The frame house was a century old, but well maintained. Its raised front porch was as wide as the house, and shaded by maples that lined the street. Set back only a dozen feet from the sidewalk, it gave an elevated view of passersby. Just now, however, the residents were inside at supper.
Mrs. Edmund Buckels looked across the table at her daughter. "I don't approve of that university anymore, letting that Ngunda Aran speak there. Your father and I have decided you should go somewhere else. Bethel. It's a good Baptist school."
Jenny Buckels shrugged slightly. "My scholarship's at Chapel Hill, and I've paid for my room for this semester."
Her mother's lips pinched. "I don't want you going to that school any longer. It's run by atheists."
Let it lie, Jen, her brother prayed. She tried. It didn't work. "Speak to me when I talk to you!"
Jen's voice was quiet. "Mother, I'm trying not to argue."
"I suppose you went to hear him."
She could have lied, but wouldn't. "I did. It was an assignment in Journalism 201. Otherwise I wouldn't have."
"What did you think of him?"
"He was interesting."
"That's no answer!"
Jenny's response was quiet but firm. "Mother, it is my answer. The man was interesting."
"How long did he talk? An hour? It had to be more than just interesting."
"My report's in my course folder, back in the dorm. I'll mail it when I get back." She tried to smile. "I write better than I talk. I got an 'A' on it."
So far her father had stayed out of the discussion. Now he stepped in. "Jennifer, don't evade. Answer your mother."
She straightened, turning her gaze to his, clenched fists on her hips, the softness gone from her voice. "All right. Just remember, you insisted. I found Ngunda Aran . . . thoughtful, tolerant . . . and compassionate." She paused, shifting her eyes to her mother's. "More than some Christians I know."
Even as she said it, Jen knew she'd made a mistake. With a sharp cry of exasperation, Mary Lou Buckels grabbed her mashed potatoes and chicken gravy with a bare hand and tried to throw it at her daughter. Her multiple sclerosis and the consistency of the potatoes and gravy made the attempt largely unsuccessful. A bit of it reached Jenny's blouse, but most of it squeezed out of her mother's hand, or stuck to it.
"You insolent slut! Tolerance? Contempt is more like it! Contempt for God and His Truth! The Truth of His Words, written down in the Bible!"
A retort screamed in Jen's mind. Like "you hypocrite?" "Love your enemy?" "Judge not?" But all she said, and softly, was, "I'm sorry I made you angry, Mother. I'll pack and leave."
She got up from the table, but her father moved between her and the dining room door. "You will go nowhere!" he said. "You're grounded! Give me the keys to your car!"
She stopped, stared, then barked a disbelieving laugh. "Grounded? Keys to my car?" Her voice hardened. "I'm twenty-four years old, Father. A grown woman! I worked for five years saving money for college. I bought that car, such as it is, and earned the scholarship, such as it is."
He answered hoarsely, emotion burning his throat. "Then get out of this house! Right now! We never want to see you again!"
"I'll get my things and . . ."
Her father took a step toward her. "You will not get your things. You will leave this house now."
"My things are mine!" She shouted it in his face. "Bought with my money!"
Edmund Buckels raised a fist. His son, already on his feet and moving, wrapped his arms around the older man, pinning him from behind. "Dad! Dad, don't do it. You'll regret it forever."
The word "forever" took the starch out of his father. His mother, on the other hand, had gotten up without help and attacked her son feebly, succeeding mainly in getting mashed potatoes and gravy on his back. He turned, gripped her shoulders, and firmly but gently seated her back on her chair, where she burst into tears and disconcerting howls. Jenny, deeply shaken, hurried from the room.
A couple of minutes later, Steven Buckels followed. Her suitcase was open on her bed, but she was shaking too badly to pack it. "Hi, Sis," he said quietly. "Can I help?"
She turned, her expression more bitter than grieving. "And they claim to be Christians! They read the Beatitudes with that—oily righteousness of theirs, and then—" She swallowed, choked, then threw herself facedown on the bed beside her suitcase and wept, fighting the sobs. When she was able to, she sat up and looked at her brother. "How can they be so—two-faced?"
"They don't know what to do, Jen. They're afraid. Afraid of the world, of how it's getting. And afraid for your soul. You've always been something of a rebel, you know. To them that's the great treason, sinful in itself." He shook his head. "Don't look for logic in it. There isn't any."
Somehow his words dissolved her anger; her pulse even slowed. "Are you afraid for my soul?" she asked quietly.
He chuckled; that helped too. "I know you too well for that. God made this world . . . difficult, and he made us. And he's a loving God.
"Mom and Dad are the way they are. I have some like them in my congregation. I don't understand them—I leave that to God—but I'm used to them. I feel for them, and love them. It's much easier for me. They're not so uptight about me. I'm male, and a Baptist minister."
White-faced, she looked at him, seeming to consider what he'd said.
"Why don't you stop at Barlow on your way to Chapel Hill," he went on. "It's not far out of your way, and it's a pleasant drive if you pay attention to the countryside, instead of . . . this. Spend the night there. Tell Dorothy I sent you, that there was a row here. I'll drive back in the morning. I need to be here with Mom and Dad this evening."
Jen looked at him with something like wonder. "You love them, don't you?"
He nodded. "I do. I'm thirteen years older than you, and have memories of them that you don't. From when they weren't so—troubled." He smiled softly, surprising her. "And thirteen years more practice at living. Getting older can have its good points."
He carried her suitcase to her car for her, and she drove away thinking of her brother instead of the fight. He'd spend the evening dealing with their parents, and probably come through it without upset. He's the only real Christian in the family, she told herself. Too bad we can't clone him.