The Sky Beneath My Feet

Chapter 6


Desert Father





There’s an elephant in the room, a big, gray elephant swaying his snout back and forth over the breakfast table, probably astonished at how completely we’re managing to ignore him. The boys do most of the work. Eli can talk for hours about dialing in his bicycle, about the shortcomings of his aluminum frame compared to carbon fiber, about track-standing (whatever that is). And Jed fills the gaps with questions about Marlene. He remembers her well, it seems. Maybe he even had a crush on her once upon a time, the way freshmen can fixate on unattainable seniors. “She was planning to go to law school,” he says, which makes me wince a little. There was a time when I was planning to go to law school too.

Rick sits listening, stirring his Grape-Nuts with a contemplative spoon. Not his usual choice. He brought them back from his provisioning trip, along with the new sleeping bag, some gallon jugs of water, and a big box of generic-brand cheese crackers.

When the boys get up to leave, so does Rick. They go out the front as he slips out the back, saying good-bye over his shoulder like he’ll be back in an hour or two. No sense of occasion, my husband. Or maybe he just wants to escape.

As he lopes across the yard toward his shed, I watch him from the kitchen window. There’s a magnetic timer on the refrigerator. I set it for an hour, ruminate a little, then knock it back to forty-five minutes. He’ll be back by the time the clock runs down. He’ll hear the ping and know why. And I won’t have to say a word.





But the clock runs down and Rick doesn’t return. An hour passes, two, and I start to realize this could go on longer than a morning, or even a day. I have laundry to do, but between each step—clothes to the washer, clothes to the dryer, shrinkables to the drying rack (assuming I haven’t already shrunk them)—I pass by the window for a glance at the shed. No movement.

Selfish, that’s what it is.

Leaving me like this. All the work on my shoulders.

And it’s pretty dangerous too.

Try it out, he’s saying. This is what life without me would be like. This is a trial run.





Holly, who isn’t the sort to drop by unannounced, drops by unannounced the first afternoon. She joins me at the window for a few minutes.

“He’s not coming out, is he?”

I shake my head. “I guess not.”

“Well, you can’t wait around for it to happen. You’ve got better things to do. Come on, there’s a birthday to plan, right? The boys are going to need some normalcy if this”—she nods toward the shed—“is gonna keep up. Let’s go shopping.”

“Retail therapy? I’ll pass.”

“It’s not for you, silly. It’s for Eli.”

“Do they have a store that sells new dads?”

She loops her arm through mine and starts edging me out the door. “What he needs isn’t a new dad, Beth. He needs the old one to get fixed. Let’s leave him in his cocoon, and when we come back, maybe Rick’ll come out a butterfly.”

“I’d like to see that.”

On the sidewalk outside, we intercept Deedee with Roy Meakin in tow. Roy of the vintage Rolls, who’s carried a torch for Deedee Smythe for going on thirty years. When he’s around, it usually means Deedee is going to the market and needs a bearer. Or that she’s listed another huge, ornately carved piece of mahogany furniture on Craigslist and wants a man around when the buyer turns up.

I make the introductions. Roy seems delighted by my tall, blond friend. “You’re Eric Ringwald’s wife, aren’t you? I know Eric quite well.”

Roy and Holly talk finance for a minute while I smile at Deedee, waiting for it to stop. She’s not so patient. Pulling me to one side, she says, “You look distracted. What’s wrong?”

“He started up this morning in earnest.”

“Who, Rick? He’s out in the shed?”

I nod. “Since eight o’clock this morning, with no sign of movement.”

“Well, well.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Maybe I’ll drop in on him and wish him luck.”

“Wish who luck?” Roy asks.

“Elizabeth’s husband is channeling the desert fathers. He’s holed up in one of the old outbuildings to wait for a sign from God.”

“The desert fathers,” Roy says. “Are they the ones who climbed up on poles and wouldn’t come down for years? I hope you don’t have to wait that long.”

“I think it’s rather exciting. Who’s even heard of such a thing in this day and age? I can’t imagine you sequestering yourself for a whole month, Roy.”

“Not even for a day,” he replies.

“I’m telling you, Elizabeth, they simply don’t make men like that anymore.”

“But did these desert fathers have wives and kids?” I ask. “Did they climb up their poles with pork rinds and a jar of Nutella?”

Holly butts in. “Well, it was nice meeting you both.”

They continue down the sidewalk, discussing the merits of various ancient hermits, while Holly packs me into the passenger seat of her car.

“I thought you were gonna explode back there.”

“Don’t worry about Deedee. She’s impossible to offend.”

“If you say so, sister. She really seems to like her monks, though.”

She heads down York to Towson Town Center, deciding our first stop should be the Apple Store. Holly quickly marshals the youngest of the hipper-than-thou employees, guiding him around the shop asking one question after another about what an about-to-turn-sixteen-year-old would want most. I watch for a while, then wander off, browsing the sterile white shelves disinterestedly. What would they do if I suddenly whipped out my antique mobile phone? Would they even recognize what it is?

I find myself standing at a table full of iPods. They stand on plastic pillars, tethered in place to foil thieves, with various types of headphones plugged into their jacks. Across from me, a middle-aged Indian man in a rumpled gray suit slips on a pair of over-the-ear cans. Back in the pre-Walkman era, when I was a girl, these were the only kind of headphone around. He adjusts them carefully, then snaps his fingers. The sound is loud enough, even in the bustling store, that several people turn to find its source. Cocking his head slightly, he snaps again. Then he notices me and smiles.

“Just a little test,” he says, slipping the headphones off. “Noise-canceling, they say, but I snap my fingers and I can hear it perfectly well.”

“Are you hitting play? I think you have to turn the music on.”

“To cancel noise, you need more noise? No, thank you.”

He walks out, not angrily, but with the light step of a man who’s once again seen through the world’s lies. A contented gait, unless I’m imagining it. If Deedee were here, I’d tell her, no, it’s this sort of man they don’t make anymore, the one who walks into the Apple Store to remind himself of what he doesn’t need.

“You think Eli would want headphones?” Holly asks, still towing her teenaged assistant along.

“I’m not looking, I’m just standing here.”

In the end, she decides on an indestructible-looking messenger bag with a shoulder strap and a brushed metal buckle straight off an airline seat belt. Eli will love it, and while I make a point of not asking about the price tag, it can’t be as expensive as half the stuff in here. I’m relieved. Sometimes Holly doesn’t understand why I wouldn’t want her giving my son a thousand-dollar laptop or a handmade bike that will only get stolen at school.

We tour around the shopping center until Holly starts complaining about having to walk in high heels. “You don’t have to walk in them,” I remind her. “You choose to.” Then we stop for a half hour of iced coffee and people watching. I tell her about my afternoon with the Rent-a-Mob and how it ended, which makes her cringe in sympathy.

“So what were you talking to the Indian guy about? In the Apple Store?”

“That was nothing,” I say. “He didn’t care if the earphones played music, he just wanted them to make all the noise go away.”

“Like a cone of silence.”

“Pretty much. You remember Kathie Shaw?”

“Wife of Jim, who’s trying to get you to move to Richmond.”

I nod. “She was telling me she has tinnitus. She hears this ringing sound in her ears. It looked really painful too. What she wouldn’t do for some peace and quiet.”

“I bet.”

She swirls her straw around in the ice, hunting for the last ounce of coffee.

“Is this what I do?” I ask. “Complain all the time? You must get sick of having to listen to it.”

“You weren’t complaining, Beth.”

“I should be in Florida right now. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“Now you’re complaining. But yes, you should be in Florida. And listen, if Rick doesn’t come out of his cave, why don’t the two of us go? After the birthday party, we could hop on a plane—”

“A plane? I was going to drive.”

“That van of yours would never make it. Besides, you’d spend half your vacation on the road.”

“Florida’s only a day away. I like having time to transition. Leaving Baltimore and stepping onto the beach an hour later doesn’t seem right. There should be some kind of journey in between.”

“You really are old-fashioned,” she says. “One day that car is going to break down for the last time and your phone is going to die, and you’ll be forced into the twenty-first century.”

“Kicking and screaming. Anyway, it’s not the twenty-first century I have a problem with. It’s all the stuff that goes with it.”

“Same difference. You can’t have Now without all the stuff.”





At dusk, the lights inside the shed switch on. It would be easy to walk across the yard. Rick didn’t lay down any rules. He didn’t forbid us to interrupt his isolation. But no, I can’t bring myself to do it. He has to come in before I can go out.

I let the boys talk me into pizza. Jed takes the keys and they return in a half hour with a large pepperoni, devouring most of it between them. I have no appetite. They don’t ask whether we should save any for Rick, and I don’t suggest it. On his way upstairs, Eli tells me he’s going to his room until God decides to talk to him. I smile. It’s the first reference to Rick’s self-imposed exile all day.

“Mom,” Jed says. “Are you going back to that group?”

“You mean the Rent-a-Mob? I don’t think so.”

“Well, if you do . . . I might want to check it out.”

“Really?”

He shrinks under my scrutiny. “Or maybe not. I’m just saying.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Now, this is a surprise. Maybe I’m right about that freshman crush. While Eli is the son who’d tease me about Chas, Jed would be more likely to scold. In his early teens, chafing at Rick’s expectations, he took a sudden interest in Christian doctrine so he could argue with his dad. For a while, they went at it about everything, constantly butting heads to my exasperation and Eli’s detached amusement. Whatever Rick would say, Jed would take the more conservative, in his mind more biblical, position. At the private Christian school we sent him to, his teachers started sending home notes about how much Jed was applying himself, never imagining the reason why. Then he got into computers and started spending hours on discussion forums. He progressed in leaps and bounds. Instead of arguing with him, Rick now didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

“It’s the Christian tradition,” Jed would shout. “Deal with it!”

To be honest, this phase impressed me and scared me all at once. This was just how Gregory had acted at the same age—though his rebellion went in the opposite direction, which is how he ended up as a self-professed Marxist literature professor (albeit at a community college in northern Virginia, thanks to the glut of PhDs in the world). Jed’s mental acuity amazes me sometimes. The fear comes from realizing how easily a rift could open between father and son. I know firsthand.

All this to say, if Jed is suddenly interested in hanging out with a bunch of lefty war protestors, he must have really had a thing for Marlene. Of course, I suspect she didn’t have a nose ring or dreadlocks when she was in the youth group at The Community.

With the downstairs all to myself, I brew some decaf tea, put some music on, and stretch out in front of the television. By the time I find out there’s a series worth watching, it’s usually off the air. Fortunately the library has most of the good stuff. I pick through the pile of movies on the shelf—a three-to-one split between science fiction thrillers (Rick, Jed, Eli) and quiet dramas set in stately English manors (yours truly), but nothing looks interesting. I flip channels, watching five minutes of a singing competition, five minutes of reality housewives (most of whom aren’t even technically wives), five minutes of cooking, five more minutes of cooking.

Through the side window in the living room, I have a view of the Smythes’ house. The fairy lights are on around back. Roy and Deedee are sitting at the wrought-iron table, a silver cocktail shaker between them along with a pair of glasses. He’s a sharp dresser, Roy, in gray flannel pants and a thick navy shawl-collared cardigan, a gentleman at leisure. It’s hard to figure those two out. He’s in his sixties, a widower, and I get the impression he’d propose to Deedee at the drop of a hat if he thought she was even a little bit interested. They spend enough time together it seems like a no-brainer. Clearly there is history I know nothing about. When I broach the subject—always with Roy, never with her—he smiles enigmatically and sighs, “If only!”

The home telephone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway. A telemarketer is company, if nothing else.

“Hey, Beth, it’s Jim. Is the Big Man around?”

“Not at the moment,” I say.

“Too bad. I tried to call him a couple of times today, but he must have his other phone switched off. I just wanted to check in and see where he’s at. No pressure or anything.”

Do I tell him the man he wants to hire as the leader of his church is closeted out in the shed waiting for a sign? Would that work in Rick’s favor, or just the opposite? I’m not sure, so I’d better say nothing at all.

“You want me to have him call you?”

“That would be great. And what about you? Where are you at on this thing?”

“Me? I’m just waiting to see where Rick comes down. It’s his decision, and I’ll support him no matter what.” The words come out automatically. Because they’re expected, not because I believe them. Maybe I do, though, on some level. You play a role long enough and you do believe in it. You can’t tell anymore which face is the mask and which is real.

“Well, I’m sure he’s already told you, but between you and me, Beth, lemme make one thing crystal clear. You guys will be taken care of. I know you’ve both made a lot of sacrifices in ministry, but this won’t be one of them. The workman’s worthy of his hire, right?”

“Don’t muzzle the ox, I know.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Jim,” I say.

“Yeah, Beth?”

“Do you remember, years ago, I told you I’d been accepted to law school?”

“Sure I remember. This was before you had Jed, right?”

“Right. I asked you if you thought it was a mistake, not going.”

“And I’ll tell you now what I told you then. You don’t have to go to law school to make a difference. Most people don’t.”

“Sometimes I do regret it. I mean, that was my plan, you know?”

“Listen, Beth, if you feel that way, it’s not too late. We have some great law schools down here. And with the nest emptying out—”

“I’m just thinking out loud. Never mind me. By the way, I was sorry to hear about Kathie, the thing with her hearing.”

He goes quiet. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. But, hey, I appreciate that. I’ll tell her you were thinking about her, all right?”

After the call, I replay the words. That was my plan. Strange to think, I did have a plan. I grew up with a purpose in life, a sense of calling, and now . . .

Best not to think about it. They’re still cooking on TV.

During one of the commercials I glance outside and notice Roy standing at the edge of the patio, looking off into the yard. Deedee is nowhere to be seen. Curious, I creep over and cup my hand to the glass. There she is, walking gingerly through the English garden, martini in hand, turning theatrically to put a finger to her lips, shushing Roy.

I go to the kitchen for a better look, careful not to switch on the lights. Deedee crouches stealthily toward the shed.

“What are you doing?” I ask aloud, remembering the mischief in her smile this afternoon.

She goes on tiptoes at the window, steadying herself with her free hand. The light inside illuminates the impish expression on her face. She sets her drink on the windowsill.

I dislike her spying on Rick this way. It may be funny to her, but to me it’s halfway to tragic. Plus, he’s my husband. Just because I’m mad at him doesn’t mean it’s open season. But does this bother me enough to intervene? Do I really want to make an issue of it?

Deedee freezes, her expression hardening, the muscles going slack. Now I can’t read her at all. She draws back into the shadows a step, denying me the chance. But she’s still watching.

What is Rick doing in there? Is he sprawled on the floor the way I found him two nights ago, twisting his body into the shape of a cross? Is he watching movies on his laptop, or eating miniature Snickers bars, or sitting on the couch in his unzipped sleeping bag, clipping his toenails? Whatever he’s up to, Deedee seems fascinated. She watches for more than a minute. Impatient, Roy calls out—I can just hear him—but she doesn’t respond at first. After a pause, she takes her drink off the sill and makes her way back.

I return to the living room window in time to see her speaking to Roy. She takes the cocktail shaker and goes inside. He stays, gazing in the direction of the shed. Then he turns and looks right at me, raising his hand in a cautious wave.

I wave back and Roy goes inside.





I put clean sheets on the bed before crawling in. Despite the fresh scent, I can’t get comfortable, can’t go to sleep. So I switch the lamp on and pad downstairs to the bookshelf for something to read. When I turn on the lights, I see a gap in the uppermost row of spines. Rick has taken an armful of books into the shed with him.

My husband is not much of a reader. Most of his books are purchased on the recommendation of men at the church, so they split pretty evenly between American history—the lives of famous presidents, the Civil War, World War II—and business leadership—build your team, make your money, move the other guy’s cheese before he moves yours. His taste in fiction: Tom Clancy–style thrillers, thick sci-fi paperbacks, though I notice he tends to start novels without ever finishing them. When he brings a new book home, he sits on the couch for an hour or two, browsing over the pages. Speed-reading, he calls it. Jed dubs it “skimming.” The whole point of the exercise is to be able to get through a conversation about the book with whoever recommended it.

But the missing books don’t fall into this category. They’re the smaller group Rick has accumulated over the years, the ones he thinks he should read based on what he’s heard people saying. G. K. Chesterton, Flannery O’Connor, Walker Percy—“All Catholics!” Deedee would crow. The collected works of Francis Schaeffer is gone too, and he’s taken the matched set of Spiritual Classics passed down to him from his grandparents. The last time I flipped through one, the pages were still stuck together by the fancy gilt edging.

Also missing: an enormous King James Bible full of woodcut illustrations, a gift from a couple at church who must have imagined we had a carved wood lectern in our living room just waiting for such a behemoth to land.

What is going on out there?

Is he following after the Irish monks who supposedly saved civilization, hand-copying books by firelight as some kind of spiritual discipline? Is he actually reading them?

I laugh out loud, and not out of spite. No, I’m certain of that. Holding the laughter up to my ear, listening again, what I hear sounds almost joyful. If he is reading them, then good.

I could always go and see for myself.

Then again, I did that once before and didn’t like what I found. If there’s any joy in this situation, I’d better grasp it like a fragile ember. Better that than to barge into the shed and find him drooling onto the raised initials in that fancy King James Bible.





The next morning I’m up before the alarm. I throw on some sweats and go downstairs, wondering if Rick will join us for breakfast or not. He won’t. He can’t. He may be out in the yard, but already it feels like he is a thousand miles away.

I put coffee on, drop some bread into the toaster, and glance through the kitchen window into the gray-lit morning. Against the door of the shed, their petals wet with dew, a heap of freshly picked wildflowers lays scattered on the threshold.

What in the world . . . ?

As I watch, the door opens. Rick doesn’t appear, but I can sense him looming just out of sight. The door half closes. Low to the ground, his hand reaches out. He gathers the flowers by their stems, taking them inside. The door shuts. At the window, his silhouette appears. The same hand that gathered the flowers presses itself against the glass. And then it’s gone.

I didn’t leave them there. I want to run out and tell him. It must have been Deedee returning in the night, laying tribute at her desert father’s door.

My, oh my. What will Rick make of that?

I would stick around and watch for more of a reaction, but I have my study group this morning.

Confession: There’s not much study in the study group these days.

Originally, when the group was much smaller (small enough to meet around Kathie Shaw’s dining table), we kept up a pretty lively and stimulating conversation, usually guided by some assigned reading in the Bible or a popular theological tome. After the Shaws left for Virginia, the location moved to Stacy Manderville’s cavernous, ever-expanding mansion, the group growing considerably in size but stretching much thinner when it comes to content.

Most of the ladies prefer it that way. The study group consists mostly of stay-at-home (or these days, work-at-home) moms, the only people free during the workday. By definition, we are over-committed. Several of the study group ladies are also members of one of my book clubs, so it’s not like they’re lacking for intellectual stimulation. What they lack is time.

I drive over to Stacy’s, bracing myself for questions. Why aren’t we in Florida? When are we leaving? How long will we stay? Part of me wants to skip out, pretend I’m already gone. But as long as I have that key, I’ll feel a sense of obligation.

The Manderville house, over toward Loch Raven, is a faux castle, turrets and all, perched on a hilltop approached via a long, winding drive. The family goes as far back as the 1700s, and I imagine there are a few ghostly patriarchs turning in their fancy crypts at the thought of the former Stacy Root having married into the line. She’s a loud, plump woman with wild hair and expensively bad clothes, who loves weaves, fake nails, rhinestones, and country western music. When she redecorated the stately home, she dedicated a whole bedroom to her favorite movie character, Scarlett O’Hara. Her husband, Lynn, raised no objection. In her presence, he goes kind of limp, contentedly overwhelmed.

I let myself in—the door’s always open on study group mornings—and Stacy greets me with unfeigned enthusiasm. “Hey, girrrrrrl! I thought you’d be down at the beach by now. Great to see you.”

“Stacy, about that . . .” I produce the beach house key and make to hand it over.

“What’s this?”

“I don’t think the vacation is going to work out.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just, getting the boys out of school, you know, and Rick was thinking we might stay closer to home, and . . .”

“I thought you wanted to go.”

“I do, but . . . you know.”

“Let me talk to him, girl. I’ll set the man straight. The problem with men is, they can’t take a hint. You have to draw a great big picture for them, then you have to stick their faces in it. I’ll bet you’re dropping hints, right? Hoping he’ll pick up on your little signals. But, Beth, they never do. Trust me, I haven’t dropped a hint in fifteen years. When I want something, I let Lynn know. It’s not that they don’t want to give us what we’re after, they just have no idea what that is. You have to give them a clue!”

“Oh, I gave him a clue. It’s just not going to work out, I’m afraid. Here, you take the key. I really appreciate the offer, and I wish I could take you up on it.”

“Beth, you do me a favor. Hold on to that key. If you go down there, great. If you don’t, so be it. Just know that you have the option.”

“Are you sure?”

“How long have we known each other? I’ll tell you this: I think you need some time away.”

“You’re probably right.”

As we’re talking, other ladies file through, saying their hellos, stepping down into the huge sunken living room. Although the house is old, back in the seventies, Lynn’s parents spent a fortune gutting the place and remodeling along contemporary lines. Then Stacy added her own touch, filling the wide-open rooms with dainty-looking but massively scaled furniture, big tufted sofas with floral print covers, glass-topped tables, and enough accent pillows to open an accent pillow boutique. She likes dolls too. Two-foot porcelain farm girls in ruffled calico stand in every corner, and if you bump into one, her jewel-tone eyes blink. It’s so bad that the overall impression is pretty wonderful. As long as you don’t have to live there.

I sit on a couch beside Nat Waterhouse, whose husband, Pete, has been battling cancer for the last two years. She’s a serene, calming woman in her late fifties who’s always pulling her sleeves down because she’s self-conscious about the age spots on her hands.

“How’s Pete doing?” I ask. “And the girls?”

“Oh, fine,” she says, “just fine. Our youngest is getting married, did you hear? It’s a relief, I’m telling you, such a burden lifted. Once the kids are settled in life, I’ll feel like I can finally relax.”

“I’ve got a few years ahead of me, in that case.”

“Your Eli is turning into quite a handsome young man. I saw him Sunday and, from a distance, I mistook him for his father at first. You’ll have to shake the girls away with a stick.”

“Hmm. He does a pretty good job of that himself. Anything that comes too easy, he’s not very interested in. And Jed . . . well, I can’t remember the last time he had a girlfriend.”

“You’d better find some wood and knock on it, Beth. If you’re right, then all I can tell you is, luck like that won’t last forever. It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if you’re wrong. There might be more to those boys’ love lives than they share with their mama.”

She laughs, and I join in. I’m used to these talks. Until I had children of my own, I never understood how much parents live vicariously through our kids, how we project ourselves into their lives. When they grow old enough not to want to share the tedious details of their daily experience, the effect on us is similar to being suddenly weaned off a strong narcotic. You start pumping them for information, for concrete detail, anything that will help you visualize their existence apart from you. And you end up in silly conversations about your teenagers’ love lives.

By a quarter past ten, there are twenty-two ladies gathered round, some on couches, some on chairs, a couple sitting casually on the armrests. Stacy takes a break from doling out refreshments to offer up an opening prayer, then Peggy Ensign raises her hand.

I sigh inwardly, cutting a glance at Nat, who gives a microscopic shake of the head.

It was Peggy Ensign who gifted me the Jesus fish.

“Before we get going,” she says in her singsong, schoolmistress voice, like she’s speaking to a roomful of children whom she suspects of being a little slow, “I’d like to make an announcement for those of you who didn’t make it to my Sunday school class this week. There have been some ominous developments in the courts recently that it behooves us as Bible-believing Christians to take a stand on.” She pauses to dig through an oversized tote, producing a stack of stapled handouts. “I printed some things off so everybody could follow along.”

Stacy plops down on a side chair, conceding the floor.

I haven’t read an etiquette manual in years. (Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever read one.) Maybe the rule about not discussing religion or politics at the dinner table no longer applies. Over the years, though, our study group has evolved an etiquette of its own, classifying certain topics as off-limits for the good of the group. No arguments about homeschool vs. private school vs. public school. No speculation about the End Times or the best Bible translation. Generally speaking, if it’s a topic the evangelical world at large is divided over, we tend to steer clear—not just for the sake of harmony, but out of respect for those with differing views.

Unfortunately, this etiquette was never written down, or even voiced aloud. It had more to do with good manners (and a few awful experiences early on) than premeditation. And Peggy Ensign, like the men Stacy was just describing, doesn’t know how to take a hint.

She’s only been a member of The Community for a couple of years, but she volunteers tirelessly for every church program, teaches a Sunday school class, and generally makes her presence felt. She wields an awful lot of influence. If Peggy’s not happy, the staff hears about it from above. As a result, she pretty much runs roughshod over anyone less vocal or more well mannered.

At Rick’s behest, I once tried to have a heart-to-heart talk with her, hoping to help her fit in a little better. Big mistake. What I discovered surprised me, and left me feeling conflicted.

“I’m not like most of you,” Peggy confided. “I didn’t grow up a Christian. Most of my life, I didn’t even believe in the existence of God, let alone love the Lord. When I got saved, I made a promise to not have anything to do with the secular world anymore. I won’t expose myself to any of those influences any longer, and I can’t understand why any of you would want to.”

Where I might look at The Community and think our problem is that we’re too evangelical, too conformed to a comfortable subculture that scratches our religious itch without requiring more of us than that we be entertained by Christians instead of unbelievers, Peggy thought the church was far too secular. The music was too loud, too fast. There were too many references to movies in the sermons, and not Christian movies, but films from Hollywood.

“I don’t think Jesus went around quoting from Shakespeare!” she said.

I wanted to explain about anachronism, and how in AD 33 it would have been tricky to start quoting lines that wouldn’t be written for another fifteen hundred years, but I knew Peggy would not only be suspicious of the word anachronism, she’d be suspicious of me as well. Plus, if anybody could have quoted the Bard in the age of the Caesars, Jesus would have been the guy.

Clearly, my attempt to rein in Peggy ended in failure. I felt conflicted because, as irritating as I found her inflexibility and her uninformed confidence, the fact was, I saw something beautiful in her simple faith. It’s not so easy to dismiss people you disagree with when you sense God working in their lives too.

Later, when I shared the remark about Shakespeare with Rick, expecting him to get a kick out of it, he grew quite angry and resentful.

“Did you tell her about Paul and Mars Hill?” he snapped.

“No, why should I?”

“How he quoted the pagan poets? I mean, come on! Beth, you can’t let these people get away with their ignorance. What Paul does . . . I mean, it’s worse than Shakespeare—”

“What’s wrong with Shakespeare?”

“Nothing, Beth, no, that’s not what I mean. From Peggy Ensign’s point of view. Paul’s quoting poems written to praise Zeus as if they were true, only they applied to the true God rather than Zeus.”

In hindsight, it occurs to me that the apostle Paul might have understood Chas Worthing’s take on creative nonfiction a little better than I do.

But I digress.

Most of my friends at The Community, though we’re part of the evangelical world, view the whole thing with a certain level of self-criticism. We’re conscious of the excesses, the embarrassments. We would rather not speak out than risk speaking out and being misconstrued. But Peggy has never been separated from her opinions. She loves everything that bears the Christian label and hates everything that doesn’t. Which is why, even if Jesus didn’t have a Jesus fish on his chariot (or for that matter, didn’t have a chariot to begin with), she thinks every Christian ought to have a Jesus fish on her minivan bumper.

Now, however, the issue isn’t Jesus fish. It’s the Ten Commandments. In particular, a statue from the 1950s at a public high school out in the county, a patriotic bronze that symbolized our great anti-Communist, Judeo-Christian heritage with two symbols: a scroll bearing the words “We, the people . . .” followed by a row of lines meant to represent the text, and a camel-humped stone tablet that says DECALOGUE across the front.

Yes, that’s right. There’s a photo on Peggy’s handout.

None of the actual Ten Commandments are written on this tablet. Nothing about stealing or killing or committing adultery. Just that single word DECALOGUE in raised letters running underneath both humps.

For years this thing was in storage at the school, until a board member found out and insisted that the “censored” artwork be put on display again. Which led to a lawsuit, then an appeal, and now to an impassioned twenty-minute harangue from Peggy Ensign about how, if we don’t do something, we’re going to lose this nation’s Christian heritage for good.

I flip through the handout, waiting patiently for this to end. Next to me, Nat starts inspecting her manicure, then tugging at her sleeves.

“It breaks my heart to see what’s happening in America,” Peggy says, dabbing at her eyes.

Funny thing is, she’d be a great fit for the Rent-a-Mob. Better than me. If she could ignore the particular issues, I suspect the experience would be quite cathartic, like it is for Chas. Peggy wants to scream at people. She wants to force them to hear. Even now, as she wipes tears from her cheeks, I know she resents the fact she’s the only one in the room who’s crying. She’s not satisfied with the ladies. None of us measure up to her standard. We’re not outraged enough, not vocal enough, insufficiently bent out of shape. She’d probably yell at us if she thought she could get away with it.

Instead, she has to cry at us.

Over a vaguely religious piece of civic art that’s been in storage since before I was born.

When she’s finally done, Stacy rises to her feet.

“All right,” she says. “I think we need a bathroom break.”

All but one of the ladies in the room break out in nervous laughter.