam and Eve’s creation. “You’re right. I was just saying what the enemies of Christianity say. We have to have arguments to counter them, you know.”
That statement seemed to allay their fears, perhaps because Charlie had correctly seen that that, more than anything, was what they wanted.
They began concentrating their attention on the cleaning job, and while they washed the windows, wiped the chairs, dust mopped the tiled floor, put throw-away tablecloths on all the tables and then set them with silverware and salad bowls, the only conversation dealt with their work.
When they took a break before they began cleaning the kitchen, however, Elizabeth revealed that she was still brooding on the Bible and its enemies.
After drinking a glass of water she sat at the kitchen counter, carefully smoothed her dress, and looked hesitantly at Charlie. “I was talking with Matthew in school yesterday when my mother had to take a phone call. He was saying something that applies to those boys who scoff and mock us.”
“Oh, what’s that?” Charlie asked, trying to appear casual while instantly putting herself on guard against saying anything indiscreet.
“He was quoting from Revelations. Let the evil doer go on doing his evil and let the filthy minded wallow in filth, but let the good man persevere in goodness. Matthew says that means we have no duty to try to save those who follow the Beast.”
“What do you think we should do?” Martha asked. She was standing and leaning against the counter with an expression of deep interest registering on her sweet face. She too had been brooding.
“I said it was our Christian duty to proselytize and bring the good news to those wallowing in sin. But I was just wondering—have you ever tried to explain to those boys the sweetness we feel in Jesus?”
“I’ve tried a few times, but just got laughed at,” Charlie said. It was a lie, but only by half. She knew she’d just get mocked more if she tried to talk about Jesus to Bob Parole and others of his ilk, but she had thought about talking to Jeremy, only to realize it also would lead nowhere. This year she saw him much less frequently than in the past two years. His lunch period was always opposite hers, and they only had one class, American Government, together. At least a few times each week they would talk a little before or after class. Two weeks ago it almost seemed that he was working up the courage to ask her to the senior prom, but because he wasn’t a Christian she knew that it was impossible her uncle would let her go and did nothing to encourage his hints. But if he were a Christian…
“If the Rapture comes they will all be damned forever,” Elizabeth said, interrupting her reverie.
“We can only hope they will see the light,” Martha said, a remark that Charlie seconded emphatically. She felt relieved to feel they were in agreement and that the dangerous topic of evolution vs. Creationism seemed to be forgotten.
But it wasn’t. They finished cleaning the kitchen quickly, for it was not used often and needed little more than a dusting and tidying up. Three ladies from the church arrived as they were putting the cleaning material back into the utility closet. The girls helped them bring the meal for tonight’s meeting into the kitchen—tuna casserole all prepared and ready for heating, the salads, the buns, the desserts and the like. The ladies were talking about the Maguire family, who just this week had joined the church. They were considered a great catch because they had been Catholics and had been brought to see the true Christianity of The Church of Salvation Through Jesus through the Holy Spirit talking directly to the mother, who had in turn convinced the rest of the family to join.
Outside, Elizabeth said that she
took the Maguire conversion as a sign that their church was prospering and righteous in the eyes of the Lord. Maybe, she said, it was even a sign that the Rapture was close at hand, though Charlie dared not correct her by saying it was the conversion of the Jews that was the sign. Elizabeth was strangely excited, whatever the cause. Saying “I feel Jesus is near—He’s coming for us and soon we shall be in paradise” was not phlegmatic, but rather strangely unbalanced. Never before had she suggested they hold hands in a circle and pray before separating, but that’s what she wanted to do now. Charlie, who didn’t think public prayer was a good idea, had no choice put to join hands and listen to Elizabeth say in an ecstatic voice, “Jesus, our every thought is of your glory. We await your arrival with joy!” Her parting salutation was also strange and different. Instead of “good-bye” she said, “Praise Jesus!”
Charlie watched her for a moment before turning to Martha. Her raised eyebrows were understood, and Martha said, “I’ve seen her like that occasionally, though I’m not sure what gets her excited.”
Charlie was pretty sure that it was her fault and felt awful. She had put a tiny kernel of doubt in the girl’s mind, and it had unhinged her. To do this to a sincere and authentic Christian meant that she, Charlie Harris, the daughter of Tris Harris the former harlot and recovering alcoholic, was not a good Christian, not even a good person. She remembered reading Tennyson’s In Memoriam in English class where the poet specifically said that disturbing the serenity of the believing Christian was an evil thing. In class it had been an abstraction; here it was real. She must never, never ever verbalize her doubts again, never let anyone in the church know what her intellect had seen and what her heart could not understand. It must be her burden alone. Silently she prayed to Jesus for forgiveness.
She was glad Martha began conjecturing on who would win the prizes for the best Sunday school students. The prizes were usually new Bibles. Martha had won one last year, so was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get a second one. Charlie eagerly began suggesting a few likely candidates. Anything was better than being reminded of her transgression.
But at home Matthew almost baited her into another unchristian retort. Now fourteen and having added a tie to his usual uniform of dress slacks and a white shirt, he was becoming insufferable—a condition that only she seemed to recognize. The rest of the family was very proud of his earnest and righteous ways. What he did was subject them to an interrogation on the work they had done.
“Did you wash the windows?”
“Did you wipe off all the chairs?”
“Did you set the tables?”
“Did you clean the kitchen?”
“Did you wash the floor?”
The last question was the one that tripped them up. Charlie said that they didn’t need to since it has been washed and waxed earlier in the month by some other members of the congregation.
The answer did not please. “You were to do the entire cleaning, not use your judgment about what needed to be done and what could be skipped. Honestly, girls are so untrustworthy.”
Momentarily a flash of anger rose up in Charlie’s mind. Who appointed you our boss? was on the tip of her tongue before she wisely stifled it and instead said, “Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Calderwaller both said the place looked wonderful.”
She spoke sharply, and Matthew frowned. “You are becoming a forward girl, Charlene. I would ask Jesus for forgiveness if I was you.”
Charlie, feeling chastised and embarrassed at the same time, apologized, but when Matthew accepted it gracelessly, she had to stifle yet another flash of anger. “I’m very tired,” she said. “I think I’ll take a rest.”
It wasn’t the work that tired her; it was a paper for her American Government class she worked on until almost midnight that had drained her of energy. Then it had taken over an hour to fall asleep because she was thinking of her mother. She needed a rest. She had about an hour before they would all have to get ready for the church supper.
At first when she lay down she was still thinking about Matthew, but she struggled to get the angry thoughts out of her mind. He was only doing what he thought was his Christian duty to ensure that the meeting went well. That he overstepped his authority could be attributed to his youth. She was aware of the concepts of feminism and of full equality for women but understood they were concepts from the secular world—as alien to her as people who vacationed on Greek isles or tribal people who ate insects and grubs. Thus rationalizing Matthew’s behavior, she was able to dismiss it. Elizabeth and her responsibility for unhinging the girl were more difficult to banish from her mind. She still felt awful and again admonished herself for introducing things she learned in school—that alien, secular place—into her church relationships. That admonishment, however, did nothing to allay her guilt for the damage already done. She needed to understand how what she said had had so destructive a result. Understanding it might make her able to avoid moments when she would be tempted to say something unwise.
Why did she need to tell someone her doubts? That led to another question. Why couldn’t she just tell her mother, the most logical person who would listen to her confusion and want to help? But that question was easily answered. She wanted her mother back totally, living with her like in her fantasies where she joined her mother in the rooming house run by a jolly and pleasant widow who was also a recovering alcoholic. The ticket to that destination was her mother’s conversion to Christianity—almost impossible, she now knew. Unbidden, another question came: How good a Christian could her uncle be if he followed not Jesus’ admonishment to forgive those who trespass against us? Now Satan was speaking; the enemy was near. She felt a chill of horror and knew that she was afraid to share her doubts with her mother because she and not her mother might be the one who changed. No, she would not go there. A world without Jesus was too bleak and scary a place.
But backing up a little, she got on the right trail in understanding Elizabeth. The best moments in her life each week occurred when she was first alone with her mother in the basement family room every Saturday morning. They would embrace, and feeling the depths of her mother’s warm love made her positively tingle with joy and contentment. There was no physical contact in Uncle Edward’s house, no hugs, no kisses. Martha and she had lived in the same room for four years and had never see each other naked. Uncle Edward putting his hand on one of his son’s shoulder was considered a deep sign of affection in the family—and it only happened rarely and only to the two boys. Charlie had never seen her uncle and aunt kiss or even touch one another. She recalled last fall reading Great Expectations how her heart bled for little Pip at the hands of his cold sister and how she loved Joe Gargery’s warm humanity. She’d recognized the hunger in Pip’s soul for love. It had helped her to understand how emotionally starved everyone was in the Harris household. It must be true for Elizabeth’s family too. Their only outlet for emotion was Jesus. Was He enough? He would have to be if he was their all, but she saw some families at church who were loving. She saw them hug. She saw, too, Uncle Edward frown as she remembered what her mother told her about his attitude towards women. But her unruly mind was pressing her to go in another direction, to a profane thought that had a life of its own. It lurked there in the corner of her mind, and trying to control it was useless, and finally she let it come: the image of Jimmy Cronin with his thing pointing up. It always scared her, but something bigger than the fear always pushed her on until it was Jeremy Lawrence standing above her and calling her sweet baby girl softly and making her want him to come to her. As always she began to feel first warm and then wet as she would remember the sounds of her mother’s urgent moans of pleasure.
She knew she was a wicked girl. By nature she was her mother’s daughter and every bit the harlot Uncle Edward had thought she was. But not so wicked that she would touch herself. No, there too she would not go. She had to be a Christian or else her soul would be lost forever. She, living in time, had to think beyond time. At school she’d frequently
heard girls talking about sex and knew that many were sexually active. But they lived in that world of Greek isles and grubs for dinner, the world where Satan reigned and which she could only see through a dark glass. Uncle Edward in one of his sermons suggested Eve had tempted Adam through sex to partake of the apple. He used the phrase “feminine wiles,” but she understood that his message was that female sexuality was Satan’s instrument on earth. Still she burned with desire. Oh, yes, she was a wicked person even while trying to be a good Christian. She hoped Jesus understood her thoughts and took pity on her weakness. Now in this condition she needed Jesus more than ever and prayed to him for strength.
Not instantly, not even quickly, but peace came and she drifted off into a peaceful sleep. When she woke she saw that Martha was in the room. She had returned from a shower, fully dressed, and was brushing her hair. The noise of the bed springs made her turn. “Oh, Charlene, I was trying to be quiet.”
Charlie looked at the clock radio by the bed: it was almost four o’clock. “I have to get ready soon, anyways. I guess that late-night school work got to me.”
Martha, busy tying her hair into a bun, didn’t answer. Charlie swung into a sitting position and remembered her profane thoughts in the sight of this sweet and innocent girl. “Martha,” she said in a low voice.
She turned.
“Do you ever think about boys?”
She looked down. “What do you mean? she asked guardedly, showing that she knew what Charlie meant.
“You know, getting married and all.”
“I’m sure I will get married when my father thinks it’s right.”
“But what if you met a good Christian boy who was cute and seemed to like you?”
A look of panic crossed her face. “Charlene, is there some boy you think of that way? My father wouldn’t like that.”
“I know. I’m just trying to find out what is expected of us.”
Martha glanced at her and quickly dropped her eyes. “I think we’re expected to not think about boys.”
Did she really say that? Either Martha was avoiding the truth or she’d never really thought about boys in that way. Of course in this household that was just possible, but she’d seen Matthew regarding her sometimes when she came out of the bathroom wearing her nightgown with that lewd look that boys had and knew he was thinking of sex. She knew its power tested even the best Christian. “Not think? How can that be? I don’t plan on seeing any boy if that’s what you’re thinking—but I do think about marriage, you know. You can’t help thinking.”
Martha sat on her bed facing Charlie. “I guess I know what you mean. I’ve thought about marriage and what…it entails, but it’s all in the future so not quite real to me. That’s all I can say.”
She blushed when she obliquely mentioned sex, and Charlie understood she was very uncomfortable talking about something her father would not approve of. Actually, Martha confirmed what she thought. A good Christian girl was not expected to think about sex and that if it did cross her mind she had Jesus to stand between her soul and her animal nature. “That’s all I’ve done really,” she said. “I’m still trying to learn how to be a good Christian.”
The tension drained from Martha’s face. “Oh, you are, Charlene. You’re already a good Christian.”
“I hope so,” she said as she rose to gather her clothes and things for her shower. Before she had chosen the dress she would wear, Mark tapped on the door to say that his father wanted to see Charlie in his office. Instantly a feeling akin to panic seized her. She was sure Elizabeth had talked to her mother who had in turn called Uncle Edward. With her heart pounding she went downstairs passing Matthew and Mark, already returned to the dining room table where they were playing chess. Matthew had a mean yet pleased look on his face as he stopped in mid move, a chess piece clutched between his thumb and index finger, to follow her passage across the room. He obviously thought Charlie was being brought to account for one of her many transgressions, but he held his tongue.
Downstairs, the door to the office was ajar. She paused, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, knocked and then entered. “You wish to see me, Uncle Edward?” she said in a tiny, tremulous voice. She felt her hands shaking.
He was standing in the corner with his back to her studying one of the biblical prints, which she recognized as Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount. He didn’t turn right away.
His Bible was open on the desk. She could see a sheet of paper with biblical citations written in chapter and verse. This would be the piece of paper he took with him to the lectern for Sunday’s sermons. He always spoke extemporaneously but listed the verses he would use for the basis of his talk. Rarely during a sermon would he actually open the Bible and read the passage—for the most part he knew the Bible by heart.
She could hear the dripping of the faucet in the basement half bath. Though her uncle knew everything about plumbing fixtures, he knew nothing about installing them, and the faucet had been steadily dripping for over a year.
Finally he turned. She noticed his tie was loosened—a very rare sight. “I’ve been thinking of you, Charlene.” He pointed to the Sermon on the Mount picture. “There is a picture of our Lord as a teacher, one of the highest roles a Christian can fulfill. That educational role is, as you know, the role I see you fulfilling in our church nationally—educating the public about our beliefs and practices, meeting with reporters, writing pieces about our church for publication.”
She knew of his plans and avoided thinking about them. When she was young she had been bold, but her life as a Christian had taught her humility and how to be shy and quiet, not assertive. The thought of being a public figure, taking questions from reporters and the like, terrified her.
“I have here a letter from the Reverend Doctor Achibald Sharpe telling me that he looks forward to having you as a student at his college.”
“You mean I’ve been accepted?”
“Of course. My recommendation was all you needed.”
Charlie got straight A’s at Courtney Academy with the exception of one B in calculus. The guidance counsellor told her she could get into any college or university in the country—Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Princeton. He clearly thought her brilliance would be wasted at a bible college, but the thought of those other schools scared her and she was happy to go to a place where she would be surrounded by people with familiar and safe beliefs. She smiled in relief, both at the news of her collegial future and that her fears about Elizabeth had proved unfounded.
“We expect you will be a great asset to the church, Charlene.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“You will also be receiving a special award tonight at the church supper—and a scholarship to buy books and the like. Your room and board and tuition will be paid by the college. I hope you will look back on this day as a very special and happy one in your life as a Christian.”
“I hope so too, Uncle Edward.”
He frowned. “You seem hesitant.”
“Sometimes it scares me to think I would have to explain things to reporters.”
“Jesus will guide you. He’s been guiding you now for almost four years. Surely you can trust him to guide you in the future.”
She tried to smile. “I trust Him. It’s me I worry about.”
“Nothing is impossible if you live for Jesus. Remember that, Charlene.”
It confused her to perceive that he spoke like a kindly father.
Beside the picture of Jesus raising Lazurus on the wall behind the minister’s desk was an etching by Rembrandt of Abraham about to sacrifice Isaac. The angel of the Lord was shown staying Abraham’s left arm holding the knife while his other arm was pulling Abraham’s hand from where he was covering his son’s eyes so that Isaac would not see the horror that was about to occur. It was Isaac her eyes zeroed in on. He was passively awaiting his fate, kneeling without struggle and either trusting his father or God.
Charlie, wondering if an angel would deliver her from
the future she had not chosen, was slow to respond to her uncle’s kindly remark. She saw him waiting expectantly. “Yes, sir,” she said.
PART II JEREMY
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
–William Wordsworth,
“My Heart Leaps Up”
Lost and Found
