Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler [87]
“The total bill came to sixty dollars,” his mother was saying. “I consider that cheap, in view of what the man had to deal with. When he was done he had me look down the floor drain. Big dark echoey floor drain. ‘Hear that?’ he said, and I said, ‘Hear what?’ He said, ‘All along the line, your neighbors flushing their toilets. First one here and then one far, far away over there,’ he said, ‘all connected by this network of pipes.’ ‘Well, fine,’ I said, ‘but left to my own devices I believe I could manage to live out my life not hearing, thank you very much.’ ”
In the living room, quarrelsome voices climbed over each other and Ian caught the sound of paper tearing. They were demolishing “Peanuts,” he was certain. He sighed.
Suppose, he thought suddenly, his boyhood self was to walk into the scene at this moment. Suppose he was offered a glimpse of how he had turned out: twenty-six years old and still living with his parents, tending someone else’s children, obsessed with the evening comics. Huh? he’d say. Why, what has happened here? What has become of me? How in heaven’s name did things ever get to this state?
“Give me one good reason I should have to go to church,” Agatha said on Sunday morning. “It’s hypocritical to go! I’m not a believer.”
“You can go to Grandma and Grandpa’s church if you prefer,” Ian told her.
“Listen carefully, Ian, I’ll only say this one more time: I am not a believer.”
He wrapped an elastic around Daphne’s pony tail. “How about this,” he said. “You attend till you’re eighteen, and then you stop. That way, I won’t have to feel guilty you didn’t get the proper foundation.”
“You don’t have to feel guilty even now,” Agatha told him. “I absolve you, Ian.”
He drew back slightly. Absolve?
“Maybe she could go to Mary McQueen,” Daphne suggested.
Agatha said, “Mary Our Queen is for Catholics, stupid.”
“Agatha, don’t call her stupid. Let’s get moving. Thomas is already downstairs.”
They descended to the living room. Daphne clattering in the patent leather Mary Janes she liked to wear to church. The sound of Sunday morning, Ian thought. He told his parents, “We’re off.”
“Oh, all right, dear,” his mother said. She and his father were reading the paper on the couch.
“Take that business of the fig tree,” Agatha said as she let the front door slam behind her. “Jesus cursing the fig tree.”
“Where’s Thomas?”
“Here I am,” Thomas said from the porch swing.
“Let’s go, then.”
“Jesus decides He wants figs,” Agatha said. “Of course, it’s not fig season, but Jesus wants figs anyhow. So up He walks to this fig tree, but naturally all He finds is leaves. And what does He do? Puts a curse on the poor little tree.”
“No!” Daphne breathed. Evidently she hadn’t heard about this before.
“Next thing you know, the tree’s withered and died.”
“No.”
Ian knew that Agatha was just passing through a stage, but even so he minded, a bit. Over the years he had come to view Jesus very personally. The most trite and sentimental Sunday School portrait could send a flash of feeling through him, as if Jesus were … oh, one of those older boys he used to admire when he was small, someone he’d watched from a distance and grown to know and love without ever daring to engage in conversation.
Also, Agatha was seeding doubts in the other two.
“Doesn’t that seem petty to you?” she was asking Daphne. “I mean, doesn’t it seem unreasonable? If we behaved like that, we’d be sent to our rooms to think it over.”
“Agatha,” Ian said, “there’s a great deal in the Bible that’s simply beyond our understanding.”
“Beyond yours,