I tried to read more of Cal’s novel, but my day-old clothes smelled stale, I hated feeling scruff every time I leaned on my hand, and, as the hours passed, I began to realize how silly it was to try to stay at his house indefinitely. I had to go home, if only for a change of clothes and a stick of deodorant.
I fit his manuscript carefully into the box and closed my laptop. I had begun taking notes on the book and even nailed a real first line for the profile: Caleb Bright’s fourth novel is a mesmerizing psychological portrait of a family shaped and shattered by faith, but you’ll probably never read it.
“Had enough?” he said. Sometimes, he seemed absorbed in his sketching or reading, yet he never missed my smallest motion.
“Oh, no way. It’s incredible, Cal.” I meant that. I had enjoyed his first three books, but I had force-fed them to myself in less than a week, which is much too fast for a slow reader. The House of Faith, though, made his earlier work look like practice—like he had finally taken off his training wheels and flown.
The novel’s heroine was orbiting further and further from her family’s conventions and, consequently, from that harbor of love and identity. Soon, I sensed, she would try to make her way back and find the path blocked. It was a prodigal daughter story, but without forgiveness, and I read much of Cal’s struggle into it.
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I think it’s your best.” I gripped the manuscript box and stared at the lid. “It’s more personal than the others, if that makes sense.”
“Sure it does.”
“I see a lot of you in the protagonist.”
“Well, that always happens.” He closed his book and I could tell he wanted to close that conversation, too. “You can hang on to that copy, by the way. I have more.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I tucked the box against my stomach. “You don’t mind if I mark it up?” I had been itching to dog-ear pages, highlight, and take margin notes.
“Not at all. It’s yours.”
“Thanks. Seriously.” I smiled faintly. My stomach was churning.
“You’re welcome.” His lips twitched. “Seriously.”
“I feel really grungy.” I scratched my prickly jaw. “I need to shave and get clean clothes and stuff.”
“That makes sense.”
I remained seated, gazing at my socks. “I don’t really want to go.”
“I can see that.” He wasn’t helping me at all.
“You’re probably ready to get rid of me.” I forced a laugh.
“No.” He folded his hands and watched me calmly.
“Oh. Well, maybe I’ll just ... run home and get clean clothes, then.”
“Whatever you want, Michael.”
“I could come back.”
“I would like that.”
Still, I was glued to the armchair. The thought of leaving him alone, with God knew how many sharp objects, was impossible. I pictured him unconscious in the bathtub, blood pumping from his open leg, and my heart began to palpitate.
“Listen,” I said. “You should come with me.”
“To your place?”
“Yeah. I’m only gonna drive down and back. Company would be nice.” I knew I wasn’t fooling him, but my dignity demanded I try.
“If that would make you happy.” He didn’t need to smirk or grin to let me know that my fear was obvious. Maybe he even felt sorry for me.
“It would.”
“Fair enough. How about I drive, though. My car does better in the snow.”
“That’s fine. If you don’t mind.” I stacked my things and headed for my shoes and coat. I wouldn’t mind watching him drive—not at all—and anyway, the Jeep’s rickety handling had embarrassed me when I had driven him down for the party.
He took the Audi. Soft instrumental music drifted from the speakers. He drove sensibly, his dark eyes flickering between mirrors and the road, and from time to time he glanced at me, at which point I would pretend to have been watching the scenery. His sly smile told me he was not deceived.
“Nice view, right?” he said.
I raised the collar of my coat. Cal never seemed to flush, but it was my curse. I had Danish blood on my mother’s side and Irish on my father’s and the luminously pale skin to prove it. In cold weather, my cheeks got rosy like a girl’s. Anger, embarrassment, and passion never failed to redden my face and neck, and sometimes, to my eternal shame, my eyes. In middle school, because my flushing was such a source of amusement to my peers, I had learned to recognize the subtle warmth and tingling that indicated I was making my transition to cooked lobster, so that I could hide or turn away until it passed. But there was no hiding or turning away from Cal, most of the time.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I mumbled.
“You could have left that at my place.” He meant the manuscript box, which was sitting on my lap.
“Oh. I didn’t think of that.”
“Could have left your laptop, too.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I wasn’t sure ...”
“I want you around, Michael. I told you—I would have moved you in, or closer, if not for my sister’s habit of showing up unannounced. But she literally just did that, so we’re safe for a couple months.”
The way he phrased it—safe—made me feel his fear of exposure.
“Would your family really shun you, if they knew?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. I would not be invited to their homes, into their lives. It’s a very big deal for us. And Coral’s family is Southern Baptist. Extremely so.”
I nodded slowly. To me, extreme Baptists were the people who had protested at the funerals of Orlando shooting victims. In other words, unfathomably small-minded individuals who took their faith to hateful extremes. I picked at the manuscript box and wondered if I was sitting beside a man like that. Cal didn’t hurt or hate others, as far as I could tell, but he hurt and hated himself, and that was religious extremism, too.
“You understand now?” he said.
“I’m starting to.”
“It’s not what you’re probably thinking. My family and hers, they’re not hicks running around with assault weapons, trying to burn all the gays.” He shook his head. “They’re wealthy and well-educated. Cosmopolitan, even. But they’re old families founded entirely on Christian faith. We know what we believe. We’ve believed it for generations. Atheists rely on the government to tell them what’s right and wrong”—he waved a hand, dismissive—“which is so insane, if you think about it. Sure, our current democracy has a humanitarian set of laws, but what happens if a government arises that says it’s okay to kill under certain circumstances? Technically, you could say we already have that government, with late-term abortion being legal.”
I watched him as he spoke. It was clear that he had considered this topic often and thoroughly. His thoughts were organized, his explanation patient.
He studied me for a moment. “Did you know that they strain away from the abortion tool, in the womb? Babies, I mean. Their heart rates increase, their motions become frantic, and their mouths open like they’re crying or screaming. They actually move to try to escape the instrument. As if they could. And there’s no one to help them.”
I frowned and looked away. “I ... no. I haven’t really researched it.”
“It’s backwards and barbaric. The same things you think of my faith, I’m sure.” His gaze returned to the road. “The truth is, morality means nothing in the hands of a secular government. Faith—God—gives us a set of rules with divine authority. And trust me, I wish I could change some of the rules, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not my choice. I’m glad it’s not my choice. I’m not so confident that I’d feel comfortable deciding how everyone should live, or where we came from and where we’re going. And it’s obvious to me that humanity is too complicated and beautiful to be a fluke. Nothing about life makes sense outside of faith. Not to me, anyway.”
I had no comeback, no response to his poised declaration. Sitting there beside me, he looked so sure of himself, and his argument made sense. When it came to right and wrong, I answered to American legislation. He answered to his God.
“I didn’t mean to lecture you,” he said after a while.
“No, you’re fine. I want to know this stuff. I’m just thinking.” And so I did—we had a long drive ahead of us—until I found a fault in his logic. “What about other faiths?” I said. “There are so many. You talked about a government supporting murder, but some extreme faiths actually do. People blow up buildings, shoot up clubs. I know you’ll say that’s not okay, but they think it is. They don’t want to answer to man-made laws, either. They think they’re acting on behalf of a higher power.”
“You’re right. But that’s not my faith, is it?”
“No,” I persisted, “but it’s a faith. I mean, there’s obviously a problem with answering to higher powers however we see fit. We need laws.”
“I don’t disagree. The Bible advocates submitting to government rule.”
“But you think one faith is right and the others are all wrong?”
He smirked. “I guess I do.”
“So you’re not comfortable making rules for everyone, but you’ve decided Christianity is the only real truth?”
He went quiet for a minute.
“You’ve got me there,” he finally said.
I smiled a little. It was a small victory, but perhaps a large step toward helping him. And I wanted to help him. I was in this for as long as he would have me.
Without looking, he reached over and grazed his knuckles down my cheek. The gesture always made me want to nuzzle into his hand.
“Let me tell you something, though,” he said, wrapping his fingers back around the wheel. “What I believe ... I think you see it as something constructed around me.”
“Kind of,” I admitted. Completely was what I meant. Cal lived in his silver cage, though his heart had outgrown it years ago.
“Well, it’s more like my bones, Michael. It’s what I’m constructed around. Like Abigail.” He gestured to the manuscript box. Abigail was the main character in The House of Faith. “If my faith broke apart somehow, so would I.”