The kids were restless at Sunday school, so my mother started playing “Rise and Shine” on the guitar. I wondered if the Cones would mind if I taught the song to Izzy. Mrs. Cone seemed disapproving of the church and Dr. Cone was a Buddhist Jew. But Izzy would love the rhymes and naming all the animals on Noah’s ark. And Jesus never even got a mention, so maybe they’d think it was okay.
After Sunday school my mother walked home to drop off her guitar and I hurried to choir practice. Mr. Forge, the choir director, rapidly clapped his hands together as I approached. “Hurrah!” he said. “Our greatest voice is here!” He was an enthusiastic man who smiled often and bounced on his toes when he conducted. When I saw Liberace on television, I thought of Mr. Forge. They had a similar exuberance. A like-minded festiveness.
When it was time for the service, I put on my red robe, waited for the other choir members to sit, and then took the empty front-row choir chair beside the pulpit. I watched my mother chat with other mothers as she made her way down the aisle to the second pew from the front. My father slowly stepped behind my mom. His tie knot bulged at his neck.
Usually I listened carefully at church, but that day I drifted in and out. When it was time for the first song, “Dona Nobis Pacem,” Mr. Forge put his pitch pipe to his mouth and played G, the first note. He pointed in order to me, Mrs. Lubowski, and Mrs. Randall. He meant that we three were to sing the opening lines. The song was a canon, a round, and with each additional verse, more voices would be added in until the entire choir was singing.
Mrs. Randall put her hand on her throat and shook her head. She’d been complaining of a cold when we’d first sat down. Mr. Forge nodded at her, and then looked at me and waved his hands upward. I stood, as did Mrs. Lubowski. When directed, I shut my eyes and sang: “Dona nobis pacem pacem, dona nobis pa-a-a-acem. . . .” I thought of Jimmy as I sang, and the peace he would feel if his addiction faded away, left his body.
Just as the song was picking up, I looked out at the congregation. My father was staring off into space, as usual. My mother was staring up at me, her head tilted, her mouth closed with a thin-lipped smile.
I looked past my parents, down the aisles, and then my heart flipped around and I almost spit out a burst of laughter. Seated in the back row, in matching black pixie-cut wigs, were Sheba and Jimmy. They had huge smiles painted across their faces and were moving their heads to the music. I could see that Sheba was singing along. She looked far more pleased with me than my mother did. And Jimmy looked totally relaxed and joyful. Like this was a space where he didn’t think about doing drugs or breaking dishes or throwing books.
When the song was over, I smiled at them. Sheba lifted her hands and gave me a silent applause. Jimmy lifted one fist and mouthed, Right on!
Sheba and Jimmy snuck out before the service ended. As I walked home with my parents, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way they had looked at me while I sang: as if I mattered, as if I were seen. My father wasn’t talking, as usual, but I didn’t feel the weight of his silence. My mother was talking, as usual, but I could barely hear her palaver.
Mom was making a pork roast for dinner that night. I paid close attention so I could make it for the Cones on Monday. I wondered if they had a meat thermometer; I couldn’t recall seeing one during my many organizing and cleaning sprees.
After I set the table, I stood alone in the dining room and looked at President Ford on the wall. The words sex addict knocked around my head, like my brain wanted to put the worst thing I could think of in front of the face of our president.
“Mary Jane!” my mother called.
I went to the kitchen and put on the yellow quilted oven mitts I’d gotten for Christmas last year. Together, my mother and I placed all the food on the table: pork roast, mashed potatoes, buttered peas and carrots, Bisquick rolls and butter.
My mother sat and put her napkin in her lap. I sat and put my napkin in my lap. We both looked in the direction of the living room, where my father was in his chair, reading the Sunday paper.
“I don’t know why they sing songs from that Jesus Christ Superstar.” My mother was referring to the third song we’d sung, “Hosanna.” She didn’t like Jesus Christ Superstar, though she’d never seen it. I hadn’t seen it either, but we had the record from the Show Tunes of the Month Club. When I played it, I had to turn the volume real low.
“I think if you heard the whole record, you’d like it.”
“Godspell, Jesus Christ Superstar. What are people thinking? They don’t show respect for the church.”