algae-green Lincoln Town Car and drives me two towns over to St. Michael’s Presbyterian, where I absorb very little theology, preferring to make up my own stories to explain the configurations of stained-glass saints on the great, glowing windows. The minister speaks with a cotton-mouthed rasp, and the other kids in the congregation all know one another from years of Sunday school.
Around the age of ten, I realized that church was something from which most attending kids’ mothers were not excused, and I started throwing weekly fits. “Mo-om,” I whined. “How come I have to go if you don’t go?”
My mother enjoyed this weekly chance to show me the breadth and depth of her sacrifice. I could say it along with her: “I didn’t move all the way out to Ocean Vista to raise a godless daughter. God doesn’t want me in that church, but He sure as hell wants you.”
When I was very young, I thought that meant she was going to hell instead of heaven. I had a nightmare in which I searched for her through a town built of brimstone, full of snakes and ladies in red bikinis. I woke up crying and asked my mother if she was really going to hell. She sat on the edge of my bed and told me how it was possible to cast aside all your sins on your deathbed and go right up to heaven. She tapped my chin three times, our special kiss, and said she had a trick up her sleeve. I asked why I couldn’t do that, too, why I didn’t have a trick. “You could, but it’s better not to have to. Sin hurts,” said my mother. I asked if it hurt like a bee sting. She said, “More.”
Today, James pulls up and I am hopelessly hungover. My mother is cutting coupons in the kitchen while she waits for a client. I can hear the zing of her scissors. I assume she has intuited my delinquency these last few weeks, but I am puzzled by her strategic pause. When will she pounce? At fifteen, I don’t consider the possibility that my mother has other things on her mind than me.
“Hey, kiddo,” says James as I sink into the passenger seat. He squints at my outfit: ripped white jeans and one of Pam’s screen-printed T-shirts, a giant ant drinking a Coke. Not church attire.
“Here’s the deal,” I say once we’re on the road, coasting inland. “I’m not doing church anymore. Maybe you’d like to go with your real family?”
He shakes his head. “Jewish. Busy.”
“Whatever. Drop me at the boardwalk?”
He gives me a long look as he makes his inevitable decision. Shrugs. As we U-turn, he asks me, “You been sleeping?”
“Yup.” I have been, though passing out more frequently than drifting off. It seems like an odd question until I recall that hot anxious sleepless time at the beginning of the summer. Amazing to think that it was only six weeks ago; my whole life has started up since then.
“Your mom been sleeping?”
“God, what is it with you and sleep? What’s your damage?”
He chuckles and repeats my new phrase, “What’s your damage,” in his soft, nasal voice, and it is so dorky that it makes me smile.
I shout out the window, “Sleep when you’re dead!” and we ride along in companionable silence.
We pull up to the curb by the big pedestrian boardwalk ramp, where Stan the Deserter and a few other crazies are pestering a busload of summer-camp kids in matching purple T-shirts. Kandy is walking up the ramp toward our usual arcade hangout spot and doubles back when she sees me getting out of the car.
“Hey, sugar tits,” she yells. “This your dad?”
James rests his arm in the car window and smiles broadly, which makes him look different—less slumpy-sad—than usual. “Just a friend,” he says.
Kandy struts over to lean against the car. She is wearing, of all things, a denim one-piece jumpsuit with a halter neckline. She sees me looking at it and says, “It’s vintage.”
“I remember that look,” says James before I can think of something snarky to say. “That was very hip. It suits you.” He turns off
Around the age of ten, I realized that church was something from which most attending kids’ mothers were not excused, and I started throwing weekly fits. “Mo-om,” I whined. “How come I have to go if you don’t go?”
My mother enjoyed this weekly chance to show me the breadth and depth of her sacrifice. I could say it along with her: “I didn’t move all the way out to Ocean Vista to raise a godless daughter. God doesn’t want me in that church, but He sure as hell wants you.”
When I was very young, I thought that meant she was going to hell instead of heaven. I had a nightmare in which I searched for her through a town built of brimstone, full of snakes and ladies in red bikinis. I woke up crying and asked my mother if she was really going to hell. She sat on the edge of my bed and told me how it was possible to cast aside all your sins on your deathbed and go right up to heaven. She tapped my chin three times, our special kiss, and said she had a trick up her sleeve. I asked why I couldn’t do that, too, why I didn’t have a trick. “You could, but it’s better not to have to. Sin hurts,” said my mother. I asked if it hurt like a bee sting. She said, “More.”
Today, James pulls up and I am hopelessly hungover. My mother is cutting coupons in the kitchen while she waits for a client. I can hear the zing of her scissors. I assume she has intuited my delinquency these last few weeks, but I am puzzled by her strategic pause. When will she pounce? At fifteen, I don’t consider the possibility that my mother has other things on her mind than me.
“Hey, kiddo,” says James as I sink into the passenger seat. He squints at my outfit: ripped white jeans and one of Pam’s screen-printed T-shirts, a giant ant drinking a Coke. Not church attire.
“Here’s the deal,” I say once we’re on the road, coasting inland. “I’m not doing church anymore. Maybe you’d like to go with your real family?”
He shakes his head. “Jewish. Busy.”
“Whatever. Drop me at the boardwalk?”
He gives me a long look as he makes his inevitable decision. Shrugs. As we U-turn, he asks me, “You been sleeping?”
“Yup.” I have been, though passing out more frequently than drifting off. It seems like an odd question until I recall that hot anxious sleepless time at the beginning of the summer. Amazing to think that it was only six weeks ago; my whole life has started up since then.
“Your mom been sleeping?”
“God, what is it with you and sleep? What’s your damage?”
He chuckles and repeats my new phrase, “What’s your damage,” in his soft, nasal voice, and it is so dorky that it makes me smile.
I shout out the window, “Sleep when you’re dead!” and we ride along in companionable silence.
We pull up to the curb by the big pedestrian boardwalk ramp, where Stan the Deserter and a few other crazies are pestering a busload of summer-camp kids in matching purple T-shirts. Kandy is walking up the ramp toward our usual arcade hangout spot and doubles back when she sees me getting out of the car.
“Hey, sugar tits,” she yells. “This your dad?”
James rests his arm in the car window and smiles broadly, which makes him look different—less slumpy-sad—than usual. “Just a friend,” he says.
Kandy struts over to lean against the car. She is wearing, of all things, a denim one-piece jumpsuit with a halter neckline. She sees me looking at it and says, “It’s vintage.”
“I remember that look,” says James before I can think of something snarky to say. “That was very hip. It suits you.” He turns off
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