The Preacher's Daughter (2 page)

"We're home!"

Naomi heard her mother's footsteps before she saw her and then watched as she entered the doorway between the rooms. She was wearing her favorite style of cotton dress, modest with small floral print, belted in the middle.

Lilly Kindle was as small as her husband was big, but somehow managed to cast a larger presence when she smiled. Or cried.

"Please don't cry," Naomi silently thought.

"Baby?" Her mother's voice was strangled with shock and again Naomi remembered how odd she must look.

"Yeah, ma," she said. "It's me!"

Her mother stood there.

"Baby?" And then she dropped the dust rag she was holding and her eyes welled with tears and she rushed forward to embrace her only child. "Baby!"

"Mommy!" Naomi let herself be squeezed and hugged her mother back. It was harder, seeing her mother cry, for she sometimes felt that if Lilly Kindle could grow a backbone she'd be a different person, a more daring one, perhaps even one who would have stood up for her against the fire-and-brimstone father God had been so cruel as to give her. And she dared to wonder if, perhaps, her note had made her mother think a little bit about the price of trying to stuff children into such rigid, religious molds.

"Praise be to Jesus. You're home," her mother said.

Nope. Not a chance. Naomi sighed. Her mother hadn't changed a bit.

"I am," she said.

"Where's Eric?" her father asked.

"He's gone down to the lake with a group of kids," her mother replied, and Naomi heard her father breathe a sigh of relief.

"Well thank God," he said. "That gives us time to get Naomi cleaned up and into something decent."

Her mother stood back and surveyed her daughter, shaking her head.

"Yes, we'll have to see to that right away."

Naomi wanted to say that she could dress herself, but she didn't want to raise her father's anger again. She'd not shown it, but his threat to spank her had rattled her, even if he didn't mean it. The Reverend Fred Kindle had never been one to spare the rod. Or the switch. Or the paddle. And growing up, Naomi had gotten her share of spankings and had hated each and every one of them. In fact, she often thought that was one of the reasons she'd rebelled so dramatically once she'd gotten a chance to do it. She was quite eager to show that rigid rules - and discipline - simply did not work.

Her mother guided her down the hall to her room as if she'd forgotten the way. Here things were different. All the little mementos of her high school and early college years - the pictures taped to the mirror, her stuffed animals, her posters - they were all gone. Even the bedspread - a bold yellow one with geometric shapes that she'd bought with her babysitting money - was missing. It had been replaced by a baby blue one with a lace overlay.

"We put your things up," her mother said. "They just raised too many questions when visitors peeked in and saw them. They always wanted to know if we had a daughter, and where she was."

"And you were too ashamed to answer," Naomi replied. "Wow."

"Not ashamed." Lilly Kindle walked to the closet and opened it. "We just considered it a private matter that we didn't want to discuss with strangers."

"I see." Naomi tossed her bag on the bed as her mother fretted over the dresses in the closet.

"Ah, here," she said, pulling out one of the modest, high-necked dresses Naomi had been required to wear when she lived at home.

"I have my own clothes, mom," Naomi said, opening her bag.

"Perhaps so," her mother said firmly. "But there's going to be standards for dress here. Your father and I already talked about it. No blue jeans. They're improper for young ladies. We've always thought that and you know it."

Lilly Kindle's mouth was set in a grim, determined line.

"At least it's sleeveless," her mother said. "You don't have a lot of warm weather dresses in here. Well have go get you some this week."

"Yeah, dad told me we were going shopping," Naomi said.

Her mother stood there as if waiting for something, then the doorbell rang.

"That'll be Rev. Feagans," she said. "He's here for lunch. We told him you were coming but didn't tell him much about you. Only that you had left and that we'd prayed for your return. He's had the church praying with us recently. So you can thank God and him for helping you find your way back."

Naomi thought of the day she'd gotten robbed on the subway, of how her landlord had accused her of lying when she told him the rent had been stolen. He'd kicked her out, leaving her with no place to go. Calling home had been her only option. She'd asked her father for a loan, but he'd refused. He'd help her, he said, but only if he came home.

"Yeah," she said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "I'll be sure to thank him for that."

Her mother turned and walked out of the room. Naomi sighed and turned to the mirror as she did, holding the dress up in front of her body. Nearly a year of dancing had left her leaner and more toned than when she'd left; the dress was too big now.

"You want me to wear this?" she asked. "Fine. Just remember, you asked for it."

Five minutes later she was walking down the hallway lined with family portraits and into the dining room, where her mother scurried to put food on the table as her father chatted with a man whose back was to her. It was a solid back, and muscular through the fabric of his polo shirt.

The way his father was laughing and nodding, she guessed Rev. Eric Feagans to be another middle-aged conservative stick-in-the-mud who told lame jokes between attempts to put the fear of God into their flock. She wondered what the youth in the church could see in someone like that.

Her father glanced up, saw her and instantly his smile died away and he stood. Taking a deep breath he gestured in her direction.

"Ah, Naomi. Finally come to join us."

The man stood then and turned, and when he did Naomi found herself surprised. Rather than being middle aged, Rev. Feagans was no older than his mid-thirties. He was taller when he stood up than she imagined. His face was handsome and square-jawed and his well-tanned, athletic appearance suggestive of someone who did far more than sit behind a desk writing sermons.

"Reverend Feagans, my daughter Naomi. Naomi, Reverend Feagans."

Her father's tone carried a taint of warning, as if to remind her that this man was important, and that she should be polite.

"Nice to meet you." Naomi took his outstretched hand.

"Likewise," he said, looking at her more intently than she liked. "Your parents tell me you've been away."

Naomi pulled her hand away and went to her seat. "Yeah," she said. "I've been away."

He sat across from her, studying her, as if waiting for more of an explanation.

"Well, they're glad to have you back," he said. "They've been worried."

"I know," she said curtly. "They told me already."

Her mother returned with a bowl of mashed potatoes and sat it on the table. Then she stopped, staring at her daughter's shoulder. Her face was ashen and the Rev. Frank Kindle looked at his wife, puzzled. Their guest, too, looked at Lilly Kindle before following her gaze to her daughter's shoulder.

"You got inked."

Naomi glanced from her mother to the youth minister. "Yeah. Last year."

"What is it? I know tattoos have symbolic significance to young people. They say a lot about the wearer."

Naomi turned and pulled the loose-fitting sleeve down, letting it drop to reveal the angel.

"It's me," she said. "It represents my loss of faith." She stood and walked around the table, hiking her dress up enough to reveal the cross of thorns on her toned and tanned calf. "This one represents the painful influence of religion on my life."

Her mother was still rooted to the spot, her father speechless and then sputtering.

"What on earth. NAOMI! How dare you insult our guest with that display!" He stood and pointed to the hallway. "Go to your room! At once!"

She stood. "Gladly, father."

Tossing the napkin down she looked at him. "Just tell mother the next time she decides to pick my clothing that jeans and a t-shirt cover tattoos better than Sunday dresses."

Naomi stalked off towards her room then and slammed the door. Sitting hard on the bed she put her face in her hands, listening as her father's voice floated to her from down the hall. It was mingled with her mother's exasperated tone. In between she could hear the youth minister's reasoned one.

She lay back on the unfamiliar scratchy lace coverlet and wondered if her other one was still in the closet. Naomi got up and checked, but it wasn't there so she took the duffle bag out and searched until she found a Twinkie she had left over from her trip. Eating it, she fished through the bag again for her bag of weed. She was looking for a place to stash it when she heard another knock at the door.

"At least you knocked," she said, tossing the pot back in her bag and shoving it under a t-shirt.

She answered the door, expecting to find one of her parents. Instead she stood face to face with Eric Feagans.

He didn't say anything for a moment.

"Can I come in?"

She smirked. "My parents don't let me have strange guys in my room. It's sinful."

He gave a small laugh. "They've granted an exception in my case." He leaned towards her conspiratorially. "Just between you and me I think it's because I'm a minister." Then he winked and Naomi couldn't help but laugh.

"All right." She stepped aside.

He walked in and looked around. "It's not what I expected."

"That's because I haven't put my personal touches on it yet," she said. "Come back next week. By then the walls will be covered with pentagrams and autographed pictures of Satan."

He frowned. "That's not funny, Naomi."

"Yes it is," she said. "So what do they want? Did they ask you to read Bible verses to me?"

"No, they asked something more serious," he said. "They're at a loss for what to do with you. They fell like they've lost you and they want you back."

"No they don't," she said. "They want their version of me."

He ignored this. "They've asked me to help. Neither of them knows how to deal with you. Your father said spanking you always helped, but now that you're an adult he doesn't think it's appropriate for him to do that."

"Duh, do you think?" Naomi scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He ignore this as well. "Your mother is too upset. She's in her room crying."

"So how are you supposed to help?" Naomi asked.

"As of now, I'm in charge of you," he said.

Naomi fixed the young minister with a shocked stare. "You can't be serious."

"I am," he said.

She was silent for another moment. "This is ridiculous! I'm outta here."

Reaching for her bag, she lifted it from the bed but as she did Eric grabbed her arm, upsetting the contents, which spilled to the floor.

The minister kept a grip on his arm as he leaned down and picked up the bag of pot. Looking up at her, he shook his head.

"Do you know how much trouble you can get in for this?" He held it up as if showing it to her for the first time.

"That's mine," she said.

"Yeah." He tucked it in his shirt pocket, keeping a grip on her as he continued to go through her things. Her little pipe and pack of rolling papers joined the weed in his pocket. Then he stood. His grip was still firm on her arm.

"Let me go," she said.

He shook his head.

"No," he said. "I'm not letting you go. In fact, we're going for a little walk."

Chapter Two

Naomi jerked her arm away.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said.

"Is that how your final decision?" Rev. Eric Feagans looked at her sternly. "Because if it is, I'll just call your father in here and recommend that he phone the police."

"You wouldn't do that," Naomi said. "My mother is upset enough as it is. What kind of a jerk would expose her to that?"

"Less of a jerk than the person who brought an illegal substance into her house." He raised an eyebrow. "Don't test me, young lady. I will do it."

Naomi assessed him, wondering whether to call this man's bluff. Living in the mean streets of L.A., she had learned how to read people quickly and accurately. Her instincts, she knew, had saved her life. They were accurate. And now they were telling her that this man was not to be trifled with.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth and walked past him down the hall. He said nothing to her parents as he guided her out the front door and across the lawn towards the church.

"Where are we going?"

"To my office," he said. "Where we can talk."

They entered the church through a side door. There was no noise inside. The building was empty. Naomi fumed as she followed the youth minister down the hall, past the Sunday school classes and into what used to be a counseling room.

Now there was a simple plate on the door reading "Rev. Eric Feagans, Youth Minister." Underneath was a poster reading "You are beautiful in God's sight."

He unlocked the door and stood aside so Naomi could walk in. The room was now an office, with a desk, a chair and a bookshelf containing books on everything from the ministry to camping.

"Sit down." It was an order, not a request. Naomi considered ignoring it but decided against it. For now she'd humor him, but once she'd had enough she'd tell the good reverend where he could stick his bossy attitude.

He sat in the other chair across from her and pulled the pot out of his pocket.

"This kind of behavior, young lady, stops today."

Naomi felt her face grow warm. This was the second time he had called her 'young lady.' What did he think? That she was a child?

"Says who?" she shot back.

"Says I."

"Why do you care what I do?" she asked.

"Because your parents are good people and they're worried about you," he said. "And because I made them a promise to help you."

"Help me?" Naomi punctuated the question with a bitter laugh. "That's nice and all, but there's just one small problem. I don't want your fucking help."