Saying Grace (21 page)

Saying Grace / 151

“Try the library,” said Henry. “I’ll bring you a plate.”

“Chandler—what a beautiful party,” said Rue. They had all come together in the hall.

“Have you met my mother?” Chandler indicated the tiny woman at his elbow who was peering up at her through very thick pink-tinted glasses. She was looking anxious, and she was wearing a velvet dress covered with cabbage roses in which she must have been half-cooked.

“How nice to meet you, Mrs. Kip. I’m Rue Shaw. Have you come to visit for the holidays?”

Rue had bent over nearly at the waist so as to be heard in the din echoing from the stone floor.

“I’m not supposed to stand up so long. I have varicose veins,”

Mrs. Kip replied, as if it was callous of Rue not to know this.

“Come with me, I’m determined to sit. Come into the library.”

And Rue led Mrs. Kip away, hoping that Chandler would be grateful to her. In the library, they found Pat Moredock sucking on a glass of scotch and talking about her childhood to Lloyd Merton, who taught fourth grade. There was room for Rue and Mrs. Kip on a couch near the fire, but Mrs. Kip found this to be too warm. Finally, Rue got her settled in a ladder-backed rocking chair in the corner, beside which someone had artfully arranged a basket full of soft balls of yarn and a selection of knitting needles, and another basket of colorful seed catalogues. All along the tables and window-sills there were pots of forced paperwhites, the bulbs in white gravel.

The perfume was enough to put you to sleep.

Rue sat down by Mrs. Kip in a soft chair closer to the fire, and almost at once they were joined by Cynda Goldring and a date, a good-looking man named Doug with a large mustache. These two were both feeling merry. Rue introduced them to Chandler’s mother.

“We were just trying to decide whether Jesus knew in the cradle that he was the Messiah,” said Cynda. “I’m sure he did, because of all those Renaissance pictures where he sits on his mother’s lap but looks about thirty.”

“I don’t think he could have,” said Doug. “If he knew from birth, why don’t we have a record of his miraculous childhood? We know nothing of his childhood, except that he and Joseph walked to England, being carpenters.”

152 / Beth Gutcheon

“He did not go to England,” said Cynda. “I’ve been to England.”

“He did.”

“Do you have proof?”

Doug began to sing:

“
And did those feet

In Ancient Times

Walk upon England’s Moun—tains Green…
”

Henry came in, carrying plates of food.

“
And was the hoo—ooly Lamb of God

On England’s pleasant pas—tures seen?
”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” said Cynda. “Those are questions, not answers.” Doug, who sang well and knew it, boomed on:

“
And did the Coun—tenance Divine

Shine forth upon our clou—ded hills?

And was Jeru—uu—salem builded here

Among these dark Sa—tan—ic Mills?
”

“Oh, darling, you’re just in time,” said Rue to Henry. “We’re having a very Christmassy conversation.” He handed her a plate full of shrimp and cocktail sauce, some cheese, and some grapes.

He sat down himself on the edge of her chair.

“This is perfect. Thank you,” said Rue, admiring her plate of food.

“Blake wrote that,” said Doug proudly.

“I
know
Blake wrote it, I’m an English teacher,” said Cynda.

“Are you?” Doug asked.

Henry asked, “How long have you two known each other?”

Rue turned to Chandler’s mother. “Mrs. Kip, please have some of these shrimp.”

“I don’t eat shellfish, I’m allergic,” she said darkly. “Bobbi knows it.”

“She’s very kind, isn’t she,” Rue said. “Your daughter-in-law,”

hoping that Mrs. Kip was not going to begin abusing her hostess.

“She’s done such a pretty job with this room. With the whole house.”

Saying Grace / 153

Mrs. Kip looked as if Rue were a half-wit.

“My son was a straight-A student,” she said pointedly. “He went to Grinnell, he had a full scholarship.” This seemed not to follow, but Rue was afraid that it did. She was fairly sure that Mrs. Kip was complaining of her daughter-in-law’s mental capacity.

This suddenly reminded Doug of another of his points about Jesus.

“And what about those rather rude things he says to his mother?”

he resumed. ‘Woman, what have I to do with you?’ He said that in public. At a wedding. If I did that, my mother would tear my ears off.”

“Suggesting that he
did
know he was divine. He knew he could get away with being smart, because he was the Messiah,” said Cynda.

“It only proves His mother thought so. But it wasn’t very Christ-like of him,” said Doug.

“Why shouldn’t it be that your spiritual nature accrues throughout your life?” Rue asked. “An embryo, in utero, starts out so undiffer-entiated that it could conceivably become a fish. Or a dog. It has gills for a while. But its humanity accrues throughout gestation. Why shouldn’t it be the same with your spiritual life? That once born, you make choices, or follow your path, and gradually as you pass your tests or fail them, as you choose your fights and learn from them or don’t, your spiritual nature evolves?”

“Building up layer by layer, like lacquer?” Cynda asked, interested, and looking at her amazing fingernails.

Suddenly Mrs. Kip wriggled out of her chair and stumped out of the room.

“So that he had the potential to become the Christ in the cradle, but he didn’t achieve it until decades later,” said Doug.

“And would that mean that there are others born with the same potential?” Cynda wondered.

“I don’t see why not,” said Rue. “I don’t know how else you explain the Buddha, or the Hindu holy men, or the Prophet Mo-hammed.”

“Or Emanuel Swedenborg, or Joseph Smith, or Mary Baker Eddy,”

said Henry enthusiastically.

“Henry, go do something useful. Go see if Emily needs to be rescued from Bud Ransom.”

154 / Beth Gutcheon

Henry rose and went, smiling.

“So at what point did Our Lord know he was the Messiah?” asked Doug. “You know, the gospels don’t ever say there were wise men and a star, let alone a stable. Matthew says there was a table in a room, and later a couple of astrologers from Iran. Luke says there was a manger and shepherds, but he also says there was a poll tax in the reign of Herod, and there wasn’t, so why would Mary and Joseph be on the road at all and have to stay at an inn? Why wouldn’t they stay in Nazareth?”

“Rue,” said Cynda, “if humanity accrues throughout gestation, and birth is the culmination, and life is a spiritual gestation, then is death the next birth?”

“If you were in the womb, and you somehow had intimations of what birth was going to be like, wouldn’t it sound horrible?” Rue asked.

“It would. It would indeed.”

“All those lights and noise. The air on your skin. Learning to breathe.”

Just then Chandler hurried into the room. He came over to where Rue, Doug, and Cynda were sitting and stood over them.

“Excuse me,” he said crossly. “But can any of you tell me what happened to my mother?”

They all looked at each other.

“She left us. I thought she was going to get food.”

“I tried to make her share my food, but she didn’t like shrimp.”

“Is something wrong?”

“She’s gone upstairs to bed,” said Chandler, furious. “All she would say was, she didn’t think she liked my fancy friends.”

The three looked at each other. Rue stood up.

“Chandler…I’m sorry. I don’t know how we offended her but I’m awfully sorry we did. Would you take me to her?”

“For what purpose?”

“I would like to say good night to her and tell her how sorry I am.

I’d like to tell her I look forward to seeing her another time.”

“I don’t think so, Rue. I don’t think that would strike her as a good idea.”

Fortunately, that was the moment that the Christmas tree finally caught on fire.

W
e were being clever,” said Rue in the car, miserable. “We assumed that we all agreed that was a clever conversation to have.”

Emily, from the back seat, watched the exchange.

“Excuse me,” said Henry, “but I happen to know you were talking about your most deeply held beliefs.”

“But I was talking about them lightly. She misunderstood. She thought we were being facetious.”

“Rue…you’re not perfect. You can’t get it right all the time.

Chandler will get over it.”

“I’m not worried about consequences. I’m sorry I offended my host’s mother. My employer’s mother. I’m sorry I gave pain when I didn’t mean to.”

“Chandler’s a jerk and so is his mother,” said Henry. “Don’t worry about it.” He happened to look in the rearview mirror and found that his eyes met Emily’s.

The next day was Monday, the last half-week before Christmas break, and on Wednesday, Georgia would be home.

The day began with Corinne Lowen, Kenny Lowen’s mother, on the phone yelling bloody murder at Lynn Ketchum because Kenny had gotten a B in history. The Lowens had already had an hysterical hour-long meeting with Rue the week before because Kenny’s B- in PE was keeping him off the honor roll.

“PE should not count toward the honor roll,” Bradley Lowen kept intoning. “It is not an academic subject.”

“I understand that,” Rue kept responding. “But these children are very grade-oriented, and the teachers say that if the grade doesn’t count, they won’t make an effort. I can’t keep good art or music or PE teachers if the students don’t take their classes seriously.”

“You call Blair Kunzelman a good teacher?” Bradley demanded.

“Yes, I do,” said Rue, hoping her nose wouldn’t start to grow.

156 / Beth Gutcheon

Blair was much loved by the boys who cared about team sports, but he fancied himself quite the jock, and his judgment in handling the less athletic boys was not always the best. In her experience it was hard to find a good PE teacher with perfect social skills.

“Kenny’s a fine athlete. He just isn’t interested in PE,” said Corinne Lowen. “He’s too smart for it. He gets bored.”

“I understand that. But we believe that the whole program counts.

We feel it’s a good thing to learn to do your best at the task at hand.”

“But it’s keeping him off the honor roll!”

“You know that the high schools don’t see the honor roll. It will have no effect on his future.”

“But he’s the brightest kid in the class!”

“He may well be.”

“Then how can he not be on the honor roll?”

“Because it’s just that. It’s an honor. It’s not something he’s entitled to because he’s bright.”

They had gone on like that for a dozen inconclusive rounds, until they wore themselves out and went away. What are they going to be like when I tell them that Kenny’s the psychopath who’s been harassing Mrs. Goldring? Rue wondered.

In any case, they were now onto Ms. Ketchum, the gray-haired, fleshless, bitter-looking teacher of history whom Rue knew to have a razor tongue and an even sharper mind. She was not the sort who was thought to have a way with children, but there was something in her unflinching dry irony that her students loved. Especially the bright ones, whom she favored. Rue knew Lynn was one of the few teachers in school who was not completely fed up with Kenny. But apparently Corinne Lowen didn’t know that, or care.

Lynn repeated the conversation to Rue while Rue took notes.

Lynn’s reporting was close to verbatim; she had a wicked ear for speech patterns.

“I said, ‘Good morning,’ and she screamed, ‘What the hell is this B for?’ I said, ‘History.’” Rue made a successful effort not to smile.

“She yelled, ‘How could Kenny Lowen get a B in history? Do you know what they said to him at CTY in Los Angeles last sum-Saying Grace / 157

mer? They said,
This boy should be in college-level calculus. This is one
of the brightest students we ever taught. He has the potential to be a
mathematician of world-class importance
.’

“I said, ‘No, I didn’t know they said that.’ She said, ‘Well that’s what they said. Now you tell me how that same boy could get a B

in an eighth-grade history course?’

“I said, ‘Did they also recommend that he take their advanced course for another thousand dollars next summer?’”

Rue couldn’t help smiling at that. She put her hand over her eyes, as if she didn’t want to know what was coming.

“She screamed, ‘Well of course they did! He’s too bright for classes he’s in, he needs advanced-level courses!’

“I said, ‘If he’s too bright, why didn’t he get an A in my class?’

She said, ‘That’s what I’m asking you!’

“I said, ‘Then I’ll tell you. He has failed to turn in four homework assignments, he made careless mistakes on his midterm exam, and he did a mediocre job on his
You Are There
assignment. Which he turned in late.’

“She said, ‘You call it mediocre because it’s Kenny. If it were Sharon Poobah or Johnny Slipperyrock you’d give it an A. You penalize him for being bright.’”

Rue made a gesture of annoyance but Lynn waved it off. Parents didn’t scare her. “I said, ‘You are quite wrong. I have standards and I apply them equally. He did B work in my class. There were four students who got A’s, because their work was clearly better.’

“Then she said, ‘Don’t you have some kind of warning system when a child is going to get a poor grade?’ I said, ‘Yes, we do. If your child is going to get a D or an F, we let you know at least three weeks in advance.’ She chewed on that for a while, and then I said,

‘If you would like me to warn you if Kenny is going to get a B, I can certainly do that.’ She yelled, ‘This isn’t about A’s or B’s!’”

Rue rolled her eyes.

“I said, ‘Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ And she said she was sure I didn’t, and hung up.”

Rue took a deep breath. “Thank you, Lynn.”

“No problem.”

But they both knew it was a big problem. The Lowens were 158 / Beth Gutcheon

close friends with half the parent body. But they had a troubled boy on their hands, and they didn’t want to hear it, and sooner or later, they were going to shoot a messenger.