Welcome to Chapter 4. It looks like spell check had some fun with my intro from Chapter 3. That doesn't please me. Oh well. Welcome to Maple Shade, New Jersey, the ancestral home of the Philips family. Ah, Maple Shade; nice town, friendly people, or so says the sign at the edge of town. I suppose we'll have to see. I hope you enjoy the chapter!!
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Crown Vic to a Parallel World: From Whence I Came The second installment of the ongoing adventures of Church Philips
4
Family Disfunction
I drove us through town and parked in front of the old, yellow-vinyl-sided house on Arlington Avenue. It was located in Alden Park, a real-estate development that had been added onto Maple Shade in the late 1950s or early 1960s. All the homes in Alden Park, including the one I grew up in, were three-or-four-bedroom split-level homes with attached garages. As the decades passed, and the homes were renovated, many had chosen to incorporate the garages into the living space. My brother's house was no exception. That fact was made obvious because of the lower-level frontage, where the garage door used to be, was adorned with a section of siding that was just a little bit different than the rest of the yellow vinyl.
As far as I knew, my brother Joe still occupied the house with his son Andrew. It had once also been home to Joe's wife, Beth. When my folks died, Beth was nineteen and eight months pregnant with Andrew. She and Joe got a quickie wedding, so the boy would be born in wedlock, and tried to make a `go' of it for a while. It didn't last. Beth was too immature for marriage. She left without a word when Andrew was three or four and never went back or communicated with her husband or son again. Joe had to get a one-sided divorce and was officially granted sole custody of his son.
None of that mattered much to me as I brooded at the steering wheel of the Vic. "From whence I came." I muttered to no one and brooded some more over what that meant. A million memories flooded my mind, most of them bad. I raised my eyes to stare through the windshield but made no motions to get out of the car or even to look at the house.
"Are we going in?" Shawn asked after a few minutes.
I was panicking over a lot of things; seeing Joe, being at the house of my childhood, eventually having to deal with my sister, and on and on. All the lines I'd rehearsed for Joe evaporated from my mind like hot breath on a windowpane. My mind raced but remained empty of solutions. A strange voice pulled me out of my head. "Hey, Mister." It said.
I looked toward the voice and saw a teenager standing at the driver's window. He was smoking a cigarette, a menthol from the smell of it. He was a fresh faced, thin young guy with a tousled mess of dirty blonde hair on his head. He had hazel eyes, strong features, and fair skin. His plain, solid-colored red t-shirt and yellow shorts were rumpled. I guessed that he'd either slept in them, or he'd gotten dressed from the floor. He looked to be about Bem's height, or a little more.
"What's up?" I asked.
"What kind of car is this?"
"It's a 1986 Ford Crown Victoria. You got another one of those smokes?" I answered and asked. The kid handed over a Moyes Menthol Light that made me chuckle. They had been the cigarette of choice when I was in high school. It amused me that nothing ever changed. I stuck the cigarette in my face and leaned toward the kid. He took the hint and lit it for me with a green plastic lighter. I took a drag that burned my lungs and filled my mouth with the cool bite of cough-drop-style menthol. I exhaled the smoke from the side of my mouth and scrutinized the kid over the cigarette.
"What's your name?" He asked.
"I'm Church, who are you?" I plucked the cigarette from my lips with an automatic motion of the first two fingers of my right hand and wondered why I was playing twenty questions. I glanced down at the cigarette that smoldered between my fingers and thought it was interesting how natural it felt to have it there.
"I'm Andrew," the kid at the window said, "and I think you're my uncle."
The second half of the kid's statement got my eyes off my cigarette and back on him. "What makes you say that?" I asked.
The boy whose name I now knew to be Andrew, looked up and down the Vic and drew on his cigarette. He was an unpracticed smoker. His movements lacked the fluidity of a long-time addict and the drag he took was very small. "It's the car. Dad showed me pictures of one once. He told me to tell him if I ever saw a big guy with brown hair driving a car like this and probably smoking. He said if I ever saw that it could be my Uncle Church. Are you him?"
The kid was the right age and had enough resemblance to the Philips line to be my nephew. I drew on my cigarette and asked him about his lineage on a smoky exhale. "You're Andrew Philips, your father is Joseph Philips, and you live here. Is that right?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'm your uncle." I popped the door open. The kid took the hint and backed up so I could get out. I stuck the smoke in my face and offered Andrew my hand. He shook it firmly like a man.
"I thought you'd be older." He said with his head cocked like he was asking an unspoken question. "Aren't you the older brother?"
"I'll be forty-six in November and your dad turned thirty-eight in June." I said to clarify things. The kid stared like he was trying to find forty-six years written on my face. I let his confusion ride. "It's nice to see you again, Andrew. Is it Andrew, Andy, or Drew?"
"I go by Andy. Are you here to see my dad?"
"I hope so." I drew on the cigarette. Despite the unpleasantness of the menthol, the habitual action, even several years removed from it, served to settle my nerves. "Is he up yet?" I asked. "He must be up if he's going to work today. I don't want to take too much of his time. I know how he is about being late for anything."
"He's got a lot of time now." Andy shrugged his shoulders and averted his eyes. I couldn't account for his reaction, but he didn't give me any time to think about it. "Come in, I'll see if Dad's up. Bring your friends." Andy pinched the light off his cigarette and put the butt in the pocket of his shorts.
"Don't do that," I advised him, "you'll reek. Nothing smells worse than a half-smoked cigarette." I drew on mine, exhaled a plume, and stubbed the butt on the front driver's side car tire. I pressed the filter into the tire tread where it would stay until I drove away, then it would fall out somewhere that wasn't immediately in front of the house.
Andy mimicked my actions and pressed his butt into the tire tread next to mine. He waved us to follow him. The kid seemed well-spoken for his age and well-mannered. I'll have to compliment Joe.' I thought. Very few kids his age are anything but loud.'
I grabbed the grocery bags and the three of us followed Andy toward the house. We went up the curved concrete walk and up the two steps to the concrete patio. Andy stopped with his hand on the storm door latch. He rounded on me with a question. "Wait...I saw a picture of my uncle. You don't look like him."
I understood Andy's concern. I tried to make him see that I was the same guy. "Let me guess," I said, "the photo you saw was of a fat guy with bloodshot eyes and about a week's worth of beard. Something like this?" I set my grocery bags on the step so I could make some adjustments to my appearance. I tucked my hair behind my ears so it looked like it was shorter, puffed my cheeks out to approximate my former fat face, and untucked my t-shirt so I could pull the front of it out to mimic a bloated middle.
Andy studied me for a second, then nodded. "I guess you are him." He turned back to the storm door and pulled it open. We followed him through it and through the front door of the house. The glass storm door was more recent, but the red painted wooden door with the three side-by-side windows in the upper half, glazed with amber glass with a pressed-in diamond design, had always been there. That door set the tone for the experience that followed.
I crossed the threshold, into the home of my childhood. It was an experience I never thought I'd have again. The inside of the house hadn't changed much since I'd seen it last. Much of it was the same as when I was a kid. It even smelled the same, and it still filled me with anxiety. I paused to take it all in.
Immediately inside the door, to the left of the opening, was a wide coat closet with metal bi-fold doors painted white. Beyond the closet, a short set of stairs led down to the left, into the dark-paneled family room that had been doubled in size when the garage was made living space. Beyond the first set of steps was another set, these led up to three regular bedrooms and a master suite.
To the right of the house door, was the awkwardly small, plain white living room, with a pointless vaulted ceiling. The room was fronted with a bay window with crank-open panes and furnished with a smallish beige couch and one odd recliner that faced the wall-mounted television. Straight through the living room was the square kitchen with white side-by-side refrigerator, black gas-fired range, black dishwasher, and dark, almost-black fake wood cabinets. The countertops were blonde-wood-pattern Formica that tried to tie together the yellow walls and bridge the color gap to the tan, octagonal-pattern, vinyl flooring.
Through another doorway in the kitchen wall to the right, was the semi-open-floor-plan dining room with the always-covered dining room table and six high-backed simulated oak chairs with red cushions. This room, and only this room had a popcorn ceiling and paneled walls that had been sponge-painted pink and white. That eyesore represented Beth's one failed attempt to update the decor.
Behind the dining room and kitchen, a sunroom had long ago been added to the back of the house. It was made up of three walls of sliding glass doors, all fixed to be inoperable, except one set. The use of the doors as fixed glass was tacky, drafty, cheap, and very confusing for guests. It was sometimes confusing for long-time residents.
As I looked around and breathed the scent of home, a scent that should have been a comforting one, memories of the past flashed like poltergeists and threatened to overwhelm my strained nerves. I could almost hear the house echo with the sounds that filled it once upon a time. It was never a noisy household, not like those family-friendly movies where the home would ring with the laughter of children and the gentle encouragement of loving adults. No, the house that I grew up in was menacingly quiet, every murmur a potential trap. I'd hated it growing up. I hated it still.
The kitchen would have sounded with the irregular muted slithering of the rubber soles of my mother's orthopedic shoes on the vinyl floor. My mother's other sound was the crumpled-tissue-paper-rustling of her polyester dress against the too-dark wood of the lower cabinets. As she did her daily work, the cabinet door hinges would cry out with little yelps as she jerked the doors open. She never banged them shut though. She chose to shut them soundlessly, like she disapproved of the noise they would make if she slammed them.
The living room would have sounded of my father. His was the dry sound of pages turning. He read constantly, the newspaper, The Bible, or works recommended by old Father Edwards, the town priest. He rarely spoke, unless it was to chastise a member of his family. He had a habit of clearing his throat when he read something he didn't agree with. On a juicy news day, he would clear his throat until it was raw.
Shawn cleared his throat and sent a jolt of terror through my mind as past and present seemed to fuse in that sound. I stared at him with nervous eyes. Shawn nodded toward the kitchen. I followed his nod with my eyes and understood what he wanted. I'd been frozen just inside the front door for too long. Shawn felt my nervousness and wanted to get me moving. He'd succeeded.
I went to the kitchen, set the groceries on the counter, and sent Bem to rest in the dining room. I asked Shawn to help with breakfast, a task he set to without comment. I turned to find Andy stalled in place, his eyes locked on Shawn. At the time, Shawn had his back to Andy and was bent over, his head well inside a lower cabinet as he dug for a coffee filter. The fatigue pants he wore, though not cut for fashion, hugged his round ass and the backs of his powerful thighs. The fabric pulled tight against his flesh and showed it off to good advantage. Andy seemed to enjoy the sight almost as much as I did. `That's fucking interesting.' I thought and gave the kid points for having good taste.
I cleared my throat in an unintentional parroting of the insistent `a-hem' Shawn had used a few moments before to get my attention. This time I made the noise to let Andy know he was being observed. He jerked his eyes off Shawn when his brain reengaged, and his voice started working. "I'll check on Dad." He said and left the room.
Shawn moved through the kitchen with complete familiarity. My memories guided him through the cabinets and drawers that were still set up the way my folks had them. He started a full pot of coffee in the drip machine while I found the cutting board and set to work peeling potatoes and chopping onions for home fries.
An odd metallic creaking and what sounded like the shuffling steps of a very old man drew my attention from the breakfast prep. I peered out of the kitchen, up the short set of steps toward the bedrooms and was shocked to see that my brother was the source of the noise. He was moving very slowly down the hall while leaning heavily on a walker. Andy waited at the top of the steps, presumably to help him down.
Joe wore a plain white undershirt, thin with age and too many washes, baggy cut-off sweatpants, and house slippers. What I could see of his legs was thin, atrophied. His face was a grimace under a tangled mess of too-long brown hair. Every step he took seemed to cost him all the effort he had. My recovery from the first mission had introduced me to that level of effort, but I didn't understand what could've happened to make it necessary for Joe.
Joe paused at the head of the stairs. His arms strained to support the whole of his weight while he rested his weak legs. He must've seen me out of his peripheral vision because his head jerked up and his eyes moved directly to me without a glance in any other direction. Recognition struck. He shouted. "IT IS YOU! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOON?"
His voice was the same, strong and deep. He sounded like my father. I felt tears start to flow as I leapt to the top of the stairs and wrapped my brother in a hug over the walker. "I missed you, Joe." I said in his ear. "I didn't know how much until this moment."
He hugged me, hung on me really. "Not so tight." He rasped. I loosened my grip, and Joe put his hands back on the walker one at a time. I didn't step back until he was steady.
I asked him a bunch questions at once without giving him a moment to answer any of them. "What's wrong with you? Why do you look like that? What's with the walker? Are you sick?"
"I can't believe it's really you." Joe reached a shaky hand to touch my face. "Mary always said you drove off a bridge. I didn't put it past you, except I knew you'd never hurt the Vic. Andy said that's how he knew it was you. What are you doing here?"
"Look at you." Joe continued without letting me speak. "You look incredible." His expression twisted. A wave of pain forced a pause in his speech. "I can't stand here anymore." He said as the hurt strained his voice. "Turn around and back up, you're going to carry me downstairs."
I did as I was told, and Joe latched onto my shoulders. His arms seemed strong even if his legs didn't. Andy slid the walker from between us and I piggybacked Joe to the dining room where I sat him at the head of the table. Andy followed us down with the walker. He set it where his father could reach it and moved to stand against the wall. "Who's your friend?" Joe asked when he saw Bem. Shawn came out of the kitchen to stand with me. When Joe saw the three of us together, his face fell, and he jumped to the wrong conclusion. "You escaped from a cult, that's why you're all dressed like that."
I laughed at my brother's assumption. "No cult, Joe. You were actually closer with your `other side of the moon' comment. This is Shawn Summas and Bem Custos. Bem is a very good friend and Shawn," I braced for my brother's reaction to Shawn's identity, "is my partner."
"Like in business?" Joe asked.
"No," I draped my arm over Shawn's shoulders and pulled him into me, "in life. He's my husband...we're married."
Joe smiled awkwardly like I just made a bad joke. When it dawned on him that I wasn't kidding, the smile disappeared, and his brow clouded.
`I was afraid of this.' I thought.
"Are you happy, Church?" Joe asked in a small, stern voice. "Does Shawn make you happy?"
"Yes, he does. I've never been happier."
"I'm glad you're happy." Joe's voice stayed serious and so did his face.
I worried about what was coming next. He could have said anything. `I'm glad you're happy...but you're not my brother...but leave my home and never return...but enjoy being damned to hell.' I braced myself again as the silence stretched out like a wire through a die.
"You are welcome here, Shawn." Joe said finally, grudgingly I thought. "Uhm...congratulations, to you...both of you, I guess."
The stumbling worried me. We didn't exactly get Joe's seal of approval, but he didn't call us sinners and cast us out either. I decided to take what I could get. I tried to change the subject away from the uncomfortable. "I was going to make breakfast. Is that OK?"
The grave seriousness left Joe's face like a child's balloon released in a high wind. He smiled. "You're incredible. You disappear for six years, show up out of nowhere, and...let me guess, scrapple and eggs?"
"And sausage and home fries." I admitted through my own grin.
Joe shook his head, but the smile didn't fade. "It's good to see you, big brother."
"It's nice to see you, Joe."
Shawn and I went back to the kitchen, Bem shifted his seat one closer to Joe so he could introduce himself better, and Andy moved to loiter in the kitchen doorway. The boy didn't seem to know what to do with himself. I got him to pass out coffee and orange juice and to set the table with napkins and utensils. I played the role of short order cook and made custom meals for each of my patrons while Shawn delivered the loaded plates.
Once everyone had a plate in front of them, we sat around the table to eat too much. We limited the conversation to small talk until the meal was finished. Shawn avoided the breakfast meat, but he ate the eggs. I didn't question his decision. Bem thoroughly enjoyed the pan-fried scrapple, so much that he wanted to know what it was.
I gave him a very sanitized answer that didn't explain much at all. Thankfully, he accepted what I said and let the matter drop. I wasn't worried the description would bother Bem. I was more worried that Shawn would turn inside out if I described the pork organs and spare parts that were ground up to make the grey rectangles that I'd fried brown and smothered with ketchup.
Joe sat back with his third cup of coffee, his grin now greasy and sated. "I haven't had a meal like that since," he trailed off to think, "probably since the last time you cooked for me. Alright, we greeted each other, you introduced your friend and your husband, why not tell me where you've been?"
I hemmed and hawed a bit and looked to Shawn in the hope that he could give me a starting point. Shawn took my hand and offered some gentle guidance. "Remember what we talked about." He coached. "You have to tell him."
I was still trying to find a starting point to my story when the front door of the house rattled. The action stopped my words before I could speak. The sound drew everyone's attention away from me. Someone was turning the doorknob, but the door was locked.
"Andy!" Joe scolded across the table. "Why do you do that? You know it only makes her angry."
"That's why I do it." Andy said with defiance in his voice and misery on his face.
"Go unlock the door." Joe commanded. Andy rose reluctantly to do as his father said. Joe's eyes darted to mine. "Brace yourself," he warned, "here comes your sister."
Andy unlocked the door and jumped away from it to avoid being pinned to the wall as it burst open. Mary barged into the house, a flurry of red-faced anger and shopping bags. "An-DREW Philips!" She exclaimed through glaring hatred. "I come here every day at this hour. If I come here just once more, and that door is locked, I won't be held responsible for the consequences."
The sight of my sister, especially after being gone for so long, was jarring. She was the same; a little older, but still lean and hard. Her hair was dragged back in a severe bun. She wore black jeans of a modest fit and a reserved white top. The outfit she wore...she could've been a nun with modern ideas on dress code.
My sister's eyes quickly took in everything and everyone. Her gaze zeroed in on Joe and she laid into him. "You could have called to say you had company. I swear you are so inconsiderate. I go out of my way to come over here every morning to make sure there's food in this house and you're taking care of yourself. For the thanks I get I could just as well leave you to starve."
Mary clacked her low heels into the kitchen, slammed her shopping down, and pushed into the dining room to yell at us from a different perspective. She paused long enough to take inventory of the scene from her fresh angle. Even her posture disapproved, her tight fists propped on her hips, her elbows out like a threatening bird. "I see you already had breakfast, a big fatty unhealthy breakfast. I suppose all those dishes are waiting for me. You get to eat, and I get to clean up; typical."
Mary finally pulled her focus back to see Shawn, Bem, and me. "Who are these people?" She waved an impatient hand at us and returned it to her hip. "All dressed the same like...like I don't even know what."
"You there, yes you." She pointed an accusatory finger at me. "Are you in charge of this group? What do you want here? If you came for a hand-out, you're out of luck. My brother is sick and needs all the money he has and then some. Well?" She stomped her right foot like she did when we were kids. "Who are you? I'm waiting."
I stood from my chair and took a long step toward my sister. She held her ground. Mary's glare dared me to say or do something out of line. "It's nice to see you, Mary." I offered in what I hoped was a conciliatory tone. "I've missed you."
"What's that? You missed me?" She snapped. "I don't know anyone that's been away. How do you know who I am? Is this a joke? Did Joe put you up to this to frustrate me? Enough is enough. I'll thank you to remove yourself and your gang from this house. Take yourselves off and I mean this instant!" Her insistence grew to a medium shout at the end of the harangue. I looked to Joe for help.
"MARY!" Joe shouted to get her attention. "Say hello to your brother."
It was a good try on Joe's part but no use. Mary couldn't see past her nose when she was angry. Her machine gun speech continued unabated. "What are you talking about? I said hello to you the minute I came into this house. Do you need another greeting? Maybe I should write it on a piece of paper for you. I've..."
Joe cut her off with another shout. "SAY HELLO TO CHURCH!"
"Church? Church who? Church is dead..." A flash of uncertain recognition halted Mary's speech. She moved to stand in front of me, well inside my personal space, and squinted into my eyes. "Holy Mary, mother of God. It is you." Mary chanted on a breathy exhale. Her squinted eyes widened as my identity sank in. She stepped back to see all of me and wore an unreadable expression. Her face reddened from her forehead down and the shouting began.
Mary pointed her index finger in my face like she was ticking off a naughty child. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? YOU JUST LEFT ME HOLDING THE BAG! I KEPT THIS FAMILY FROM FALLING APART! YOU WERE NOTHING BUT A DRUNK! EVEN WHEN YOU WERE HERE, YOU NEVER LIFTED A FINGER! GET OUT AND TAKE YOUR FRIENDS WITH YOU! GET OUT OF MY FATHER'S HOUSE OR I WILL THROW YOU OUT!" She shrieked, purple with towering, self-righteous rage. I think if she could've scourged me like an Old Testament sinner, she would have.
I kept a calm facade in spite of the anger that simmered inside me from Mary's accusations. I looked at her but spoke to my brother. "Joe, do you want us to leave? If you don't want to see me, I'll go. I apologize for not being here, for not knowing you were sick. When I was here, I always felt like you'd be better off without me. Then when I was gone, I was afraid of what you'd say if I came back. I was afraid you'd react like her." I nodded at Mary. "If the way she puts it, if what she says is how you feel, I'll never darken your doorstep again. Tell me what you want, Joe. It's your house and your life."
Joe's expression was placidly neutral as he looked between my sister and me. It was a face he'd inherited from our father and one that served him well in his profession as an attorney. When he spoke, I saw my father's ghost in him. His voice exuded complete authority and its tone was firm and low. "Mary, my lost brother is home and I want him here. You will not speak to him in that manner in my house. You either apologize and welcome him, or you can pack up your shopping and leave here for good and all. Do you understand? Tell me you understand and make your choice."
Mary must've seen our father in Joe as well. She meekly cast her eyes to the floor and answered in a very small voice. "I understand. I'm sorry. Welcome home, Church."
Joe remained in charge of the situation and gave orders to the group. "Andy, put your aunt's shopping away. Someone, clear this table so we can sit and talk."
I gathered the breakfast debris from the table and dumped everything in the sink. Andy put the shopping away while Shawn wiped the table down. Joe remained seated at the head of the table, Mary took a place to his right, I sat to his left with Shawn one seat down. As I sat, I spared a glance to Bem. In spite of the tension in the room, he was barely hanging on to consciousness. I asked Joe's permission for him to be excused to the quiet of the family room downstairs. Joe agreed and sent Andy along with him.
Mary stared at me and spoke a rare compliment. "You look good. What did you do?"
"Meet the new me." I said after I was finished being surprised at Mary's kindness. "I dried out, quit smoking, and discovered exercise. I feel a lot better and I'm happier. It really is nice to see you."
An angry scowl returned to Mary's face as she acknowledged my reply. She looked passed me, along the table at Shawn. "I was hoping to have a family discussion." She sneered with a pointed glare at the man she didn't know was her family.
I didn't want to fight with her, but I also didn't want to hide anything. I braced myself and went for broke. "We are having a family discussion. That's why it's right for Shawn to be here. Shawn Summas, meet Mary Thompson. Mary...Shawn is my husband."
Mary's face darkened. It appeared to be both calm and disturbed at the same time. She glared at Shawn long enough to make him uncomfortable. "I do not accept you." She said evenly. "I do not accept you or the unnatural union you claim to be in with my brother."
I wasn't surprised at her reaction. I expected it, but I was still angry. Shawn was to. I wanted to tell Mary off. I wanted to defend my husband and shout down her holier-than-thou horseshit, but I didn't. I knew it would get me nowhere, and I didn't want to make another scene in Joe's house. I swallowed my rage and tried to be the bigger man. "Mary, it's not up to you to accept or reject Shawn. I accept him. I love him. I don't accept your rejection."
"Joe," I turned my attention to my brother, "we seem to be causing a lot of friction here. We need to find a hotel and shop for clothes. The only thing we have with us are these military fatigues. I also need to talk business with you. When can I come back?"
Joe was facing Mary as I asked. I looked to her and saw the obstinance branded on her face. When she got like that, you could talk yourself to death and nothing would change her. She was worse than a mule, she was as immovable as a mountain.
Joe addressed me. "Don't go to a hotel, you and your husband and your friend can stay here. We have too much room and I don't want you to leave until I'm sure you'll come back. You and Shawn can have Mom and Dad's room. Bem can use Mary's. When I got sick, I moved back into my old room and Andy is in yours. You'll have to change the sheets on the beds. They haven't been slept in since...I don't even know. They're probably dusty."
Mary started to turn colors again. She bolted up from her place and knocked the chair over behind her. She flailed a rigid arm and a pointed finger toward Joe. "YOU WOULD INVITE THEM TO STAY? UNDER THE SAME ROOF AS YOUR SON? STAY IN OUR PARENTS' ROOM? YOU WOULD INVITE THIS SIN, THIS BLASPHEMY, INTO THIS HOUSE?" She screamed at him.
Joe answered calmly, his serene tone a deliberate insult to Mary's out-of-control shouting. "Dear sister, when the prodigal son returns, you're supposed to have a feast, not chastise him about his life choices."
"BLASPHEMER!" She raged. "YOU COMPARE HIM, THIS SINNER, THIS FILTHY SODOMITE, TO A BIBLICAL FIGURE?"
Joe turned scarlet. He wasn't angry before, but he was now. His voice stayed even, but the calm was gone. I could tell he was struggling to contain his rage. "Mary, get out of my house. Take your righteous indignation and your piercing voice from my presence. Come back only if you find some love in your black and unforgiving heart."
Mary stayed purple, strangled by fury, and stormed from the house. The front door opened and slammed. A car started; its engine roared, and tires screeched as she tore down the residential street.
Joe needed several deep breaths before his face returned to its normal color. His first words were directed at my flustered husband. "Shawn, for what it's worth, I apologize for her. I ask your forgiveness. Whatever my private thoughts about your relationship with my brother, they are my private thoughts. It seems Mary doesn't understand that."
Shawn shook his head. "You don't have anything to apologize for. What she thinks is her problem. I appreciate you standing up for us."
Andy crept up from the family room and looked around as if his aunt would spring at him from a shadowy corner. "Is it safe now?" He asked.
"Are you OK?" Joe asked the boy.
"Yeah Dad. It's just Aunt Mary being Aunt Mary. She scares me but she doesn't upset me." "Is Bem OK?"
"He fell asleep as soon as we sat down. He didn't hear anything she said."
Joe shot a questioning look at me. I took a stab at explaining Bem away. "He's been working too hard."
It was clear to me that Joe knew I was leaving something out, but he didn't press. He asked his son to sit back down, then asked me again where I'd been. I rubbed my neck, fidgeted with my bracelet, took a deep breath, and told my story. I told Joe everything, from getting laid off on my birthday all the way through to when I woke up in the hospital after the first mission, through my recovery, and my eventual marriage to Shawn. I left out the sex and most of the four years we'd been traveling. The sex was none of Joe's business and the four years on the road didn't matter as much as the early days of the first mission.
Andy listened with rapt attention. Joe listened very much like a lawyer would listen to an elaborate lie. When I finished, Joe's disbelief changed to concern. "You really did join a cult. They brainwashed you."
`There's the Joe I remember.' I thought. I glanced around the room for something consumable I could use to prove my story. The clear plastic napkin holder in the center of the table, or rather its contents, seemed likely candidates. I pulled the holder to me with telekinetic magic, floated a napkin from it, magically folded the square of paper into a simple airplane, and flew it around the room. I brought it back to hover over the table and vaporized it with a shot of white magic.
Andy cheered and clapped his hands. Joe was unmoved. "You slipped a trick napkin into the holder when you were cleaning up. I'm guessing Shawn has a remote control hidden under the table, or maybe Bem, who is conveniently out of sight."
I rubbed my face with both hands. "What the fuck is a trick napkin?" I asked.
"Language." Joe scolded me and scowled. "A trick napkin is what we just saw. Magic isn't real. Whatever you did has to be a trick."
I asked Andy what he thought. "I believe you Uncle Church." The boy smiled at me with delightful enthusiasm.
Joe redirected his scowl to his son. "Andy, what have we talked about? Just because you hear a good story, doesn't mean you should believe it."
I sniped at my brother for admonishing his son. "Says the devout Catholic."
Joe's scowl returned to me. I could see he had more to say but I'd heard enough from him. I wrapped Joe in my magic, lifted him in his seated position from his chair, and floated him through the kitchen and back into the dining room. Once he reentered the room, I pulled out the chair at the foot of the table and parked him in it. I released the magic that had held him and let what I'd done sink into him for a minute before I allowed myself to get smug. "You gonna tell me I got myself a trick Joe?" I asked. "Where do you think they sell trick Joes?"
Joe's eyes were wide enough to see white all the way around the iris. "How did you...what...uh...AHEM...I don't..." He stumbled and stammered. That was the first time I'd seen him shocked and the only time I'd ever seen him speechless.
"Do you believe me now?" I asked.
"I have to, don't I?" Joe accused me with his voice, like somehow, I'd gotten over on him. "Does that mean it's all true? You really went to a parallel world."
"Yes, Joe. When did you ever know me to be creative enough to make all that up? Just the fact that I'm not a fat alcoholic anymore should be enough to convince you that something drastic happened. Now, enough about me, what's wrong with you?"