Altar Call

by Hope Lyda

  Before Matty starts rinsing egg off of plates and wrinkled flakes off of bowls, I step up and offer to do it for him. “I figure I have some chore time to make up after all these years. Best get to school while Dad is still in a good mood.” I wink and Matty gladly grabs his lunch and dashes out the door.

  “Are you going soft on my kids?” He bellows, looking around to see if any kids remain. Once he knows we are alone he chuckles.

  “Don’t you think the good cop, bad cop system works? Isn’t that the trick you and Mom pulled on us most of the time?”

  He grins slyly. “Maybe. But we don’t give all our secrets over to anyone, unless they are taking over our spot.” He says this last part looking me straight in the eye.

  “Dad, I don’t even know if I want one kid, let alone fourteen at a time. And this is different for you and Mom. It has been your passion and your vision from the start of your relationship.”

  “From our first date,” he reminisces with a gentle smile.

  “See. That is so…” I pause to start up the dishwasher and redirect Dad to the study room to talk. Before I can finish my thought, he has his hand raised and is waving away my thoughts before I express them.

  “Silly. Crazy. Naive. But the thing is, we knew that. But we also knew that by doing things the normal way—the supposed right or proper way—didn’t bear much fruit. You, me, all of us who are believers have the God-given ability and responsibility to think outside of the box.”

  Dad rarely gets on his soapbox. I see how this illness has not weakened him but has made him stronger in his convictions.

  “It is all three of those things, but what you and Mom have together is rare. Precious and rare. Most couples spend a lifetime trying to figure out what they have in common—or they give up while trying.”

  “Look at you and Beau. You two share something that is deep and true. You love to serve people in need. It was no different for your mother and me. We’ve just had more years to polish our act, that’s all. It wasn’t always easy.”

  “What if it isn’t easy from the start? Is that a bad sign?” I ask, making myself and my concerns an open book.

  “I don’t believe in signs. I believe in trust and growth and change and inspiration—inspiration is best of all. It changes everything. But you have to allow it. I believe that you will allow divine inspiration to move you forward in life.”

  “You do?” I say hopefully.

  “In my heart of hearts.”

  I flip our French tape over to lesson two. “Ready, Papa?” I say with a terrible French accent.

  “Oui, oui.” He says, twirling the ends of an imagined moustache.

  I press play and go back to my desk. The Frenchwoman’s words seem to sink into my brain while I am considering the truths of what Dad has said. I repeat after her as I am supposed to, but I don’t know what I am saying. Dad starts laughing.

  “What? Did I mess up?”

  “Aren’t you listening? Some fellow student you turned out to be.” He slowly walks over to the cassette player and presses rewind for a split second. “Now pay attention.”

  The Frenchwoman’s voice begins. “Mon mari est beau. Répétez après moi: Mon mari est beau.”

  Dad orchestrates me from his place at the front of the room. “Come on, repeat after Madame Teacher—Mon mari est beau.”

  The tape continues. “Congratulations, you have just said ‘my husband is handsome.’”

  “How about that?” Dad walks over to the chalkboard and writes “Mari and Beau” and draws a heart around the names.

  What are the odds of this? I look at the chalk drawing and listen to the Frenchwoman. Our names sound so good spoken in French. I’m just not sure I believe what is in Dad’s heart.

  So Long, Farewell

  We file into the church like the von Trapp family. Child after child walks sideways along the pew to get to the last available spot. The church, a historic building that once was the home of Episcopalians, is now a community congregation—The City Church. It has been my parents’ faith home for more than twenty years and the congregants consider them, the center, and the kids an important part of the church’s ministry.

  Since my temporary return, many of the older members who knew me when I was a teenager have welcomed me back with sweet embraces. When I say I am only here for a while, they shake their heads and say, “We’ll see.”

  I am seated between Marcus and Daisy. Daisy is in thick tights, a knit sweater, and a favorite summer dress she will not relinquish to the season change. Marcus has on a charcoal gray dress shirt and black slacks.

  “You clean up nice,” I say.

  He smiles and does not return the compliment because I am dressed in my usual uniform these days, jeans and a bulky sweater. But today I also have on a cute beret, so I point to this until he tells me it is darling.

  When the sermon is about over, the pastor says he has an announcement. “As some of you know, Marcus will be moving to Chicago next month. Our deep loss is Chicago’s blessing. This young man has served this community ever since he was a boy, and now he will do the same for another fortunate community. We want to send him off with resources to help him as he undertakes a noble mission—to establish the Chicago Urban Youth Center.”

  There is applause and I look at Marcus with surprise. I knew he was returning to his place of birth, but he had never mentioned this vision. I nudge him with my knee and he raises his eyebrows and smiles. He likes that I am surprised.

  The pastor continues. “Every week until he leaves, we will take a love offering that will help him purchase supplies for the Youth Center. We are so fortunate to be a part of something so important for Chicago youth. God is good. Let us sing out our gratitude with our closing song.”

  Everybody stands to sing, and the pastor holds up his hand and leans over the microphone. “I also want to mention that this is the last weekend Mari is here for a while. Agnes Sample has agreed to serve in Mari’s place on the fellowship committee, and Harry Zimmer will take Mari’s place on the youth board. Of course, nobody is taking her place completely. We hope she will be with us again soon.”

  People smile and look at me as they break out in song.

  “Why don’t I know about your plan?” I say out of the side of my mouth.

  Marcus pretends he cannot hear me. “Eh?” he says, holding up his Bible to block my face. I bump elbows with him like a sibling to cover up how touched I am that after all these years he is using the Bible I bought him for his high school graduation.

  The kids pour out of the church, scratching their itches and shaking out restless legs. They ask Marcus to count up his first offering—a request he adamantly refuses to fulfill.

  “Oh, man. We want to know how rich you’ll be,” Josiah says.

  Marcus and I simultaneously recite my father’s favorite line to use when we would complain about not having enough clothes, toys, or something we saw in the full-color ad section of the newspaper, “Rich in spirit, poor in wallet.”

  Several of the older kids groan at the bad line. Marcus and I look at each other and laugh at the familiar response.

  Wallace walks between us. “Good thing Mari started the poetry night. You could use a little help with your rhyming, Marcus.” He reaches for our hands and we walk, the three of us, with matching strides.

  Last Call

  All potential poets who have not yet read will read today. This will be our last poetry pizza night before Mari heads West.” Dad uses a megaphone as if he is addressing an unruly crowd, when actually there is calmness among the gatherers.

  “Hoorah!” shout the boys.

  Mom steps up to the stage and reaches into the jar to remove the last two names. It is no surprise. “Wallace and Marcus.”

  “Hoorah!”

  Wallace holds his stomach and asks to go first. He cannot eat until he is done with the torture of public speaking, he says. Marcus concedes his own desire to get it over with and turns the floor over to Wallace. “This
is my poem in honor of our poetry night. For Mari.”

  I give a little bow, and Wallace stands tall as he reads.

  Words that share who we are and who we want to be

  Are born on the night of poetry.

  With pizza for a reward and rhymes to save face

  Acceptance as thick as cheese becomes our grace.

  Wallace pauses and grins. We all laugh.

  And there is something about the sausage, or maybe it’s the sauce

  that makes us dream in color and forget about our loss.

  To this makeshift family, Mari has been a great addition.

  To her we owe our thanks for this wonderful tradition.

  A big “hoorah!” and a crowd wave are initiated. I give Wallace a standing ovation and a big hug. None of us notice that Marcus has snuck behind the soda fountain bar until he steps from behind it with a large piece of board covered with a sheet.

  “Oooh,” I taunt. “The man has props.”

  He points at me. “You in the back, watch it,” he threatens.

  “Wallace, you did an outstanding job honoring Mari. I guess we both had a bit of the same idea in mind. I decided to do a poem of images and words combined. So you will all have to gather around this masterpiece to get the message, so to speak. I know Mari hates to have her photo taken, let alone displayed, but I hope she will forgive and grant me artistic license in this instance.”

  Everyone puts down their pieces of pizza and gathers near Marcus. I stay at the back of the group, unsure of what he is up to.

  The sheet is removed and a storyboard of images seems to chronicle my life from toddler days to high school hair mistakes to as recent as the Halloween party. Brief descriptions or one-word snapshots fill in the spaces between photos. Dream. Passion. Service. Kindness. Friendship. Faith. Adventure. Independence. Hope. Purpose. Wonder. One shot is a computer image of a map—of Tucson, to be exact—and the words beneath it read “the Missing Years.”

  Other words emerge after I have stared at the incredible display for a few minutes. They are written in a lighter shade of marker, but represent the darker or more serious parts of me and my journey. Complicated. Embarrassed. Determined. Stubborn. Willful. Guarded. Uncertain.

  Everyone loves it. The kids are laughing at the photo of me with braces. Then they set their sights on that photo of me with the glasses and helmet and bust up all the more. I have to join in. It’s either that or hide away embarrassed forever. Mom and Dad express “oohs and ahhs” as they recognize different moments in my life.

  “What a great last poem for the season,” Dad says, beaming.

  Marcus has snuck up next to me. He leans over and whispers, “I’m not in too much trouble, am I?”

  I lightly punch his arm. “Not at all. It’s awesome. I thought I smelled rubber cement coming from your room.”

  “Aren’t you so funny.” Pause. “Are you really leaving?”

  “Are you?” I say a bit too quickly, too defensively.

  “Yes. But I’m not leaving behind what this is. Look.” Marcus hands me a photo of a large old house with chairs on the porch and a tricycle on the lawn. There is a tire swing hanging from a thick rope in the forefront of the shot.

  “What’s this?”

  “The house I’m buying in Chicago.”

  “It’s sad that you have to drive a Big Wheel in order to afford a place to live.”

  “I put a down payment on this with a grant I got as a result of my thesis. It’s the future Chicago Urban Youth Center.”

  So this is the good a grant can really do.

  “I didn’t realize you were starting the center. I thought you were working with an organization.” I stare at the house. The shape of possibility is visible to me. “Have Mom and Dad seen this?”

  “I wanted you to be the first. I’d love for you to come and see it.”

  I look up at him. He is hard to read sometimes, but not this time. I return my gaze to the white house with potential. “When could I? I’m gone for a few weeks for the wedding events, and when I get back, we’ll both be loading up to head out again. For good this time.” Sadness rushes into my heart. I gulp.

  “Chicago does fall somewhere between here and Tucson, you know. Will you come back home for Christmas? Make it a stop sometime after a visit.”

  “I’ve missed so much work already. I’m pushing the limits. I’ll be here in a few weeks for Thanksgiving, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Why are you even returning after the wedding, Mari?”

  I roll my eyes. “You sound like Dad. You always have. It’s as if you bypassed being a kid altogether. If you must know, nosey-man, I compromised with Dad. I’ll only be returning to enjoy Thanksgiving and to pack up my remains. That way I don’t have to mess with lugging all my things back for the wedding trip.”

  He nods, somewhat amused by my reasoning.

  “Okay, that sounds a bit confusing. But you’re not always rational, adult, and mature in your decision making. What was Lonna about?”

  He shakes his head—he’s as disappointed as I am in my response.

  I hand him the image of the house. “Forget what I just said. I’m sorry, Marcus. Truthfully, I’ve loved how stable and strong you’ve always been. You are exactly what the Chicago Urban Youth Center will need to get off the ground and running.”

  I’ve blown the moment, but Marcus is gracious about it.

  “Thanks, Mari.”

  “I love the poem. It really helps me see what goodness I have had in my life. What a gift to have a visual of my journey.”

  “Your journey?” he says with a smile.

  “Who else’s?” I ask.

  Elsa and Daisy are grabbing Marcus’ hands and pulling him to a standing position. “Piggyback rides!” they demand in giggles. They know that soon, these silly afternoons with Marcus will be a thing of the past.

  “Guard this,” he says, pressing his dream into the undeserving palm of my hand.

  “I will.”

  While the circus surrounds Marcus, I wander up to the board to examine my life in photos a bit more closely. Even those strange years, the ones that seem a bit dark or insecure in my memories, were filled with light and happiness. Why did I forget that so easily, I wonder.

  One by one, I trace the photos with my finger. I take time to examine my expressions and recall what I was thinking in each circumstance. When I get to the last image, the one of the recent Halloween party, I look at the photo of me surrounded by small pumpkins formerly known as kids. My hands are adjusting the stem hat on Daisy’s head, but my eyes are looking straight at the camera. I’m happy. Everyone is.

  Except for one.

  Beau is standing next to me, but he is a world away. He has his cell phone midway to his ear when he must have noticed the photo was being taken. His other hand has come up in a half salute as if to wave away the camera bearer. His eyes first appear to be looking in the direction that mine are, but I realize they are staring off, beyond the room. They are overlooking the moment.

  I recall what I was thinking when this shot was taken. How can I leave this?

  Beneath this photo Marcus has placed the word “Perspective.”

  The Business of Dating

  As the plane circles for a landing at the Tucson airport, I count on my fingers the times Beau and I have spoken on the phone since he left DC that early morning over a week ago.

  No fingers needed.

  “You seem troubled, dear,” the older woman next to me says over the top of her Glamour magazine.

  I smile and shake my head, hoping to cut off the conversation before it begins. Again. Louise Merrill, a former flight attendant who used to serve this nonstop flight, has been talking nonstop since Chicago. Her incessant chatter, like the voice on museum headphones, has described with great detail the changing scene out the window for a couple hours.

  “Boy trouble? I can always tell. My daughter has a terrible case of the boy blues. She’s a basket case. One day she ca
lls him constantly, the next day she refuses to talk to him. You know what I told her?”

  I wait for her to continue, but she peers at me. Baiting me for an answer.

  “What?”

  “I told her to break it off with the louse, of course.”

  I nod gravely, hoping it will end the conversation.

  “She said she couldn’t because it’d be bad for business.”

  “Business?”

  “She’s a matchmaker,” Louise says laughing. “I guess it would be like a psychic dying in a plane crash.”

  “A little.”

  “Here’s her card. By the looks of your book, you could use her services.”

  About to argue, I glance down at my twisted and mangled copy of The Five Love Languages—a gift from my mom—and take the card.

  “Is he picking you up?”

  My eyes go back to the window and scan the ground below for some landmark I can ask Louise about to sidetrack her from my love life.

  She elbows me. “Well?”

  “I don’t know. It was a while ago that we discussed my flight. And he’s really busy. He’s managing this important research project…” my voice fades. I’m tired of selling Beau to anyone who will listen.

  “When a fella is too busy to pick his girl up at the airport after she has been gone—how long?”

  Elbow again.

  “About four months. But we just saw each other a week ago. We’re good.”

  “Well, when a fella is too busy to get his girl after four months apart, then there is trouble. Capital T, if you ask me.”

  I sense what this woman’s daughter goes through on a daily basis.

  The pilot announces our arrival at the gate. We taxi for a few minutes before the doors to freedom open. I’m quick to gather my bags so I can make it into the terminal before Louise can notice who picks me up. Or doesn’t pick me up.

  Nervously, I survey the people coming and going near the baggage claim, hoping to catch a glimpse of Beau’s shoulders, his dark hair, his timid smile.

  But instead I see Angelica standing at the top of the escalators. She is holding up a big piece of poster board and is chatting with a young boy in a three-piece suit. I wave, but she doesn’t take her attention from the boy. When she reaches the bottom, the sign is visible. Glittered handprints form a frame around the words: “Welcome Home Mari. Love, the Golden Horizons Gang.”