20
Recitals of the Fathers
Charles was my first friend from that other world, the one my father had tried
to protect me from. He was conventional in all the ways and for all the
reasons my father despised conventionality: he talked about football and
popular bands more than the End of Days; he loved everything about high
school; he went to church, but like most Mormons, if he was ill, he was as
likely to call a doctor as a Mormon priest.
I couldn’t reconcile his world with mine so I separated them. Every
evening I watched for his red jeep from my window, and when it appeared on
the highway I ran for the door. By the time he’d bumped up the hill I’d be
waiting on the lawn, and before he could get out I’d be in the jeep, arguing
with him about my seatbelt. (He refused to drive unless I wore one.)
Once, he arrived early and made it to the front door. I stammered
nervously as I introduced him to Mother, who was blending bergamot and
ylang-ylang, clicking her fingers to test the proportions. She said hello but
her fingers kept pulsing. When Charles looked at me as if to ask why, Mother
explained that God was speaking through her fingers. “Yesterday I tested that
I’d get a migraine today if I didn’t have a bath in lavender,” she said. “I took
the bath and guess what? No headache!”
“Doctors can’t cure a migraine before it happens,” Dad chimed in, “but the
Lord can!”
As we walked to his jeep, Charles said, “Does your house always smell
like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like rotted plants.”
I shrugged.
“You must have smelled it,” he said. “It was strong. I’ve smelled it before.
On you. You always smell of it. Hell, I probably do, too, now.” He sniffed his
shirt. I was quiet. I hadn’t smelled anything.