The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,26

coming here was a mistake. What was I thinking? My life needs less crazy at the moment, not more.

Chas stations himself on the edge of the ring of chairs, motioning the stragglers forward, making sure everyone has a seat. Marlene sits on the ground next to my knee. Sucking contemplatively on his pipe, Barber sinks into the chair beside me.

“The question is,” Chas begins, “who’s actually going with us to the Big Demo? I was hoping we’d have more people here, and it makes me worry that if we go through with the plan of renting the bus, it’ll be half empty.”

Marlene turns to me, whispering, “There’s a peace demonstration in D.C. the weekend after next. With all the troops pulling out, this could be our last chance.”

“They’re not going to stop having wars,” Barber says.

After some hemming and hawing, Chas asks for a show of hands. The results disappoint him.

“Vernon, you’re not going? Come on, man, you’re the backbone of this thing.”

The elderly doctor waves away the suggestion. “What’s the point? I only have so much effort to give, and I want to invest it where it’ll make a difference. You’re not going to stop them going to war, like Barber just said. We should be focusing on something achievable, something that’ll make the world a better place to live. Without legalization—”

“Not again.” The girl with the tattooed arms rolls her black-rimmed eyes. “Legalization is fine and everything, but it’s only going to drive the prices up. As it is, nobody’s having trouble getting what they need, right? Anybody hard up for weed?”

One of the grandmotherly types raises her hand, and the others giggle.

“Medical marijuana isn’t enough,” Vernon continues, ignoring the others. “As long as they’re still arresting people for possession—a disproportionate number of those people being African American—I don’t see why we should focus on anything else.”

“Okay, so Vernon’s not going.” Chas turns to the tattooed girl. “But what’s your excuse?”

“I have to work that weekend. We don’t all have trust funds.”

“Ha, ha. Marlene, you’re going, right?”

“I’m in.”

“What about you, Beth? I know you’re new to this, but if you’ve never been to the Mall for one of these things, it’s a mind-blowing experience, I can tell you that.”

I shrug.

“Seriously,” he says. “You really ought to do this. Bring that son of yours too. It’s the ultimate civics lesson. You’ll open his eyes to a whole new reality.”

“With any luck,” I say, “we’ll be in Florida.”

“In two weeks? That’s a pretty long vacation.”

“My husband has the month off.”

“Sweet,” Barber says, exhaling a puff of smoke. “What’s he do for a living? That’s the kind of job I need.”

Deep breath. Come right out with it. “He’s the Men’s Pastor at The Community.”

Blank stares.

“It’s a church down the road in Lutherville.”

Vernon’s face distorts into a frown of consternation. “The big one? The one that bought the old plastics factory?”

“That’s the one.”

And just like that, I’ve killed the conversation.

They’re all looking at me like I’m a plant from the Establishment. If they’re looking at all. Marlene, I notice, is staring at the clasped hands resting in her lap, probably replaying every moment since my arrival.

“The Life Chain,” one of the grandmothers says. “They’re the ones that sponsor the Life Chain every year. That . . . abomination.”

I’d forgotten about the Life Chain, thousands of suburbanites standing hand-in-hand along the highway out in front of the shopping mall on behalf of the unborn.

“That’s the one,” I repeat. Own it. There’s no other choice.

Chas tries to save the situation. “Still, you should come. Like I said, it’ll be eye-opening. And if you’re already out there protesting, then . . .”

The women across from me are muttering to each other while Vernon drills me with laser beams from his eyes.

“So that’s a Quaker church?” Barber says. “I had no idea.”

Before I can untangle his assumptions—something I should have done from the start—Vernon gets out of his chair and wanders off, prompting an exodus. My cheeks are burning, and though I hate to confess it, my feelings are hurt. A few moments ago I was thinking of them as crazies, the way Rick would, but now I’m hungry for their acceptance.

Shouldn’t they be more tolerant and accepting?

Marlene gets to her feet, brushing imaginary grass from her jeans. No, I can’t expect them to be any more tolerant than my own tribe would be if one of them turned up. Imagine bringing Marlene to the ladies’ book club, watching the girls swallow the ice in their