Chapter 2

“Who is your Lord and Savior?” droned Jerry’s minister.

“Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior,” Jerry croaked with his newly descending voice, along with the other adolescent boys and girls.

“Do you trust in him?”

“I do.”

“Do you intend to be his disciple, to obey his word and to show his love?”

“I do.”

“Will you be a faithful member of this congregation, giving of yourself in every way, and will you seek the fellowship of the church wherever you may be?”

“I will.”

Jerry’s gray, wool suit itched mercilessly in the humidity. His front teeth throbbed from yesterday’s visit to the orthodontist. If the minister asked him to follow Satan, he would agree, anything to speed this thing up.

“Why do I have to go?” he complained earlier. 

“I’m the Clerk of Session,” his mother replied, “I’m not going to have my son not showing up on Communicant’s Sunday. There’s no discussion.”

One of the first women to graduate from Columbia Business School, Jerry’s mom channeled her pent up energy into volunteer leadership responsibilities. 

Jerry trudged out of her room. The presence of God, a personal relationship with Jesus, the forgiveness of sins, salvation by grace: what the hell was any of that?

“I am so proud of you,” enthused his mother from a cordial distance after the service. 

“Let’s go to the Clinton Inn to celebrate. Would you like that Jerry?” asked his father.

“Not really. I just want to go home.”

“Well, I didn’t get dressed up just to go to church,” said mom.

At the Clinton Inn, his mom spilled the latest church gossip while Jerry stared at his half eaten burger.

***

“Let’s play king on the mountain!” said Tom, the quintessential sports moron in Jerry’s opinion. Jerry’s sports crowd was all gathered in the schoolyard after school.

“That’s so plebeian,” said Adam.

“You’re plebeian,” said Tom.

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

“Do too, and it’s you.” He zoomed up and shoved Adam. “I know you’re plebeian and your clothes are plebeian and your hair is plebeian.” 

The kids gathered around. 

‘I’m going home,” said Adam.

“Why don’t you make me?”

“What are you even talking about?” And he turned around and started to walk away.

“C’mon make me,” Tom yelled louder and pushed Adam harder. “Cause you’re chicken. Lar-ry’s a chick-en, Lar-ry’s a chick-en, Lar-ry’s a chick-en…”

The other kids joined in with the chant. Adam locked eyes with Jerry. Jerry opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Adam turned and headed home. Jerry didn’t catch up.

Instead, he played king on the mountain and hated it. When he got home, sweaty and dirty, he plodded up to his room, pulled the shades and sat in the dark.

That night at the dinner table, Jerry announced, “I quit basketball.”

His dad raised an eyebrow and continued eating in silence.

“Jerry, what do you want to do?” his mother asked.

“Nothing. Watch the clouds go by.”

“OK,” said his dad, “I’ll get you a weather station,” and sniggered.

Jerry stopped hanging out with the sports kids. He stopped seeing Adam; or rather, Adam ignored him. 

His dad presented him with a Lionel’s Weather Station. It seemed on the young side to Jerry, but he set it up outside his window anyway. After school, he sat in his room and watched clouds. He monitored the temperature, humidity and barometric pressure.

***

Untethered: that was the best way to describe it. Jerry was an untethered soul, at large in the galaxy. The day he got dropped from basketball, some invisible cord snapped, silently, unnoticed. Its strain started in infancy, increased through childhood, then finally, unable to endure the stress, snapped.

For what reason: neglect, lack of acknowledgment at being, just being. For being special would have been nice, but for just being was a minimum requirement. And mom didn’t come through. There were no hands to hoist him into a warm bosom in the morning, no answers to his cries at night. Jerry curled up into himself, scoliosis on the way. His cries stopped. He became a baby without needs. 

When he reached grade school, mom was never home, as she pursued a second masters’ degree in library science. Then in junior high, in addition to her full time librarian job, she became the clerk of session at their church, and ran for the Board of Education and won.

He grew into adolescence with a permanent smirk on his face. Teachers complained about an attitude problem which required many a parent-teacher conference.

Jerry couldn’t wrap his brain around that word: attitude. Just what did that mean? It wasn’t measurable. But apparently, it pissed teachers off.

With a vengeance, he directed his attitude toward his mom. Every folded shirt placed into his dresser, every pair of shoes lined up inside his closet, every water cup set on his bedside table was with the subtext, See? I did this myself. I don’t need you. I never needed you. I will never call out your name again, never run into your arms again, never. 

Yet inside was a bottomless sadness.

***

Around Christmas, Jerry stuck out his thumb beside the town’s main road. An olive green, Chevrolet Caprice pulled over.

“You live down the street from us,” said the blond with a cheerleader face.

“OK,” Jerry answered.

“Where’re you going?”

“To the Presbyterian Church.”

She dropped her head in slow motion onto the steering wheel while letting out a guttural “Ah-HANGH,” followed by a juicy snort. Her porcelain white hands hung onto the steering wheel as she pulled her head back up. “That’s where I’m going. To the Advent service, right?”

“I guess.” He had decided to go after his parents admonished him about it, but more to avoid spending the afternoon masturbating. The guilt was killing him.

She did the “Ah-HANGH” with the snort again.

“I’m Barbara.”

“I’m Jerry.”

“Jerry who lives down the street from us,” said Barbara. “You might know my husband, Rog. He works at the church.”

“I don’t really go to church. I just like the music,” Jerry said. 

“Riiiiight,” she said.

They pulled into the parking lot and strolled into the church. He was entering the sanctuary with this blond, and he was sitting next to her. This was cool.

The carols transported him back to his pre-teen years, a time of Santa Claus, presents and snow, when things were simple and every day was fun.

After it was over, they headed to Fellowship Hall to find Barbara’s husband. Jerry knew the routine: Eat donuts, stand, fidget, watch adults talk, fidget. It was a ritual he would have rather skipped.

Barbara made a beeline to her husband who was holding court in a corner, surrounded by high school kids, mostly girls, some of whom Jerry recognized. 

“Rog, look who I picked up: our neighbor. His name is Jerry.”

Rog, who had a basketball frame, met Jerry’s skittish eyes and smiled. “Hello, Jerry.” He extended his hand. Jerry obliged. Rog’s grip was firm and sustained.

“Let’s go,” Barbara said. Rog nodded. They headed back to the Caprice.

After they arrived at Jerry’s driveway, Rog and Barbara continued the conversation, in no hurry to leave. 

Jerry wasn’t used to adults being interested in talking with him. What’s more, they were listening. A smile appeared on his face.

Jerry watched Rog pull on his Camel cigarette. He had a prominent nose, close set dark eyes and medium cut black hair that lay flat on his scalp. His restrained demeanor was a perfect complement to Barbara’s ebullience. 

“Do you believe in God?” Rog asked.

“No. I don’t see how you can,” Jerry said.

“Well, I don’t see how you can’t,” Barbara said.