Embrace Me (10 page)

“I'm telling you, Rick is crazy to be fond of a woman like me,” I say to Lella later that afternoon.

“Oh, surely not! You're undoubtedly a prize, Valentine.”

I can't help myself. I laugh and laugh.

Lella and I sit in front of the TV in her room and watch an ancient episode of
The Galloping Gourmet
.

“Oh, Valentine, don't you just love that man? His smile is so bright and toothy. And that complexion! Do you think he uses makeup?”

“Lots of it. My skin feels dry. I'll go get my Ponds.”

Someone knocks on the door.

Lella says, “Come in!”

Rick enters with envelopes in his hand. “Sorry, Val. Nothing for you.”

“Big shocker.”

“Here, Lell. For you.”

“Junk mail?” she asks, even though she reads every word of every piece of mail she gets. Believe me, I know as I'm the one to arrange the pages on the hospital-type tray she has by her bed.

“Don't think so.” He hands it to me.

“No, Lella. It looks personal. See?”

She scans the business-sized envelope. “It's from my Aunt Dahlia.”

I jiggle it. “Want me to?”

She nods. “I haven't heard from her in such a long time. You'd like her, Val. Have a seat Rick, if you please.”

Rick sits on the end of the bed. “I hope it isn't bad news.”

I slide a thumb inside and rake open the envelope. “Let's see.” After slipping out the paper and unfolding it, I hold it up to her face, about eighteen inches away. Lella has perfect vision.

“Oh!” she says and keeps reading. “Oh! Oh dear.”

I know better than to ask what's the matter. She hates being interrupted when reading a letter. Rick opens his mouth and I shake my head.
Don't
.

She turns to face me. “Well, that surely is a surprise.”

“What happened?”

“Yeah, Lell.” Rick brings his feet up, folding his legs into the lotus position.

“Hold it back up in front of me, Valentine. If you would.”

She begins to read aloud. “‘Dear Ellen.'”

“Your name's Ellen?”

“Yes. I couldn't say Ellen when I was first beginning to speak. I said Lella.”

“How did I not know that?”

“Okay, let's continue. ‘Dear Ellen, I wanted to tell you all this sooner but I didn't know where you were. I figured you'd be in Mount Oak now and if you're reading this, well, I guess you are.

“‘Your Uncle Joe passed away a couple of months ago. And though I can't say I'm as sad as I should be (he always was as mean as a mountain lion with a toothache), I'm not enjoying being alone. Not even a little bit. It's not so much that I miss him, I just don't like wandering around in this house all by myself. I'm still in great shape, healthy as a horse and clearer thinking than ever.

“‘So this letter comes not only with all this information, but an invitation. For years I've wanted you to come live here with us. But I would never have suggested that with Uncle Joe around and him being so unaccepting and all. I'm sure you understand. It was better for you on the road and with that nice friend of yours than here with that man.

“‘So what do you say? Why not come off the road? Why not come and let me take care of you. Family is family, I always say. I think your mother would be glad for it. I've always been sorry I couldn't do it sooner, for my sister's sake if nothing else. Now your parents were a great couple, weren't they?' ”

Lella nods and I set down the letter. “The rest is news about the ladies in her card club and her neighbors. And she promises a visit soon.”

“That's great, Lell. What a nice invitation. You gonna take her up on it?”

“Oh, I don't know, Valentine. I just got the letter.”

No downright refusals.

“Here.” I take the letter off her lap and put it back in the envelope. I set it behind the floral arrangement on her dresser.

“Remind me to write her back tomorrow. I'll be thinking about what I want to say.”

Rick stands. “Sounds like it could be good news, Lell.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Yes, it does.”

I leave to get my Ponds. Rick follows me.

“Why couldn't she have just thrown the letter down in disgust? Figuratively speaking, of course. I mean, it's a preposterous suggestion, right?”

“Well, you know Lella's never quick to judge.” Rick stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Wanna take a walk or something?”

“Hello, Rick. It's still light outside.”

“Sorry, Val.”

“Yeah, yeah. Me too.”

FIVE

DREW: 2002

T
he mirror in the hall bath is flecked with black spots left behind from the vacating silvering. A bare bulb hangs over my head, shining down on my red hair.

I hear an imaginary member of my congregation in my mind. “Oh, that nice red-haired young man, that Drew Parrish. He just wants the best life for everybody, doesn't he? Freedom and wealth and blessing.”

Forget about that Jesus fellow who said take up your cross and follow me. The one who was stripped naked, scourged, and nailed to wood when what He really deserved was a palace, a convertible Mercedes, and a Nobel Prize. Is all the deprivation and gore really necessary?

Monks and nuns used to shave their heads. As a sign of humility? I guess so. And boy, do I need some of that.

I pull an inch-thick section of hair out from atop my head and raise the scissors, anchoring the blades as close to my scalp as possible.

Did the Son of God care about His hair so much? Before the lepers approached Him, did He whip out His mirror and make sure His bangs were out of His eyes? Did He adjust His robe, say, “Hold on a sec,” and squirt some breath freshener into His mouth?

I grind the blades together, then throw the dismembered lock of hair into the toilet. All the artifice I employed. Even down to how I fixed my coffee. Makes me want to put more than hair into the john.

Would Jesus take His coffee just the way He liked it?

Repeating the process over and over, I wish I had a video camera here now. Wouldn't the fans of our television show have loved this? A certain sense of satisfaction froths up inside of me. Why are people so willing to cast their fishing nets on the same side of the boat, over and over again, the side where a man points and says, “Hey, fish over here!” Meanwhile, Jesus's fish bubble in writhing profusion on the other side, but, well, Jesus is kinda smelly if you really imagine Him accurately, and He's poor, a failure in our definition of the word, and He's just not enough anymore. It doesn't make sense to
really
follow Him in this day and age. We couldn't feed our children and give them the latest sneakers so they wouldn't be made fun of at school. We'd let people walk all over us if all we did was turn the other cheek. So instead of taking Him seriously, we fight for the Ten Commandments even if we can't recite them ourselves. They're our good luck charm even though we are adulterers, liars, and have thick calluses on our hearts; our way to fool God, to show Him we haven't become the people of Malachi or Amos.

Our holy covering. Our holy hair.

More hair. More hair. Air works its fingers next to my scalp. I nick the skin near the front.

Who'd believe a
word
that guy in mirror would say?

Blood trickles down my forehead and beside my nose.

My father would have laughed in Jesus's face if He appeared before him today and said, “What do you mean by all this garnering of power and wealth for yourself, Charles Parrish?”

“Well, there's where you're wrong, Jesus. This is for you.”

“When on earth did I ever do anything utilizing political power or wealth?”

“It was the time period. Everybody was poor and downtrodden. You made us children of the King, don't forget. And maybe you're really not Jesus at all if you're such a pansy as all that. Be a real man! That turning the other cheek stuff is highly impractical. See, Drew?” He'd turn to me. “It's up to us to keep things the way they ought to be. Jesus doesn't have an English accent anymore. This guy needs to go away.”

Maybe Jesus needs to go to one of those “Hooray for Men” conferences, which have always seemed a little strange to me even though I encouraged our men to attend. I mean, aren't they basically a stadium-sized coffee-klatch for men? How manly is that?

I press the top of the shaving cream can, depositing a mound of foam in my hand. Skimming it over my head, I imagine the apostle Paul. He'd do something categorically crazy like this. The man had a glint in his eye for sure.

The razor slices off the remaining stubble, taking bits of skin with it at times, and after I'm finished, the face staring back at me is crowned by seams of foam, blooms of blood, and nakedness.

The blooms gather strength and turn to rivers as I pick them raw. Naked isn't enough. I stand beneath the bare bulb, lined in scarlet.

Being a pastor affords the greatest excuse in the world if you have a parent you can't stand. Yeah, that sin's still with me tonight. The Christmas season filled up with activities, each small group and sub-ministry scheduling a party, the Christmas concert that all of Mount Oak seemed to turn out to see and, hey, some turkeys for the poor people none of us knew personally except Patsy Barnhouse, who at least gave our church a little bit of clout in the social justice arena.

I hear you laughing, Father Brian.

“Dad, I'll be stuck in Mount Oak for Christmas again this year.”

“Oh, we'll be all right. Senator Randall and his family will be celebrating at the house.”

“Great.” I'll miss you too.

Back to the Trail for Christmas, I decided a few days before. Because if I stayed home, I would awaken Christmas morning, make some coffee, and turn on the television. And with my luck the choices would be
It's a Wonderful Life
or
The Longest Day
. Most of this existence, although I didn't know it then, is lived somewhere in the middle.

This whole exercise seems apropos, Father, in a way. My mother encouraged me to write.

She gave me a blank book my tenth Christmas. “You're a person of words, Andrew.” Each week she'd give me an assignment I'd dutifully complete. We'd read them together on Saturday, and most often, our talks would turn to the Lord. That's what she called God. The Lord. She had the utmost respect for Him.

Monica desired only to fit in with God's plan—unlike my father, who wanted God to fit in with his.

“Just your father?” you ask, Father Brian?

I'm not ready to go there.