by Louise Voss
Something strange happened to me during his sermon. It was as though he was a wizard who’d cast a spell on me, and I was enthralled and awestruck. He launched into a story about a young boy with churchgoing friends, who scoffed at religion and laughed at their devotion. “I don’t have time for this stuff now!” the boy had said. “There’s far too much to do—I have to ride my bike and watch TV and build model airplanes. I don’t want to be stuck in some boring old church! No, there’ll be plenty of time for that later, when I’m grown up. God can wait.” But the very next day this boy was run over and killed by a truck when he was out riding his bicycle.
“The Very Next Day,” said the preacher, loudly and ominously, staring ferociously at each member of the congregation in turn. He stared at me for so long I nearly fainted. A mulberry blush enveloped me, not just sweeping to the roots of my hair but crawling inside my nostrils and eardrums, too.
“That boy did not have plenty of time. He found out to his cost that you cannot ignore Jesus, you cannot turn your back on Him. He loves you, like no human ever could or will—you must not snub Him. God alone knows when your time will come to face Him and repent, but you do not. So you must not be like this foolish boy, you must repent now!”
I was literally on the edge of my seat, freaked out and sweating but absolutely hooked. Randy and Mary Ellen next to me seemed riveted, too, but less anxiously so. I supposed they didn’t have anything to worry about. They were well in there already. Fear and exhilaration in combination sent adrenaline coursing through my body. I had never felt like this before. How could I have been so lax, so dumb as to ignore the one who cared about me so deeply, who loved me unconditionally for who I was? I had only one chance to prove myself worthy of His love, and this was it. The preacher’s voice got louder and his face redder.
“Jesus wants you!” he yelled, pounding the podium with his fist. I imagined myself with a glow surrounding me, holding Jesus’ hand and looking into His eyes; He smiles at me sadly but with ineffable love. Suddenly everything else in my little world seemed unimportant—the pain of separation from Sam, what people thought of me, how I hated my body. None of this mattered in the slightest anymore.
“Who has the courage to take this first step? Who will hand their life over to Jesus before it’s too late? Who will admit they were wrong? Who among you will change your path to the path leading to heaven? Right here, right now—remember, you don’t have the time you thought you did! This is the most important thing you will ever do.… ”
To my amazement my hand shot up into the air, uncontrolled, like a hiccup. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to stop. I stood up, glancing briefly back at the sea of faces behind me but not taking them in. I was crying and shaking but proud of myself. Someone appeared from nowhere and guided me out of my pew and up the aisle to the front. The preacher put his hand heavily on the top of my head and said, “Bless you, child,” and I felt the tiny click of his chunky signet ring against my scalp, like the first tap of a teaspoon on the shell of a boiled egg.
Then I was led away to a quiet room off to the side. I was dimly aware of others following me, each with his own guide. There was a middle-aged man in a golf sweater, another girl around my age who was also crying, a sheepish-looking teenage boy. We all knelt and prayed together for forgiveness and redemption. I felt like the miserable sinner that I was, but I knew I had been saved. It felt like a very lucky escape. I promised then and there to be a virgin until I got married, that God would be my only love until that time.
The preacher came in and prayed with us. He was sweating heavily and his pale helmet of hair seemed to have had air injected into it from underneath, as it now looked bouffant and alive from his evangelical exertions. He blessed us each again, and gave us a tiny metallic cross pin, which I pinned next to my visitor’s pink ribbon. Then we were led back to our seats, accompanied by strains of the guitarist, who had struck up again. It felt like the part in a wedding where the bride and groom and their family go off somewhere to sign the bridal register, and the rest of the congregation sits and whispers to one another while a jowly soprano quavers out a tune to keep everyone from getting bored.
I didn’t know what had hit me. I felt overwhelmed, as if there was a new and worthy person inside my body.
Mary Ellen squeezed my arm when I returned. “Welcome, Helena. Congratulations,” she said, and Randy whispered, “Praise the Lord,” into my other ear. We all stood up to sing the final hymn, a modern happy-clappy number. I was not even embarrassed when everybody put their hands in the air and a few people called out, “Thank yew, Jee-sus!”
The service was over. I shakily filled out the visitor’s form at the end of the pew and walked back down the aisle with Randy and Mary Ellen. Strangers congratulated me all the way, smiling and clapping me on the shoulder. I felt proud and self-righteous, and only a tiny bit foolish.
I HEAR THUNDER
WHERE WAS ALL THAT JOY NOW? I WONDERED, DROPPING MY OPEN notebook onto my lap and flopping against the back of my visitor’s armchair with exhaustion. My wrist ached and my fingers were cramped into a writer’s claw from the effort of so much longhand. I wondered how different my life would have been if I’d remained a Christian. I wouldn’t be in this mess, that was for sure. But then, no money or success, either. Ergo no fame. I’d never have survived in the band if I’d kept the church as my priority. I imagined myself instead as a leading light in the Freehold, New Jersey, Baptist Church, organizing youth groups and potluck suppers, married to an earnest young minister with bum-fluff and stiffly creased pants. Three kids, stretch marks, and tons of wrinkles from taking on the cares of the entire parish. No, on reflection, fame had to have been better, even if the fate of my eternal soul was in question.
“Is this a bad time? ”
Toby and Ruby hovered in the doorway. I was both embarrassed and delighted to see them, although Ruby looked concerned that I might start shouting again, and Toby had an unreadable, closed expression on his face.
“No, no, come in. I’d just finished the bit I was on. Sorry I was so grumpy yesterday, Toby. It was a bit of a bad day—well, apart from about three minutes of it.… ”
I blushed at my flirtatious remark, but Toby did not acknowledge it, nor did he ask how my nose was feeling. All the warmth in his face seemed to have been wiped away, like an erased Etch-A-Sketch. Suddenly I felt foolish and ugly, and figured that he was only visiting me because he’d said he would. He was obviously mortified at what had happened the day before outside the lift.
Ruby sidled into the room and insisted that Toby lift her up onto my bed, out of reach of me and my scary face. She was wearing baby Nikes, black sweatpants, and a black sleeveless zip-up jacket.
I decided to act as if nothing had happened. “Wow, Ruby, you look really cool. You have some lovely clothes, you know.”
“Tankoo, that’s kind,” Ruby said condescendingly, sticking her finger into her mouth and smiling graciously. She seemed to have concluded that perhaps I wasn’t so bad after all.
Toby sat down next to her on the bed. “Don’t worry about yesterday. It’s forgotten. So what are you working on?”
He had a bright, false tone that I assumed was his “Pas Devant Les Enfants” voice—or maybe his “Let’s pretend we never kissed at all” voice. Then I realized he’d asked me a question. I looked down at the pages of scribble resting open on my knee and hastily closed the notebook.
“I’m, um, writing a book about my life.”
Toby acted impressed. “How incredible! And what a fantastically positive thing to do. I bet that’s really helping you emotionally, too.”
“Mm,” I said. “It’s certainly, er, focusing my mind.… How’s Kate?”
Toby’s face twisted into another strange expression: half-sheepish, half-pleased.
“Good news,” he said. “We’ve just been with her for an hour, and guess what? Ruby sang her favorite song to her, and she moved her finger! Twice! The doctor says that’s a sign th
at she might finally be coming out of it.”
He hugged Ruby and ruffled her curls. “You’re such a great girl, aren’t you, my angel? ”
Ruby beamed and nodded.
I felt a sudden flash of envy for Kate, despite her awful accident. She would wake up and recover with the support and love of these two wonderful people and, doubtless, her life would be further enriched by her dice with death, and she and Toby would be more deeply in love than ever. Toby had, of course, already realized what a hideous mistake he’d made by kissing me, and how much he really adored Kate. Well, bully for them.
I was horrified by my churlish reaction.
“God, Toby, that’s great. I’m so pleased for you, honestly. You must be over the moon. And Ruby, aren’t you clever, making your mummy better? What did you sing to her? ”
Ruby considered for a minute. “I … funder.”
“Sorry?”
“I … funder.”
I looked toward Toby for assistance.
“I hear thunder,” he translated.
“Oh, right. I don’t think I know that one. How does it go? ”
“It’s the preschool version of ‘Frère Jacques.’ Will you sing it for Helena, Rubes? It’ll help her get all better, too.”
Ruby sat up and began to sing tunelessly, with Toby mouthing the words beside her:
“I … funder, I … funder
‘Ark, doan you? ‘Ark, doan you?
Pipper papper waindops
Pipper papper waindops
I wet froo
THO-ARE-YOU!”
The song was accompanied by gestures: clapping for the thunder, cupping a hand around her ear for the “Hark, don’t you?,” finger-twitching for the pitter-patter, plucking at her jacket to indicate that she was wet through, and a final crescendo of pointing. It was really sweet, and if I hadn’t been so pissed off with Toby, I could quite easily have welled up with soppy tears.
“Aw, Ruby, that was brilliant. No wonder your mummy is getting all better now. She probably wants to hear it over and over.”
Needing no more encouragement, Ruby began again. Toby hastily tried a distraction technique.
“Hey, Ruby, remember that Nurse Grace said she’d found a box of toys for you? Shall we go and see if you can play with them for a bit? ”
“Oooh, toys,” said Ruby gleefully. “Bye, lady, thee you later!”
“It’s Helena, Ruby. Say good-bye to Helena.”
“Bye, Ellna.”
“Bye, Ruby.”
“Helena, I’ll just go and get her sorted. Grace said she’d take her off my hands for ten minutes—then we can have a proper chat, okay?”
He gave me a meaningful, although still stern, look, and I thought, Right, earwig. It’s going to be the “Now my wife’s on the mend, I’ll see you around” chat.
Nonetheless, once they’d disappeared, I slipped on my silk Liberty dressing gown and quickly ran a comb through my hair. I wanted to be Dumped with Dignity.
But perhaps I was wrong? Perhaps he was just being standoffish so Ruby didn’t suspect anything. Perhaps he was coming back for a repeat of yesterday’s tryst? I hopped into the bathroom for another swig of mouthwash and to dab some perfume onto my neck. I realized I didn’t want to be Dumped at all.
The guilt that had been absent yesterday now pricked at my skin, as abrasive and intrusive as the deodorant I’d just sprayed under my arms. Where was my membership in the sisterhood? Here I was, hoping to seduce an unconscious woman’s husband. I felt ashamed of myself.
But not ashamed enough to hope it didn’t happen again.
Ten minutes went by and Toby didn’t come back. I sat for a further ten minutes, posed in my armchair watching Time Team on TV, haughty and abandoned like Miss Haversham. Then I began to get worried, and fed up with watching a lot of loosely woven people getting excited about pot shards. I went out into the corridor and looked up and down—no sign of either of them.
Eventually Catriona appeared. “Oh, sorry, Helena, I forgot to tell you—Toby asked me to send his apologies, but we had to get him back to his wife pronto. She opened her eyes!”
“Great,” I said. “That’s really great.”
Carole King
HOME AGAIN
THE NEXT YEAR WAS MUCH HAPPIER THAN I HAD IMAGINED IT would be, despite missing Sam terribly.
“Jesus has buttered your paws,” said Margie wisely, a couple of months after I’d joined the church.
“I beg your pardon?” I said. I’d also discovered that the more English I sounded, the more popular I became.
“You’re like a kitty with a new owner. The Lord has taken you from the pet store of your old existence, brought you to a new home, and buttered your paws. That’s what you do with cats to help them settle into a new place. Licking off all the butter helps them relax, so by the time they’re done, they feel like they belong there.”
“Oh, er, right,” I said.
But in a way, it was true. The church had given me a sense of belonging. Although I didn’t exactly gel with most of the other God-struck teenagers, having a routine of my own did help ease the sting of reading Sam’s letters about boyfriends and parties and rumors of Melanie Welling’s famous friends.
I went to church every Sunday, and Bible class each Wednesday. Within weeks I had joined the choir, so choir practice on Thursdays occupied another of my previously empty evenings.
I loved being in the choir. I had a deepish, clear voice and could easily pick up harmonies on the hymns and spirituals, even without the music in front of me. I also loved being in front of the congregation, dressed in an all-encompassing red cassock. It was my first experience of public performance, and I was hooked. It wasn’t just the cassock that surrounded me, either. My new faith swirled and eddied about me constantly like an aura; I felt protected by it, elevated, and really, really loved.
At first my fourteen-year-old self wanted to keep it private for fear of ridicule, but as time went on my confidence grew, and I was no longer ashamed of doing lunchtime Bible study with my churchy cronies. I sometimes felt as though I could swing from the rafters proclaiming that Jesus was Lord.
My parents were greatly relieved at the change in me. Their previously homesick and withdrawn daughter had transformed into something approximating a ray of sunshine. In fact, had I not been so happy, I think that they would have found it rather disturbing.
One Sunday I dragged them along to church with me, but they did not enjoy it. When we got home again, I overheard Mum mutter to Dad, “Rather vulgar, don’t you think, George?”
I was furious. I burst into the living room, making my mother spill her sherry on the leatherette pouffe. “You’re such hypocrites!” I yelled. “You say you believe in God, you drag me to Sunday school all those years, and now when I finally have a faith of my own, you sneer at it! How dare you!”
My father pulled out his handkerchief and tried to mop up the spilled sherry, looking anxious. “Now calm down, Helena, nobody’s sneering. Don’t shout at your mother.”
Mum had the grace to look ashamed. She put her hand on my arm. “Oh, Helena, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sneering at you or your faith, really. We’re both so pleased that you are so much happier and more settled—we’ve been so worried about you. It’s just, well, you know, your father and I aren’t used to people being so … vocal in their beliefs. It certainly wasn’t like that at St. Thomas’s.”
I couldn’t help grinning. It was true, they had both looked mortified when the congregation’s hands started waving in the air during the first hymn. My father hadn’t known where to put himself. And in truth I was rather relieved that they had not taken to my church. If there was such a thing as a spiritual style, I felt that my parents would definitely have cramped mine.
“Okay, Mum. Sorry I shouted at you.”
Dad, looking relieved that the crisis was over, went out into the garden to practice his golf swing. Mum poured herself another sherry and put her feet up to read a gardening magazine
. I went upstairs to listen to my newest favorite record—Carole King’s Tapestry, ever since that first Bible study meeting—and to try to write to Sam. Normality had resumed.
Although we still corresponded regularly, I’d recently been having trouble finding things to write about. After I first got converted, I wrote her screeds and screeds of babble about how wonderful my life was now, and how she must try Jesus, as though He were a new and desirable brand of lipstick. My enthusiasm for my new religion was so overwhelming that I was genuinely surprised when Sam didn’t immediately follow suit and get converted, too.
Even from across the Atlantic, I thought I’d managed to suffuse her with the same joy that it gave me. I really wanted her to be as happy as I was. Her replies ignored my pleas entirely, which just made me more insistent, until one day I got a brief note from her, unlike her usual chatty missives.
Dear Helena,
Thanks for your letter. I’m writing this in Home Economics before Miss Parry notices—my cheese and onion pie is in the oven and I’m supposed to be cleaning up. Sorry if this letter’s got flour all over it. Have you heard of Hazel O’Connor? She’s had a couple of hits here (including a fantastic song called “Will You?”) and we went to see her at the City Hall—can you believe it, a proper pop concert in Salisbury! It was absolutely brilliant. Melanie said she read in Smash Hits that the saxophone player was blind, but he was wearing a wristwatch onstage, so now we aren’t sure.
Uh-oh, Miss P’s on the warpath.…
