I spent two years as a short-term evangelist in West
Berlin from 1972-1974. These were momentous years internationally: the Vietnam
War, the 1972 Munich Olympics slaughter (about which Steven Spielberg is currently
doing a movie), the Canadians beat the Russians in hockey… to name but a few.
(And they’re all in my story!) For me, they were watershed years in prodding me
toward conversion, particularly on two fronts:
1. That Christianity had *everything* to do with
socio-political life – i.e. how one treated neighbour and enemy. (The litmus
test for love of God biblically is love of neighbour. The litmus test for love
of neighbour is love of enemy. To the
extent one fails in embracing neighbour and enemy, to that extent, one fails in
embracing God.)
The author had been raised Plymouth Brethren,
"quintessential fundamentalism" according to historian Ernest
Sandeen, and had no sense that Christianity was other than a personal, private
relationship to God. He was challenged
that there was *no* relationship to God if there was no relationship to
neighbour and enemy.
2. The way to
live out one’s politics was the nonviolent way of the cross. Fail to discover
God in the enemy, fail to discover God.
This novel, provisionally titled "Chrysalis
Crucible," reflects the coming-of-age experiences of a young evangelist in
Europe who has life figured out at the start of the novel until, for the first
time perhaps, he really encounters life…
Chapter
Nineteen
Andy thankfully had,
the week before Christmas, completed the finishing touches on a hand-written
version of a major essay due the first week in January.
The assignment was
to research and generate an essay related to the target city or country. Since
Germany was known as a hotbed of various forms of Liberal heresies, Andy had
decided to undertake an ambitious project of summarizing some of the main
Liberal thinkers, and suggesting how a Christian apologetic along historical
and philosophical lines might appear.
During his last two
years of university, Andy had devoured many of the popular works published by Inter-Varsity Press, Tyndale, Bethany, and the like. These included books by Francis Schaeffer;
John Warwick Montgomery; J. N. D. Anderson; Michael Green; Clark Pinnock and
others. He had indeed written a lively essay in university refuting some of
G. E. Lessing’s
fundamental doubts about Christian faith. Andy drew on similar resources to
produce the essay, which, handwritten, ran almost 50 pages.
He thought that such
an essay would be greatly helpful in West Berlin, imagining the average
Berliner mouthing a Lessingesque challenge, or pulling a Schleiermacher-type manoeuvre that turned
theology into anthropology, or an outright Nietzschean onslaught of rank
inverted belief. One by one, each straw-man objection to the faith tumbled
before the deft advances of Norton’s fearless forays. The finished product was
replete with footnotes, suggestive of a subconscious insecurity about the authority
of his own thinking over against that of others who had written in defence of the ‘faith
once delivered’.
Though he never
quite acceded to fantasizing about this, he at least furtively imagined
G. E., himself,
enthusiastically asking permission to photocopy the essay for the other
trainees. Thirty-nine typewritten pages may have proven too much. Neither G. E.
nor Mr. Myers ever suggested it in any event, source ultimately of some chagrin
for Andy.
Andy’s mother had
agreed to type the essay for him, a familiar enough experience from his
university and high school years. She this time would not balk at French and
German words, but new terms such as epistemology;
presupposition; personal-infinite God; and the like, foreign enough to her
straightforward faith, and far beyond any desire to inquire further into. Andy
for his part had at best only a pseudo-awareness of this kind of thinking,
having frantically cast about for a lifeline and found one over against the
intimidating unbelief – or just plain lack of interest – of many about him at
university.
As he awoke quite
early that morning to get the VW going, he found anticipation of this essay’s
final transformation as much keenly on his mind as seeing family or Lorraine. He
spent no time wondering about that.
He walked over to
the mish houses to get his and Janys’ bags.
“Good morning, Andy?
Ready for a long day of driving?,” Janys asked cheerily. Jack had already flown
home, and Dan had moved home for the holidays. No one saw them off.
They set out at
about 4:00 a.m. December 23, praising the Lord for such excellent weather and
road conditions. But not far into Canada, it began to snow. Andy chuckled at
that, mentioning to Janys how most Americans in the southern states believe
that snow actually is piled up in huge drifts along the border, acting summer
and winter as natural demarcation of the 49th parallel. He included the story
he had heard several times from his mom about Americans arriving in a July
heat-wave in Kitchener, skis a-top their car, and obviously packed for winter
weather. He surmised that if Southam News always discovered in their surveys an
abysmal ignorance by even educated Americans of the Canadian social-political
scene, then it was not surprising they would know as little about Canadian
weather.
“Voltaire wrote, I
think in Candide, of Canada as quelques arpents de neige – a few acres
of snow. Though I doubt many Americans have ever read Voltaire, I reckon they
have about the same notion.”, Andy chortled.
Janys chided Andy
for having translated quelques arpents de
neige
Conditions worsened
rapidly, however, the thermometer obviously was plummeting, and it soon became
apparent that a Great Lakes blizzard was brewing. The radio tuned into storm
warnings, and notices of extreme caution
to motorists.
It became
increasingly treacherous. Traffic in the late afternoon had slowed
considerably; they had passed several stalls. The front windshield even with
the additional defroster at full blast was scarcely allowing a view through it;
and suddenly a fierce gust of wind whipped snow directly under the rear. The
motor sputtered and died, enabling Andy only barely to coast to the side of the
highway.
Andy had on occasion
looked at a car’s engine, just recently at this one, about long enough to
verify his suspected intense disinterest in – even passionate dislike for – the
intimidating pile of metal and hose. He in fact felt awe about the ineffable
mysteries of the internal combustion engine. It had actually not been until first
beginning to date at the age of 20 that he finally had obtained his driver’s
license, when his erstwhile girlfriend had suggested it might be a nice thing
to have. It was she also who eventually had suggested it might be nice for Andy
to have feelings, he remembered with a pang. So it was purely male ego show
that induced him to get out and look this time. He’d have really looked the
fool had he opened up the wrong end. “Thank the good Lord for the crash course
on VW mechanics!,” he said to anyone listening as he stepped into the howling
wind. The wind vehemently hurled the words right back.
Andy actually
breathed a sigh of relief upon discovering that the motor was sufficiently
whitewashed with snow, such that little could be seen of anything. It looked
far better that way, he thought.
He tapped on the
passenger window, and over the raging told Janys to climb into the driver’s
side to get ready to try starting the car. “Perhaps,” Andy ventured, mustering
up all the authority his voice could pretend, “if I clear some of this snow
away we’ll make her turn over.” That sounded fairly authentic, he thought. Snow
had packed in amazingly solidly under that small lid. He cursed Hitler, who had
originated the idea of a little “People’s Car” in the first place, for ever
putting a motor in the rear. “Probably the snow would never have blown in had
the motor been in the front.,” he muttered to no one in particular, not a
little irrationally.
As it turned out, in
Andy’s vigorous snow-removal activity, he had inadvertently pulled a spark plug
wire. Had he noticed it, he would have wondered where it had come from, and
what to do with it. Within minutes of that mishap, a clear diagnosis of the
problem emerged: a dead battery. Janys
actually volunteered that information just ahead of Andy’s observation, which
left him a little nonplussed.
It was late
afternoon. The wind was wild, the snow horizontal, and the thermometer hovering
at about 0 degrees Fahrenheit or lower. Daylight was fast retreating. They couldn’t
even get the news on the radio, as they huddled inside under blankets
mercifully kept in the front with just such emergencies in mind. Andy had tried
for a few minutes earlier to flag down passing motorists. But they either did
not see him, or perhaps feared risking stopping themselves. He hoped that
someone would at least stop ahead to report them. He soon retreated inside and
beneath the blankets. Now why could this not be with Fiona?, the thought
released before he could catch it and stuff it away. Why couldn’t his mind give
it a break, or at least acknowledge the serious predicament they were in?
“Why don’t you pray,
Andy?”, Janys suggested, deferring naturally to his male presence.
Pray? Something
flashed inwardly, and Andy momentarily imagined himself Sarah – or dumb-struck
Zechariah. How incongruous, even absurd, it suddenly seemed, to pray! As if his
prayer would somehow instantly stop the storm, like Jesus on the Sea of
Galilee. Impossible. Then what use prayer, Andy’s mind was panting furiously? Even,
what is prayer? Had he ever uttered an authentic prayer? One that could move
mountains – or even a few drifts of snow, or make a car motor come back to
life? Had prayer for him ever been more than a rote exercise (as a kid), like
rhyming off poetry, or reciting a creed, more pious exercise than any true
beseeching a God who, he felt, somehow should be answering? Had he ever known
any answers to prayer beyond the endless rationalizations of ostensibly
unanswered petitions?
All this processed
through his consciousness in seconds. Evoking a cough as a kind of prelude,
Andy proceeded to pray. His reputation was at stake, he knew, even more so than
when he had looked at the dead motor. But he was no thaumaturge – nor wired to
one. Did he really know anything more about God experientially than he did about reviving a car motor? Or was he
content to be a mere passenger in the Christian enterprise, without really
looking in to the motor itself – the reality, or otherwise, of a God who somehow
acted into history – or did not?
In the extended
silence after his rather perfunctory prayer, these questions flooded his mind,
until Janys broke the brooding with a spontaneous, passionate plea to God to
watch over them, and remove them safely from danger. Thank God women are
allowed to pray at GO with men around
(brethren assemblies forbade it), Andy couldn’t help inwardly laughing. Her
prayer at least had a chance of getting above the wild blizzard out there. He’d
heard his bounce off the car roof.
Andy’s mood darkened
with the sky, leaving an uneasy aftertaste of uncertainty, like the acrid smell
of burnt hair. It was tinged with an undefined sense of fear: not so much about
the real predicament they were in, as that this little experiment might elicit
an unwelcome hypothesis, namely that God was just a product of one’s religious
upbringing cum wish-fulfillment. Could
he honestly face that possibility? And why could he not have prayed like Janys?
Was this his “ugly broad ditch”?
The snow, caught
very intermittently in the headlights of passing cars, continued to blow
mercilessly.
After some
discussion of various courses of action, they again fell silent, nursing their
own fears, having decided that it was best for the time to do nothing except
wait…. Waiting for Godot was culled
up from Andy’s memory. He recollected the hopeless absurdity of the Samuel
Beckett play by that title. It was, after all, in the genre of Theatre of the Absurd. The dialogue near the end went:
“Vladimir. – On se pendra demain. (Un temps.)
A moins que Godot ne vienne.
Estragon. – Et s’il vient.
Vladimir. – Nous serons sauvés.”
Godot was obviously playwright Beckett’s variation of god – perhaps meaning a little, ineffectual, ultimately unreal,
god. The play had been as bleak as Sartre’s La
Nausée. Andy remembered that Beckett reportedly often would not get out of
bed ‘til well into the morning, or even into the afternoon, so fatigued he
seemed with life. None of the brave staring down of evil urged by Sartre and
other popularizing existentialists, just the absurd routine of day-to-day
living, relieved perhaps only by his creative instinct, like a full bladder is
relieved by a satisfying urination, with perhaps no more appreciation of the
act or the outcome than that. It suddenly occurred to Andy that Beckett’s life
motto might have been a Robbie Burnsesque: “Whene’er my Muse does at me
glance/I piss on her.” with the attendant stench such writing evoked.
“Et s’il vient./ Nous serons sauvés.” And if he comes, this little, useless god, asks
Estragon stupidly, why we’ll be saved, Vladimir assures him as blankly. Otherwise
we’ll hang ourselves tomorrow. Why not? After all, what is the difference, if
only in the state of consciousness, unless Godot comes? Unless Godot comes…..
There was suddenly a
loud banging on the roof, followed by faint yells over the wind. “Yes, yes!”,
they screamed in reply.
With great
difficulty, Andy pushed open the driver’s side door. A large drift made the
action hard. He was amazed at how high the snow had piled in such a relatively
short space of time.
A large Bombardier
snowmobile had come back of them, and they had not even heard the motor, nor
noticed its light.
“There’s simply no
way, lady!” the driver tersely responded to Janys’ question about loading their
luggage. “Don’t even bother locking the doors! Might be wiser not to. That
wind’ll freeze everything tonight. No fool thief will venture out in this
weather, and you can come back in the morning when this blows itself out.”
The motel was about
one and a half miles further down the road. The snowmobile driver together with
his brother had been delivering people from other stalled vehicles for the last
hour or so. There were several people crowded into the foyer, waiting to hear
about a room, or trying to phone, or simply warming themselves in front of a
huge fireplace.
They first phoned
Janys’ aunt, when they finally got to the pay phone, asking them to contact
Susan, who would then let Andy’s parents know. Andy wondered if Lorraine was
already at Susan’s, but could not ask. Besides, there was a line-up behind
them. The journey should be able to be completed the next day, Janys’ aunt had
said, given the weather forecast of a clear and cold Christmas Eve. Provided
they could get their car started, Andy worried.
“One party to a
room”, the lady explained to everyone. “Don’t matter how many, or who. Just be
thankful you’ve got a warm place at all! Hell, before the night’s over, we
might be sleeping six deep!”
Thankfully, it
didn’t turn out quite that crowded, but there was indeed some doubling up of
strangers. For their part, the two would-be-missionaries were assigned a small
one-bed room. “Mr. and Mrs…?,” she had asked, and Andy had deadpanned
“Norton.,” before Janys could say anything. Why even bother explaining? They
scanned it briefly, and then returned to the fireplace, waiting to be called
for supper.
Food was in good
supply, though there was a hint of rationing certain items such as bread and
butter. “Has to last past breakfast”, the proprietor explained, “and God only
knows how many more will be arriving.”
A spontaneous
sing-song erupted after supper even, and thanks to Eaton’s carol sheets, almost all the verses of all the carols were
sung, together with a good many of the more secularized kind, not on the
sheets. People had stopped arriving by the time supper was over. Janys had
heard one of their rescuers report that they had checked every car on both
sides of the highway in both directions until the next county, and that all
traffic had ceased.
Supper was sumptuous
in fact. Someone there knew how to cook! Amazingly too, everyone was fitted in
to the dining room, with extra chairs scrounged from everywhere; all tables
crowded, and no one minded – on the contrary! The sense of warm spontaneous
community by this group of strangers was palpable. There was excited chatter
and loud laughter throughout the supper hour. When had Andy last felt that at
church?
Everyone at Andy’s
and Janys’ table had harrowing tales to tell, and expressed immense gratitude.
Turns out a minister or someone was even asked by the owner to say a prayer for
the food. It was heartfelt, accompanied by several equally animated “Amen’s”. “No
atheists in fox holes I guess.,” he could just hear Dan say cynically.
“I just hope the car
isn’t buried under a mountain of snow”, Andy asided to Janys during a rare lull
in the conversation. “Or maybe the plow’ll just run right over the little bug! I
remember seeing a picture in the Record
once of just that: a parked car had been squashed, I think in London, by an
army vehicle doing emergency snow removal. Apparently the driver didn’t even
know until he’d rolled over it what had happened!”
Janys was not
amused. “Just remember it’s your stuff in there too!”, she said. “Then what
would you say to Thomas? And how would we get home?” Thomas was the guy from
Colorado who had loaned them the car.
The sing-song
happened right after supper, and was exuberantly participated in by all until
they were suddenly plunged into darkness.
A voice rang out
that there were lots of candles! Just be patient. And sure enough, candles soon
were being lit and distributed with holders even for each table.
The proprietor said,
“My insurance is paid up. But please! Be extra cautious. No one wants to stand
around a bonfire tonight!” There was loud laughter. She had a spirited sense of
humour just right for the occasion.
“And can I ask just
one thing? PLEASE DON’T FLUSH THE TOILETS UNTIL THE LIGHTS COME ON AGAIN!” And
she added, “And we’ll hope everything doesn’t freeze solid in the meantime!
“Now, let’s have
some more singing!”
The singing went on
for about a candle’s burn. People towards the end had slowly been drifting off
to their rooms. A final carol was suggested. Someone had to call out the all-time favourite, “I’m dreaming of a White
Christmas!” The room exploded in guffaws, and then erupted into a glorious
rendition of same.
At the end, the
landlady’s words were, “You’d all make a fine church choir! First rehearsal at
7:00 p.m. sharp in the lobby January, 2, 1972!
“Otherwise,
good-night to all, and don’t hesitate to ask for anything. It’s going to be a
long night. More candles on the table up here. Just remember to blow them out
and don’t play with matches! Extra blankets as we said are piled high in the
lobby. Please take just one per room. And cuddle up with your honey tonight.”
So there was really
nothing left to do except go to bed. They picked up their duly assigned
blanket.
Awkwardness. It was
unthinkable for Andy to sleep in the same bed with Janys. But where else? The
floor was hard linoleum. There was no extra mattress. The rooms weren’t the
cleanest; who knows what might be crawling around? And they’d need all the covers
on the bed, blanket, and possibly still then some. It could be mighty cold by
morning…
Janys was reading
Andy’s mind. “Andy, when we were kids, we’d sleep three and four to a bed
sometimes, boys and girls. I think we have no choice tonight. Do you snore?
“We are after all,
didn’t I hear you say it?, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Norton’,” she added flatly, her smile,
was it red-tinged?, expansive. Then impishly, “But we’ll keep our clothes on. It’s
gonna be cold tonight!”
Andy laughed. That
smile.
The Morrison’s were
former church family friends that used to visit the Norton’s years previously
for a few summers after they’d moved to Michigan. The whole family would move
in for a week or so, three sisters, all around the same age as Susan and Andy. They
always pitched their tent in the backyard. One night, a huge thunderstorm
streamed water through the floor, and everything was a soggy mess that took two
days to dry out, since the sun didn’t shine much the next day, and the tent and
sleeping bags did not fit in the dryer.
The night after the
storm the parents all went off to a church meeting or something, leaving the
kids with a babysitter. Two sisters were to sleep with Susan in her bed, but
there was not enough room for the third, so she was to be settled with Andy. They
were all of seven or eight years old.
Not long after the
sitter had told them good-night, Andy distinctly remembers going to his dresser
in the dark, after some discussion with Carolyn, pulling out a pen flashlight
he’d won for reciting verses at Sunday School, and telling her she could go
first. Under the covers that night, abetted by a tiny flashlight, they both had
repeated hands-on lessons in the human anatomy.
That memory flashed
now. But Andy knew candles caught fire under bed covers. Besides, he knew even
better, though it did occur to him, how could it not?, he had no interest in
exploring Janys sexually that night. He was a committed Christian. Janys had
not attracted him particularly, except her smile. He’d really come to like her
smile. What was it he saw? He pushed all further thinking below his
consciousness.
Already the room,
wind-battered as the entire motel, was feeling chilled. Who knew when the power
would come back on?
“Well, okay, no
tooth brush, Janys. I guess I’m about ready to crawl under.,” Andy said, after
they’d tucked the extra blanket tightly in at the end of the bed. “Do you want
to use the bathroom first? Remember, there’s no flushing…”
“No,” she said
calmly, you go first. He did, and was soon enough done.
“Coast is clear,” he
chimed. “Though a warning, the lock on the door is broken…” It somehow felt
better to climb into bed before her. This was feeling a little more sexually
charged than he’d thought.
“Good thing you have
a sister!, ” Janys said as she stepped to the washroom.
“And you a brother,”
he fired back.
They laughed, was it
nervously?
Andy lay wide awake.
He was feeling… aroused. Yes. That was le
mot juste, remembering the quip in My
Fair Lady, “The French don’t care what they do actually, as long as they
pronounce it correctly.” – or have “the right word”. But he did. Have the right
word, but also cared what he did.
It had been a long
day. He’d done all the driving, the last two hours or so with taut nerves still
not relaxed. The room, in candlelight glow, was simply appointed: a washroom
with sink and shower; a bed; a desk and mirror; a single stuffed chair he could
have otherwise somewhat slept on. He thought of Lorraine. And Fiona. And his
mom and dad. Susan! He could just imagine her mocking! Dan. G.E…. Groan, this
last was the corker.
Janys came at last. Andy
was surprised at hair that cascaded almost to her waist. When she took off her
glasses he thought, wow, she should wear contacts. Then he thought he’d best stop
using that word, “wow”. Then he thought he’d best stop thinking. But could not.
She blew out the candle, and climbed in . He thought, two bodies in a single
bed. Good thing she was petite and he slim. He thought, this is really weird.
The room was totally
black. The storm raged furiously. Andy was already feeling cozy warm, almost
euphoric.
“Janys,” Andy began,
“have you already thought of this?: what will people say if they know we,
literally, ‘slept together?’…”
Janys giggled. “There
was some Christian sect, maybe the Cathars in medieval France, that used to
believe sleeping together without ‘doing it’ was a powerful spiritual exercise.
“I think we see how
much more spiritual we are in the morning, Andy, then maybe suggest this as a
way to jack up the flagging spirituality of some at the Centre that G.E. is so
exercised about..” She perfectly
mimicked G.E.’s slight Scottish brogue on the “r”.
She was having fun! Andy
felt a tad mortified.
“Seriously,” Andy
pursued, tinge of recrimination, “can we agree we just don’t talk about… this
part… you know, ‘sleeping together’?” Every time he said it, in spite of
himself, he felt a tingle.
“Okay, my dear,” she
said playfully, “if you insist. There won’t be too many asking the details
anyway, and mum’s the word!
“Now, are you going
to say a night-night prayer, or shall I?”
This was really no
big deal to her at all. Had she been through this before? Andy couldn’t
imagine. He knew she had been comfortable with him almost from the outset –
something she easily was with everyone but those on doors, he’d observed. And
she could put people so at ease too.
He replied, “You can
do the honours, Janys.
“Before you do, can
I ask one thing? Why don’t you ever wear your hair long?” Where had that come
from? His boldness tingled, again.
Janys was quiet for
a time. Maybe he’d gone too far.
“Maybe I will
sometime, Andy.
“Okay, I’ll gladly
pray.” And she did, thanking God above all for shelter and warmth.
“Good night, Andy.,”
she said at the end.
“Sleep tight,
Janys.,” he said back. And they each turned sideways, backs to the other.
Not long afterwards,
Andy heard a patterned breathing beside him. It sounded a minor key to the
furious lament outside. And she can fall asleep just like that, he thought. For
his part, he was reviewing every discussion he’d ever had with Jack, with G.E.,
then Lorraine, his sister, and much much more… Janys slept peacefully on. She,
at least, didn’t snore….
He awoke from a
dream, had it been the magic carpet ride? He reached for it, but missed it
beyond recall. He noticed instantly, the wind had stopped. It was so still. Light
from an engorged moon was streaming in the window. He had to go to the
bathroom. What time was it? He very quietly slipped out of bed. The heat must
be back on, he thought uncomprehending. He tiptoed to the washroom door, and
unthinking, flicked a switch just inside. Light blazed. His eyes blinked,
dazzled.
That shock paled
before what his blinking eyes suddenly took in. Janys at the sink, had turned
towards him, in bra and panties only, blouse held in her hands, utterly
startled look emblazoned across her face.
He gaped. She
gasped.
“Andy, the light! Turn
off the light!,” and she thrust her arms upwards to spread the blouse across
her bosom.
Andy floundered a
minute, found the switch finally. Glorious moonlight alone bathed the scene. A
shaft fully spotlighted Janys. She stepped instinctively sideways, banged into
the sink, and cried, “Ouch!”.
“I’m so sorry,
Janys! Whatever are you doing?!,” exclamation marks, eyes averted, hasty
retreat.
The door shut
tightly behind him. Silence. Wow!, he said to himself, and again, wow! He
didn’t care. Those loose clothes… Why did his mind first go there?… Why did
his mind start instant replays? Why was there a close-up of her bra, the bare
skin, the…
“Andy,” from inside
the bathroom, “do you need to use the toilet? I’m done now.”
She stepped out. He
stepped in.
He had to sit down
to go pee. He realized only then he’d wet his pants. This was embarrassing! She’d
walked out a bath towel draped over her.
He saw her blouse
and sweater hanging over the towel rack, directly above an electric heater
belting out hot air. The bathroom felt invitingly cozy. Whatever had happened?,
Andy was still uncomprehending. He took off his pants and wet underpants,
quickly ran some water in the sink, and soaked and squeezed them several times.
He pulled on his pants, very careful of the zipper. The briefs were hung on the
same rack. Hopefully they’d be dry by morning. He looked at his watch in the
moonlight. It was 3:00 a.m.
Andy crawled back
into bed very quietly. He desperately was trying to take measured breaths. His
heart took even longer to slow down.
Janys shifted her weight
towards him. “Andy, sorry.”
He said right back,
“Janys, I’m so sorry!”
She continued. “This
is now embarrassing, Andy, I admit.” Pause. Deep breath.
“In case you haven’t
figured it out, it’s my period. I had no, no tampons. They’re frozen solid back
in the car. I should have at least tried to get those out, but that skidoo
driver was not waiting for anything. Besides, I thought I could get some at the
motel. I did ask discreetly. Wrong. They were out of them. So she gave me…
Andy, is this grossing you out?”
“I do have a sister,
Janys, remember?”, Andy said evenly. This was beginning to make sense.
“So,” she went on,
“the lady obligingly gave me a wad of paper towels. Now this gets even more
embarrassing. Do you really want to hear? But I’ve gone this far…”
Andy said nothing. The
moonlight outlined everything in the room, including, he looked over, Janys’
face. It gave it a pleasant, appealing, soft glow.
“I woke up to go
pee, and discovered… nature had taken its course a bit more than I’d expected. Thankfully,
she’d given me lots of those towels. But my panties, and the bottom of my
blouse and sweater were… you do have a sister, Andy… quite red. So I quietly, I
thought, poured water into the sink to rinse everything out… I’ll spare you
further details, but just as you stumbled in, I was almost finished everything.
Just had my blouse to scrub out a bit more…
“And the rest you
know… I’ll admit, only my brother’s seen me in my undies before… So forgive me
for being not a little shocked when you turned on the lights.”
Then: “Andy, didn’t
you know I was in there?… No, you didn’t. The look of complete consternation
on your face was worth a million bucks…”
Andy said nothing. Outside
was utterly, eerily still. The moonscape must be glorious, he could only
imagine. There was faint snoring through the walls. Andy said, “Hope I didn’t
sound like that guy!” That got him over the hump. “Then, so, I’ve never asked
anyone this question before, then do you have enough… “
“Paper towels until
we wake up?”, Janys completed the query. “I hope so. And yes, before you ask, I
had to put those well squeezed wet underwear back on, to.. You know. They’re
feeling a little uncomfortable right now. But they’ll dry out by morning I’m
sure. Pretty light material, and nice and warm under the covers.”
“And for the day?,”
he couldn’t help asking. She should likely have slapped him.
“Let me worry about
that. I hope we’ll get to our car soon enough…,” she said.
“But they’re
frozen.,” he couldn’t resist. What had come over him? As if he was going over a
grocery list or something.
“Andy…,” she said
menacingly, then laughed. “I think you’re right though. I’ll be talking to no
one about this. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Norton’ indeed. I guess I got over my
embarrassment when we ended up in the same bed. This is beyond
self-consciousness now to the point of ridiculous! And these are only bodies,
you know. How about you?”
Andy treated her
question as rhetorical. There was total quiet a few minutes.
She chuckled at
last: “If some of my girlfriends could see me now… Good-night again, Andy.”
He debated about
offering to climb out and onto the stuffed chair for the rest of the night. He
was very conscious she was only wearing a bra on top, saw it again in mind’s
eye full light blazing, and fleetingly in the moonlight. The room was warming
up after all. But they had come this far without mishap. He knew he’d do quite
fine until morning. She certainly would. Probably’ll be asleep in just a few minutes.
He thought about
those Cathars, or whomever, and drifted back to sleep.
Morning sunlight
blazed through the frosted window. Andy rubbed his eyes, and took in the framed
snowbound vista. Janys stepped out of the bathroom, hairbrush in hand, fully
clothed.
“Good morning,
sleepy head. Found this under the bed. After I’d cleaned out the hair, the
brush works fine.” She stepped back into the washroom. “Oh, and I guess you’ll
be wanting these.,” as she threw Andy his underpants. “They’re dry. So were my
clothes.” She laughed at his look of embarrassment. “Thought we got over that
last night… I can guess what happened… No need to explain.”
He didn’t. “Look out
the window, Andy.”
He gasped.
As fearsome had been
the storm of the day previous, as dazzling was its morning afterglow. If the
scene was a painted landscape, the sun was the virtuoso artist, enlivening
every view with a textured grace irresistibly exquisite. Each point of sight
was multi-dimensionally a-shimmer
“Wow,” Andy said simply,
after all finding the word still usable. He noted her long hair, almost indeed
to her waist, glistened in the dancing sunshine as she looked out the window
beside him. Moments later, they headed down the hall towards the dining area,
her hair swooshing seductively behind her.
Eventually after
breakfast they connected to the tow truck driver. Surely this kind of scene
must be back of stories of resplendently dancing fairies, Andy mused. I’d take
these arpents de neige any day, he
thought, as he accompanied the driver to their abandoned car.
The after-glory of a
Great Lakes winter storm is almost ineffable. It evoked associations of a
desert traveller’s first happening upon an oasis, or the sudden turn in the fairly-tale (Tolkien’s eucatastrophe) with the sure knowledge that good would ultimately
triumph. It was the apotheosis of Bing Crosby’s I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas so lustily sung the night before.
If only the world could stay this white, he thought. A sense of deep
tranquility settled over him, as he inwardly praised God for this glorious
Christmas eve. Surely this must be a taste of heaven, even if there would be no
snow up there.
“A mother and her
two children are dead, after failing to be rescued last night from their stalled
car”, the newscaster officiously announced over the tow-truck radio, “and
President Nixon vows more troops for South Vietnam. But first, these messages
from our sponsors.” Andy’s reverie was abruptly ended, as his mind instantly
turned over the awful tragedy of the night before. How could such radiant
whiteness have occasioned such stark misfortune? On Christmas Eve no less? How
could anyone near that family sing Joy To
the World! ever again at any Christmas? Why? Andy’s mind spun at the sheer
gratuitousness of such evil.
And it’s not even
man-made. Not like Vietnam, he further thought. He remembered Voltaire’s
savaging any Leibnitzian notion of living in the best of all possible worlds, given the earthquake in Voltaire’s
lifetime which had killed thousands. How to explain a good God in the face of
such a happening? And if there is an omniscient God, mustn’t his switchboard be
besieged daily by similar events? Yet he fails to lift a finger to prevent at
least the natural disasters – quite apart from man’s inhumanity to man?
An acquaintance had
loaned him Bertrand Russell’s Why I Am
Not a Christian, while he was in university, which Andy had dutifully read.
He remembered then how airily he had dismissed Russell’s entire thesis since he
only treated of philosophical objections.
“The Christian faith
is not primarily a philosophy but a fact of human history – rooted in the
space-time continuum we daily encounter”, he had urged upon his friend. No
“accidental truths of history” either, he’d forcefully urged. There had ensued
a hot debate, which abruptly was halted by his opponent’s searing words: “Then,
if God is so good, damn it, why is my sister, who believes in God, dying of
leukemia right now?!”
Andy had been taken
aback and shaken by the outburst. In the face of such raw emotion, he had
fallen silent. He had never discussed the faith with that person again; and
once more tasted the guilt of his failure.
He had had no answer
then, and felt still at a loss as he absently watched the tow-truck operator
hitch up the VW, which, thankfully, had neither been buried, nor run over by a
snowplow.
The overworked
mechanic laughed at the pulled spark plug wire. “If only all car problems today
would be this simple!”, he exclaimed. With the plug in place, and the battery
recharged, Andy and Janys finally completed their journey. Hasty phone calls
arranged that her brother and dad were to pick up Janys at the Norton’s. And
Susan would after all drive to Kitchener, hoping for the best from her Mustang.
Before twilight
eased into clear stellar night, they arrived safely in Kitchener. As they
neared his home, Andy noticed Janys putting her hair up again, but said
nothing. He really liked it down, would have to tell her that sometime again.
“So good to have met
you.,” Janys said to Andy’s parents upon departing. Then: “And Andy yesterday
and last night will remain unforgettable!” Right in front of everyone. Andy
felt a red rush. But nothing was said, perhaps Janys’ very intention. Though
Susan did look at him strangely.
Andy finally entered
into the warmth and joy of Christmas Eve celebrations at home, feeling suddenly
exhausted…
At the first
opportunity, they slipped into Susan’s bedroom and Andy asked Susan about
Lorraine. “Sounds more like I ought to be quizzing you about Janys, Andy.,” she
looked at him sharply. Susan’s bedroom was still like she’d left it, including
some of the posters of the Beatles on
the wall her mother had always wished to take down, with not a few arguments
over “such godless” music. Susan liked soft colours with two-toned upbeat
flair. She’d painted the room herself: well, picked out the colours and had
done it with her mom. The room really was compact but “Susan” all over. Andy
liked her room as he really liked his sister.
Susan asked, “What
happened last night with you guys?” There was no red warmth, not a tingle in
Andy. He maintained a poker face that amazed him. How could last night seem
“normal”, but such it simply did. Objectively, to sleep in the same bed with a
half-naked woman (well half the night anyway) and nothing have happened,
including no shame, well… His head cross-examined the heart, and the testimony
held with not even an “Objection, your Honour.”
“Susan, I really do
like Janys. But what happened ‘happened’ by serendipitous… happenstance. Pure and simple. Nothing else. Nothing new. Nothing
to tell. No regrets but the obvious: I
missed Lorraine!
“Now what to do?”
“I told her,” Susan accepted the finality of Andy’s tone, dropping her own
temptation to cross-examine, “that you’d call as soon as you could. But she
knew this would show on the phone bill. Instead, she’s agreed to call at 11:00
tonight, sharp! You or I will grab the phone first, wherever we’re at in
celebrations. Hopefully we’re done, and mom and dad are already safely tucked
into bed. Best case scenario. In that case, you take the kitchen phone into
your bedroom, I discreetly close the hallway door, and you keep your
conversation short. The only possibility for a rendez-vous is late Boxing Day evening.
“I ended up taking
the bus to Kitchener today. My car was so jittery, dad suggested it… I can now
say I have to get back to Toronto a day earlier, and you could drive me
tomorrow evening to Toronto; stay the night; and pick up Janys at her
relatives’ really early; drive here, exchange cars and be on your way.
“But this all seems
so ridiculously tight. Though I don’t mind cutting out early after you’ve left.
It’ll be a bit rough around here with mom anyway… Can’t you delay by one day
returning? It’d be so much better, Andy.”
“Can’t,” Andy said
resolutely. He thought that’s all G.E. would have to catch wind of: Congress
’71 in part exchanged for Lorraine… “I have
to be back. There’s no give.”
“Okay kiddo! What a
sister won’t do for her kid-brother…,” she sounded very magnanimous.
“Oh, give me a
break.,” Andy came back, catching the mirth at the corners of her eyes. She’d
proven it more than once: she’d do lots for
her kid-brother, Andy felt so lucky and proud.
The phone rang sharp
on the hour. Parents had gone to bed, Christmas tree enveloped by presents. Andy
eagerly caught it, and thrilled at her voice. It would work! The secret could
be kept.
Andy already knew
this was going to be his best gift.
The concluding words
in his diary that night were:
Silent Night, Holy Night,
All is calm, all is bright.
Praise God for answered prayer!
It is 11:45 p.m.
Good night.
He wrote nothing about sleeping with Janys.
He only said he’d have more to share the next time he wrote the Professor.