Altar Call

by Hope Lyda

  I get a kiss from Mom and a sideways glance from Kayla.

  “Have a good time on your field trip, Mari,” Mom calls back.

  I hear Kayla say, “That is so cute, a field trip,” as they walk down the front steps.

  “Oh!” I yell when they are out of earshot.

  “Don’t worry, dear. Nobody can replace you.”

  “I’m not worried about that.” At least I wasn’t. “I know her and she knows me, but she won’t admit it. That is just strange behavior.”

  “Did you like her back then?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Maybe she wants to start over. Your mom seems to like what she is doing for the campaign. Think of it differently?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Dad. Will you round up the kids for me?”

  “Marcus has got that covered. They are all out back doing drills. He wanted to wear them out a bit before driving them in the van.”

  “I’m taking them. Me. Not Marcus. I planned this field trip to Williamsburg.” I start counting off all the things I have done to prepare for this day. “I researched places to go, I arranged stops with the restaurants and retailers, I scheduled the colonial reenactment actors…”

  “This is your show. But you know how we were talking about your mom and me being a good team—it is out of necessity. You don’t take fourteen kids on a field trip alone. For one thing, it is not even legal according to our center policies, and two, it is much more fun to blame another adult if something goes wrong.”

  “Good point.”

  Dad turns as quickly as his body is able these days and snaps his fingers. “Say, didn’t you go by the name Chanel last year for a while?”

  I huff defensively. “It was for my job at the resort. What’s your point?” Though I think I know.

  He raises his eyebrows. “That is just strange behavior,” he says, mimicking my words.

  With a grumble to hide my smile, I gather my stuff together and walk to the back door. Just as I am about to open the screen door, I hear Alf “shush” everybody. Marcus stands up straight and keeps his hands behind his back. The kids do the same.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, Ms. Hamilton,” they say in practiced unison.

  I wag my finger at them all. “I will find out one way or another what you are up to. Now get in the van!” I pull a whistle from my pocket and give it three short blasts.

  Reenactment

  Marcus and I are sharing a picnic blanket at the back of the group. A presentation of life in 1720 Williamsburg is going on, the kids are engrossed, and we both seem distracted by the other’s presence. We’ve barely spoken during my first month, and I miss the fun of constant banter with my old friend. Could it be I hurt him more than I thought last visit?

  “You seem…”

  “How long…”

  We speak at the same time and then are both embarrassed. Our conversations have never been work. Now they are pure labor.

  “Go ahead,” he says while watching Lou and Daisy pull each other’s hair and giggle.

  “I was asking how long you and Lonna have been together.”

  “Oh.” He pauses and looks down at his hands as though they have the answer. “We’ve known each other for about a year. It evolved into dating, I guess.” He laughs at himself. “I don’t even recall making the decision, you know?”

  “Were you dating when I was here last?” I’m ready to call him on this. After all, he indicated he wanted to date me then.

  “No.” Another pause. “Just after.”

  Oh. “Is it serious?”

  “Can we switch to a new topic? Conversing with you about the whole girlfriend thing is weird, to say the least.”

  “Sure. What were you going to say?”

  He moves his head side to side in an endearing, nonchalant way. “I notice you seem a little different since your trip to Tucson. Did that go okay?”

  “It was a bit rushed. When I got back here, I felt the tug of two worlds.”

  “Makes sense. That is a lot to be dealing with. Things with your job okay?”

  I give a “pshaw” wave of my wrist. “Fine. Fine. That won’t be a problem. The trip was good. It was just pretty emotional for a long weekend.”

  “Because?” he eggs me on.

  “Talking with you about the whole boyfriend thing is weird, to say the least.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, laughing.

  Out of the corner of my eye I catch him looking over at me several times during the performance, but I keep my eyes focused on the kids and the entertainment provided by Cheyenne’s connections.

  “I guess if you wanted to talk to me, you could. About the guy. As you know, I’ve moved on. We can have conversations like old friends.”

  I give him a look.

  “What? You don’t agree?” he asks innocently.

  I release my tight shoulders and flip my hair, which is back in a ponytail, so the effect is minimal. “You are the one who said it would be weird.”

  “I’ll warm up to it. Maybe I will start as the listener. But even if it is too awkward, we can certainly talk about other things like we used to.”

  “I suppose we could. My parents would love it.”

  “Yeah. Your dad asked if the cold war had been resolved while he was sick.”

  “No surprise. They’d love nothing better—”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing better than to see us talking and working together. They like peace in their house.” I try to cover up my near-mention of Marcus and me in the couple form.

  He grins. “What is your impression of how things are going with your dad’s recovery?”

  I’m thankful for the change of subject. “Well, if Fabio keeps up the good work and Dad keeps up the hard work of taking it easy and eating right, I predict I will be back home in a couple months.”

  Marcus looks surprised. “You’d really stay that long? I gotta tell you, Mari, I thought your visit would be short and sweet. Nothing against you. I know you’d crawl to the ends of the earth for your folks and the people you care for, but I also know this place—the center—does something to you. It brings up too much stuff from the early years.”

  He knows me so well. I look over at him for a second. I confess, “It did. Not so much anymore. I worked through a lot of feelings last year. A part of me felt ripped off from all those years sharing Mom and Dad with the others.” I pause and then look at him, realizing that he was one of the kids who had me feeling left out with my own parents. “No offense,” I add with a bit of guilt.

  “None taken. You had to give up a lot as their child. At a time when a kid should get loads of attention in her life, you were part of the crowd. Of course, your folks didn’t really view you as just one of the group—but it had to be confusing.”

  “Thanks.” I pluck a clover from the patch of grass just beyond the blanket. “It’s all good now, so no worries. I don’t resent anyone. Not anymore. Now I can respect how their passion carved out their lives. It is something to model, not fight.”

  Marcus pops his knuckles one by one, much to my annoyance.

  “Could you stop that?”

  “It feels good.”

  “Well, it is incredibly annoying.”

  He waves all his fingers at me and says, “Not this. I meant us talking. It feels good. Like how we used to act.”

  On the way home we start a round of I Spy in the van. One benefit of being around a lot of people—they don’t usually notice if you decide to step out of the conversation. I am deep in thought about Beau’s misstep and about my comfortable afternoon with Marcus. My time with him is completely innocent. I have no reason to suspect or expect any less from Beau and Paige.

  Funny how one perspective change can turn a back-of-the-mind dilemma into a solution. I consider how God works with my thoughts and how often he has to untwist them before I see clearly. My dad’s suggestion that I think differently about Kayla seems to be ongoing good advice.
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br />   I am so buoyed by this simple revelation that I turn my attention back to the game.

  “What are we looking for?” I ask Marcus, who is laughing at one of the kids’ guesses.

  He turns to peer over his shoulder at Camden and nods.

  “What are we looking for?” I repeat snapping my fingers to get Marcus’ attention back to me and the road ahead.

  Camden clears his throat. “I spy something pink.”

  “Pink?” I scan the neighborhood houses. We are getting close to the center; there are several old cars and bikes, but nothing pink.

  “I want a better clue. Pink and what?” I say, turning to face the game leader.

  Camden raises his hand. He is armed with a can of Silly String. They all are. “Pink and you!” He sounds a warrior cry, and I am covered by strips of sticky, gooey string in a matter of seconds.

  We have pulled into the driveway before I can clear off my face enough to glare at Marcus. “You! You are going down!” I start to chase him around the yard and the kids start to chase me.

  We all careen around the corner and nearly smack into Dad, who is barbequing on the patio. First Marcus falls, then the kids, and me on top.

  Dad barely glances up from tending to his pork ribs and deadpans, “Honey, there is a pink Hostess Snow Ball attacking our children.”

  The response giggles are so loud that none of us hear the sound of the screen door and the click of a hose nozzle.

  Final Words

  Hello.” I click on my phone quickly so nobody in the small, used bookstore will judge me.

  “Mari, it’s me, Bernie.”

  “Bernie who?” All I can think of is that Bernie sounds like a politician and must be a friend of Mom’s.

  “Fabio.”

  I slap my head with my free hand. “Of course. Sorry, Bernie. Do you need me to pick up a higher set of weights for Dad? Or maybe a straightjacket?” I laugh and a woman in my aisle snaps her head at me in obvious disapproval.

  “Where are you?”

  “Shopping in Georgetown.”

  “Good. I need you to meet us at Lincoln Memorial right away. Your dad fainted.”

  “Why would you take him sightseeing?”

  “Lincoln Memorial Hospital, Mari, not the tourist attraction. He fainted while working in the yard and hurt his leg.”

  “And you were there?”

  “No. Daisy called me using your dad’s cell phone.”

  “Daisy! She’s five.”

  “Your dad’s last words before he fell down were ‘Don’t tell your mother that I’m out here,’ ” Fabio says, chuckling, “so she called me. Smart girl.”

  “So who is with Daisy?”

  “Marcus came home to watch the kids. And your mom will be coming from the American Food Shelter board meeting.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  As soon as I hang up, the woman next to me opens her mouth to say something. I stop her with a wave of my phone.

  “I don’t like people talking on their phones in public places, either, but my dad is in the hospital. Step aside.”

  Her face softens and she pats me on the shoulder as I squeeze by her along the dusty, historical literature shelves.

  To avoid thinking about my dad during the drive to the hospital, I worry that my departure line sounded like something from a terrible low-budget action film, and if I got in a fatal car accident, that would forever be my last spoken line.

  I start singing “Amazing Grace” aloud—a much better final sound bite.

  Bedside Virgil

  As soon as I see the white H on the blue sign, I am nervous. My hands are clammy. I scan the large foyer without really seeing anyone. Then a kind face steps into my line of vision. I grab the man belonging to the face.

  “Excuse me. I need to find my father.”

  The tall, young man with red cheeks and wispy bangs leans his mop against a door frame and folds his arms across his chest. “Who is your father?”

  “Ted Hamilton. He…he…” I start tearing up, yet another telltale sign of my anxiety.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Was he brought in by ambulance?”

  “No, a silver Camaro. 1960s refurbished.”

  The friendly janitor looks at me confused, and then he motions for me to follow him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mari Hamilton.”

  “I’m Virgil.” He turns to the woman on the other side of a white counter. “And this is Sandy.”

  Sandy is a plump brunette. She wears one of those old-fashioned nurse caps. The kind that resembles paper sail boats.

  Virgil serves as my liaison to locate my dad and kindly escorts me to the fourth floor. Just as the elevator doors open with a “bing,” Dad is being wheeled toward a room, his left leg wrapped in bandages and sticking awkwardly in front of the wheelchair.

  “You poor thing!” I rush to his side and begin fussing. I adjust the neckline of his hospital gown and wipe a bit of dirt off his face.

  “I’m fine, Mari. It is just a sprain, so I can go home this afternoon. I hope you didn’t tell your mother.”

  My nervousness turns to frustration when I see that he is okay. “You don’t think she will notice the splint?”

  He pretends to pull his gown hem down over his leg.

  “Not funny. And what were you doing working in the yard? Bernie told you to only exercise in the house and when someone is present. Someone other than Daisy.” I brush down stray strands of his hair. I find a piece of twig and a leaf.

  “Bernie?”

  “Fabio.”

  “Oh, yes.” He nods.

  “And why were you the only one at home? We have a schedule carefully figured out. There is to be someone with you at all times. What happened?”

  As I discipline my father, the nurse and Virgil transfer him to his bed.

  “I am a grown man. A babysitting schedule is not necessary.”

  “Ted!” My mom comes rushing in. She bypasses the fussing and begins the scolding. “What on earth were you doing? Who was supposed to be with you?”

  Virgil brings in a couple more chairs for all of us. Mom remains standing, so Virgil sits down next to me and leans forward resting his elbows on his knees as though ready to watch a football game on television.

  “It doesn’t matter who was supposed to be there. I was supposed to be there, as I was reminding our thirty-year-old daughter. I am a grown man. I don’t need supervision.”

  Virgil turns to me. “Thirty, huh? I would have guessed younger.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I think.

  Just then the phone by Dad’s bedside rings. Mom grabs it. “Marcus! No, just a sprain. I don’t know what happened. We had such a good schedule. Who was supposed to be with him?”

  Dad reaches for the phone but Mom steps back. I notice her face fall and she closes her eyes. The phone goes to Dad.

  “What is it, Mom?” I ask.

  She sits on the edge of his bed. “I am the one who was supposed to be there.” Her fingers smooth over Dad’s knuckles.

  I try to defend Mom to herself. “Things have been crazy, and we switched up the schedule last week, so nobody has figured it out.”

  “I need to quit campaigning. I promised myself and him,” she points to Dad, who hangs up the phone, “that I would postpone the city council campaign if it interfered with the family.” Mom’s shoulders slump.

  “City council. In this town that is quite competitive. I’m impressed.” Virgil stands up to shake her hand.

  “Mari, who is your new friend?”

  “This is Virgil. He’s a janitor.”

  “Head janitor,” he clarifies, returning to his seat.

  “Well, Virgil, I was running for city council. I haven’t been elected yet. But another year, perhaps.”

  I know her. This is her final decision. “Yes, definitely another year.” I cheer.

  “You are lucky to have such a supportive daughter,” Virgil adds.

  Dad squeezes Mom’s hand and l
ooks over at me and then to Virgil. “You should know that my daughter has a serious boyfriend. Very serious.”

  “Dad!” I stand up and put my hands on my hips. “Unbelievable. A man offers me help while I am in a state of panic and you assume he is hitting on me. I find that to be extremely offensive, not just to me but to…”

  “Virgil?” Dad asks.

  “Yes, to Virgil.” I turn back to point to my helpful friend—and the chair is empty.

  Definitely Fall

  The window to my room opens reluctantly. A summer paint job has nearly sealed the cracks, but with persistence I free the window and allow a cool morning breeze into my small space.

  I shudder. Not from the temperature but from the realization that fall is here. My life in Tucson seems so distant, even with the trips back and plenty of phone conversations with the girls. While I have told everyone I feel so fortunate to have two homes, a more honest answer would be that I feel I have no home.

  The urge to run away is overpowering. Fall does this to me. There is a longing to go away to school or to follow the season through the Eastern states. I will settle for a breakfast at Locals’ Landing, the corner café.

  Excited, I dress in a pair of jeans, trail shoes, and my first sweater of the season. I keep my hair down and let the slight natural wave from a night’s sleep fall where it may. Hoping to sneak out unnoticed, I place most of my weight on the handrail and tread lightly on the stairs. As I set my gaze on the back door, the floorboards announce my arrival and everyone at the breakfast table turns to look at me.

  Marcus is, of course, the one to comment. “Mari, you are supposed to sneak out after curfew, not at nine in the morning.”

  “Hey,” Dad scolds and flicks a wadded up napkin at him.

  “Sorry.” Marcus turns and addresses the kids. “Nobody should ever consider sneaking out after curfew because our security system is very sophisticated.”

  Mom pipes up with, “And because it is unethical—which is the better reason.”

  I point toward the door, which stands between me and temporary freedom. “I was just heading out for a walk. It’s fall.”