seventeen

Paul followed Rachel as she walked out to the south side of the house. He hadn’t been in this section before.  She went down some stone steps to a small herb garden terraced into the ground. It was a very pretty spot, with a stone bench on one side. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and sat down on the end of the bench, her arms folded, her dark lashes lowered over her eyes.

Paul sat down on the other end, and leaned forward, his hands on his knees, looking at the herb garden. It was planted in the shape of a cross, with a sand path around it. It was simple, pristine, and beautiful. 

He couldn’t look at Rachel.  Her competence, skill, and real concern for her sisters made him genuinely admire her.  He respected her. But because of this, he knew she was capable of hurting him more than the others could.

“Dad said I needed to apologize to you,” she said at last, stiffly.

He watched a tiny white butterfly flit from one plant head to another.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I forgive you.”

There was silence.  Finally she heaved a sigh and pushed back her hair. “So, are you going to tell him?” she asked.

Paul turned and met the blue-green eyes that were looking at him resentfully. “I think you should tell him,” he said

“What? Tell him everything?”

He closed his eyes and nodded. When he looked at her again, she was turned away, shaking her head.

“So that’s why you haven’t told him? Because you want me to tell him?” she asked, her voice touched with irony.

He nodded again.

“You’re insane.”

He shrugged. “Rachel, how much longer do you think you girls can keep this up before he finds out?”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

“It’s…perilous.”

“Perilous? Don’t you mean wrong?”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with taking a midnight boat ride, going to visit friends, and dancing under the moonlight.”

“Some people at my church would disagree.”

He shrugged. “It’s not intrinsically immoral. But what’s wrong is that you’re doing something like this in secret. Without your parents’ knowledge. It’s imprudent. And going to that island is courting danger. For yourself, and especially for your younger sisters. You love them, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said defensively.

“Then why don’t you stop?”

She toyed with her hair for a long moment before she answered. When she did, that smile was on her lips again. “Because I don’t think it’s dangerous. And even if it is, isn’t dying from danger better than dying of boredom?” She laughed shortly.

“You’re bored?”

“Yes. Bored with always trying to be good.”

“Are you sure you know what goodness is?”

She looked at him curiously. “What is it, then?”

He paused, and thoughts flew through his mind—mountains, trees swaying in the wind, his father kissing his mother, sitting around the supper table with his brothers and sisters, Mass—the beautiful statues, the lovely paintings in the church, the glory of stained-glass windows, the harmony of the liturgy and music, the poetry of the human body—

Using phrases he had learned in theology class and read in books, he attempted to articulate what goodness was—its power, its concreteness, above all, its beauty—a tangible, hands-on beauty as well as a spirit-lifting, mind-firing beauty—theology and poetry and philosophy and mathematics and order and the romp of playfulness—new babies and bulbs shooting from the earth and creases on the hands of an elderly lady who had spent her life in service to others—

He knew he wasn’t an orator, or a particularly good communicator. He spoke haltingly, rambling, then, gaining certainty from the truth of what he was saying, grew effusive, quoting the saints and poets and prophets, recalling sayings of the popes and philosophers, trying to paint a verbal portrait of what goodness was, and why loving it was so critical.

And Rachel smiled, listened to him, and looked up at the sky. He noticed it was getting dark. The moon would soon be rising.

“Paul,” she said softly, and he realized he had been talking for some time without her really listening.

He felt defeated. She had grown up listening to sermons, he realized. Some of them had probably been quite sound, and quite eloquent. But they had no effect on her. Words were not going to win her heart.

He fell silent.

She rose, then turned and looked at him. “Are you still going to follow us?” she asked, a bit mocking.

“Yes.”

She lowered her chin and looked up at him. “Michael wouldn’t like that, if I told him.”

“I suspect you’re right. Are you going to tell him?”

She half-smiled, and then changed her tone. “No,” she said gravely, her eyes serious. “Because of my younger sisters. They like having you with us.”

He felt a surge of frustration with her, and he wanted to stop her from going. But he hadn’t chosen that path.

“All right,” he said, dropping his gaze to hide his disappointment. She was effectively immunized against preaching, theology, and philosophy. It might hold her interest momentarily, but it couldn’t change her heart.

He wondered what there was in the world that could.

The midnight butterfly dress still wasn’t done. After putting on the skirt once, Rachel had been dissatisfied with the way it looked. Normally, she wouldn’t have cared, but after this much effort, she felt the dress had to be perfect. So she entered into the long process of ripping out stitches and doing the basting over again. And she had decided to alter the neckline.  But Prisca’s birthday was at the end of the week, and Michael had promised a special party for her. She was determined to wear it by then.

That night, trying to be classic in the 1940’s navy blue dress, she strolled out of the cave, a bit nervous. She glanced around to see if Paul was skulking in the bushes. But she couldn’t see any sign of him.

“What does he look like?” she asked Debbie in a low voice.

“He’s all in black, with a ninja mask that covers his face,” Debbie said. “He’s very tricky to find. I can never find him until we’re in the boat.”

“I see,” Rachel said thoughtfully, and decided to put all thoughts of Paul out of her mind. He had always seemed determined to be a bridge linking one cosmos with another, refusing to let the world be nicely divided between night and day.  A devout Catholic who played the flute as sensually as a pagan god, a clean-cut juggler for kids by day, a ninja bodyguard by night. He didn’t fit, and he wouldn’t leave her alone. But at least he wasn’t stopping her.

Heaving a sigh in frustration, she slid and jumped down to the beach, hearing the motors coming closer. She stood on the wet sand, holding her sandals in her hand. Now there were only four boats instead of five. At least they still had four.

The guys pulled up beneath the willows, then came out to greet the girls and hang out for a few minutes. Pete lit up a cigarette, careful to stand downwind.

Prisca danced down the slope in a short purple dress she had bought last week.  “Sallie’s taking me to the doctor’s,” she informed the guys.

“What for?” Pete asked.

“She said I needed a checkup. Tammy thinks they’ve finally figured out I’m a human disease.”  She bounced up and down. “Pete, can you give me a smoke?”

Rachel said warningly, “Pete, don’t.”

“Oh, you party pooper,” Prisca scoffed. “It’s just one.”

“You’ll smell,” Rachel said.

“Oh, all right.”

Rachel turned just in time to see a thin dark shadow slide from the trunk of the willow tree to the boats bobbing in the dark water. She abruptly turned away, and tried to forget she had seen anything.

The ride to the island was uneventful, and Michael and his friends met them at the quay as before.

“You are coming on Friday, aren’t you?” he asked Rachel as he gave her a hand up.

“For Prisca’s birthday? Of course,” she said. “We’re all looking forward to it.”

“Good,” he said, and drew her apart. He said in a low voice, “I’m thinking of inviting a special friend for Prisca. Tell me, do you think she prefers blond or dark-haired men?”

“I can’t tell,” she said, thinking. “Dark-haired, I think.”

“Which do you prefer?” he asked, looking at her, his eyes smoky.

She laughed. “Now that’s a loaded question.”

“Is it? Or do you prefer another alternative, like brown hair?”

“I prefer nice men, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said coyly, curling her arm around his.

“Good,” he said. “Would you dance with me?”

“Sure.”

They danced several times that night, and Rachel was hence more distracted than usual. She forgot about looking over her shoulder to detect Paul’s presence. To tell the truth, she had forgotten he was there.

Paul sat cross-legged in the crook of his oak tree, aware that Rachel was just below him, swaying in the arms of the master of the island. He felt enormously insignificant just now.  Apparently all the girls now knew he was with them, but they barely seemed to care, with the exception of Melanie, Linette, and Debbie.

He couldn’t help watching as Michael crooked an arm languidly around Rachel and cupped her face in his hand. Paul caught a glimpse of her green-sapphire eyes flashing up at Michael as a smile toyed about her lips. Paul looked away as they kissed.

How much longer could this go on? he wondered. The magic of the island seemed overarching, seductively irresistible. Even if the girls were to stop coming here, would they ever stop yearning for it, for the forbidden something beyond their reach?

The problem was, he knew, that in the heart of the forbidden fruit was nothing but dust, an empty husk of life, its potential wasted, its soul shriveled into rot. But how much further would Rachel eat into this fruit before she found the bitter core? He didn’t want to see that happen to her, but he felt, at times, helpless to prevent it.

He shifted his position on the knobby branches and centered his breathing again. Trust.

On the way home, Rachel leaned over the boat, watching Michael’s figure until their wake curved around the island, hiding him from sight. Even then, she still sighed, and tried to rouse herself to enter into the talk. Now that Tammy, the other prima donna, was in the boat, Rachel didn’t feel the need to always keep the conversation going. Perhaps she would just let her sophisticated stepsister be the queen bee for the evening.

But she was roused out of her reverie when she heard Tammy say, “And Keith was an absolute idiot tonight. Do you know what he did? He was smoking marijuana!”

They were all so close together that the rest of the boat was instantly silent. 

“For real?” Rich asked.

“Yes!” Tammy exclaimed, full of incredulous disdain. “Dillon offered him some. Actually, he offered us all some, but we all said no. Keith said no too, but then, when we had started dancing, he went off with Dillon and had some. Pete found him and told him he was a numbskull, and Keith just started cursing him out. What an idiot. Can you believe he’s such an idiot?”

There was silence. Alan said, “Keith’s parents divorced a year ago. He took it hard.”

“He did?” Rachel hadn’t known that. Keith had always projected such a cool persona.

“He always takes things hard,” Rich spoke up. “He’s not a strong person.”

“That’s why he’s had such a rough time,” Alan agreed.

The girls looked at each other, and Rachel was consternated. She had never dreamed Keith Kramer, upstanding member of her dad’s Bible outreach group, would smoke pot—and with a sinking feeling, she thought, If I hadn’t brought him to the island in the first place, maybe he wouldn’t have tried drugs. But she forced that feeling aside.

“We’ve got to help him,” she said, briskly. “We’re friends. We can’t just stand by and let him do this.”

“Well, what can you do?” Alan looked at her. “You can’t stop people from taking drugs. That guy Dillon smokes dope like a freakin’ chimney. Keith might not have the money for it himself, but as long as he’s around these guys, he’s going to be smoking. And maybe doing the harder stuff too, if they give it to him. They have that stuff, too. I’ve seen it.”

Rachel thought. “Then we’ve got to get him to stop coming,” she said at last. A chill swept over her. “Dang it, Tammy, if he was smoking dope, why’d you let Becca and Taren ride home with him? You should have told me.”

Immediately all eyes went towards Keith’s boat. Rachel saw it, behind them. Keith seemed to be driving normally.

“Oh, come on,” Tammy protested. “Can’t you smoke marijuana and drive a boat? I mean, people smoke cigarettes when they drive. And it’s not like he’s driving a car. There’s nobody on the bay besides us.  It’s not like drunk driving, is it?”

“Oh yes it is,” Rich said bluntly. “The moron. He should know better.”

“We can’t let him do this again,” Rachel said.  The silence began again.

Rich shuffled his feet. “I’m friends with him,” he said. “I’ve known him since kindergarten. I’ll get him to go do something with me tomorrow night. Alan, you can take more people, can’t you?”

“Sure,” Alan said. “I’m getting on my dad’s case about all the junk he still leaves in here.”

Everyone seemed to be relieved by this decision. Rachel felt a flush of admiration for Rich, whom she barely ever talked to, and tried to think of something fitting to say to him. But all she could think of was to reach over and touch his hand. He raised his eyes and she smiled at him. He smiled back, and she thought to herself that she had overlooked someone worthwhile. A slight smart of conscience still irked her, and she looked away.

On Friday afternoon, Paul was juggling the clubs, in a single routine. Debbie and Linette were off exploring the festival, which was now at its height. Today was the busiest day yet, and the crowds had significantly increased. As Paul concentrated on doing a double-cascade fountain with the clubs, he saw a familiar face in the crowd around him. He glanced swiftly between catches and recognized Michael Comus.

The blond man, surrounded by his cronies, was watching his routine, a sardonic smile on his face. 

As Paul finished with a bow, Michael approached him. Paul licked his lips as he gathered up his clubs. He recognized Michael, and he guessed that Michael had recognized him. But the problem was, Michael couldn’t know that he, Paul, recognized him, Michael.

“So, a juggler,” Michael said, stuffing a dollar bill in Paul’s basket. “Are you new to this area?”

“Just passing through,” Paul said.

“A wandering clown,” Michael said, his face mild. “You’re the one juggling with the Durham girls. Are you a friend of the family?”

“Sort of. I actually just met them this summer,” Paul said, and added casually. “You know them?”

“Oh, to recognize, not necessarily to speak to,” Michael said. “I’ve heard about the young juggling girls, of course. They’re quite a local sensation. Picture in the paper and all that. So you trained them?”

“Yes.”

“Must be a hard life, being a clown.”

“It has its challenges,” Paul replied.

“I’m sure,” Michael said. Then he added, “I’ve always hated clowns, actually.” He continued to smile. But his eyes were cold and empty.

“Lots of people do,” Paul agreed, uncertain. “They get frightened by a man in a funny mask as a kid, and they’re scarred for life.”

“Yes. That must explain it,” Michael mused. He squatted down and picked up one of the clubs. “You juggle these things?”

“Yes,” Paul said.

“Like this?” and Michael suddenly threw the club upwards, straight at Paul’s face. Paul swiftly caught it, barely in time.

“Oh, sorry,” Michael smiled. “Good reflexes.”

“Thanks,” Paul said, reaching down and gripping the others, taking them out of the man’s reach. “Enjoy the festival.”

“I am.” The blond man strolled back to his companions, who had been standing a bit apart. As Michael reached them, they suddenly convulsed with laughter and walked away.

In a second, Paul was back at the air terminal under the hot desert sun, hearing the soft, high whistle of destruction wafting through the air towards him.

He put away his clubs quietly.

All day Friday, Rachel and the other sisters worked hard preparing for Prisca’s birthday. They had a chance to do quite a few things while Sallie took Prisca to the doctor’s for her tests.  Everyone pitched in to do something. Rachel even had Jabez and Robbie sit down and scrawl some birthday scribbles with crayons on pieces of folded paper.

She was so involved that she was surprised, and a bit annoyed, when her father called her into his office. When she walked in, she was taken aback to find her dad sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. When she shut the door, he lifted his head, and she was even more concerned to see that it looked as though he had been crying. But with her dad, she couldn’t be completely sure. She approached him warily.

“Dad, are you okay?”

He looked up at her, and then looked down at his hand. She saw he was holding his cell phone. 

“I was checking my voicemail, and deleting old messages. Then I listened to this one message.  It was someone talking in a harsh, angry tone of voice.  This person was berating someone for being late. I was really offended by what I heard, and I was racking my brains, trying to think of who could have called me and left such a rude, disrespectful message on my phone. Before I deleted it, I listened to it again, and I realized—” he paused. “I realized the caller was me, talking to you, on one of the days when you had the cell phone.”

She remembered that day, and looked down at the carpet, silently.

“And what hit me was that the message was indicative of how I talk to you much of the time. I just heard myself, Rachel, for the first time in years.”

He looked up at her, and now she guessed that he really was on the verge of tears. “Rachel, I don’t blame you for not opening up to a man who has been treating you like that. Can you please forgive me?”

Embarrassed, she swung her foot on the carpet and whispered, “Of course I can, Dad.”

He looked at her, and, as if in a dream, tentatively reached out his hand.

She went to him and hugged him, and he held her tightly. Just as she remembered him holding her when she was a little girl.  Involuntarily she felt the tears coming, and heard him weeping as well.

“Rachel, I’m so sorry. I wish I could recall each time I’ve talked to you like that and ask your forgiveness.”

“That’s okay, Dad,” she spoke at last, her voice choking her.

“I was just thinking of the time after your mother died, and how much I depended on you, and how capable you were—it’s not right for me to call you scatterbrained the way I did. I’ve just acquired some bad attitudes, and I want to change them, Rachel.”

She nodded, and wiped her eyes. Looking around, she reached for the tissue box, and handed it to him. With a grin that reminded her acutely of how he used to smile at her, he took it.

“See? You’re always capable, and aware of what others need. When’s the last time I told you that?”

She sniffled herself, and shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

His shoulders sagged again. “That’s part of the problem right there. All this time, Rachel, I’ve been thinking it was you who were the problem, but I think a big part of it was me and my attitude towards you. I wonder when I began to get off track.”

She blew her nose, and said quietly, “I think I know.”

“You do? When?”

“When they made you a leader in the church,” she said. “You began to get busy. And stressed out, and you weren’t as home so often. Even when you came home from a military tour, you still weren’t home.  You gave so much time to the church.  I think it was too much.”

He shook his head, looking at her.  “So that’s how it happened.”

“I knew at first it was because you were lonely, after losing Mom. So we tried not to mind. But then even after you met Sallie, you just kept on getting further and further away from us, and more involved with these other people.”

She couldn’t believe she was saying this to him, and that he was listening to her. Steeling herself, she went on, “You have a big family, Dad. It takes a lot of your time and energy. But you don’t have that much time and energy because you’re letting yourself be pulled in too many directions.”

“Let me ask you this,” he said slowly. “Is that why you girls resent our church so much?”

A bit startled, Rachel nevertheless nodded, “I would guess, yes, that’s it.”

“I see.” He sat back in his chair, thinking. After a moment, he looked at her. “There was actually another reason why I called you in here.”

“There was?”

“Yes,” he leaned forward, a bit uncomfortable. “Today is Prisca’s birthday. I’d like to get her a present and I’d like it to be something she really wants. But I’m not sure of what that is. I thought maybe you could give me some ideas.”