The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,65
appeared quite pleased to see me—and others, like Vernon, the gray-haired doctor, got through the procedure with a minimum of awkwardness. Even a few people who hadn’t been at Chas’s house that Sunday afternoon trooped over to say hello to me, as if they’d been instructed in advance to be especially welcoming. I imagine what I experienced was similar to what a newcomer at The Community has to endure when the professional greeters descend en masse to make sure they feel welcome.
“It won’t be much longer,” he says, glancing at the traffic through the window. “Since this is your first time, I’m looking forward to hearing what you think about it.”
“For one thing, I think it’s pretty extravagant, renting a bus like this to take thirty-odd people on an hour-long trip.”
“It’s the only way to make sure we get there in one piece. The MARC train gets you there, but half the group doesn’t show up on time at the station and a few wander off once you’re in Washington. This way, they know we’re not leaving without them and they stick around for the ride back. Besides, I get a pretty good rate on the bus.”
“If you say so.”
“I like your son, by the way. Jed. He looks nothing like his brother, though, does he? I don’t think there’s much danger of him wandering off, as long as Marlene’s around.”
“They used to know each other,” I say. “In the church youth group.”
“So I heard. I never would have pegged her for a churchgoing type.”
“You might be surprised at the kind of people who go to church, Chas.”
“And you might be surprised at the people who go to a demo.”
“I am surprised. I guess I’m one of them.”
“I guess you are,” he says, smiling broadly.
Once the bus reaches D.C. proper, Chas goes to the front and acts as tour guide, pointing out significant buildings and monuments to the left, then the right. I notice that Jed is no longer sitting on the row behind Marlene. Somewhere along the way, he moved forward to sit with her. Her neck cranes back and forth, following Chas’s commentary, while Jed steals glances at her.
He’s eighteen years old, a high school senior, and yet I can count on one hand the number of dates he’s gone on—not the number of girls he’s dated, mind you, but the actual number of outings. Most of these have been organized school functions. If it hadn’t been for my coaching, he probably would have skipped out on those. More often than not, I’ve had to suggest names to him, girls he might like to invite to the Christian school prom substitute or the Spring Banquet.
He doesn’t seem to need my prompting now. If you’d asked me before, I never would have imagined him being this confident around a girl, especially one who’s in college. Tongue-tied and awkward, that’s what I would have expected. That’s what he was when he suddenly found Marlene standing in our kitchen. Not anymore.
And instead of feeling happy for him, I feel rejected. How do you explain that?
The bus disgorges us near the Washington Monument. As the Rent-a-Mob files out, pausing at the storage lockers in the flank of the bus to be issued painted signs, I am already overwhelmed by the throng of people all around. I’m accustomed to tourists packing the capitol sights, but the Square has become a staging area for chanting, shouting protestors. While the morning sun feels nice on my skin, the noise is deafening. I wish I could get back on the bus.
But there’s no turning back.
“It’s impossible, isn’t it?”
I turn to find Dr. Vernon at my elbow, wincing at the noise. His sign is tucked under his armpit furtively, as if he might ditch it once Chas looks away.
“I should have brought my earplugs,” I say.
“A lot of sound and fury, signifying jack squat. That’s what I hate about these things. Oh, perfect, they brought the drums.”
As he speaks, a group of tattooed young gypsies sashays around the bus, slapping a frenzied beat on their little Djembe drums. They leave a strong odor of marijuana in the air behind them, but even this gives Vernon no pleasure. I find myself warming to him all of a sudden.
“I try to tell Chas this isn’t what it’s all about. This doesn’t change anything.” He shakes his head. “But for him, this is what it’s about.”
As Chas leads us into the fray, I stick with Vernon near the back of