Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler [63]
Reverend Emmett was tall and thin and he never seemed to get hot, not even in his stiff white shirt and black trousers. All the children loved him. Well, all except Agatha. Agatha said his Adam’s apple was too big. But the others loved him because he acted so bashful with them. A grownup, scared of children! He said, “How are our campers today? Enjoying this beautiful weather?” and when somebody (Mindy) finally said, “Yup,” he practically fell apart. “Oh! Wonderful!” he said, all flustered and delighted. Then he sat down on one of the nursery-school chairs so his knees jutted nearly to his chin, and the others settled on the floor in a circle while Sister Myra and Sister Audrey passed out paper cups of apple juice. Reverend Emmett took a cup himself. (In his long, bony fingers, it looked like a thimble.) He said, “Thank you, Sister Audrey,” and he smiled so happily into her face you would think he’d never heard of the Dempster Dumpster. Sister Audrey blushed and backed away and stepped on one of the Nielsen twins’ hands, but since she was wearing her flip-flops it must not have hurt much. The twin only blinked and went on staring at Reverend Emmett.
Sometimes Reverend Emmett talked about Jesus and sometimes about modern days. Thomas liked modern days best. He liked hearing about the Church of the Second Chance: how it had started out meeting in Reverend Emmett’s garage where the floor was still marked with oil stains from Reverend Emmett’s Volkswagen. Or even before that: how Reverend Emmett, an Episcopal seminarian and the son of an Episcopal minister, had gradually come to question the sham and the idolatry—for what was kneeling before a crucifix but idolatry?—and determined to found a church without symbols, a church without baptism or communion where only the real things mattered and where the atonement must be as real as the sin itself, where for instance if you broke a playmate’s toy in anger you must go home immediately and fetch a toy of your own, of as good or better quality, and give it to that playmate for keeps and then announce your error at Public Amending on Sunday. Or how Reverend Emmett’s fiancée had dumped him and his father had called him a crackpot although his mother, the smart one in the family, had seen the light at once and could even now be observed attending Second Chance every Sunday in her superficial Episcopal finery, her white gloves and netted hat. But that was all right, Reverend Emmett said. To condemn a person for fancy dress was every bit as vain as condemning her for humble dress. It’s only the inside that counts.
Today he talked about how meaningful it was that he should come for these chats of theirs at Juice Time. “This way,” he told them, “it’s a period of spiritual nourishment as well as physical.” Then he put it more simply for the little ones. “You don’t get just apple juice, you get the juice of heavenly knowledge besides.” He said, “How lucky you are, to have both at once! Most children have to choose one at a time—either nourishment for the soul or nourishment for the body.”
“Isn’t there anything else?” Agatha wanted to know.
“Excuse me?”
But she shrugged and picked at a cuticle.
“And even young as you are, you can still bear witness,” Reverend Emmett said. “You can live in such a way that people will ask, ‘Who are those children? And what is the secret of their joy?’ That’s what ‘bearing witness’ means, in our faith—not empty words or proselytizing. Those cigarette smokers and coffee addicts and sugar fiends in their big expensive churches, contributing to the Carpet Fund and sipping their communion wine which we all know is an artificial stimulant—‘Why are those children so blessed?’ they’ll ask. For you are blessed, my little ones. Someday you’ll appreciate that. You’re luckier than you realize, growing up in a church that cares for you so.”
Then he took a small brown bottle out of his trouser pocket and said it came from Kenny Larson’s