Delta scrawled a note to Cassie and posted it on the fridge, then took her battered old journal and left the house.
The shaded sidewalks near Emory University were a perfect place to walk. The day was warm and bright, but not hot. The sky had cleared and the humidity had dropped. Leaves were beginning to change. Already she could feel a hint of fall in the air.
Autumn was her favorite season. The beginning of the academic year. A new start. A time of change and renewal. And although Delta herself didn’t feel particularly renewed, she was at least able to appreciate the break from another stifling, sweltering Atlanta summer.
She wasn’t paying much attention to where her footsteps were leading her until she looked up and found herself on campus, near Cannon Chapel. Bishops Hall, which housed Candler School of Theology, lay across an expanse of brick courtyard to the left, and to the right, Pitts Theological Library fronted on the grassy quadrangle.
She skirted the library and found an empty bench facing the quad. A few students loitered here and there, talking and laughing. Two young men in jeans threw a Frisbee back and forth across the sidewalk. A few yards away on the grass, four girls lounged together drinking Starbucks from tall cups.
College campuses always evoked nostalgia in her, but today more than usual. Delta dug in her bag searching for her journal and a pen, all the while trying to stifle the wave of longing that had washed over her.
After a moments searching she found the journal, pulled it out of the bag, and ran her hands over it. The cover was a rich saddle-brown cowhide, worn smooth and soft by more than twenty years of use and rather dog-eared at the corners. It had been a gift from Cassie the Christmas of Deltas freshman year in college, when she was eighteen and her little sister was only five. Cassie had picked it out herself, she told Delta proudly. And it was perfect—beautiful, durable, and infinitely practical, a standard five-by-eight cover that over the years had housed dozens of refillable notebooks.
Deltas fingers caressed the velvety surface. All she had to do was touch the journal, inhale its rich leathery scent, and her mind kicked into overdrive. She never knew what would come out of her when this Pavlovian response overtook her, but anything would be preferable to the inertia that had seized her of late.
She opened to a blank page and wrote the date in the upper left-hand corner. But before she could go any further, something arrested her attention. A stiff, yellowed page, folded and stuck between the notebook filler and the cover.
Delta pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a page torn from a sketch pad, a crayon drawing of a small-town main street, with a towering gray slab looming overhead. And in a careful, childish hand at the bottom: Cassandra Fox, Age 6.
In a split second all the pieces converged upon her: the campus. The quad. The journal. Cassie’s picture. That first dinner with Bowen and Hart, and the discussions that followed.
Countless hours of conversation—about politics, about God and religion (Dr. Bowen firmly denied that these two were necessarily connected), about civil rights and human rights and the state of the world. About the war in Vietnam, about literature and writing, about beauty and truth and Deltas future. Discussions in the back corner booth of the Goose, lubricated by gallons of black coffee. Arguments over egg foo yung at their house with the dogs lying at her heels, or slapdash suppers of a thrown-together rice and beef dish Dr. Hart called “hamburger mess.” Even the occasional jaunt to the Bavarian Steak House out on the highway, for planning sessions over rare steak and cheap wine and fried crab claw appetizers.
So many discussions that Delta had long ago lost count.
But she never lost track of the effect of those conversations.
In ways she could only begin to articulate, Frankie Bowen and Suzanne Hart had helped Delta to discover herself. Because of them she had become an English major, and on an academic level, they had introduced her to the intricacies of great literary minds of the past: Shakespeare, Milton, Spenser, Herbert, Blake, Wordsworth. They had encouraged her to find her own voice in writing and to be meticulous about research. They had even pulled some strings to get her a work study job as their office assistant.
But even more important, they had taught her how to think. How to exhume the universal truths in fiction and poetry and drama, and to make connections between those writings and her own twentieth-century soul.
In the same way that Dr. Gottlieb had taken Rae Dawn under his wing, guided her, and become a kind of surrogate father for her, Dr. Hart and Dr. Bowen had become Deltas mentors. They had given her a vision for the kind of difference she could make in her own students’ lives when she became a professor.
She remembered it all: the challenge, the passion, the fire. The sense of coming home to herself.
It had simply been too long since flint had struck steel.
All around the Emory quad, doors flung open and students poured out, clustering in groups and heading toward the food court down the hill behind Cannon Chapel. Delta glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon, and her stomach rumbled.
She stowed her journal in her bag, walked down to the Park Bench Tavern, and ordered a Philly cheese steak sandwich, fries, and a Diet Coke. The place thrummed with activity—a gaggle of undergraduate girls laughing and chattering, a table full of divinity students arguing theology. While she waited for her lunch, Delta sipped her drink and absorbed the atmosphere by osmosis.
This was where she belonged—on a college campus, teaching these eager, open young minds how to think for themselves, how to dig out their own truth from the great literature of their heritage. And yet, despite the influence of Frankie Bowen and Suzanne Hart, despite the love of learning that had carried her through her masters degree and beyond, despite the dreams she had once cherished, this wasn’t where she had ended up.
She had ended up as a ministers wife.
A poem surfaced in her mind, one she had chosen so long ago for her final American lit paper: Robert Frosts “The Road Not Taken.”
The poem had haunted her, day and night, as she was writing, as she was making decisions she never dreamed would change the course of her entire life. Subconsciously, she understood. This was her story—perhaps everyone’s story. Two roads. A fork. A choice. No turning back.
Where would her path have led, Delta wondered, if she had finished her doctorate? If she had become a college professor?
If she hadn’t married Rankin Ballou?
MAY 1969
After spring break, graduation seemed to speed ever closer with the velocity of a steam locomotive on a downhill run. Delta could hardly believe that within a week, final exams would be over and the friends with whom she had spent the past four years would be scattering to the winds.
Although the day was warm and sunny, front campus was shaded from the afternoon heat, and a slight breeze stirred the damp hair on her forehead. Delta sat at the top of the steps leading to the Music Hall and settled herself to wait. A few more rehearsals, one last gig at the graduation banquet, and the Delta Belles would be history.
A current of memory swirled over her, catching her heart in the eddies. Delta herself would not be leaving the college, of course. Much to her relief, her major professors had not been dismissed. The tumult over Dr. Bowen and Dr. Hart had subsided, and her plans to stay on for her masters degree remained intact
But everything else was changing—indeed, had already begun to change.
The chasm that separated Rae and Dr. Gottlieb persisted. They seemed to maintain a distant civility, but the warmth between them had cooled. Delta felt the loss too, for the music professor had been a great supporter of the Delta Belles. True to his word, however, Gottlieb had lobbied an old friend on Rae Dawn’s behalf. She now had a part-time job lined up—as a backup pianist at a club in her beloved New Orleans—and had arranged to rent a small apartment owned by friends of Drs. Bowen and Hart.
Trip still had not popped the question, but Lacy had won the coveted teaching position at Hillsborough High School and
would be living with her parents while he got settled in law school. Lauren, in typical Lauren fashion, was waiting until the eleventh hour to decide what to do after commencement. She blamed the procrastination on the fact that she’d had a stomach flu on and off for weeks, but everybody knew she was predisposed to be indecisive. Lauren would land on her feet, Delta was certain. She always did.
At home in Stone Mountain, Daddy had moved out and settled into an apartment in Atlanta with Caroline Lawler, leaving Mama and Cassie to rattle around the house like pinballs careening off the banks. Cassie phoned at least twice a week begging her to come home, and Ben Rutledge had called several times since spring break, wanting to get back together.
Delta felt sorry for Ben. She missed him, and a time or two was tempted to rekindle their relationship and see where it might lead. But every time she circled around the idea, her mind kept calling up images of her parents, divorced after more than twenty years of mind-numbing boredom, and she realized that pity was no basis for a lasting marriage. He would eventually realize that the breakup was as much to his benefit as to hers. They would be friends again. And in the meantime, as much as her heart ached for the impending finale to her college days and for the strange, awkward balancing act that her family represented, she had something else to occupy her attention.
A dinner date with Rankin Ballou.
DELTA RUMMAGED IN HER CLOSET for something modest—preferably black. Her bed was already piled with rejects, and she still hadn’t found anything appropriate to wear. “Rae, don’t just stand there—help me. Get me out of this.”
Rae Dawn laughed. “You don’t want to get out of it, and you know it.”
“This date’s already been postponed twice,” Delta muttered. “I should have taken it as an omen. He’s a minister, for God’s sake.”
“Well, you’re not exactly a wild child,” Rae countered.
“Yeah, but what if I slip and swear in his presence, or do something that offends him? What if he isn’t interested in me at all? Maybe I’m some sort of project—a challenge. Maybe he only wants to lure me in and then corner me with the truth, get me saved or something.”
The questions—particularly the ones about faith and God and religion—nagged at Delta. She believed in God in a vague, disjointed way—God in nature, in the universe, in beauty and creativity. But when pressed to accept a label, she called herself an agnostic. Years ago, as a young teen, she had abandoned the church and had never felt a need to return. And yet now here she was, dressing to go out to dinner with a preacher!
“So how come this date got postponed twice?” Rae asked. “Weren’t you supposed to go out with him the week after spring break?”
Delta shrugged. “He had some kind of emergency—somebody in the hospital, I think. That was the first time. The second was—well, I forget.” She searched under the bed for her black shoes. “I’ve actually picked up the phone three times this week to cancel. But what reason could I possibly give?”
“You could tell him Satan called with a better offer.”
Delta pulled her head out from under the bed and scowled at Rae Dawn. “Very funny.” She slipped into her shoes and twirled in front of the mirror. “How do I look?”
“A little bit like the Salvation Army lady.”
“Perfect.” Delta grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
“I MADE RESERVATIONS at the Boathouse,” Rankin said as he held the passenger door open for her. “Steaks, seafood, that kind of thing. Hope it’s all right.”
He was wearing khakis, a pale blue denim shirt, and a burgundy tie. Very handsome, Delta thought. He had even trimmed his hair and beard.
She hoisted herself into the seat of the Volkswagen van, which turned out to be quite a challenge in three-inch heels. She could have used a stepstool—or a crane. “Sounds lovely,” she panted when at last she was settled. “Is it on a lake?”
“Not exactly. It’s a renovated warehouse, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t think there’s a lake—or a boat—within a hundred miles of the place.” He laughed. “But I do believe there’s a really big pothole in the parking lot.”
“So, what’s with the van?” Delta asked as they drove. “A holdover from your hippie days?”
He craned his neck and grinned at her. “What makes you think I was a hippie?”
“First impressions when I met you at the protest,” she said. “You know, long hair, beard, jeans. Now the van. And—” She tilted her head. “Your ear is pierced. I can see the hole.”
“Very observant. I did spend some time in San Francisco— in fact, I went to seminary in Berkeley—Pacific School of Religion. The van comes in handy for carting youth groups around. As for the pierced ear—” He shrugged and flushed pink. “The beard is enough of a stretch for my parishioners. I don’t think I’ll challenge them with an earring just yet.”
They arrived at the restaurant and were ushered to a small table in a corner, away from the traffic flow. On the drive over in the van, Delta had felt relatively comfortable with him. But now that they were sitting face to face, all her misgivings came rushing back. She barricaded herself behind the menu and came out only after the waiter had taken their orders and pried the leather-bound folder from her grip. Suddenly she felt naked, exposed, vulnerable.
If Rankin was aware of her discomfort, he gave no indication. He smiled at her, his eyes warmed by the candlelight. “Nice restaurant,” he said. “I’ve never been here before. I’ll have to remember to thank Frankie.”
Delta stared at him. “Frankie?” she repeated stupidly. “You mean Dr. Bowen?”
“Yes. She recommended this place.”
“You know her?”
“Of course I do. I was at the protest when they wanted to fire her and Suze, remember?”
“Well, yes, I remember. I just thought that was—I don’t know, part of the job.”
Rankin grinned. “You haven’t been to church in a while, have you?”
Delta felt her neck grow warm. “Not exactly. Why do you ask?”
“Because most pastors wouldn’t consider advocating for gay rights as part of the job.”
The waiter arrived with a bottle of Chardonnay and presented it to Rankin for his inspection.
“You ordered wine?” Delta asked. She had been so absorbed in hiding behind the menu that she hadn’t noticed.
“Is there a problem? White with shrimp, isn’t it?” He tasted the wine and nodded to the waiter, who poured a glass for each of them and disappeared. Rankin held up his glass, and the pale liquid sparkled in the candlelight. “To—” He paused, thinking, then smiled at her. “To the future.” He lifted the glass to take a sip, but it sloshed onto his beard and dripped down his tie. “Damn!” he said, grabbing his napkin and blotting at the stain.
Delta snorted wine out her nose, and barely got her own napkin to her face in time to save herself from utter humiliation.
He finished mopping up and sat back in his chair. “I’m delighted to be such a source of amusement.”
“It’s not the wine,” Delta said when she had regained her composure. “It’s you. ”
“Oh, that makes me feel better.”
She tried unsuccessfully to suppress another laugh. “I was really nervous to go out with you,” she said at last. “I mean, you’re a minister. I was afraid I’d do something stupid or say something offensive. But here you are, pouring wine down your tie and swearing.”
He flushed an appealing shade of pink. “And that’s a good thing?”
“It’s a very good thing,” Delta said. “You’re not like any minister I’ve ever met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “For the sake of my poor battered self-esteem.”
“It is a compliment. I should have known you were different when you showed up to support Bowen and Hart. But you were—well, so impressive that day.”
“And rather unimpressive tonight,” he supplied with a self-deprecating laugh.
“More human
,” Delta said. “More approachable.”
That first dinner lasted nearly four hours. They talked about music and literature, about the uproar over Bowen and Hart (who, as it turned out, were faithful and active members of Rankin’s church). When they finally did get around to talking about religion, it was Delta who raised the question, and his answer wasn’t at all what she expected.
“Why did you become a minister?” she asked over key lime pie and coffee.
He thought for a moment, toyed with his pie, sipped at his coffee. “I grew up in a home that was nominally Christian but functionally atheist,” he began at last. “I was baptized, taken to Sunday school when I was little, forced to endure confirmation class. But my parents never attended church, never talked about spiritual things. Never lived as if God existed, or as if that divine existence made any difference.”
“Sounds pretty familiar,” Delta said.
“By the time I went to college, I had rejected the whole thing as a boatload of hypocrisy. I was proud of being an atheist—it made me feel morally and intellectually superior to all those mindless sheep still claiming to believe in an invisible god.”
His eyes kindled with an inner fire as he warmed to the subject. Delta leaned forward, unable to break his gaze. “So what happened?”
“I wasn’t very good at it—being an atheist, I mean.” He grinned and ducked his head. “I kept seeing things all around me—the beauty of nature, the goodness of the human soul, the excitement of intellectual challenge—all of which pointed me to something beyond myself.”
“You’re talking pantheism. God in the natural world—like Wordsworth.”
“Not pantheism. Panen theism. God present in all things. Separate and differentiated from created life, and yet present. The experience is difficult to explain, but once I acknowledged the possibility, I realized I had often felt God’s presence.
“It wasn’t a Damascus Road conversion, by any means,” he went on. “More like a slow and arduous journey toward the light. By the time I finished college, I was hooked on the search.”
Delta Belles Page 21
