This is Pam. My mother. The sum total of everything I really know about her. Smiling with my father on their wedding day. Standing on a lawn looking tired. Holding a baby. She looks like me. Small, light brown hair, greenish eyes. Not beautiful, but interesting. Her chin is pointier than mine, and the eyes have a slightly different tilt, but we are very alike. No wonder Father Felix and Ruth Ann knew me at once.
For a while I sat cross-legged on the floor, studying the pictures before the open drawer, looking for another clue. I remember the day I found these pictures. I was eight. I’d just been given laundry folding and putting away duty. I knew instantly who these pictures were. I had sat on the floor, looking at them in awe, until I heard my father’s footsteps on the front porch. I was punished that day too, for not having done my work in a timely fashion. I don’t think he ever figured out I had found the pictures.
After a while I turned the picture of her with the baby over and looked at the date. I had always thought that the date on the picture was wrong. That was until I met Ruth Ann and she stumbled into the family history backwards and sideways. I could still hear her words clearly. “He told us you died when Josh passed”. This then was Josh in Pam’s arms. My mother and my brother. I memorized the date. June 16th 1978. Then I put the pictures back in the envelope and tucked them back under the sweaters.
I would have liked to stay longer, assured that my father was far far away. But I had worked until well after lunch at St. Paul’s and I was hungry. Also, I wanted to stop at the store. I felt the need for a well-cooked dinner, and it seemed it was up to me to do the cooking.
As I walked back through the house, I resisted the urged to clean and straighten. I did not take the spoiled food out of the fridge, I did not dust a bookshelf, or stop and mop the kitchen floor. I certainly could have. I doubt he would even notice if I had. All these things, and many more, had once been my responsibility. Now they were not a duty I was willing to take up again. Although my fingers twitched with the effort of ignoring the disorder.
*
When I got back to the Brandt’s farm I carried the grocery bags into the kitchen and started breaking them down. Milk, bacon, eggs in the fridge, veggies cleaned and left on the drain board to wait for my knife, chicken prepped and placed on the grill out on the back deck, just outside the back kitchen door. When the chicken was started, I turned on the radio Dory kept in the kitchen. During happier days she used to dance around the kitchen and sing with us into spoons or spatulas. Now I changed the station from the top 40 station that came on to a classic rock station.
It was too late in the day to start bread, so I instead made biscuits, and a tossed salad with homemade vinaigrette dressing. I set the table neatly, for seven, hopeful that Dory would come down and join us instead of having her husband bring her a tray after the fact.
Just as I was about to go check on the chicken and take it off the grill, Linus entered the kitchen from outside with a look of hope on his face that crashed immediately when he saw me working in his wife’s domain. I almost apologized for being there. Instead I smiled. “Thought I’d make dinner.”
“Thank you, Kay.”
“Would you check the chicken? It should be about done.”
“Sure,” said Linus, before turning to the sink and washing his hands.
I put the salad on the table, and turned to filling water glasses. Linus took the blue stoneware plate I had set out for the chicken, and went to check the grill. Just as he was out the door, a rumpled and still mutinous Ivy showed up at the kitchen door. “Can I help, too?”
“Sure! Grab the biscuits out of the oven and pop them in that basket over there.”
She pulled the biscuits out of the oven, setting the tray on the stove top, then grabbed the bread basket. “I’m sorry, you know. It was wrong of me to blame you for what happened with Mom,” she said in a chocked little voice as she moved biscuits into the bread basket.
“I know.”
She looked hard at me as she moved from the stove to set the basket on the table. I finished filling the water glasses and met her gaze.
“So we’re good?”
“We’re good,” I said.
She set the basket on the table, and I set the pitcher down for a quick hug. And we really were good.
“How was parament duty? Did you meet Pastor Brett?”
“It was fine. Things were in good shape mostly. Pastor Brett seems like a nice guy.”
“We should get out of town tomorrow. We could go shopping, or get at least get some lunch. I hear the art museum has some huge glass installation right now.”
Linus came back in with the chicken and set it on the table.
“I’ll go get the boys,” said Ivy, disappearing out the back door toward the barn.
“I’ll go get Dory,” said Linus.
I wasn’t alone long in the kitchen. The boys and Ivy came back quickly. They were hungry too. Ivy, Mark, and Lem sat in their usual places at the table, while John helped me gather the condiments and extra napkins. We were all seated when Linus reappeared and seated himself with a shrug. Dory wasn’t coming.
We joined hands and bowed our heads to pray. Linus was just drawing breath to lead off, when the doorbell rang. He quickly led the prayer, then excused himself to answer the door. We started passing around chicken and salad with no curiosity whatsoever about the visitor, as no one was expected. Besides, at this time of day, it was as likely to be someone looking for directions. Anyone who knew where they were would surely be eating supper, too.
Linus’ voice carried a little from the living room, he sounded surprised, but we could not hear, and did not strain to pick up his words. Then he reappeared at the kitchen door with someone following him.
“Keziah, your fiancé is here. So I invited him to join us.”
“What?” I choked slightly on a sip of water I had just taken.
Linus resumed his seat, and there, standing in the kitchen door, in all of his nubby polyester glory was Porter, my father’s protégé. Porter took the empty chair next to me at the foot of the table.
“I’m sorry, Linus, we are not engaged, I barely even know Porter.”
“We are engaged, Keziah. God has spoken. You will be my wife. I know it is a shock, but you must try and bend your will to obedience,” said Porter, helping himself to a chicken breast as if it were completely normal to show up and announce an impending marriage to your flabbergasted, theoretical bride.
“God has spoken or my father has spoken?”
“God has spoken through the Elder. I am here to finish overseeing the building of the community, and so that we may become better acquainted before the appointed day.”
Around the table all activity had come to a halt. John and Ivy were obviously angry on my behalf, Lem and Mark confused, Linus wary. The looks on their faces alone should have spoiled his food, but Porter started consuming, in neat gulps, what he had apportioned himself.
“And when is this wedding to take place?” I asked.
“When the Elder and the congregation return at the end of the summer. Ours will be the first wedding in the new church.”
“I will not marry you. Not at the end of the summer. Not ever. You would be wise to learn the difference between God speaking and my father speaking.”
“You will except my leadership in this my dear. God has spoken. It will be. Do you doubt the Word of God?”
“God has spoken? How? Did he send you a candygram?”
John had bristled at the use of the term “my dear”. He rose from his seat threateningly. “Shall I show this person back out, Kay?”
For a second I was torn between taking John up on his offer, and running to hide in Ivy’s room. But I knew only too well that the best defense I had was to stand firm in my own convictions. “No, we should feed him before we persecute him. It’s the only polite thing to do,” I said to John with what I hoped was a dismissive grin.
“You will all be called to repentance for your doubt,” sai
d Porter as he continued to eat.
I gave a tiny, and admittedly forced laugh. “You can’t force me into something I don’t want to do.”
John sat back down. After a few moments of chewing and passing food, Ivy tried to start the conversation. “I saw the loveliest green summer-weight sweater over at the co-op and thought of you.”
“Green is a vain color,” Porter intoned. And thus began another largely silent meal at the Brandt’s.
Nine
John did not get to bodily throw Porter out of the Brandt’s. When the meal was over Linus firmly asked Porter to go, and Porter complied. I’ll give Porter this: he knows when he has made himself unwelcome. Many times since that night he has proven that he betters my father in this respect. Walton Taylor never knew when to leave a room.
After Porter got in his car and drove away, Linus pointed to Mark and Lem. “You two are on dishes.”
Mark started in, “Aw Dad —.”
“Everyone else has pitched in on the meals, but you two. Dishes.”
Mark and Lem cleared the table without further complaint. John looked at me. “Walk?
“Sure.”
“Can I come too?” asked Ivy.
Linus rose as we got up, and began to put together a tray of food for Dory. John, Ivy, and I took to the byways. Out on the front lawn John looked toward town and then toward Hiram’s Hill.
“Direction?” he asked.
Ivy obviously knew about the Hiram’s Hill project, as she too looked at me for direction.
“Toward the Hill is fine,” I said.
They nodded, and we started out, three abreast, down the dirt road. John on my left, Ivy on my right. It was turning into a pleasant evening. While the sun was not yet set, the day was cooling, and a breeze came in from the west.
“So what’s up with you and Dory?” I asked Ivy.
“I wish I knew. I did like you said. I mentioned Dylan Morris, and she snapped up and looked at me like I had grown another head. Then she stormed off into the house and hasn’t spoken to me since. I didn’t even get a chance to mention the conversation I had with him, or the stalking. I think it must be true,” said Ivy.
“What must be true?” asked John who was still out of the loop.
“I’m not Dad’s child. I think I’m Dylan Morris’ daughter,” said Ivy.
“Sorry to say this, Sis, but I’m not that surprised,” said John.
“What? Why?” asked Ivy.
“A confirmed bachelor in his forties marries a young woman half his age that he’s known for less than six months, and never dated. Seven months later they have a daughter. That never seemed suspect to you?”
“Coming from somebody else, maybe, but not our parents. Besides, they dated.”
“When did they date? What date have they told you about?” asked John.
Ivy was quiet for a minute. “Well they must have dated,” she said.
“Must they?” asked John.
Ivy went quiet, and the topic dropped and dragged along in the dust behind us. After a moment, Ivy turned her full attention to me. “As for you, young lady, who was that strapping young man at dinner? And just what happened in Kentucky?”
“The long and short of it is... I met an uncle and a grandmother I didn’t know I had, all after bailing my father out of jail. That strapping young man is my father’s new ministry partner, who until recently I had reason to suspect was intended for Susan.”
“Hold it. You didn’t tell me about more family,”said John.
“Wasn’t up to discussing it. Sorry,” I said.
John looked mildly hurt, but nodded as if he understood. Ivy just watched my face. “Well.”
“My father tried to bust up a Catholic Mass. That was why he was in jail. The Priest at the Mass was my unknown-until-later Uncle Felix. He brought my grandmother, my mother’s mother, to the police station on the morning I bailed Walton out, and they confronted him and me with the facts. Also I apparently had a brother named Josh who died when I was very young, but before Mom passed. After I bailed him out, Walton had me drive Susan, Porter and himself to their crusade, where I now think I just barely missed being shanghaied into a sales pitch about how I should marry Porter, and join their religious community out on Hiram’s Hill. “
Ivy looked at me stunned into silence. John started to laugh. I slapped his shoulder playfully. “It’s not funny!”
Ivy broke in, laughing, “No, it is. Here we are slamming doors, avoiding each other over something that happened twenty-five years ago, and the person with real problems is quietly cooking supper. Awgh. We’re pathetic.”
“Sorry, Kay,” said John, tossing a friendly arm around my shoulders, and giving me a little squeeze. “Just promise us you aren’t going to marry that yahoo.”
“As if I would consider it.”
Their laughter died down into a uncomfortable pause until Ivy spoke. “Of course... you would consider it. You’re considering it now. But you can’t marry a man just to make your father happy. It would be wrong.”
And of course there was no more to say, so we walked on silently. Because of course Ivy was right. I was considering it.
*
I didn’t sleep well that night, as my mind kept going back to that day. The day of the big fight. Around and around, my mind chased after what I should have said, instead of what I did say. Always, I look for the things that would have changed the outcome. Was the tilt of my shoulders wrong when I told him I was leaving for college? Was I holding myself too proudly? Or, was it my words that drove the wedge between us so permanently?
This is a useless exercise. I do realize that. Every one of the millions of times I have gone over it I have realized that. All the things that led to that fight had happened years, months, weeks, days before. My lies, small and big. His bullying, and uncompromising drive to shape me. Not one of them could be changed. Most of them I still don’t want to change. We are, essentially, incompatible. He should have had a different daughter. He should have had Susan.
Had I been home I would have paced the floor and had a cup of tea. Instead, not wishing to wake anyone, I lay awake, still and tense. Eventually my mind skipped it’s well worn path, and I thought of the days after the fight. I had been woefully unprepared for college.
The most obvious signs I was unready for the wider world were easy to fix. Ivy took me to a second-hand store. There we replaced the three ankle-length gray dresses (one to wash, one to wear, one for Sunday) with jeans worn in by someone else, and some just-rough-enough-around-the-edges jackets and sweaters. Then it was off to the department store for a pair of canvas oxfords, a pair of black ballet flats, a pair of brown loafers, and a rainbow of t-shirts. Some so large and loose I could worn them for dresses, some so small and tight they made me blush in the mirror. Seems I had hit puberty after all.
Ivy finally took me up the bathroom at the Brandt’s, and had me let down my tight bun. My hair, while cut regularly by Jody Kline, was still long enough I could have sat on it, were it not always up. Ivy looked over my locks and smiled at me in the mirror over the sink.
“Well, we could keep it longish, and you could wear it in a pony tail, and I’d teach you to braid it or...”
“Or?”
“Or you could be brave and let me make it easy to care for,” said Ivy, the blue handled scissors Dory used to cut the boys’ hair flashing in her hand.
I was scared silly. It felt like I would never be able to go back after taking that step, though I knew that hair grows back. But I was now a rebel. “Cut it,” I said, closing my eyes.
That night at the Brandt’s dinner table, because — of course — the Brandt’s were the only place I had to go, Dory admired my shoulder length bob. It let my hair fall in natural waves, framed my face, and made me look pretty instead of pinched. Ivy was still not totally satisfied.
“Those clothes are a great start, but they aren’t distinctive. Maybe we should have gotten you some combat boots.”
“I’l
l work on it as I go.” I knew I was going to look like every other college freshman, and that was fine with me. I’d spent my life sticking out. Being strange and separate. It felt good to blend. Such an odd place to find rebellion, in the normal.
The finishing touch on my transformation was provided by Dory before she left my dorm room two days later. She and Linus were kind enough to drop me off, promising to pick me up for winter break. With Ivy and I both at Champagne on purpose, it wouldn’t even be extra time on the road for them. As they said goodbye to me, Dory slipped two tubes of lip gloss into my hand.
“Ditch the lipstick. Go with the gloss. Your features are delicate. You should play it up, not put heavy makeup over them. Plus — cherry vanilla and strawberry. Much tastier to kiss than lipstick.”
I did take Dory’s advice, but never dated anyone enough to be comfortable kissing them.
Over the next several years, Ivy and I developed many friends. Some shared; some not. David Sexton, and his future wife Honey Trenton were among them. Ivy became a serious flirt and a compound dater for a while, in a way her parents would not have approved of. I, meanwhile, became a consumer of pop culture and a junk food addict in a way my father would not have approved of.
I learned so much more in those four years than what I needed to graduate. Not just about television, or better social skills. I had a whole library at my disposal. History, art, music, psychology, and a host of other subjects once largely forbidden to me were now mine to explore. And more. I’d always been a reader — with my father’s intense supervision. In college I read everything, anything, that seemed interesting. Haggard and Marquez, L.M. Montgomery and Jude Deveraux, I had no filter, and I loved it all.
The Color of Ordinary Time Page 7
