Grandview, p.17
Grandview, page 17
“I am honored, guys,” he said, “I truly am. The fact that you thought of me for such an important duty, that means a lot to me.”
“And?” Robert said.
“And,” Paul said, facing Robert directly, “I would love to perform your ceremony. But in order to do so, we’ll need to make sure that I’m the right person for you.”
Leticia sat forward in her chair.
“Paul, Robert and I decided this together. We’re sure we want you to do it.”
“Again, I appreciate that. I really do. But in order for me to do this for you, we’ll need to make sure what you’re asking is possible.”
“Why would it not be possible?” Robert asked. His words had an edge to them.
“Well,” said Paul, “it might be that I, as an ordained minister, may not be able to satisfy my conscience toward the duty you’re asking me to perform.” When Paul used the word “satisfy,” Robert became angry. He tried to hide the evidence of that anger as he spoke, and he could tell Leticia was also upset.
“What do you mean,” Robert said, “by not being satisfied? Monetarily?”
“No,” Paul said, “oh, God forbid. No.”
“Then what do you mean?” Leticia said, surprising both Robert and Paul with the force of her tone. “How would we not satisfy you?” Paul held up one hand.
“Letty,” he said, “please don’t be offended. Please. The last thing I want to do is make you upset. Personally, I like you both and wish you the best. You know that. But for me to do this, I have to be sure that we agree about what marriage is.”
“Then what do you think marriage is?” Letty asked.
“I believe marriage to be a sacred institution, created by God to illustrate the glory of the relationship between Christ and his church.”
“I’m fine with that,” Robert said.
Paul nodded, and asked, “But do you believe that?”
Robert shrugged. “I’m fine with it,” he said.
“I believe that,” Leticia said. “I’ve always believed that.”
“That’s good,” Paul said. “Wonderful.” He closed his notebook and laid his hands on the desk. “Listen, guys, even with my own church members, I insist we meet together a handful of times before I commit. Of course, you are perfectly welcome to get married at any time, however you choose. But for me to do it, I need to have a clean conscience. And for me to have a clean conscience, I need to make sure we at least share the same beliefs in the essential things.”
Robert rubbed his eyes.
“Like I said, Paul, I’m fine with whatever you want, man. Totally cool with God here. I get it.”
In fact, he was not “cool with God.” It was not that he lacked belief. He believed in a god, but whoever he or she or it was, he held that entity responsible for letting his entire family die together, leaving him alone and frightened in a strange world. He was not at all cool with God—not by a long shot—but that fact he could not admit to anyone, let alone himself.
“Okay,” Paul said and stood up. He walked to one of the book-covered walls, stepping over a stack of brown boxes on the way, and removed a worn, black leather-bound volume with gold lettering. “Let’s start at the beginning then, okay? This isn’t just me holding a measuring rod to you guys. It’s just as much a process of you discovering whether or not I really am the right guy for the job. Can you two commit to meeting with me a few times together?”
“Absolutely,” Robert said.
“Sure,” Letty said, but Robert detected a trace of something other than agreement in her voice.
“Okay,” Paul said. “You guys want coffee, water, or anything?”
“We’re okay,” Robert said. Leticia held up her half-finished Americano.
“Okey-dokey,” Paul said, opening his notebook, “pre-marital counseling, first session.”
He clicked the pen one time and wrote something across the top of the notebook page. He opened the pastor’s manual to a dog-eared page, and spread the book flat on the desk, setting a stapler across the top to hold it open while he wrote.
Chapter 42: Tadpole
Robert was glad it was Thursday. Thursday was the day for going all the way. Most days he didn’t think about weed, and if he did use THC he did so in moderation. Tonight, he was going to get really, really high. And then he would get drunk. Then he would fall asleep.
On the picnic blanket with Leticia, under the big tree that morning, they had planned so much of their future together. That imagined future did not include anything like an existential spiritual crisis, especially not in this present form. That was Paul’s contribution. Sterile, inoffensive Paul, who was by all accounts the nicest guy around. Paul was the kind of guy you hoped would find your sister drunk at a party, because she’d be safe with him. And apparently beneath that mild-mannered persona, he was an artful destroyer of happiness as well. He made Letty cry. Robert wanted to punch him in his face.
Robert would still marry Letty, of course. They would find someone to do it, someone without Paul’s hang-ups. Letty’s father would surely spare no expense for his daughter’s wedding, and then Robert would give her the longest, most extravagant honeymoon imaginable. He would transmogrify a little Bitcoin and hock some gold. If needed he would sell a building.
He found his weed box and took inventory. There wasn’t much flower left, but there was a full jar of oil. That was probably a better option anyway for what Robert had planned, and then there would be no smell to bother Mary. Downstairs he located his bottle of kirschwasser, filled a large glass with ice water and hid the sharp cereals. He texted Letty to make sure she was all right, and she said she was. Something made him check that the front door was locked, and he set the alarm and turned on all the cameras.
Before commencing with his plans, he thought it best to prepare his bath. Once the oil kicked in, that pre-measured epsom salt would come in handy. He wiped a fine layer of dust from the tub, and gave the inside a quick rinse. He placed a few candles about the room and put the lighter on the rim of the tub where it would be impossible to miss. He transferred enough kirschwasser into his favorite flask and put the glass bottle away where it would be safe. There were plenty of towels in the cabinet.
What bugged Robert the most was that Paul was the real deal. It would be easier to process if he was just some self-righteous prick, instead of the most genuine guy. Being genuine, however, did not mean he was right. It beggared belief how much of an asshole Paul chose to be, sitting there in his chair while Letty cried.
Robert respected the fact that Paul stood for something, but the laws of hospitality demanded things be handled a certain way. And Paul handled their invitation like a total asshole. Not only that, but on the wall in his office, directly above and behind his desk, hung a framed poster depicting a bunch of perfectly diverse children frolicking around something like a maypole. Across the top and bottom, in huge, gold, all-capital lettering, it said: WE ARE FEARFULLY AND WONDERFULLY MADE.
Yeah, Robert thought, go hang that in some dying kid’s hospital room, moron.
He wondered what Paul thought of fearfully, wonderfully made cleft palates. Perhaps his donation to Smile Train last year was a blasphemy. And how tender was God’s selection of top-shelf cancers for specially-chosen, particularly fortunate children. How otherwise intelligent people could buy into that spiritual-inspirational nonsense he could not understand.
While Robert was lighting the candles Toast paid him a visit. He repeatedly circled the room, his rear end skittering from side to side on the hardwood by the inertia of its wagging. Robert caressed him when he came within reach, and spoke to him.
“Hey, boy. Are you good?” Toast smiled back idiotically, tap-tapping with his paws on the tile. “You seem naughty and spoiled. Are you? Are you naughty?” Toast tilted his head while maintaining eye contact, grey-bearded and smiling. “You’re a good boy. Wanna get in there with me? Bath time?” At this word, Toast scurried away down the hall to Mary’s room, where Robert heard him scratching at her door and whining. The door opened and closed, and Toast was no more. What a rascal, thought Robert, opening the faucet in the bathtub. That dog he could imagine God creating, mixing the contents of assorted, heavenly multicolor beakers into a graduated cylinder with CUTE DOG written across the top. The flowing water began to warm, and he plugged the drain and undressed.
The tub filled slowly. Into the warm, clear water Robert poured the cup of pre-measured salt. This reminded him that he had forgotten to take the oil. Dang, he thought. The serene, candlelit pool of water called to him. He could not wait for the oil to kick in. I’ll have a little toke first, he thought, to prime the pump. He put on a robe in order to go back to his room and get the weed box. He opened the door to the hallway, and thought, I’m being watched.
It was not a rational thought. The lath and plaster walls surrounding him could stop a bullet, and of all the bathrooms in the house this was the only one without windows. The oversized door was carved from solid hardwood, the exhaust fan vent was clearly undisturbed, and Mary was not a pervert. There was no logical reason for Robert to believe anyone could see him. And yet he did believe it. And he realized he had felt like this all day, ever since meeting with Paul, but had not recognized the feeling for what it was. He had not yet taken any drug. He had not yet even taken a drink, apart from licking a rogue drop of kirschwasser from the neck of his flask.
The feeling did not leave him but became less articulate after he departed the bathroom. The hallway was refreshingly dry and cool. He grabbed the weed box and returned to the bathroom, trying unsuccessfully to banish the fear of being ...
What is it, he thought, what am I afraid of? It was not only the fear of being observed but something far worse. It was the fear of being known. It was the fear of having himself been known, forever, without a reciprocal awareness of his own. It was the fear of having lived an exceptional lifetime only to discover the mirrors were all two-way. He forced himself to look at the mirror, and there he saw an incredible thing.
In the mirror Robert saw his own face and his own chest. He peered into his own eyes and saw himself alone in the bathroom. But occupying that same space, a terrible, superior power resided, self-possessed to the point of immutability. Behind Robert’s skin, the basic structure of his skeleton was visible, as always. He saw it was a bony, mineral inheritance received by genetic communication from blueprints first actualized in ages long since consigned to oblivion. Fearfully and wonderfully made, he thought. Oh my God.
Chapter 43: Provenance
“I see her there,” Heather said, pointing to the fountain. There Patricia stood, waving. Alberto rolled his window down.
“Hey, babe,” Patricia called out, “Stacia’s inside.”
“We’re gonna park,” Alberto called back.
They drove to the next block and in their haste almost forgot to pay the meter. Alberto cleared his throat.
“Stacia’s the tall girl, right?”
“Yes, that’s Pat’s new toy.”
“That parking was pretty clean, huh?”
“What?”
“The parking was clean. When I parked.” Heather stopped walking and looked at him.
“What was clean? You mean the parking lot?”
“No,” Alberto said, “when I parked, it was clean. Like I did it good. Not everyone can just park a big car all smooth like that.” Heather stared at him with her lips tightly closed, breathing through her nose.
“Alberto, honey, I ... okay. Yes, you’re a good driver. You did very good.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Alberto said. “You’re just making this big deal out of it. I just said it was cool, nada más. You just make everything into a big deal.”
Heather let her head fall and reached out her arms. He came to her, and they embraced.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said and laid her head on his chest.
“It’s okay. Let’s just go in. I’m thirsty.”
“Okay.”
They joined the girls at their booth and found Mimosas waiting. As usual, following a brief period of small talk, Patricia yanked the rudder and the conversation turned sexual. People at other tables were listening in. She’s performing, thought Heather, and it’s the same act as always. At just above her previous conversational volume, Patricia extolled the beauty of her husband’s new girlfriend in Hong Kong, raved about her newest sex toy, and praised Stacia’s “hot little tongue.” Stacia did not seem to mind, but Heather felt embarrassed. It wasn’t the subject matter that bothered her but the staring and the whispers and the manifest duplicity of her friend.
“I,” Patricia announced, “need to visit the lady’s room.”
“Me too,” Stacia said. They rose together. Alberto nudged Heather, and she shook her head.
“We’ll be here,” Heather said.
Alberto and Heather did not speak together while their friends tarried in the restroom. Alberto was on his phone, scrolling, and Heather waited silently. Stacia returned first, smoothing her dress and hair with hyperbolic discretion, as though unaware of being under the focused observation of nearly every set of eyes in the room. Patricia emerged shortly thereafter, behaving much the same. On her way back to the booth, however, she was stopped by a couple just entering through the front door.
To Heather’s surprise, it was Greg and Robin Daniels, old friends of the DeVries. They had a daughter close to Jason’s age, and the two children had gotten along together well. Heather felt her heart rate increasing. This was her first encounter with someone from “up there” (a term she had grown accustomed to, when speaking of Orange County) and she wasn’t sure how to act. Robin cast a furtive glance toward Heather and then looked away quickly, saying something to Patricia while pretending to wipe her mouth. Patricia turned her head so that Heather could not see her face and said something in return. Robin simpered and then looked at every place in the room except where Heather sat.
“I think we’ll go next door,” Robin said. “It feels crowded in here today.” Greg looked confused. Robin leaned over and whispered something to him, and Greg’s eyes explored the room, settling on Heather for a fraction of a second.
“I agree,” he then said, opening the door for his wife, who walked out after hugging Patricia. He then followed her, looking once behind him directly into Heather’s eyes. To Heather, the hostility in his gaze was shocking. A few months before, that same face was winking as he handed her a freshly-blended margarita, while the two of them flirted on his own back patio. Patricia watched them leave, waving, and then returned to the table.
Throughout the remainder of their brunch, Heather said almost nothing. She and Patricia avoided eye contact for the most part, and when they did interact Patricia’s mannerisms were saccharine and insincere. Stacia was noticeably uncomfortable but played it off well. Alberto was absolutely himself.
On the ride home, Alberto tried many times to plumb the depths of Heather’s sorrow. From his vantage point, it was hard to understand Heather’s inexplicable transition from happy, friendly girlfriend into sullen, gloomy bummer. She seemed fine that morning, and brunch was great. Then all the sudden she got all morose again. He liked Heather a lot, but this was really getting old. If she would only tell him what was bothering her, he would take care of it, and then they could be happy. But she refused to let him in, hiding her mind and keeping him at arm’s length in the dark.
After seeing Heather to her door (she did not invite him inside), Alberto encountered a swarm of bees on Manchester Avenue. He and the other drivers around him slowed, and Alberto rolled up his window. It was strange, how they all hovered there, shooting this way and that in the middle of the street. He edged forward, waiting his turn, and accelerated away from the bees as soon as possible. Behind him, he heard an engine revving, and then an old white sports car passed him on the right. If there was anything that irritated Alberto, it was someone passing disrespectfully like that. It was just an old car, but the driver was putting the pedal down and passed quickly, soon disappearing from view around the next turn.
Chapter 44: Parachute
The swarm of bees seemed to augur something ominous to come. Paul had agreed to meet with him, back at the church, but there was no guarantee this would be a positive experience. He called Paul that morning because he could not think of another person more likely to understand what was happening to him. What if he’s in on it, thought Robert, and he just starts laughing. Or what if he’s evil, and I’ve got the whole thing upside down?
These thoughts and many others filtered through his brain while he drove. He just wanted to be there already but was also afraid of getting pulled over in his current state. He sat up straight and slowed to nine miles over the speed limit. To appear responsible, he placed his hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel.
When he finally arrived, Paul’s car was in the lot and the door to the church office was propped open. Robert parked and made his way to the office, conscious still of being watched at every moment.
The door to the office was a gaping, black mouth. The daylight seemed not to penetrate the interior of the room. Oh, man, Robert thought, this is wrong. All of this is wrong. Summoning the determination with which he had left the house, he willed himself to the threshold and knocked at the open door. There was no answer. Robert could now make out the form of the interior, but at the desk he saw no one.
“Paul?” Robert said. “Paul? You there, man?” Behind him he heard footsteps approaching.
“Robert,” Paul said, and Robert spun around violently. “Whoa, bud. You okay?” Robert shook his head. “Why don’t we go inside?”
Paul entered first and switched on the light. Right away, the room lost its dreadful aspect and welcomed Robert inside. Okay, thought Robert, this is good. This is a good place. Robert took the same chair he had sat in the day before. Paul turned the chair that had been Letty’s and sat facing Robert in front of the desk. He waited patiently for Robert to begin, until he felt it necessary to take charge.
