The Color of Ordinary Time (5 page)

“Your daughter was an orphan for the Lord. She rejected you and your idol-worshiping son for a holy life. She was a righteous soul. Did you expect me expose Pam’s child to your hell-bound ways?
I. Would. Never.
”

I heard myself gasp. I don’t know if it was from the shock of finding family I never knew existed, or from the shock of hearing my mother spoken of as
righteous
by my father. It was possibly the nicest thing my father had ever said about her. In his world,
righteous
was about the highest praise possible. “Then it’s true? This is my grandmother and my uncle?”

My father looked down his long nose at me. “They are impure. Your mother knew this. Knew that they would lead her astray.”

“Answer the question!”

“Yes, this is your mother’s mother, and her brother,” my father spit out.

“Then this wasn’t an accident. Father Felix was right when he said you always show up near his parish during the summers. He wasn’t paranoid. It’s a family vendetta,” I said, meeting his furious gaze.

“My only concern is, and always has been, your soul. I have always done what I felt was best for your soul. These people are not good for you. They will lead you to hell.”

“Lead me to hell? Since I’m hell-bound now, according to you, I don’t see the difference.”

“These people would help harden your heart even more. You are arrogant and untruthful. Lost to all goodness and mercy. These people would give you succor. They would shelter you in your rebellion. I
will not
have you associate with them!”

“I’m an adult; I see who I please,” I said.

“Hell yawns before you, little girl, and you are too foolish to see it. Repent now!”

“No.”

He wanted to slap me, then. I could feel his palm itching to meet my cheek. I did not flinch. I knew he would not smack me publicly. It was not his way. Even if he
had
slapped me, I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. He was not going to get to blame God for his lies.

Ruth Ann shifted nervously as she watched my father and I square off. I can’t blame her, really, for what she said next. It’s not an easy thing to watch other people fight. It’s even harder to say the right thing in a tense moment. I would find out later that Ruth Ann had a talent for saying the wrong thing when nervous. Her next utterance was my first hint at her talents. “Please, don’t be so upset, dear. We would have been in contact sooner. Please understand. But we didn’t know. Didn’t realize you were alive. He told us you died when Josh passed.”

Next to Ruth Ann, Father Felix sighed and shook his head. Ruth Ann heard the sigh, and knew she had said the wrong thing. It was written plainly on her face. My father turned a bit paler at hearing her.

I placed my hands firmly on my hips. He
hates
when I face him with my hands on my hips. He says it makes me look bitchy. Which was more than fine with me in that moment. I was feeling more than a little bitchy. “Who exactly is Josh?” I asked.

“My son,” said my father. “I’ll be in the car.”

As he left the lobby, and headed for the parking lot with Porter and Susan trailing him, I watched in silence.

I stood there silent and rooted looking after him until Ruth Ann touched me gently on the shoulder. “I’m sorry Keziah,” she whispered.

“It’s not your fault.”

Ruth Ann tentatively drew me into a hug. I wound up with my arm around her gently patting her frail shoulder. When she pulled back, I just looked at her. There were no words in me.

“Will you call us. Can we talk?” asked Father Felix.

“Of course. I just can’t talk about this now. I need to think.”

“We understand. Just. Here. Take my card. Call me. Call us. Anytime,” said Father Felix as he slipped something into my hand.

“I will.”

Father Felix slipped his arm back around Ruth Ann and started to ease her toward the door. She resisted and looked pleadingly at me. “Please Keziah, make sure you call.”

She’d found me, and didn’t want to risk letting me go. I couldn’t blame her. “He can’t stop me from calling now that I know you exist. Let me give you my home number.”

Once she had a sticky note with my number written on it Ruth Ann seemed reassured. She allowed Father Felix to help her out the door with only one backward glance at me.

The shock of finding out my father’s lies had left me unable to deal with their implications. I was left standing in the lobby, unable to decide what to do next. I mean,
obviously
, I had to go out, and drive my father, Susan, and Porter to Owenton. But, somehow, even that seemed too much to ask of me.

Finally, I looked up, and found Leo Cortland trying not to hover too close to me. I looked at him. “Quite a show you got today.”

Cortland shrugged his huge shoulders. “Did five years in New York City. I’ve seen weirder things eating my cereal on a normal Tuesday morning.”

“Still.”

“What’s the next move?”

“I’ve got to drive a car full of people to Owenton, and I don’t know how to leave this station.”

“Where is home?” he asked.

“Illinois, six hours away.”

“You could just hop in the car and go. I’ll find them a lift to Owenton. It’s not far. I’ll make sure it’s real uncomfortable, too.”

I smiled. “That’s really kind of you, but I gave them my word.”

Cortland gave me the one minute signal and slid back around behind the desk where he dug around for a couple of minutes before coming up with a slightly bent business card of his own which he came back and handed to me. “Take this. He gives you and grief, you call me.”

“And you’ll do what exactly?”

“Don’t know rightly. Just know that I didn’t like how he manhandled you. Bit of a red flag. Man willing to manhandle a woman in public, in a police station even, maybe he’s not as gentle when he gets her alone. It’d relieve my mind to know you got home safe.”

I didn’t comment, just tucked the cards in my back pocket. Then I held out my hand and we shook. “Thanks for all your help.”

“You’re welcome. Drive safe.”

*

They were packed into my car. Porter and my father in the back seat, their knees up around their chins, with Susan in the front seat, her knees firmly pressed against the dashboard. I almost laughed. I had chosen my car just for me: fuel efficient, easy to take care of, small, and, above all, something which would last. Good thing I hadn’t asked Cortland to find them another ride — I’d never have gotten them out of the car until I’d kept my word.

I got in, and started the engine. The silence in the car was stout and grubby as I headed us out of the parking lot and toward Owenton. After about ten minutes Susan cleared her throat and ventured a few words. “We really appreciate this.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m headed that way anyway.”

“You shouldn’t believe what they tell you. They are liars,” intoned my father from the back seat.

“So they aren’t my mother’s family?”

“You know what I’m referring to.”

“I really don’t.”

“They must have told you everything. About Josh, about your mother, but they don’t know the whole story. They see things only from their point of view. You should not trust them.”

“I’m not going to discuss them with you.”

He huffed a little. “Your mother hated them,” he said.

I could tell he was about to start on a tear. So I did the only thing I could do, the only thing that years of dealing with him had taught me was effective. I stayed neutral.

“I’m not going to discuss them with you.”

My father lapsed into hard chilly silence. Neither Porter nor Susan seemed inclined to say more. Within twenty minutes we pulled up to a meadow just outside of Owenton, where an all too-familiar blue and white marquee-style tent was pitched. In a way I was amazed that the tent was still recognizable as blue and white. It had been patched so many times, in so many other colors, with whatever we had handy when the Fall came around. I could vividly remember spreading the tent out in our backyard, helping Susan and her mother patch another summer’s wear.

A light blue church van was parked in front of the tent. Years before, someone had hand painted “The First Free Pristine Church of God’s Unbridled Holiness” on the sides in black house paint. Impressively, most of it was still there. Behind the tent was parked their geriatric RV. The church bought it the year I was ten, and it hadn’t been
anything
like new then. Miraculous, really, that it was still running. Everything seemed normal at first glance.

I pulled my car to a stop next to the church van and waited for my passengers to get out. I didn’t shut down the motor. Susan gave me weak smile, and exited hastily. My father leaned the front seat forward and exited slowly. A crowd instantly came to greet him from in and around the tent. The crowd seemed unusually large, but I could not tell for sure from where I sat. Porter scooted over into the seat my father had occupied, only to find himself unable to get out of the car.

After a minute of silence, Porter cleared his throat. “Though you are not dressed appropriately, you should come greet everyone. Wonderful things have been happening with the Elder’s ministry. You should at least see what they are.”

It was the most he’d said to me since the police station the day before. I could not formulate an answer before my door was opened and I was swallowed in a familiar hug.

Jody Kline hugged me hard. “Sweetie, it’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” I said, half returning her hug, as I glanced over to see if the crowd around my father was dissipating. It wasn’t. Porter was still stuck in the back seat.

“You must come see. Porter has brought so many people to the ministry with him. We have so many wonderful things happening. You’ll be so proud of your father,” said Jody, trying to draw me out of the car. When I didn’t budge she gave me a look of hurt and confusion.

“I have to get back home. I don’t have time to stop,” I said to her.

I could see that I had injured her. And I did feel bad about it. But not bad enough to get out of my car. I clung to the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline. It brought me no pleasure to hurt Jody. She’d been the closest thing I’d ever had to a mother. When her husband died, there had been speculation that she would be the perfect wife for my father. Nothing had ever came of the talk. I had often wondered why. Did she not want to be my father’s wife? Did my father not want another wife? Neither of them ever gave me any clue.

“It wouldn’t take ten minutes to look around,” said Jody.

“I agree. It would please us all very much if you would at least look around a bit,” said Porter as he put an oddly possessive hand on my shoulder.

“That won’t be possible,” I said.

Jody nodded. She knew me well enough to recognize the tone in my voice that indicated I wouldn’t be changing my mind. Slowly, she backed away from the car, leaving me room to close the driver’s side door with what I felt was a firm, but not defiant slam. Porter did not remove his hand from my shoulder as the crowd around my father moved away from the car and toward the tent.

“You are very attractive, but you would be rendered beautiful were you in possession of a contrite heart, and a lowly spirit.”

“Time for me to go,” I said with a look that I hoped said I would drag him from the car and leave him in a heap if I had to.

Porter nodded. “I’ll pray for you, Keziah,” he said, before finally exiting the car. I wanted to yell after him that he’d better not, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Besides there was a possibility it would appear childish. I knew them well enough to know I couldn’t stop them praying.

As I crossed back into Illinois, the tears I’d kept tamped down found their way out. My first impulse, as it often had been in the past, was to run. Not back to Charity, but all the way back to my apartment. While tears streamed down my cheeks, I calculated how long it would take me to pack up and move far away versus the time it would take Ruth Ann Felix to contact me. I liked to think I could simply disappear.
Poof
. I knew I was kidding myself. The days of being able to pack a duffle bag and be gone were past. There would be house plants to give away, money to move, a job to find, and an apartment to sublet. Somewhere along the line I had gotten responsible. All I could think was
damn
.

I took my time on the road. There was too much for me to sort through. By the time I was back in Charity, I had missed Monday night dinner at the Brandt’s. As it would turn out, I hadn’t missed much.

The house was quiet when I arrived. John was the only one in evidence. He was sitting on the front porch, in the swing, but he wasn’t swinging. I got out of the car, pulling my overnight bag out of the hatchback before approaching the porch.

“Hey Kay.”

“John. How’s everything?” In my own drama I had forgotten Ivy’s. Now, facing John, I knew she’d made a hash of dealing with her mother.

John shrugged. “Ivy’s done something. Don’t know what. Mom’s been locked in her room since Sunday afternoon. Dad has been spending most of his time out in the barn. He’s not talking. Mark and Lem are out getting something to eat. Ivy tried to cook tonight. It wasn’t good. She’s up in her room too.”

“And what are you up to?”

“Waiting for you. Had a feeling you’d be along. How was your errand?”

“Costly.”

John nodded sagely in the manner of his father. It didn’t mean he knew exactly what I meant. It meant he was making note of my reply for further investigation. “Want to walk It off?” he asked.

“I should probably see Ivy first. She’s sure to be waiting for me to turn up,” I said, wishing I could avoid a little longer what was sure to be an angry Ivy.

“Go on then. You’ll be back sooner than you think,” he said, cryptically.

The house was eerily quiet. Almost as if the stand off between mother and daughter had sucked the oxygen out of the atmosphere. I made my way up to Ivy’s room, and knocked on the closed door. “Come in,” said a surly version of Ivy’s voice.

I opened the door, and stepped inside. The trundle bed I usually used when visiting had been shoved haphazardly back under the bed. The quilt I had been using was sticking out from under the frills of Ivy’s bed skirt. Ivy was curled up under a worn yellow cotton blanket. Her favorite from childhood. She was reading
Anne of Windy Poplars
. Her least favorite of the series. As I closed the door behind me she glanced up, narrowed her eyes, and then went back to her book. She wasn’t speaking to me. I dropped my duffle on the floor next to her bureau, and left again. I almost didn’t blame her. After all, I’d deserted her.

Out front again, John looked up at me and smiled. “So that walk then?”

“Sure,” I said, making my way down the porch steps, pausing at the bottom for John to catch up with me.

We started out over the lawn at the same pace, down the dirt road toward Hiram’s Hill and the lake beyond. As we walked I could feel him waiting for me to start the conversation, so I obliged.

“What happened?”

“Really don’t know. One minute they were out in the garden weeding tomatoes, the next they were in their respective corners. I know Dad had a shot at cooling Mom down. Don’t think it worked. I had a try a getting some hint of anything out of Ivy. She threw a book at me.”

“Ahh,” I said.

“Why do I get the feeling you know more than you are saying?”

“Because I do. But I can’t tell you. It’s not my story to tell.”

“Of course. We could talk about your trip instead. How’s your father?”

“He didn’t even hug me when he saw me. He just lectured me on my clothing, and my sins.”

“You weren’t expecting anything else.”

“No, but a man who hasn’t been in the same room as his child in seven years, you hope he has something to say besides
how dare you wear pants
, and
you are going to hell
. You know. Maybe a thank you for bailing him out. Maybe a small piece of praise for helping him continue his holy work.”

“He doesn’t have that in him, but I’m sorry for your sake that he doesn’t. How much did it cost you, bailing him out?”

I hesitated to answer that question. John knew about my dreams of a more permanent home, where Ivy did not. Ivy wouldn’t have understood. In her visions of the future, a man would come along, marry her, buy her a house, and they’d have kids. Someday. But Ivy was in no hurry for the sense of permanence she had always had in her life. John had actually helped me think about what my home would look like, and what I wanted. He was good at asking the right questions.

“About a year worth of saving,” I said. No point in lying.

John whistled low, and nodded his head again. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve worked really hard for that money. What had they nabbed him for?”

“Disturbing the peace, and trespassing. He decided to break up a Catholic church service.”

John just shook his head again. I thought briefly about going into the rest of what happened, but couldn’t bring myself to tell him when I wasn’t sure myself exactly what was going on. I hadn’t even stopped to check my home voicemail, and see if Ruth Ann had called yet. I was almost sure she had, but I was not sure if I would be returning her call.

“I’ve got parament duty tomorrow. How is this new pastor I keep hearing about?” I asked instead.

“Pastor Brett seems nice enough. Not as jovial as Pastor Fritz, but more sincere, I think. He seems very earnest. Like he wouldn’t be able to lie even if he wanted to.”

“Hum. I wonder if that is a help in the ministry, or a hinderance. Being too direct with people can cost you members.”

“As Walton found out repeatedly the hard way.”

“But, on the other hand, seeming to always be earnest makes you seem trustworthy.”

“I think it probably makes him seem trustworthy. He’s not as militant as Walton.”

“I’ll be interested to meet him. I wonder what Mrs. Clack thinks of him?”

“She’s trying to get him married off to Charlene.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Charlene Buckmann was Jemma Clack’s niece by her younger sister Lena. Ever the focus of Jemma’s attentions, Charlene had been spoiled, and petted into a belief that the world really did revolve around her. It was unfortunate that neither Jemma nor Charlene had been able to find a man who agreed that Charlene was the center of the universe. Why either of them thought that Charlene would make a good pastor’s wife was beyond me.

“I don’t know if that’s high praise or not. I mean, when is she not trying to get Charlene married off?” John chuckled at that.

As we approached the area called Hiram’s Hill, I spotted something odd. Local lore had it that Hiram’s Hill, the only hillish elevation for miles, had once been settled by John Hiram and his wife Betsy. They had built a cabin on the hill, tried to farm the area, and failed. Something about an Illini burial ground, and a shaman’s curse. Stuff and nonsense of course. Not the sort of thing I was encouraged to research in my youth. The fire-blackened remains of the cabin and barn had stood untouched for decades. That day they were gone, and a new structure was starting to take shape on the crest of the hill.

“What’s going up on the hill?”

“Church,” said John.

“Really,” I said pausing along the road next to a well beaten dirt path that led up the hill to where the cabin used to stand. “Seems like an odd place to put a church, way out here. Let’s go have a look.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” said John.

“Are you tired? Want to go back?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what are they going to do? Shoot at us for trespassing?” I asked as I started down the path. John followed me without commenting.

Up on the hill the stone foundation had been laid, and half of the first wall was framed out. John stood next to me as I studied the structure. “I can never tell how large a building is going to be at this stage. It seems small for anyone to be moving out here from town,” I said.

“I thought he would have told you,” said John.

“Who would have told me what?”

“Your father. His congregation is moving out here.”

That was what the scene at the crusade had been about. Changes in the ministry they wanted me to know about. Even as the pieces fell into place, I couldn’t comprehend the facts. “My father is building a church?” I asked unable to give the thought credit.

“Not just a church,” said John before taking my arm and drawing me to the other side of the hill.

Below us there was a stretch of meadow, that led down to a lake with some trees around beside the water. But the once-familiar scene had changed. Now there were small houses going up on the shore of the lake. I hadn’t noticed them before because the hill hid them from view of anyone out on the road.

“My father is building...? What? A community? A commune?”

“Right now I think we’re all going with religious cooperative,” said John.

For a minute I felt as if gravity had let go, and we’d been thrown out into space. It didn’t make sense that my father, who had always preached against church buildings, would suddenly decide not to just build a
church
, but an entire
community
. I wanted to drive back to Kentucky and yell at him. He was changing the rules. He was giving in. He was not being true to his own beliefs. Agree with him, disagree with him — he was selling out, and I was angry at him.

“We need to go,” I managed to choke out.

“Come on,” said John as he gently tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and drew me away. “I thought sure he would have told you.”

“He tried. I wasn’t listening.”

John nodded, and we walked back to the Brandt’s in silence.

*

The next morning Dory was still absent from the breakfast table, and Ivy was present but still sullen. I had not slept well either. There had been no quiet chat the night before after we turned the lights out, and Ivy gave no clue about what had happened while I was gone. Instead the stubborn silence of unspoken recriminations reigned between us. I thought about apologizing, but did not.

Linus and the boys ate quickly, and quietly. At one point John got up and refreshed everyone’s coffee, which was the best part of the quiet meal that morning. Cereal and milk, but none of the fruit, toast, or muffins Dory would have provided.

“What are you girls up to today?” asked Linus about half way through his bowl of cereal.

“I’m headed out to St. Paul’s to look over the paraments. Probably won’t be back for lunch,” I said. It didn’t take a very astute reading of the room to figure out that I needed to be as far away from the Brandt’s for as much of the day as possible.

Linus nodded.

“I could give you a lift into town if you want. I’m headed that way for an interview in Troy,” said John.

Ivy snorted derisively before I could reply. “How’s she going to get back, genius?”

“I’d pick her up again,” said John, but his ears turned red with embarrassment at her tone.

Linus gave Ivy a hard look, making her duck her head and concentrate on her cereal.

“Thanks anyway,” I said, “It will be simpler if I drive myself.”

John nodded, and conversation for rest of the meal perished on the spot.

When everyone finished eating, and the table was cleared, John and I headed out to our cars. He waved to me as I pulled into the parking lot next to St. Paul’s. I waved back, but he had already driven past me, so I was pretty sure he didn’t see the gesture.

The paraments at St. Paul’s were my second personal ritual of the summer. I had made them all the summer before my father and I parted ways. He’d been out on his crusade when I had finally convinced Pastor Fritz to baptize and confirm me. I’d been taking membership classes on the sly for two years, but Pastor Fritz wasn’t subversive enough to baptize a minor child without parental permission. So we made a deal, and Pastor Fritz baptized me after my father left town that summer, about a month after my 18th birthday. The paraments were my confirmation project. Materials paid for by the church; labor all done by me. When they were finished, ten days before my father came home from his crusade, I was confirmed as an adult member of the congregation.

Mrs. Clack waved to me as I passed the church office. She was on the phone talking to someone about Charlene’s latest adventures. I didn’t see any sign that anyone else was in the building as I proceeded up the short staircase to the sanctuary level of the church.

St. Paul’s was a smallish church, with plain cream walls and very little in the way of embellishment. The air of solemnity and solidity the church exuded were similar to that of many of its members. This was a hard working church. A plain spoken church. A church that knew that work was worship. In keeping with the simple beauty of the place, the paraments I made were simple. The green set on the altar that day was embellished with embroidered sheaves of wheat and bunches of grapes. From a spot in the middle of the center aisle, next to the front pew, they looked to be in good shape still. I would check them last.

The sacristy was a small room, reached by a door hidden in the wall to the right of the altar, but the paraments at St. Paul’s were kept in a larger room just off the front of the sanctuary. Before the church had been added to in the sixties, the room had been a classroom. After the addition started being used, the old classroom became the banner room, used to store paraments, banners, and other things that wouldn’t fit in the tiny sacristy.

I love the banner room. I did most of the work on the paraments sitting at the large table that sits square in the center of the room. Rumor had it that the table had been built in the room, and could never be moved out, as its builders hadn’t made it small enough to get out the door. I had never tried to move the table out. I’m not sure anyone else actually had, either.

That day, I propped the door to the banner room open with the brown rubber doorstop that always sat behind the door. That way Mrs. Clack would be able to find me easily when she came looking. Then I placed the green-flowered tote bag with my sewing kit in it on the table. I opened one of the four huge windows. Somewhere nearby someone was cutting grass. I could hear the motor, and smell the sweet green aroma. Then I turned my attention to the four large wardrobes along the wall between the classroom and the sanctuary.

I started with the purple altar antependium. Purple, the color of the penitent. The color of royalty. It hung in the wardrobe beside its matching stole, chasuble, and antependium for the lectern and the pulpit. I carefully took the cloth and spread it on the square table. Then I went over it slowly, looking for a loose thread here, or a missing bead there. Most repairs I would do that day. A hanging bit of fringe was easy enough to secure. Other jobs I would write down in a little notebook I carried just for that purpose.