by Rebecca Rupp
With feelings you never know where you are.
WHERE IT REALLY ALL STARTED was with Ray.
Ray, for as long as I’d known her, and which, since she’s my mother, has been my entire life, had been a seeker. She was a seeker long before me too, but nothing she’d found had ever worked out very well.
First she was seeking for world peace and universal justice, and she went to rallies, and Boone has a picture of her with about a million other people marching on the mall in Washington, D.C. But nothing ever came of that because of big business and the oil companies and the military-industrial complex actually running the country.
Then she was seeking for women’s rights and sisterhood, and she belonged to a lot of consciousness-raising groups and stopped shaving her legs and washing her hair. But that didn’t work out either because, even though Ray believes in equal pay for equal work, she got sick of belonging to book clubs that wouldn’t read books if the authors were males.
After that she was an environmental activist, and she belonged to this guerrilla gardeners’ society that used to sneak into parks and vacant lots and plant tomatoes when no one was looking. That was when she decided to go to law school and study environmental law. She was still seeking to save the planet then, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt to save it while earning a regular salary, with health benefits.
That was when she met Boone, who was working as a financial planner and painting on the side, which was stifling his creative flow. So after Ray graduated from law school, they moved to Vermont, because by then Ray was seeking the simple life and Boone was willing to do anything that would let him paint in the daytime. They were planning to live on a farm and raise organic vegetables and free-range chickens and make their own maple syrup and toothpaste and yogurt, and Ray was going to learn to weave. But that didn’t work out either because first they had cutworms, and then Ray turned out to be allergic to chicken feathers, and when they boiled the sap to make maple syrup, all the wallpaper in the kitchen peeled off. So they gave up and moved into town, which is when they had me.
Actually Boone never totally gave up on the simple life, because he still had a garden in the yard beside his painting shed. Also he was always quoting Henry David Thoreau, who was famous for living at Walden Pond in a house he built by himself, growing his own beans, and then writing a book about it.
Boone would say things like “‘Do not lose hold of your dreams or aspirations. For if you do, you may still exist but you have ceased to live.’” Once when Ray bought a new living-room couch, he said, “‘I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion.’”
Ray said that he could sit on a pumpkin all he wanted, but she was sick of the broken springs poking her in the behind.
Anyway the new couch was not velvet. It was blue plaid.
But Ray never stopped seeking, and ever since I was eight or nine or so, she’d been seeking for spiritual fulfillment and the deeper meaning of life. Basically that meant that she kept trying all these different churches, but none of the ones she tried was ever right because she never liked any of them enough to settle down.
For Winton Falls this was weird, since people here don’t change much when it comes to religion. Most of the French kids are Catholic, like their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents probably all the way back to Saint Peter, and they go to the Church of the Holy Nativity at the end of Spring Street. The Protestant kids are mostly Methodists, Baptists, Congregationalists, or Episcopalians. Aaron Pennebaker and Jeannie Greenberg are Jewish, and Earl Barney is a Jehovah’s Witness and goes to the Kingdom Hall over on Route 7A. But whatever people are here, they usually stay that way.
Except Ray. She kept switching from place to place all the time, trying to find her perfect spiritual fit. She made me think of a book I had when I was little called The Missing Piece, which was about this sad little circle with a triangle-shaped chunk taken out of it, rolling around the world searching for the perfect little triangle that would make it whole. She took classes in yoga breathing and she tried the Way of Tao Meditation Center in Richford, and for a while she went to Wiccan meetings with a woman named Clarice who wore caftans and necklaces shaped like pentagrams. For a couple of months she even belonged to the Enlightened Brethren, who met every week in somebody’s garage and talked about the end of the world. And she tried all the regular churches too.
Boone used to say that Ray shopped for spiritual experiences the way other women shopped for shoes, and he’d joke about the flavor of the month. Boone wasn’t seeking. He was happy with oil paint and Henry David Thoreau.
The first hint I had that Ray had found something new came on a Sunday morning at the beginning of August before school had started. I could tell by the way Ray came up the stairs, fast, with her heels clicking on the steps like castanets. She only did that if something big was up and we were late for it. She poked her head in the doorway of my bedroom, where I was lying on my bed reading Anne of Green Gables. I had just reached the part where Anne had bought hair dye from a peddler and it turned her hair green.
“Octavia, you’re not dressed yet,” Ray said.
Second hint.
“Yes, I am,” I said, because I was. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
“I must have forgotten to tell you,” Ray said, which made me suspicious right there. Ray never forgot anything.
“Tell me what?” I said.
“We’re going to a new church,” Ray said. She sounded bright, but a little nervy, the way people do when they’re talking up something that they know in their heart of hearts you’re going to hate. By this time, I’d been to enough new churches (etc.) with Ray to last a lifetime.
“I don’t want to go,” I said. “I want to stay home with Boone.”
Boone does not go to church. He says that spiritual experiences are not meant to be social events. Ray says that Boone is a hopeless cause.
After all the dragging around to churches, I wished Ray would consider me a hopeless cause too, but when I asked, she wouldn’t go for it. To be a hopeless cause, Ray said, you have to be over twenty-five.
“I want you to give this a chance,” Ray said. “I’ve been there several times, and they’re lovely people. You might actually enjoy yourself. Get up out of there and put on that nice green skirt. And comb your hair.”
“I’m reading,” I said.
“You can read when we get home,” Ray said.
Looking back, it was right then that I wish I’d had an Ominous Knee.
Because then I’d have had some warning. It would have been twinging all over the place, telling me of the coming storm.
RAY’S LATEST WAS CALLED the Fellowship of the Redeemer, and it was in Wolverton, where the high school is, because by then Ray had pretty much exhausted everything in Winton Falls. The Redeemers met in what used to be the Cadillac Motel. Ray pulled into the motel parking lot, which was practically full. On either side of us there were bumper stickers that read RIGHT TO LIFE, HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS, and DUCKS UNLIMITED. Where the motel sign used to be it now said FELLOWSHIP HALL OF THE REDEEMER in big black letters. The Redeemers had kept the old motel VACANCY sign though, which still dangled beneath the bigger sign on little chains.
“What’s that all about?” I said. “Are they still renting rooms?”
Ray gave me a look.
“It’s a friendly gesture to show that there’s always room for new members,” she said. “I think it’s funny. I told you, Octavia, these people are nice.”
But then she’d said that about the Enlightened Brethren too, who in my opinion were about as nice as a coven of ax murderers.
Inside, what used to be the motel lobby was now decorated with potted palms, red drapes with gold cords, crosses, and a lot of framed photographs of famous Redeemers, including one of a lady with her hands folded and her eyes turned up soulfully as if she was trying to see her own eyebrows. What used to be the motel bedrooms were now all meeting rooms a
nd classrooms, which I thought was pretty funny considering the reputation of the Cadillac Motel, and there were now tables and chairs and blackboards where the beds and the TVs for the X-rated movies used to be.
Ray took me to Room 12 (No Smoking), which was where I was going to be educated while she was off in the ex-motel conference center being spiritually fulfilled. Inside there were about a dozen kids sitting around a table, and they all stared at me when I walked in the door. The teacher was all over Ray. You’d have thought they were long-lost sisters.
“Rachel!” she said. She had one of those voices that reminded me somehow of chocolate. “I meant to call to tell you how much I enjoyed our talk last week. And I’m so glad that you’ve brought your daughter. She’s a beauty, Rachel.”
Which was laying it on super-thick because I am no beauty. I have straight brown hair and I am skinny and tall. Aaron Pennebaker calls me the Giraffe.
“This is Octavia, Janet,” Ray said. “Octavia, this is Mrs. Prescott.”
“She has your eyes,” Mrs. Prescott said. And then to me, “Did you know, dear, that the eyes are windows to the soul?”
So this woman did not know anatomy.
Ray poked me in the back.
“Actually most people think I look like my father,” I said.
Mrs. Prescott had round glasses with black plastic frames, bright brown eyes, streaky brown hair, and round pink cheeks. She reminded me of a cartoon I used to watch when I was a little kid about Chibby the Cheerful Chipmunk.
“I know you’ll be a wonderful addition to our group, Octavia,” Mrs. Prescott said, all chocolate and cheerful. She pointed to an empty folding chair. “Why don’t you take a seat right over there, next to Marjean?”
I sat down, which I didn’t want to do, and Ray and Mrs. Prescott hugged each other, and Ray, with barely a backward glance, took off, leaving me with a roomful of strangers. Also I had no escape route, since Ray had the car keys. Though of course even if I’d managed to nab them, I didn’t know how to drive.
Marjean had freckles and a pair of thick blond braids that wrapped around her head. She was wearing a blue gingham pinafore dress with ruffles that looked like the sort of thing Laura Ingalls might have worn in Little House on the Prairie.
“You’ve got a really weird name,” Marjean said.
I shrugged. I agreed with her totally, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
“And your clothes are all wrong,” Marjean said.
“What?” I said.
Thinking that Marjean was not exactly the person to give fashion advice. I wondered what Polly Pelletier would do if she ever got her hands on Marjean. Marjean was kind of cute actually, if you could get past the braids and the pinafore.
“When we fail to follow the rule of modesty, we create unwholesome thoughts in the minds of those who see us,” Marjean said, sounding as if she was quoting somebody.
Based on my initial observations, it was clear that those who followed the rule of modesty were asking to be tortured laughingstocks in the seventh grade at Winton Falls Elementary and Middle School K–8.
I opened my mouth to say so, but just then Mrs. Prescott began clapping her hands and everybody had to shut up. It was clear to me that Marjean and I were not going to hit it off. Privately I decided to refer to Marjean from now on as Margarine.
“First,” Mrs. Prescott said, “I’d like to introduce you all to our new class member, Octavia Boone. I know you’ll all do your best to welcome Octavia and make her feel at home.”
A kid at the foot of the table who was wearing a clip-on tie with a pattern of race cars on it nudged the kid next to him and said, “What was her name? Octopus?” and then laughed haw-haw-haw with his mouth open.
Mrs. Prescott said, “Octavia, we like to start our sessions each time by reminding us why we’re all together here. We call this the Ceremony of Affirmation, and I hope that soon you’ll feel ready to join in. I like to think that the Affirmation is like a golden chain, reminding us that no matter what our differences are, we’re all bound together by love and faith.”
She paused and peered brightly around the table.
“This time we’ll start with you, Ronnie. Do you love Jesus and accept him as your personal savior?”
Ronnie was the haw-haw kid at the foot of the table. His ears, which were enormous, stuck out.
“Yes,” Ronnie said.
I realized right then that I should never have gotten into the car with Ray. I should have wrapped my arms around the bedpost and screamed for Boone. I should have locked my door and shoved the bureau in front of it.
“Cathy Ann, do you love Jesus and accept him as your personal savior?”
Cathy Ann had curly dark hair pinned behind her ears with butterfly barrettes and a bandage on her chin. I wondered meanly if she’d done something awful with a pimple.
“Yes, I do,” Cathy Ann said.
“Paul, do you love Jesus and accept him as your personal savior?”
Paul did. Then Ashley, Matthew, Marie, Marjean, Wesley, Todd, and Kristin all accepted Jesus as their personal saviors.
I decided that when we got home I was going to kill Ray.
I looked over Mrs. Prescott’s head. Above her, hanging on the wall, was a color picture of Jesus. He had long wavy hair, rosy cheeks, and a dreamy expression. I wondered if he knew he was hanging in a room where for years and years people had been doing drug deals and committing adultery.
“Octavia, we all hope you’ll be able to join with us next time,” Mrs. Prescott said. “But we want you to know that we’re all glad you’re here. Let’s all say a prayer of welcome for Octavia right now.”
If there’s anything more embarrassing than a roomful of people praying for you, I don’t know what it is. And the hour that followed was possibly the longest of my life, and that’s counting time in the dentist’s chair getting a tooth drilled and in the emergency room at the hospital the day Andrew and I were pretending to be Tarzan and Cheetah on the swing and I broke my left arm. We had more prayers and then Bible readings and then a Bible verse quiz game, in which I came in last. Then Mrs. Prescott had everybody share stories about how God had helped them in their daily lives.
Ronnie said that last Saturday he lost the money his mother had given him to go to the movies, but he asked God for help and then he found a five-dollar bill under a bush.
Marjean told how she’d lost her math homework and couldn’t find it anywhere, but she prayed and then she heard a voice in her head telling her where to look for it and she did and it was there.
What a waste of God’s time, I thought. What if he was supposed to be off taking care of starving people in Africa but instead he has to turn around and help some whiny kids find stuff?
“Can you think of any times when God has helped you, Octavia?” Mrs. Prescott asked.
I decided to kill Ray with slow torture.
“No,” I said.
Mrs. Prescott gave me a kindly smile.
“That’s fine, Octavia,” she said. “But I’m sure God has helped you many times, whether you realize it or not.”
It seemed like a geological era before class was over and Ray came to collect me. When we left, Mrs. Prescott said she looked forward to seeing me next Sunday.
I thought that she could look forward until hell freezes over.
My O word for this experience: Odious.
THE BIG QUESTIONS about life, the universe, and everything were Andrew’s idea. He thought them up right at the beginning of the school year, in September, which is one of my favorite months even though it doesn’t have an O in it, because September is such a beautiful blue-and-gold sort of word.
It was recess period at school. We were sitting on the grass at the edge of the playground after lunch, and Andrew was eating a cupcake. Andrew eats practically all the time. By all rights, he should be the size of one of those giant balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
“My mother’s hanging red ribbons in the car,” Andrew s
aid.
Andrew’s parents are not weird in the same way as Boone and Ray, but they are weird all the same. Weird parents is one of the bonds Andrew and I have, along with our mutual hatred of Mrs. Baines, whose firing by the School Board we celebrated by toasting with ginger ale and then throwing firecrackers off Andrew’s back porch until Andrew’s mother caught us.
“How come?” I said.
“It’s an auspicious color,” Andrew said glumly. “It’s supposed to adjust our energy and protect us from accidents.”
Andrew’s father is a Buddhist and his mother practices feng shui. Their house is full of crystals and wind chimes and bamboo plants, and there’s a big mirror in the kitchen so that while cooking his mother will not experience negative chi. Andrew’s bedroom is in their house’s Wealth Corner, so he’s not allowed to open the windows, even in summer, because of possibly causing wealth to flow out of the family savings account.
This has caused Andrew to decide to be a philosopher. Andrew thinks that the purpose of life is to search in a logical fashion for answers to the world’s big questions, which he feels that his parents have not done.
“What makes you think life has a purpose?” I said.
“Because it has to,” Andrew said. “We wouldn’t be here on this planet just for nothing, would we?”
It seemed to me that a philosopher should have a better answer than that, but I didn’t want to hurt Andrew’s feelings.
It was a beautiful warm day, like a little piece of summer suddenly plopped down at the beginning of fall. Kids were running around without their jackets. Boone says this kind of weather is called Indian summer, but I’ll bet it isn’t anymore because that’s politically incorrect. It’s probably called Native American summer.
“All right,” I said. “So what are the world’s big questions?”
Andrew finished his cupcake and licked the frosting off his fingers. Then he said that the world’s big questions are the ones that lead to an understanding of life, the universe, and everything.
