Leaving Fishers (12 page)

“Look at these and tell me what you’ve done. I’ll write down ‘disobedience,’ because you didn’t pray enough, and ‘worship of false gods,’ because you cared more about algebra than God.”

Dorry wanted to protest—she had hardly been worshiping algebra. But Angela was already saying, conciliatorily, “I’m sure you’ll do better next
time. Remember, I’m not
judging
you, I’m just keeping track. For your own information. What else?”

Dorry gulped. “Well, I don’t know where you’d put it, but I didn’t do a very good job of telling my parents about being a Fisher,” she admitted. After the disaster with her dad, she’d only told her mother, “I went ahead and joined this new church.” Then a nurse had come in to check her mother’s medication and, somehow, when the nurse was gone again, the conversation went off in a different direction.

“But you did tell them?” Angela asked, her pen hovering over the paper.

“Ye-es,” Dorry said.

“Well,” Angela said forgivingly, “that’s the first step. You should be witnessing to them constantly, so you’ll do better there. I won’t write anything down.”

Dorry felt guiltier that Angela hadn’t judged her guilty. She looked back at the list. “Selfishness,” she said. “I’ve been selfish. In the hospital, when I should be concerned about my mother, I just keep thinking about myself, how awful it would be for me if she died.”

Angela nodded approvingly, as if relieved that Dorry recognized how bad she was. She wrote on her paper, and Dorry felt a strange mixture
of pride and shame that
that
sin was worth recording.

Her eyes traveled down the list. She felt compelled to come up with more sins. “Maybe this is sins of the flesh,” she said. “Or maybe not. But I kind of have a crush on Brad.” She kept her head lowered. She couldn’t look at Angela, confessing that. “And at the same time, there was this one guy, Zachary, at the retreat, that I was kind of interested in. Is it wrong to be attracted to two guys at once?”

Angela tilted her head, thinking. “Yes,” she said. “Usually. It can be a sin to be attracted to just one, if you’re lusting after him. Do you feel lust for Brad?”

Dorry couldn’t look up. Her face burned. Why had she said that? “Maybe,” she whispered.

Angela patted her on the back. “That’s okay,” she said. “In Fishers, we try to remove a lot of that temptation. Boys and girls are kept separate in many of our activities, especially the ones for new Fishers who are more likely to be troubled by sexual feelings.”

“Oh,” Dorry said. “So no one’s allowed to date?” She was embarrassed by the whole subject. What if Angela laughed and said, “What? You think someone would want to date you?” But Angela shook her head and answered seriously,
“Of course people are allowed to date. But only the Fishers who are more mature in their faith are encouraged to. You must be secure in your relationship with God before seeking anything else.”

Angela wrote something down on her paper. Dorry pretended to be intent on the list of sin categories. She had to say something else. She grabbed on to the next sin she could find. “I guess this counts as greed,” she began. “Now that my mom is sick and can’t work for a while, we have to really watch our money, and that bothers me. I don’t think it’s fair.”

As soon as she’d said it, Dorry felt ashamed again. How could she tell that to Angela—Angela, who owned a sports car, whose father drove a Mercedes? She reminded herself what Angela had said about not judging her friends by money. And in her short time in Fishers, she’d already heard a lot about Jesus’ wealth being entirely spiritual.

Angela lowered her pen, Dorry’s sins of the flesh forgotten. “Are things really bad?” Angela asked compassionately.

“Not really, really bad, but—oh, I guess so. My dad said I should get a job myself if I want to save any more for college.”

Dorry didn’t explain the rest. It wasn’t really
the idea of working that bothered her—she didn’t think it’d be that hard to flip hamburgers or run a cash register. But even with the confidence of being a Fisher, she still dreaded the thought of going into stores and restaurants and having to ask for applications or an interview or whatever you had to do. Applying for a job wouldn’t have been that bad in Bryden, where she knew the guy who managed Wendy’s and she’d gone to school with the kids of the woman who ran K-Mart. But Indianapolis was overwhelming enough without thinking about searching for a job.

Angela chewed thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “Let me talk to some other Fishers,” she said. “I’m sure we can find you something.”

Dorry blinked and leaned toward Angela. “Really?”

“Sure.” Angela made another note on her paper. “Anything else?”

A thousand potential, small sins flitted through Dorry’s mind, but they all seemed more embarrassing than sinful. “No,” she said.

Angela looked at her watch. The lunch period was almost over, and the tables around them were clearing out. “We’ll have the next discipling session on Saturday, right before Bible Study.”

“Bible Study?”

“Didn’t I tell you? You’re ready for that now.
You’ll go into a Saturday afternoon session, to start with.”

“Don’t I get a choice?”

“Well, sure, but I know all the Bible Study groups, and I know this one is best for you.” Angela’s voice held a slight note of impatience, as if Dorry shouldn’t have questioned her.

“Okay,” Dorry said obediently.

“Now let’s pray together,” Angela said.

Dorry looked around, hoping no one was watching, before tardily bowing her head. Angela was already praying. Dorry only half listened, because she was trying to figure out what to say when Angela’s smooth flow of words stopped and it was Dorry’s turn. She wanted to pray for forgiveness, for resenting the way Angela took charge of everything, but she couldn’t say that in front of Angela. And, Dorry reminded herself, Angela was going to get her a job. She was only trying to help. She knew a lot more than Dorry did about being a Fisher.

Chapter

Twelve

TWO DAYS LATER, DORRY STOOD ON A wide brick porch and tentatively lifted and dropped a heavy brass knocker. It thudded gracelessly against the door.

“Nervous?” Angela said beside her.

“Sort of,” Dorry said. “I mean, I’ve baby-sat before, so I know I can do the job. But I’m not really good at meeting new people.”

“You’ll do fine,” Angela said.

They were in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city—at least it looked nice to Dorry. All the houses were big and widely spaced, with generous yards and large trees. Someone from Fishers—Dorry wasn’t sure exactly who—lived one street over, and knew that the woman who lived here, a Mrs. Garringer, needed a baby-sitter three or four afternoons a week.

“Okay, okay, you can watch, but you have to turn it down,” someone was shouting inside as the door opened.

Dorry straightened up and smiled, trying to look presentable. The woman on the other side of the door was young and exotic looking, with
short, dark, curly hair and kohl-lined eyes. She was wearing green leggings and a white T-shirt, and had a baby balanced on her right hip. A little girl clung to her left leg, alternately hiding and peeking out. The sound of Big Bird singing the alphabet welled from another room. The woman winced.

“Jasmine, I’m not joking. Turn that down, right now, or I’ll turn it off,” she yelled.

Big Bird got about a half a decibel softer.

The woman turned back to Dorry and Angela and made a face. “Welcome to the madhouse,” she said. “I told the kids they needed to behave, so they wouldn’t scare the new baby-sitter, but that didn’t work. Come on in. I’m April Gar-ringer. This fat guy is Seth, and the one pretending to be shy is Zoe. Which one of you is Dorry?”

“I am,” Dorry said, as Angela explained, “I’m just a friend who brought her. Just tell me where to sit to be out of the way.”

Mrs. Garringer laughed. “If you like
Sesame Street,
the family room is open. If you want to be able to hear yourself think, you can come into the living room with us.” She bent down to the little girl. “Zoe, are you sure you don’t want to go watch TV with Jasmine?” The little girl shook her head and clung tighter. Mrs Garringer shrugged. “Okay, but you’re going to think this is dull.”

Mrs. Garringer led the way into a large, airy room full of what Dorry was sure had to be very expensive furniture: Queen Anne tables, formal couches, stylish lamps. But the effect was ruined by the layers of toys everywhere. Dorry moved a huge stuffed duck to the floor before sitting down.

“I don’t clean,” Mrs. Garringer explained. “I figure it’s a waste of time, since my kids can demolish any room in under two minutes. So don’t worry about being expected to pick up after them. Basically I just want someone to play with them. And keep them from killing each other.”

“I can do that,” Dorry said.

“Good. That’s more than I feel capable of, some days.” The laugh that accompanied the joke put Dorry at ease. “Let me explain what I’m looking for. In my life before children, I taught art classes at Butler. I had the insane notion that if I quit to be with my kids full-time, I’d have time to work on my own sculpture. Wrong. So after listening to me gripe about it pretty much nonstop, my husband had the brilliant idea that if I got a regular baby-sitter a couple times a week, and used the time to sculpt, I’d be a lot happier. He thought I should advertise in the paper, put signs up in the library, that kind of thing. But I didn’t want to interview every crazy in the city. So when
the Murrins recommended you, I was delighted.”

“The Murrins?” Dorry said.

“Yes. They go to your church, right?”

“We’re all in Fishers of Men together,” Angela said smoothly. “The Murrins are fairly new, so I don’t think Dorry knows them well.”

Dorry realized suddenly that she didn’t know any of the adult Fishers, except Pastor Jim.

Mrs. Garringer was frowning. “I was under the impression that you’d baby-sat for them.”

“No,” Dorry said. “I—”

Angela interrupted. “I’m sorry if there was any confusion, but Dorry is still a great baby-sitter. She took a Red Cross baby-sitting course when she was twelve, and passed with the highest score in the class. She’s certified in infant CPR. And she’s taken care of lots of her nieces and nephews all her life.”

“That does sound good,” Mrs. Garringer said. “But I’d still like some references before you leave today.”

“Sure,” Dorry said. She was relieved that Angela had listed her qualifications for her—Angela had made them sound more impressive than Dorry would have. But Mrs. Garringer was looking at Dorry like there was something wrong that she couldn’t speak for herself.

Zoe inched away from her mother’s side and
grabbed the stuffed duck at Dorry’s feet. Clutching it tightly, she leaned against Dorry’s leg. “Are you going to be our baby-sitter?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s up to your mom,” Dorry said.

Zoe tilted her head first one way, then the other, flipping her hair all the way over. “I hope so. I like you. You’ve got a big nose just like Grandpa Jack.”

“Zoe!” Mrs. Garringer said. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Dorry said. She put her finger gently on Zoe’s nose. “And you’ve got a little nose just like my nephew Jason.”

Zoe giggled and ran out of the room. The baby, Seth, gurgled at Dorry.

“Well,” Mrs. Garringer said. “It’s a good sign if my kids like you. Let me explain the hours. It’d just be Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, from the time school’s out until six or six-thirty, depending on how things go. Could you do that?”

Dorry nodded.

“And if everything works out, maybe you could baby-sit a few Friday or Saturday nights, if my husband and I ever get a chance to get away. We’ve got some weekend baby-sitters we’ve used before, but lately it seems like they’re never available.”

Dorry was about to say “I can work weekends, too,” but Angela was already talking for her. “Dorry can’t work weekends, because we have a lot of Fishers of Men functions then,” Angela said.

Mrs. Garringer turned to Dorry, as if waiting for her to agree. Dorry was too confused to say anything. Why wouldn’t Angela let her speak for herself? What would be wrong with missing a Fishers event every now and then? Surely God wouldn’t send her to hell for that.