Can I Get An Amen? (33 page)

“Just a friend,” answered Luke dismissively. Seeking to segue gracefully out of this line of conversation, he began to exhibit an unusual amount of interest in Kat’s friend. “So is this a friend from work? How long has she been at the salon? Is she a stylist or an aesthetician?” That sort of thing.

. . .

Throughout the day, I expected my father to clear his throat and tell us in his chairman-of-the-board voice that we needed to have a “family discussion.” That was always what he called them.
“Kids,” he would say, “your mother and I have something to tell you.” Then they would hold hands and use words like
bankruptcy
and
assets
and
collateral
. This was how it happened in my head. But he never said those words. In fact, he barely spoke at all.

When it was time for Luke and Kat to go, after the presents, after several dead, painful hours, then dinner, he walked them to the front door.
Maybe now,
I thought, both dreading the sound of my father having to admit his failure and desperate to get it over with. But instead he hugged them both, pulling Kat in first, then reaching out to Luke. Gripping the backs of their heads with his hands, he lowered his chin to his chest so it looked as though they were huddling against something fierce and cruel. My father never hugged us like this. It was a pat on the back or a tousling of the hair, but never this. And after the awkward, distant day, it was entirely unexpected. Kat and Luke were frozen, and when he let go, it was clear that they knew something was wrong. But instead of asking if everything was okay, instead of our familial pack instinct kicking in, we all scattered. Luke and Kat hurried out the door; I went upstairs. Only my mother stood next to Dad, with her arms crossed, her thin body radiating worry. “Roger,” I heard her say as I reached the top of the stairs, “what’s going on?”

Later, I would find out that my mother already knew that they were losing the house. She knew it was definite when she had told me that it was only a possibility. The plan was for my father to tell us all officially on Christmas. Terrible timing, but it couldn’t be helped. In retrospect, it would have been freeing. It would have begun to loosen the suffocating hold of the many secrets that hung in the air unspoken. But my father couldn’t do it, he told her now. Wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t going to let it happen.

I imagine my mother’s heart splitting at that moment, cracking from the pressure. “Honey,” she said tenderly, “it’s happened. We just need to put ourselves in God’s hands.” But my father, we would come to learn, had a different interpretation of what that meant.

. . .

I sat on the edge of my bed—I don’t know for how long—with my cell in my hands. I could call him to say Merry Christmas, just to hear his voice. And when my phone rang I felt my heart soar, only to plummet when I realized that it wasn’t Mark’s ring but, once again, Gary’s.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly. It was late, but Gary’s family always ate a late supper on Christmas.

“Merry Christmas.”

“How was your day?”

“It was good,” I said automatically, though unconvincingly. “How was yours? Did you go to your mom’s?”

“Actually, I had Christmas here at the house this year.” He sounded almost ashamed. I didn’t speak. “I really just wanted to call and thank you for your gifts. I know that Daniel and my mom are going to reach out to you as well.”

I wasn’t in the mood for formalities. “Oh, you’re welcome,” I said quickly. “I hope you like them.”

“Yeah… that bookmark is something else.”
Something else
was the way Gary always described things that he didn’t really like but felt that he should.
Oh, that concert was something else. Did you see that painting? It was something else.

I let out a tired, sad laugh.

“Listen, I’m really sorry that I didn’t send anything… I didn’t know that we were exchanging gifts… But I have something for you… that I’ll send…”

I interrupted him. “Gary, you don’t need to get me anything.”

“No, no. I mean I have something, but I didn’t know if we were going to do that, so I didn’t send it.”

He was always so phobic about faux pas. I just wanted to get off the phone. “Okay, well, I am beat, so tell everyone Merry Christmas for me.”

“Ellen,” he said, “there is just one other thing that I wanted to tell you.”

“Okay,” I said expectantly, wanting him to get on with it.
There is a problem with the divorce; he needs me to come back up. There is something else I need to sign, a tax document.

“I’m engaged.” He said it frankly, without any pauses or signs of ambivalence. Just like when he had told me that he wanted a divorce.

“You’re engaged.” I had to say the words out loud to understand their meaning.

“Yes, just today. I wanted you to know. I thought I should tell you.”

I held my head in my hands. “Congratulations.”

Her name was Natalie. She was an occupational therapist who worked with some of the men and women in Daniel’s home. I had met her before. She was pretty, blond, with a good nose and white teeth, and came from somewhere in Florida. She also had a three-year-old daughter from a previous marriage.
Well done, Gary,
I thought. Not only would she be an even better advocate for Daniel, but she had a proven breeding record. He didn’t just replace me; he upgraded.

M
y mother stood in the kitchen, next to her mink stroller jacket, which was slung over a chair. She wore a full face of makeup, with bright red lips and what Kat always called her Miss Piggy blush, two big smears of pink on the apples of her cheeks. It sounds clownish, but actually, she looked lovely. Her silver bob was smoothed away from her face. She wore an ivory beaded cocktail shell and black silk pants.

“Your father isn’t coming tonight,” she said, tugging anxiously on a pair of cashmere-lined gloves.

“Okay,” I said simply, not asking for an explanation.

She wearily hoisted the heavy fur onto her body. “Well, we should get going. I don’t want to be too late.” Despite everything, my mother still viewed the Arnolds as their Great White Hope. Edward was connected, and whether because of or despite my mother’s business naïveté, she viewed connections as the most valuable of all commodities. “Madeline Palmer told me that Lynn and Edward were invited to a special dinner at the governor’s
next month.” She had said that to my father on the way to church that morning. It was a reminder, a not-so-subtle hint that the Arnolds could still play a role in fulfilling God’s promise of prosperity and abundance.

. . .

My mother flipped on her signal, then slowed to a stop to let a sports car whiz by before turning into the Arnolds’, the entrance of which was flanked by stately brick posts. They lived in a beautiful area not far from the Donaldsons, with twisting streets peppered with horse farms and the bramble-covered remnants of old stone walls. “So Eugene White is supposed to be here?” I asked, craning my neck and squinting to get a better look at the house, front lit with floodlights.

“Mmmm,” said my mother, giving a single nod. She was concentrating on navigating up the long, narrow drive, weaving and winding past mature trees that formed a canopy overhead.

Slowing in response to the series of brake lights in front of us, we saw a handful of uniformed valets collecting keys and dispensing claim tickets. “This is some do,” I said, watching the silhouettes of the passengers in the handful of cars in front of us. I was surprised, though I shouldn’t have been, by the formality of it all.

My mother checked her face in the mirror. “Lynn was worried that no one would come since it’s after Christmas,” she murmured. I glanced over my shoulder. Clearly, that wasn’t an issue. Dozens of cars were already parked in a large field on the Arnolds’ property, with a steady stream following behind us.

Abandoning the warm quiet of the car, I opened my door as my mother spoke with the valet, slipping him a few bills before he replaced her in the driver’s seat.

“You tip after,” I muttered as we made our way up the wide stone steps.

“Hmm?” asked my mother, distracted.

“You tip valets when you get your car back. Not when you drop it off.” Her generosity seemed more like a bribe, or at least an entrance fee, an attempt to prove that we belonged here.

At the door, we were stopped by a security guard with a walkie-talkie.

“Isn’t this a little much?” I muttered to my mother as the guard searched his clipboard for our names.

“They need to have security for Eugene White,” she said. On any other day, her comment would have come off as defensive, but tonight she seemed too drained.

Though I was sure the security had more to do with the Arnolds’ showboating than with Eugene White’s need for protection, the temptation to criticize the celebrity pastor was too great. “Yeah,” I said as we were waved through the door, “I am sure he doesn’t want someone running off with his big fat speaker’s fee.”

My mother stopped and looked at me. “He doesn’t accept a speaker’s fee, Ellen. All his speaking engagements are pro bono.”

“Come on,” I said skeptically. “The Arnolds didn’t have to pay anything to get him to come to Christ Church?”

“Of course not. He’s not some charlatan.”

My eyes narrowed at this unwelcome information. I preferred to imagine him sitting in a beachfront house opening seven-digit royalty checks from his book sales, while his flock filled the collection plates with offerings that they couldn’t afford, every week praying that by this act of faith God would provide a way, some way, forward. That by some miracle, they’d be able to pay for their daughter’s college or their mother’s surgery. That they’d be able to keep their house.

As my mother stared at me, waiting for my response, Lynn Arnold approached.

“Patty!” she exclaimed, grasping my mother’s hands. “I am so glad you could make it.” Lynn was a consummate hostess, and having been prepared for my mother’s attendance, she was able to hide the obvious discomfort she had exhibited with me at the Kents’. “And where is your handsome husband?”

“He wanted so much to be here,” gushed my mother in an exaggerated version of her accent. I was always impressed by her ability to turn it on. “But his back was acting up.”

Lynn, not really caring about the reason behind my father’s absence, gave a sympathetic little clucking noise and turned her attention to me. “And Ellen! You look lovely!”

“Thank you, Lynn.” I glanced around at my surroundings, which could only be described as opulent. “You have a beautiful home.”

She swatted the air.
Oh, this old thing?
“Well, you ladies enjoy yourselves. There are some nibbles set up by the bar,” she said, flopping her hand toward the French doors and the large living room beyond. Then she glided off. She had higher-rent guests to attend to.

My mother soon fell in with a group of churchies. I stood on the sidelines as they recounted in excruciating detail the highlights of Eugene White’s sermon that morning. She began to relax, tension visibly slipping from her shoulders as she discussed a topic with which she was well versed and comfortable. It was the sort of physical transformation you saw with salesmen in airport bars, as they drained their vodkas and settled into the comfortable void of transit. They knew what lay on either side of their trip, but there, they were untouchable.

Glancing frequently around the room in search of Jill, I
noticed that Philip and Parker had regrettably beaten her there. Philip hovered by Parker’s side, periodically rubbing her back and kissing the top of her head.
He’s overcompensating,
Kat would say.
Anytime you see a public display of affection in a married couple, you know that they sleep in separate beds.
Since Parker was obviously and enormously pregnant, it seemed the separate beds theory may not have been accurate, but all the affection did seem to be staged.

Being a card-carrying member of Lynn’s women’s group, Parker was happy to play Lynn’s understudy, directing people to bathrooms, answering questions about the floral arrangements, that sort of thing. And though I had given Philip and Parker an uncomfortable wave when we accidently made the eye contact we were both seeking to avoid, I hadn’t yet said a formal hello when Jill and Greg finally did arrive.

I was watching Parker and Philip out of the corner of my eye, pretending to be engaged in my mother’s conversation, when I heard Greg’s gruff South Jersey bark behind me. “Carlisle,” he said. Before I turned around I knew exactly the look that would be on his face, a half smile with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “How are ya, kid?”

“Hi, Greg,” I said, taking in his Armani suit. “You clean up nice.”

His lips puffed in a tough-guy smile. “You know how we do.”

I kissed him on the cheek before giving Jill a discreet pat on the belly. “You’re totally starting to show!” I whispered.

“I know!” she beamed. “My doctor says I’m measuring, like, two weeks ahead.”

“See, your baby’s already
advanced
.” Though Jill rolled her eyes, I knew that she was no different from any other parent, beginning to benchmark her child against
average
in utero.

. . .

Jill, Greg, and I gradually gravitated away from the churchies and toward the enormous table of hors d’oeuvres. Greg cut right to the chase and stuffed slice after slice of prosciutto into his mouth, not even pretending to be interested in the accompanying crostini or fig jam. While he busied himself with decimating the antipasti, Jill tilted her head subtly toward Parker and Philip.

“Did you?” she mouthed, her way of asking if I had made contact with the Kents yet.

I shook my head. “Just a wave.”

Jill picked up a shard of Parmigiano from a sizable wedge and took a small nibble. “She keeps looking over here.”

“I should probably go and say hello,” I said grudgingly. “Get it over with.”

But Parker beat me to the punch. Greg was at the bar, getting me a glass of wine and himself a martini, when she sauntered up, leaving Philip talking to two men, one of whom I recognized from his and Parker’s party almost a week ago.