"THE PROBLEM WITH EVIL"
My life has gone astray. I skipped my horoscope this morning. I don't need it. Lying here in bed, watching the sunrise, I know that single word sums up my life: astray.
It didn't happen overnight. Going astray takes time. But you don't notice it. You go along, chugging here, chugging there—the little engine that can. You remember that story—right? Then, for who knows what reason, you look around and have to ask, “Where the hell am I?” It's not that you don't recognize your surroundings. You're in your own home, maybe the office—your very own self in the midst of your very own life. Problem is, the track you're on isn't the one to the promised land: the goal, the achievement, the meaning of your life. You're still chugging along—you'd be dead if you stopped—but your life's not where, what, it was supposed to be. You've gone . . . astray.
I can still see Reverend Foley up there, leaning over the pulpit at the First Methodist Church. He was one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers. Mom ate him up. He was good-looking: tall, thin, blue eyes, full head of black hair. Paul Newman would've left him in the dust, but Paul wasn't there. Foley was. Mom always got herself all dolled up. We never missed a Sunday, sitting right up front.
I wanted to sit in back, but Mom insisted we sit up there where Foley could see us. That's exactly what I didn't want. Boys always have plenty of things to do: play with your marbles, scratch your rear. make faces at the girls, pick your nose, write in the hymnals. You can get away with that in the back—in the middle, even—but not up front, not with Foley looking down on you.
Jesus knows I tried to move Mom to the back. I tried to make us late, so we'd have to slide quietly into a back pew. But Mom wouldn’t have any of that. If I wasn't ready, she'd plop me and my clothes into the back of the car' and tell me to keep dressing. You'd think she'd have been embarrassed, driving down Main Street with her only son struggling into his shirt. She wasn't.
Once, I didn't have time for socks. That was a kick, really, sitting in church with no socks, just like I was on the front porch. I even pulled up my cuffs, wiggled my feet, and got Ronnie Davis giggling, right in the middle of a prayer, when he was supposed to have his eyes closed and when everyone could hear. His folks were front-row faithful, too. His mom turned red and squeezed his leg, hard. That sure must’ve hurt. It stopped him in mid-giggle, and she almost had to slap her other hand over his mouth, to stop the scream of pain starting there, but her look killed that. He tried to kick me after church—for getting him into trouble—but his dad grabbed him, and he was in even deeper. Shuffled straight over to their car, head down, slammed the door behind him, knowing there’d be no dessert for him that Sunday. Yeah, that was a good day.
My other strategy was to get Mom talking to people who sat in the back. I figured it'd be rude to talk to them but not sit with them. Mom didn't see it that way. Oh, she smiled and socialized, all right. You'd have thought gossip was her gospel But while the other ladies eased their families into the comfortable anonymity of the back pews, Mom kept her eyes on the pulpit and marched us right into its shadow. Once, George Walker flipped me the bird, smirking as he settled into the back while Mom dragged me up front. Later, I evened the score—and no way he could prove that broken finger' wasn't an accident, though we both knew it wasn't. There has to be some justice in this world.
So, you see, nothing worked—with Mom, I mean. No matter how I schemed, there I was, every Sunday, in the front row with Reverend Foley looking straight down on me, seeing every twitch, slump, scratch, and pick. Later on, in college, when they had us read 1984 and talked about how terrible it would be to have Big Brother watching, I could really relate to that. Anyway, as I said, Foley was a fire-and-brimstone man. He'd stand up there and thunder about how the world was full of sin: everything from communism to rock ‘n’ roll. He'd warn us about temptation and how every time we stray from the Lord's path, God notes it in the ledger and stokes the fire. I used to wonder—still do, for that matter—if God got as much pleasure contemplating the fate of sinners as Foley did . . . and whether he and Mom ever got beyond just lusting in the heart.
The reason I bring up Foley—you were wondering, weren't you?—is that he's why I think of what's happened to me as “straying.” I bet plenty of people wake up, look around, and think What the hell? I mean, I don't think I'm unique here. But I also think few of those other, lost little engines think they've “strayed.” They think about “mid-life crisis,” “male menopause,” and other fashionable psycho-babble. That's okay. Psychologists have mouths to feed, too, and the gullible get what they deserve. But those aren't the wor'ds that come to me. Maybe mine are just spiritual babble, but whatever they are, they're mine because of Foley exhorting us not to stray from God’s straight and narrow path—or else!
Still, I have to admit there are differences—big differences—between what's happened to me and what Foley preached about. Straying from the Lord's path is like falling off a bicycle. I mean, there you are, peddling along, following the rules, making your contribution to the Lord's plan, when what do you spy out of the corner of your eye but this month's Playboy llying right out in the open, just off to the side of the Lord's path, open to the centerfold. You keep peddling, but your head's turning to the side, then the back as you roll past the exciting, everything-right-out-there-for-all-to-enjoy! display of the bountiful Miss April. You're definitely not watching where you're going, making sure you stay on that narrow path, and—Bam!—your front wheel's off the path, into a ditch. and you're pitched over the handlebars. You end up with your nose in Miss April’s bush, exhausted, hoping no one saw you flailing and fallen.
This may happen more than once. It may even happen a lot. But each time, you can pick yourself up—zip up, straighten your clothes, smooth your hair—gget back on your bike, and start peddling down that sweet path again. Oh, you may have to up your tithe or chant some Hail Marys—whatever penance your particular sect requires—but you're back on the path. You strayed, but you've returned. You can always do that, no matter how many temptations you succumb to.
Well, finding your life has gone astray isn't like that. It's not occasional, and you can't go back again. And you can't say you're sorry and be forgiven. You can't say, “Look, this just happened. You know me; I'm a Reader's Digest kind of guy—even spend time with The Good Book. But, hey, I'm human. I sneak a peek at Playboy now and then. That's just something that happens, along the way. It isn't the story of my life It's not who I really am.
But this time, it is your life. It's not some “Oops! I'm sorry,” little thing, some lusting in the heart that never even sees the light of day amidst all those years of faithful marriage. No, this time, it's your whole damn life that's gone astray. How do you excuse that?
And go back? Don't make me laugh. What am I supposed to do? Crawl back into Mom's womb, squish around a little, then pop out and have another go at it? This is a discovery that when you make it, it's just too damn late to undo it. But—you say, hope—maybe some grand cycle of reincarnation will give you another chance at life?. Maybe you'll be the Shirley Maclaine of the twenty-second century. Who knows? It doesn't matter. That will be another life. Even if you chug along better there—even if you get back on track there, r'each the goal you were supposed to arrive at this time. Even if all that's possible—which you know it isn't—but even if it were, that still wouldn't put this life back on track. No. once you discover your life has gone astray, that's it.
So, that's where I am. Let me tell you how I got here. Not to get your sympathy. Why would I want that? I don't even know you. No, I just want to talk about it. Sitting here in bed watching the sun animate the sky, I want to set it all down, spread it out for the coming day and all to see. Maybe some deep-seated, reason-resistant guilt feeling demanding public penance are roiling here, pushing me where I ordinarily would think I don’t want to go. … Think that’s it? … You can’t know—not yet.
I grew up an only child, . . . but I wasn't one. I had an older sister, born four years before I was conceived. I’ve been told she was a beautiful child, real star quality. Think of an Irish Shirley Temple: lustrous, fire engine red curls—another of the big G’s little jokes?—captivating impish smile, intense green eyes with flecks of gold, flawless alabaster skin. … But I never met her, myself, and all her pictures went up in smoke
It's hard to understand—much less accept—what happened to her. She was just a little kid; so what can she have done to deserve what she got? She wasn't some special terror, no worse than you or me—and we're here. God didn't wipe us off the face of the earth—right? But not little Annie. Her, He not only burned to a crisp; in the very same fire, He incinerated every image of her. Mom and Dad got out with just their pajamas, and their memories.
And you know what? The fire started in the nursery. That's what the fire inspector said. Mom had a vaporizer going against some cough Annie had. Just a routine kid's thing—nothing to worry about. The vaporizer helped her sleep. But they figured out—and how do they do that, anyway? I mean, with the whole house burned to the ground—and it wasn't a big house—I'll give you that—but still, there was this sizable pile of rubble—that's all there was—and some smart-ass fire inspector sifts through this pile, pulls out one scorched wire, and proclaims, “This is the one that did it.” If psycho-babble is bullshit, that's snake crap.
Anyway, this inspired guesser tells everybody it was the vaporizer started the fire. It and all that frilly baby girl decoration stuff. Frilly, flammable girl stuff Mom spent so much time—not to mention car'e and thought and love—decorating the nursery with. Frilly, flammable stuff Dad sold for a living. I ask you, does God have one hell of a sense of humor, or what? He not only incinerates an innocent child. And don't tell me she wasn't innocent. Even if she was an axe murderer in a previous life, she was innocent now. And how's she supposed to work off her karma—if that's what you believe in—when God wipes her out in the cradle? “Get down there and work off those sins!” God commands. Then He fries the poor little soul in the nursery, before she can lay up any good works. What does He say to the soul when she gets back, dusting off the ashes, coughing up smoke: “Better luck next time”? You'd have to be God to pull that off with a straight face.
Anyway, as I said, God not only eliminated the kid, He wiped out every photo of her, all in the same fire. And this fire was caused by the kid's parents, by their loving and caring for her. And then—the killer punch line—God spared those parents. He let them get out of the house, unable to save the kid but alive themselves, having to remember that every day, relive it every night. Talk about the ways of God being mysterious! If He were human, we'd crucify Him—and He'd deserve it.
That's why I grew up an only child. I guess I should be thankful I grew up at all. Not thankful God didn't have some flaming joke in mind for me—that's not what I mean. I mean thankful I was ever born. Mom and Dad could've packed it in right then. Lots of marriages go up in flames when a kid dies. Mom and Dad sure could've laid a guilt trip on each other. That cretin of a fire inspector gave them plenty to work with. But they didn't. They did the right thing. They supported each other, tenderly, lovingly. They found a new house, rebuilt their life together, and after a year, they even went for another kid.
What could be sweeter? I'll bet Reverend Foley pitched it just that way. God had taken Annie to restore Mom to her faith, strengthen her' marriage, and grant her a son. “God's in His heaven; all's r'ight with the world!”Which is to say, God's end justifies any means—right? . . . But Foley made sure Mom never bathed in that illumination. She had her new baby—with photos in the safe deposit box this time—and we settled in to lead a life filled with family values.
Right from the start, Mom knew I was special. I had to be. God wouldn't incinerate a baby to produce some average Joe. Annie was sacrificed for something—someone—great. Mom figured she was a sacrifice, too, and she embraced that role at full gallop. “Mother,” that's what her life was meant to be. Is there such a thing as a Madonna complex? I don't mean a compulsion to wear' your underwear on top. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.) You know what I mean: an obsession with producing wonderful children, seeing the fulfillment of your life in their' success. That was my Mom! Any thought she had of being anything but a mom she sacrificed at the altar of the child who was going to be somebody, really somebody.
Dad, . . . well, he was a sacrifice, too. At least that's the way Mom saw it. If she was nothing but a means to the growing of this chosen one, he had to share that, could be nothing more than her. But Dad didn't have a Joseph complex. He wasn't into bringing home the bacon, then being forgotten. That didn't fulfill his life, and that’s the way he insisted on thinking about it: his life. That’s why he wasn't in the pew with us. Why, a few years later, he wasn't in the house, either.
Women complain about being treated like baby machines; how'd they like to be nothing but a combo sperm bank and A.T.M.? “One stop shopping: pick up your seed, then the fertilizer to grow it. Always at your service, ma'am.” Dad didn't like it. He closed shop, leaving the store fixtures for Mom and bankruptcy payments for me. I’m sure you get the metaphor.
It took Mom just five years to turn from loving wife into devoted mother, and to turn Dad from proud papa to absent father. I didn't really miss him. Driving off a husband's like going astray: it's not something that happens all at once. Mom had been gradually easing Dad out the door all those five years. Not that she thought of it that way. She didn't. She'd been showing him what his place was in the grand scheme that had produced her golden child. If he didn’t like that place, . . . well. you know, that’s what doors are for.
I’m sure Dad felt like a fish dumped on the dock. He could feel his life ebbing away, but no matter how he twisted and turned, pushed and flipped, he couldn't get any traction. Can any man cope with a woman doing God's work? That needs a saint. Dad was just a man. So, he started seeking his life elsewhere. Not that he found some hot Lolita to comfort him, or even some pleasant Martha. No, he just spent more and more time on work, hobbies, going out with the guys—anything that kept him away from home.
I think—hope?—he wanted to spend more time with me. After all, I was his son, too. But Mom's transformation from wife into mother put me off limits, unless he was willing to transform himself from husband into just plain dad—which he wasn't. So, his participation in my life—our life, Mom’s and mine—gradually shriveled up, till one day he was gone altogether. It didn't even end with a whimper, just an envelope: divorce papers in the mail. Oh, I spent some weekends and vacations with him, but he moved away, found a Martha, had a couple of kids. After a few years, the visits stopped. I was a reminder of fire and ice, and a strain and drain on his new family. He was a good father to those kids, but that was easy. They were nothing special.
I had to be special. You see that now—right? Oh, I was not Annie’s dazzling equal, no Mickey Rooney to her Shirley Temple. I share her red hair but not those brillian green eyes; mine are hazel. And I’ve had my share of freckles and pimples, baby fat to work off, and growth spurts which left me too tall and awkward through those terrible, early teen-age years. But I plowed through all that, no worse for the wear than other kids, better than most. And I came out of it on track: in high school, I lettered in swimming as a freshman, played first trumpet in our All-City Orchestra, was Senior Class President, then valedictorian. Can you guess whom Mom invited to graduation? It was so great, standing up there at the lectern. telling the audience about the bright world of promise our clear-eyed class was going forth to conquer, and looking down on Reverend Foley, dar'ing him to hold Mom'B hand, touch her leg. (He died a couple of years ago. I had my own little memorial service: burned his obituary in the trash basket.)
At Stanford, on full scholarship, I developed talents, acquired skills, made contacts. As captain of the debating team—national champions three years running—I learned to see both sides of every issue, experienced the thrill of changing people's minds, not just from undecided but from dead certain I was wrong to seeing the world through my eyes, no matter what I let them think I saw. Winning may not be everything, I concluded, but it’s a close second. I took my law degree at Berkeley.
I clerked for the California Supreme Court, became one of the bright young men in Sacramento. I’d stroll the Capitol Mall, stopping to watch the children play, the homeless camp. “I’ll get you better schools,” I'd say to myself. “No crowded classrooms when I'm Governor. And I'll find jobs for you, or shelters, mental hospitals—whatever it takes.” Then I'd look across at the corporate headquarters ringing the Mall and think, I'll be there for you, too, cutting taxes, sending the stock market soaring. My world was a boundless, beckoning horizon, and I was eager to earn my destiny, ready to prove the Phoenix.
That's when I met Deborah. It was at a Young Republicans party. She wasn’t political. herself. but was dating Sam. Roberts, then special assistant to a southern California Senator. He had to give a little talk, and she and I ended up sitting next to each other. She was gorgeous, one of those tall, athletic girls, but amply curved in all the right places, waves of long, strawberry-blonde hair, deep blue, wide-set, oh-so-knowing eyes, generous smile, and stunning legs, I mean gams a Rockette would die for, I stared at her like a child hypnotized by a shiny Christmas ornament. I didn't even hear Sam talking, but as soon as the applause started, I leaned over and said, “Let's get out of here.” I still can't believe I did that—this was the party of Ronald Reagan, for God's sake, not one of his corny movies.
“What took you so long?” she answered, those blue eyes confidently meeting mine, those amused, inviting, electric eyes I would have gladly drowned in. She laughed—doubtless at my stunned expression—flipped her hair back, and we were off.
Sam has since told me he saw us get up but didn't think anything of it, thought Deborah was going to the ladies room or something. By the time he finished shaking hands and went looking for her, we were long gone. That talk launched Sam's political career; he's a Senator now, himself, hoping to be Governor. It ended mine, though I didn't know it—God so loves His mysterious ways. But even if He'd whispered that in my ear, forthrightly telling me the price I'd have to pay for Deborah's heart, I'd have signed the contract with a flourish. I was that completely, instantly in love
Our wedding was the biggest of the year. “Up-and-Comer Marries Daughter of Capitol Power Broker” would have been the honest headline. Deborah's father was senior partner in Sacramento's largest law firm. The doors didn't just open wide; they became loving arms embracing me to the bosom of the business "Dad" built. Mom was so pleased. I wasn't so sure. What about those crowded classrooms, the new shelter's, that soaring stock market? “Politics isn't the only path to power,” Dad assured me. “You can do well for yourself—your family—and still do good for others. The private sector's the tail that wags the dog. Always has been.” Deborah hugged my arm. How could something that felt so good possibly be wrong?
I had to work hard, of course, had to show people I wasn't there just because “Dad” doted on his daughter. But I could do that. I have done that. I'm no slouch, no dummy, no contented gigolo. I've worked hard and chugged up the hill—earned the summit. Marriage just gave me the chance; I pulled the freight. I hope you understand that.
Twenty hectic years later, I have corporate accounts galore, loads of money, an adoring, adorable wife, and two beautiful children. You think that’s where I went astray--right? Think I've sold out the kids on the Mall, don't you? The homeless, too. Maybe I've worked hard, but it's all been for me, to fill my pockets, stroke my ego. That's what's caught me up short—right?—realizing that amassing wealth doesn't make a life special, just comfortable—Isn't that what you've decided this is all about?
Well, it could have been. Mom made that mistake. She was sure we’d arrived. Since I was a success, her life was fulfilled, her calling confirmed. The sacrifices were justified. She died easy, happy: a heart attack at our Tahoe lodge.
I'm glad Mom thought we'd done what we were supposed to. Glad she felt she could meet her' maker with a clear conscience. She had such a peaceful look on her face. I'm glad she wasn't disappointed in me, and I don't hold it against her—I mean, settling the meaning of my life—the course I had to follow—before I was even born. I don't even blame her for getting it wrong in the end. It's easy to be blinded by success, easy to mistake it for achievement.
But that's not how my life has gone astray. I didn't sell out those people. Deb and I host fundraisers for the symphony, built a swimming pool for the high school, and serve on lots of civic boards. And I still go walking on the Capitol Mall, ready to meet the eyes of the people there. Those kids have better toys now, hi-tech toys. I raised the venture capital for that. And their mothers don't pick the kids up in Civics and Tercells anymore. They drive minivans and SUVs, thanks to the economy I've helped grow. Which is why there are new jobs for the homeless, and more shelters, too. Maybe my life hasn't been that self-sacrificing, crusader story I envisioned years ago, but it's been a reasonable facsimile. Can you say as much?
So, you're puzzled—right? Where has this storybook life gone astray? Isn't that what you're asking? Bet you can’t even guess, wouldn’t get it right in a dozen years. …
Well, here it is. Yesterday, I took one of those walks on the Mall. I stopped to watch the children play, noticed their toys, felt proud. I smiled at the little girl nearest me. Her mother ran over, gave me a dirty look, and pulled the little girl away to safety. I wanted to protest, explain how I wasn't a pervert but a benefactor. You’d think she could see that, recognize a good guy from the cut of his clothes and hair, even if he isn’t wearing a white hat. I wanted her' to acknowledge that, recognize what I am, where I come from, even if she was too far out of the power loop to know who I am. But I couldn't say a thing—me, who's argued so eloquently so often. I stood there mute, first staring at them, then past them at another little girl—which, I have to admit, made me look that much guiltier. After a moment—I don't know how long, ten seconds, maybe, of standing there transfixed—I hurried off before someone called a cop.
I made it to my car, then sat there in the parking garage, staring at the car in front of mine, not seeing it. I'd had an epiphany. I'm sure you've had similar feelings. They hold the meaning of our lives, if we can just figure them out. And even if we can't—which is the usual case—we always remember them fondly, wondering, marveling, going back to them year after year, captivated by their still being there. so vivid. waiting to be opened, if we only knew how. This time, though, there was no waiting.
I’d seen Annie. I'd imagined her often. She's been the story of my life, after all, the innocent whose fiery death I was born to redeem. But this time I actually saw her, standing by a flowering plum tree, staring at me. I know you think that's nonsense. She's been dead forty-five years; so what I saw had to be some other' child, one of the kids playing on the Mall. You're probably right, but I'm as sure it was Annie as I am of what that mother thought of me. I'll accept some sort of transsubstantiation as the explanation, if that's all there is. Stuff like that should be reserved for epiphanies.
Annie’s eyes are deep, like Deborah’s, even if a different color, but hers hold no laughter. They're compelling. Once you feel them on you, you can't look away. You're plunged into her world, permeated by the truth of her life. Your own thoughts and feelings—your hopes, too—are tested in the furnace of that truth. What I saw, through Annie's eyes, was my life in ashes. I mean, what could I possibly do—or you? anyone? everyone?—what good can we possibly do that will justify the terror of that baby girl as she watches the flames devour her Barbie Doll and Teddy Bear, then her agony as the flames turn her toes and feet, finger's and arms, her hair and face into crinkly ash and dripping mush? . . . Nothing can redeem the death of an innocent child. Nothing . . . ever.
That night—last night—I told Deb what had happened.
“You poor thing,” she said, “you really believed that?”
“That I saw Annie?”
“No. That you could justify her death.”
“That was my destiny.” I hoped I sounded sure, not whiny.
“It seems so . . . I don't know . . . primitive. Living in that kind of world, I mean.”
“What kind?” I was genuinely puzzled . . . and annoyed. Deb was my rock, my soul mate, my partner in life’s adventure. Now she was questioning—criticizing really, maybe even belittling?—the meaning of that adventure. My solid rock had become a slippery slide.
“The kind where you think it all has to make sense,” she said easily, without the slightest hint of panic, not even regret.
“Don't tell me you never think about that,” I retorted, quickly, angrily. I wasn’t giving up, wasn’t going to lose my rock or my mission, without a fight.
“The world just is the way it is.”
“I can't accept that.”
“That's part of the way it is,” she laughed.
“Think that's funny?”
“The cosmic punch line.”
I snorted and rolled over, my back to her
She leaned over, kissed me on the cheek. whispered, “I love you, … and the kids don't think you're too bad, either.” Then she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed up against me nuzzling my neck.
“Think that's the answer?” I said, anger gone but trying to sound hurt, superior.
“Is there any question?” She wasn’t paying any attention to me, . . . well, not to my words, anyway. Things progressed, you know where.
So, that's where I am—who I am—and why I'm here. Nothing in my life has changed, but nothing about it is the same. My destiny gone, where do I go from here? Is that even the right question? Making love to Deb sure felt like an answer, but I still can’t help wondering. Deb flashed me her knowing smile when I told her that. But that’s just not good enough for me, doesn’t satisfy, doesn’t put a lid on the pit I’m staring into. I could call her an ostrich, I guess, make myself feel better that way, feel I’m too sensitive, too profound to revel in the joys of the world while putting down the sorrows to “just the way things are.” But I can’t do that. And maybe that’s something wrong with me, like Deb thinks, like all those in our circle would think, if they only knew. And I can’t even be sure they’re not right. That’s the further rub. But what I do know for sure is that one night a little girl burned bright, in agony, and it shouldn’t have happened. There was no possible reason for it, and there is nothing I can do to make it not have happened . . . nor to give it reason. That’s the shadow of that light, the valley through which I must now walk. Or run? Or stumble along? Or . . .?
It didn't happen overnight. Going astray takes time. But you don't notice it. You go along, chugging here, chugging there—the little engine that can. You remember that story—right? Then, for who knows what reason, you look around and have to ask, “Where the hell am I?” It's not that you don't recognize your surroundings. You're in your own home, maybe the office—your very own self in the midst of your very own life. Problem is, the track you're on isn't the one to the promised land: the goal, the achievement, the meaning of your life. You're still chugging along—you'd be dead if you stopped—but your life's not where, what, it was supposed to be. You've gone . . . astray.
I can still see Reverend Foley up there, leaning over the pulpit at the First Methodist Church. He was one of those fire-and-brimstone preachers. Mom ate him up. He was good-looking: tall, thin, blue eyes, full head of black hair. Paul Newman would've left him in the dust, but Paul wasn't there. Foley was. Mom always got herself all dolled up. We never missed a Sunday, sitting right up front.
I wanted to sit in back, but Mom insisted we sit up there where Foley could see us. That's exactly what I didn't want. Boys always have plenty of things to do: play with your marbles, scratch your rear. make faces at the girls, pick your nose, write in the hymnals. You can get away with that in the back—in the middle, even—but not up front, not with Foley looking down on you.
Jesus knows I tried to move Mom to the back. I tried to make us late, so we'd have to slide quietly into a back pew. But Mom wouldn’t have any of that. If I wasn't ready, she'd plop me and my clothes into the back of the car' and tell me to keep dressing. You'd think she'd have been embarrassed, driving down Main Street with her only son struggling into his shirt. She wasn't.
Once, I didn't have time for socks. That was a kick, really, sitting in church with no socks, just like I was on the front porch. I even pulled up my cuffs, wiggled my feet, and got Ronnie Davis giggling, right in the middle of a prayer, when he was supposed to have his eyes closed and when everyone could hear. His folks were front-row faithful, too. His mom turned red and squeezed his leg, hard. That sure must’ve hurt. It stopped him in mid-giggle, and she almost had to slap her other hand over his mouth, to stop the scream of pain starting there, but her look killed that. He tried to kick me after church—for getting him into trouble—but his dad grabbed him, and he was in even deeper. Shuffled straight over to their car, head down, slammed the door behind him, knowing there’d be no dessert for him that Sunday. Yeah, that was a good day.
My other strategy was to get Mom talking to people who sat in the back. I figured it'd be rude to talk to them but not sit with them. Mom didn't see it that way. Oh, she smiled and socialized, all right. You'd have thought gossip was her gospel But while the other ladies eased their families into the comfortable anonymity of the back pews, Mom kept her eyes on the pulpit and marched us right into its shadow. Once, George Walker flipped me the bird, smirking as he settled into the back while Mom dragged me up front. Later, I evened the score—and no way he could prove that broken finger' wasn't an accident, though we both knew it wasn't. There has to be some justice in this world.
So, you see, nothing worked—with Mom, I mean. No matter how I schemed, there I was, every Sunday, in the front row with Reverend Foley looking straight down on me, seeing every twitch, slump, scratch, and pick. Later on, in college, when they had us read 1984 and talked about how terrible it would be to have Big Brother watching, I could really relate to that. Anyway, as I said, Foley was a fire-and-brimstone man. He'd stand up there and thunder about how the world was full of sin: everything from communism to rock ‘n’ roll. He'd warn us about temptation and how every time we stray from the Lord's path, God notes it in the ledger and stokes the fire. I used to wonder—still do, for that matter—if God got as much pleasure contemplating the fate of sinners as Foley did . . . and whether he and Mom ever got beyond just lusting in the heart.
The reason I bring up Foley—you were wondering, weren't you?—is that he's why I think of what's happened to me as “straying.” I bet plenty of people wake up, look around, and think What the hell? I mean, I don't think I'm unique here. But I also think few of those other, lost little engines think they've “strayed.” They think about “mid-life crisis,” “male menopause,” and other fashionable psycho-babble. That's okay. Psychologists have mouths to feed, too, and the gullible get what they deserve. But those aren't the wor'ds that come to me. Maybe mine are just spiritual babble, but whatever they are, they're mine because of Foley exhorting us not to stray from God’s straight and narrow path—or else!
Still, I have to admit there are differences—big differences—between what's happened to me and what Foley preached about. Straying from the Lord's path is like falling off a bicycle. I mean, there you are, peddling along, following the rules, making your contribution to the Lord's plan, when what do you spy out of the corner of your eye but this month's Playboy llying right out in the open, just off to the side of the Lord's path, open to the centerfold. You keep peddling, but your head's turning to the side, then the back as you roll past the exciting, everything-right-out-there-for-all-to-enjoy! display of the bountiful Miss April. You're definitely not watching where you're going, making sure you stay on that narrow path, and—Bam!—your front wheel's off the path, into a ditch. and you're pitched over the handlebars. You end up with your nose in Miss April’s bush, exhausted, hoping no one saw you flailing and fallen.
This may happen more than once. It may even happen a lot. But each time, you can pick yourself up—zip up, straighten your clothes, smooth your hair—gget back on your bike, and start peddling down that sweet path again. Oh, you may have to up your tithe or chant some Hail Marys—whatever penance your particular sect requires—but you're back on the path. You strayed, but you've returned. You can always do that, no matter how many temptations you succumb to.
Well, finding your life has gone astray isn't like that. It's not occasional, and you can't go back again. And you can't say you're sorry and be forgiven. You can't say, “Look, this just happened. You know me; I'm a Reader's Digest kind of guy—even spend time with The Good Book. But, hey, I'm human. I sneak a peek at Playboy now and then. That's just something that happens, along the way. It isn't the story of my life It's not who I really am.
But this time, it is your life. It's not some “Oops! I'm sorry,” little thing, some lusting in the heart that never even sees the light of day amidst all those years of faithful marriage. No, this time, it's your whole damn life that's gone astray. How do you excuse that?
And go back? Don't make me laugh. What am I supposed to do? Crawl back into Mom's womb, squish around a little, then pop out and have another go at it? This is a discovery that when you make it, it's just too damn late to undo it. But—you say, hope—maybe some grand cycle of reincarnation will give you another chance at life?. Maybe you'll be the Shirley Maclaine of the twenty-second century. Who knows? It doesn't matter. That will be another life. Even if you chug along better there—even if you get back on track there, r'each the goal you were supposed to arrive at this time. Even if all that's possible—which you know it isn't—but even if it were, that still wouldn't put this life back on track. No. once you discover your life has gone astray, that's it.
So, that's where I am. Let me tell you how I got here. Not to get your sympathy. Why would I want that? I don't even know you. No, I just want to talk about it. Sitting here in bed watching the sun animate the sky, I want to set it all down, spread it out for the coming day and all to see. Maybe some deep-seated, reason-resistant guilt feeling demanding public penance are roiling here, pushing me where I ordinarily would think I don’t want to go. … Think that’s it? … You can’t know—not yet.
I grew up an only child, . . . but I wasn't one. I had an older sister, born four years before I was conceived. I’ve been told she was a beautiful child, real star quality. Think of an Irish Shirley Temple: lustrous, fire engine red curls—another of the big G’s little jokes?—captivating impish smile, intense green eyes with flecks of gold, flawless alabaster skin. … But I never met her, myself, and all her pictures went up in smoke
It's hard to understand—much less accept—what happened to her. She was just a little kid; so what can she have done to deserve what she got? She wasn't some special terror, no worse than you or me—and we're here. God didn't wipe us off the face of the earth—right? But not little Annie. Her, He not only burned to a crisp; in the very same fire, He incinerated every image of her. Mom and Dad got out with just their pajamas, and their memories.
And you know what? The fire started in the nursery. That's what the fire inspector said. Mom had a vaporizer going against some cough Annie had. Just a routine kid's thing—nothing to worry about. The vaporizer helped her sleep. But they figured out—and how do they do that, anyway? I mean, with the whole house burned to the ground—and it wasn't a big house—I'll give you that—but still, there was this sizable pile of rubble—that's all there was—and some smart-ass fire inspector sifts through this pile, pulls out one scorched wire, and proclaims, “This is the one that did it.” If psycho-babble is bullshit, that's snake crap.
Anyway, this inspired guesser tells everybody it was the vaporizer started the fire. It and all that frilly baby girl decoration stuff. Frilly, flammable girl stuff Mom spent so much time—not to mention car'e and thought and love—decorating the nursery with. Frilly, flammable stuff Dad sold for a living. I ask you, does God have one hell of a sense of humor, or what? He not only incinerates an innocent child. And don't tell me she wasn't innocent. Even if she was an axe murderer in a previous life, she was innocent now. And how's she supposed to work off her karma—if that's what you believe in—when God wipes her out in the cradle? “Get down there and work off those sins!” God commands. Then He fries the poor little soul in the nursery, before she can lay up any good works. What does He say to the soul when she gets back, dusting off the ashes, coughing up smoke: “Better luck next time”? You'd have to be God to pull that off with a straight face.
Anyway, as I said, God not only eliminated the kid, He wiped out every photo of her, all in the same fire. And this fire was caused by the kid's parents, by their loving and caring for her. And then—the killer punch line—God spared those parents. He let them get out of the house, unable to save the kid but alive themselves, having to remember that every day, relive it every night. Talk about the ways of God being mysterious! If He were human, we'd crucify Him—and He'd deserve it.
That's why I grew up an only child. I guess I should be thankful I grew up at all. Not thankful God didn't have some flaming joke in mind for me—that's not what I mean. I mean thankful I was ever born. Mom and Dad could've packed it in right then. Lots of marriages go up in flames when a kid dies. Mom and Dad sure could've laid a guilt trip on each other. That cretin of a fire inspector gave them plenty to work with. But they didn't. They did the right thing. They supported each other, tenderly, lovingly. They found a new house, rebuilt their life together, and after a year, they even went for another kid.
What could be sweeter? I'll bet Reverend Foley pitched it just that way. God had taken Annie to restore Mom to her faith, strengthen her' marriage, and grant her a son. “God's in His heaven; all's r'ight with the world!”Which is to say, God's end justifies any means—right? . . . But Foley made sure Mom never bathed in that illumination. She had her new baby—with photos in the safe deposit box this time—and we settled in to lead a life filled with family values.
Right from the start, Mom knew I was special. I had to be. God wouldn't incinerate a baby to produce some average Joe. Annie was sacrificed for something—someone—great. Mom figured she was a sacrifice, too, and she embraced that role at full gallop. “Mother,” that's what her life was meant to be. Is there such a thing as a Madonna complex? I don't mean a compulsion to wear' your underwear on top. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.) You know what I mean: an obsession with producing wonderful children, seeing the fulfillment of your life in their' success. That was my Mom! Any thought she had of being anything but a mom she sacrificed at the altar of the child who was going to be somebody, really somebody.
Dad, . . . well, he was a sacrifice, too. At least that's the way Mom saw it. If she was nothing but a means to the growing of this chosen one, he had to share that, could be nothing more than her. But Dad didn't have a Joseph complex. He wasn't into bringing home the bacon, then being forgotten. That didn't fulfill his life, and that’s the way he insisted on thinking about it: his life. That’s why he wasn't in the pew with us. Why, a few years later, he wasn't in the house, either.
Women complain about being treated like baby machines; how'd they like to be nothing but a combo sperm bank and A.T.M.? “One stop shopping: pick up your seed, then the fertilizer to grow it. Always at your service, ma'am.” Dad didn't like it. He closed shop, leaving the store fixtures for Mom and bankruptcy payments for me. I’m sure you get the metaphor.
It took Mom just five years to turn from loving wife into devoted mother, and to turn Dad from proud papa to absent father. I didn't really miss him. Driving off a husband's like going astray: it's not something that happens all at once. Mom had been gradually easing Dad out the door all those five years. Not that she thought of it that way. She didn't. She'd been showing him what his place was in the grand scheme that had produced her golden child. If he didn’t like that place, . . . well. you know, that’s what doors are for.
I’m sure Dad felt like a fish dumped on the dock. He could feel his life ebbing away, but no matter how he twisted and turned, pushed and flipped, he couldn't get any traction. Can any man cope with a woman doing God's work? That needs a saint. Dad was just a man. So, he started seeking his life elsewhere. Not that he found some hot Lolita to comfort him, or even some pleasant Martha. No, he just spent more and more time on work, hobbies, going out with the guys—anything that kept him away from home.
I think—hope?—he wanted to spend more time with me. After all, I was his son, too. But Mom's transformation from wife into mother put me off limits, unless he was willing to transform himself from husband into just plain dad—which he wasn't. So, his participation in my life—our life, Mom’s and mine—gradually shriveled up, till one day he was gone altogether. It didn't even end with a whimper, just an envelope: divorce papers in the mail. Oh, I spent some weekends and vacations with him, but he moved away, found a Martha, had a couple of kids. After a few years, the visits stopped. I was a reminder of fire and ice, and a strain and drain on his new family. He was a good father to those kids, but that was easy. They were nothing special.
I had to be special. You see that now—right? Oh, I was not Annie’s dazzling equal, no Mickey Rooney to her Shirley Temple. I share her red hair but not those brillian green eyes; mine are hazel. And I’ve had my share of freckles and pimples, baby fat to work off, and growth spurts which left me too tall and awkward through those terrible, early teen-age years. But I plowed through all that, no worse for the wear than other kids, better than most. And I came out of it on track: in high school, I lettered in swimming as a freshman, played first trumpet in our All-City Orchestra, was Senior Class President, then valedictorian. Can you guess whom Mom invited to graduation? It was so great, standing up there at the lectern. telling the audience about the bright world of promise our clear-eyed class was going forth to conquer, and looking down on Reverend Foley, dar'ing him to hold Mom'B hand, touch her leg. (He died a couple of years ago. I had my own little memorial service: burned his obituary in the trash basket.)
At Stanford, on full scholarship, I developed talents, acquired skills, made contacts. As captain of the debating team—national champions three years running—I learned to see both sides of every issue, experienced the thrill of changing people's minds, not just from undecided but from dead certain I was wrong to seeing the world through my eyes, no matter what I let them think I saw. Winning may not be everything, I concluded, but it’s a close second. I took my law degree at Berkeley.
I clerked for the California Supreme Court, became one of the bright young men in Sacramento. I’d stroll the Capitol Mall, stopping to watch the children play, the homeless camp. “I’ll get you better schools,” I'd say to myself. “No crowded classrooms when I'm Governor. And I'll find jobs for you, or shelters, mental hospitals—whatever it takes.” Then I'd look across at the corporate headquarters ringing the Mall and think, I'll be there for you, too, cutting taxes, sending the stock market soaring. My world was a boundless, beckoning horizon, and I was eager to earn my destiny, ready to prove the Phoenix.
That's when I met Deborah. It was at a Young Republicans party. She wasn’t political. herself. but was dating Sam. Roberts, then special assistant to a southern California Senator. He had to give a little talk, and she and I ended up sitting next to each other. She was gorgeous, one of those tall, athletic girls, but amply curved in all the right places, waves of long, strawberry-blonde hair, deep blue, wide-set, oh-so-knowing eyes, generous smile, and stunning legs, I mean gams a Rockette would die for, I stared at her like a child hypnotized by a shiny Christmas ornament. I didn't even hear Sam talking, but as soon as the applause started, I leaned over and said, “Let's get out of here.” I still can't believe I did that—this was the party of Ronald Reagan, for God's sake, not one of his corny movies.
“What took you so long?” she answered, those blue eyes confidently meeting mine, those amused, inviting, electric eyes I would have gladly drowned in. She laughed—doubtless at my stunned expression—flipped her hair back, and we were off.
Sam has since told me he saw us get up but didn't think anything of it, thought Deborah was going to the ladies room or something. By the time he finished shaking hands and went looking for her, we were long gone. That talk launched Sam's political career; he's a Senator now, himself, hoping to be Governor. It ended mine, though I didn't know it—God so loves His mysterious ways. But even if He'd whispered that in my ear, forthrightly telling me the price I'd have to pay for Deborah's heart, I'd have signed the contract with a flourish. I was that completely, instantly in love
Our wedding was the biggest of the year. “Up-and-Comer Marries Daughter of Capitol Power Broker” would have been the honest headline. Deborah's father was senior partner in Sacramento's largest law firm. The doors didn't just open wide; they became loving arms embracing me to the bosom of the business "Dad" built. Mom was so pleased. I wasn't so sure. What about those crowded classrooms, the new shelter's, that soaring stock market? “Politics isn't the only path to power,” Dad assured me. “You can do well for yourself—your family—and still do good for others. The private sector's the tail that wags the dog. Always has been.” Deborah hugged my arm. How could something that felt so good possibly be wrong?
I had to work hard, of course, had to show people I wasn't there just because “Dad” doted on his daughter. But I could do that. I have done that. I'm no slouch, no dummy, no contented gigolo. I've worked hard and chugged up the hill—earned the summit. Marriage just gave me the chance; I pulled the freight. I hope you understand that.
Twenty hectic years later, I have corporate accounts galore, loads of money, an adoring, adorable wife, and two beautiful children. You think that’s where I went astray--right? Think I've sold out the kids on the Mall, don't you? The homeless, too. Maybe I've worked hard, but it's all been for me, to fill my pockets, stroke my ego. That's what's caught me up short—right?—realizing that amassing wealth doesn't make a life special, just comfortable—Isn't that what you've decided this is all about?
Well, it could have been. Mom made that mistake. She was sure we’d arrived. Since I was a success, her life was fulfilled, her calling confirmed. The sacrifices were justified. She died easy, happy: a heart attack at our Tahoe lodge.
I'm glad Mom thought we'd done what we were supposed to. Glad she felt she could meet her' maker with a clear conscience. She had such a peaceful look on her face. I'm glad she wasn't disappointed in me, and I don't hold it against her—I mean, settling the meaning of my life—the course I had to follow—before I was even born. I don't even blame her for getting it wrong in the end. It's easy to be blinded by success, easy to mistake it for achievement.
But that's not how my life has gone astray. I didn't sell out those people. Deb and I host fundraisers for the symphony, built a swimming pool for the high school, and serve on lots of civic boards. And I still go walking on the Capitol Mall, ready to meet the eyes of the people there. Those kids have better toys now, hi-tech toys. I raised the venture capital for that. And their mothers don't pick the kids up in Civics and Tercells anymore. They drive minivans and SUVs, thanks to the economy I've helped grow. Which is why there are new jobs for the homeless, and more shelters, too. Maybe my life hasn't been that self-sacrificing, crusader story I envisioned years ago, but it's been a reasonable facsimile. Can you say as much?
So, you're puzzled—right? Where has this storybook life gone astray? Isn't that what you're asking? Bet you can’t even guess, wouldn’t get it right in a dozen years. …
Well, here it is. Yesterday, I took one of those walks on the Mall. I stopped to watch the children play, noticed their toys, felt proud. I smiled at the little girl nearest me. Her mother ran over, gave me a dirty look, and pulled the little girl away to safety. I wanted to protest, explain how I wasn't a pervert but a benefactor. You’d think she could see that, recognize a good guy from the cut of his clothes and hair, even if he isn’t wearing a white hat. I wanted her' to acknowledge that, recognize what I am, where I come from, even if she was too far out of the power loop to know who I am. But I couldn't say a thing—me, who's argued so eloquently so often. I stood there mute, first staring at them, then past them at another little girl—which, I have to admit, made me look that much guiltier. After a moment—I don't know how long, ten seconds, maybe, of standing there transfixed—I hurried off before someone called a cop.
I made it to my car, then sat there in the parking garage, staring at the car in front of mine, not seeing it. I'd had an epiphany. I'm sure you've had similar feelings. They hold the meaning of our lives, if we can just figure them out. And even if we can't—which is the usual case—we always remember them fondly, wondering, marveling, going back to them year after year, captivated by their still being there. so vivid. waiting to be opened, if we only knew how. This time, though, there was no waiting.
I’d seen Annie. I'd imagined her often. She's been the story of my life, after all, the innocent whose fiery death I was born to redeem. But this time I actually saw her, standing by a flowering plum tree, staring at me. I know you think that's nonsense. She's been dead forty-five years; so what I saw had to be some other' child, one of the kids playing on the Mall. You're probably right, but I'm as sure it was Annie as I am of what that mother thought of me. I'll accept some sort of transsubstantiation as the explanation, if that's all there is. Stuff like that should be reserved for epiphanies.
Annie’s eyes are deep, like Deborah’s, even if a different color, but hers hold no laughter. They're compelling. Once you feel them on you, you can't look away. You're plunged into her world, permeated by the truth of her life. Your own thoughts and feelings—your hopes, too—are tested in the furnace of that truth. What I saw, through Annie's eyes, was my life in ashes. I mean, what could I possibly do—or you? anyone? everyone?—what good can we possibly do that will justify the terror of that baby girl as she watches the flames devour her Barbie Doll and Teddy Bear, then her agony as the flames turn her toes and feet, finger's and arms, her hair and face into crinkly ash and dripping mush? . . . Nothing can redeem the death of an innocent child. Nothing . . . ever.
That night—last night—I told Deb what had happened.
“You poor thing,” she said, “you really believed that?”
“That I saw Annie?”
“No. That you could justify her death.”
“That was my destiny.” I hoped I sounded sure, not whiny.
“It seems so . . . I don't know . . . primitive. Living in that kind of world, I mean.”
“What kind?” I was genuinely puzzled . . . and annoyed. Deb was my rock, my soul mate, my partner in life’s adventure. Now she was questioning—criticizing really, maybe even belittling?—the meaning of that adventure. My solid rock had become a slippery slide.
“The kind where you think it all has to make sense,” she said easily, without the slightest hint of panic, not even regret.
“Don't tell me you never think about that,” I retorted, quickly, angrily. I wasn’t giving up, wasn’t going to lose my rock or my mission, without a fight.
“The world just is the way it is.”
“I can't accept that.”
“That's part of the way it is,” she laughed.
“Think that's funny?”
“The cosmic punch line.”
I snorted and rolled over, my back to her
She leaned over, kissed me on the cheek. whispered, “I love you, … and the kids don't think you're too bad, either.” Then she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed up against me nuzzling my neck.
“Think that's the answer?” I said, anger gone but trying to sound hurt, superior.
“Is there any question?” She wasn’t paying any attention to me, . . . well, not to my words, anyway. Things progressed, you know where.
So, that's where I am—who I am—and why I'm here. Nothing in my life has changed, but nothing about it is the same. My destiny gone, where do I go from here? Is that even the right question? Making love to Deb sure felt like an answer, but I still can’t help wondering. Deb flashed me her knowing smile when I told her that. But that’s just not good enough for me, doesn’t satisfy, doesn’t put a lid on the pit I’m staring into. I could call her an ostrich, I guess, make myself feel better that way, feel I’m too sensitive, too profound to revel in the joys of the world while putting down the sorrows to “just the way things are.” But I can’t do that. And maybe that’s something wrong with me, like Deb thinks, like all those in our circle would think, if they only knew. And I can’t even be sure they’re not right. That’s the further rub. But what I do know for sure is that one night a little girl burned bright, in agony, and it shouldn’t have happened. There was no possible reason for it, and there is nothing I can do to make it not have happened . . . nor to give it reason. That’s the shadow of that light, the valley through which I must now walk. Or run? Or stumble along? Or . . .?