Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [19]
John slid his eyes over toward his wife and smirked as he secured the red tie in place. “You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?” she shrieked. “I most certainly am not overreacting. This could be a serious medical condition, I may need hormone therapy.”
“Whatever,” he mumbled.
In the car, with her husband driving and the three boys in the backseat, Peggy Jean quizzed them on last week’s sermon. “Do you boys remember what nice Father Quigley spoke of last week, hmmmmm?”
The boys looked at each other, then at their mother’s face, which was reflected in the vanity mirror on the visor. They said nothing.
“You remember. He spoke of how important it is to forgive people, even when we feel that they have done or said something we don’t feel we can forgive,” she said, picking a small clump of mascara from an eyelash. Then she glanced back at her sons. “Don’t you boys think that’s an important thing to remember?”
They nodded their heads in unison, as if on cue.
“I think it’s important, too,” she said, snapping the cover of the vanity mirror closed and putting the visor back in place. She turned to her husband. “Sweetheart, there’s no need to drive so fast, we have plenty of time.”
He glanced at the speedometer. “I’m only going forty-three miles an hour.”
“Yes, but the speed limit is only forty miles an hour. We don’t need to be speed-freaks, especially when we’ve got the boys in the car on the way to church.”
He depressed the brake ever so slightly and the car slowed to thirty-nine miles per hour.
Peggy Jean smiled and gave his knee a little pat.
The Divinity Center was a nice, clean, contemporary church with colorful stained glass windows depicting various saints and uplifting words such as “hope,” “joy,” “peace,” and “love.” It had a modern P.A. system so one wasn’t forced to strain in order to hear the sermon. And this church didn’t make the boys sneeze like the musty old church they used to attend.
At first, Peggy Jean had been angry with the boys, believing their sneezing was deliberate and mischievous. Then she took them to see an allergist who determined, after many needle pricks, that the boys were, indeed, allergic to certain molds. As soon as they changed churches, the sneezing stopped. But Peggy Jean insisted they still have booster shots on a monthly basis, as prevention.
This Sunday’s sermon was about separating “needs” from “wants,” and how important it was that needs were met and wants were curbed. While Peggy Jean sat with a pleasant smile on her face, hands folded on her lap, listening to Father Quigley, her husband was looking two pews ahead and slightly to the left, at his neighbor’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Nikki.
He was thinking that Nikki would make an excellent baby-sitter for the boys. He was also thinking her hair was exactly the color of honey. At one point, the girl turned around to adjust her bra strap. She spotted Mr. Smythe looking at her and gave him a shy smile before looking away.
After church, the family walked to the McDonald’s next door, a favorite Sunday ritual. The boys were each allowed one Happy Meal. Peggy Jean ordered a Filet-O-Fish with extra tarter sauce. And her husband had a double Quarter Pounder, despite the fact that Peggy Jean thought a half pound was just too much meat. After carrying the red plastic tray over to a table, the family sat down and joined hands. Peggy Jean closed her eyes and led the family in a small prayer. “Dear Lord, we are so grateful for this food and for our good health. We know we are blessed and take pity on those less fortunate than ourselves. Amen.”
“I got a machine gun!” the middle Smythe boy cried when he opened his Happy Meal.
The youngest boy tore into his meal. “Mine’s an axe!”
Ricky, the oldest, rolled his eyes and frowned, tossing his toy plastic gas mask on the table. He felt way too old to be at McDonald’s with his parents, eating a Happy Meal.
After the family had finished eating and were preparing to leave, the youngest boy noticed a dirty man in ragged clothes standing in front of