Undercurrent, draft 1




I know now that I was behaving like any thirteen-year-old girl but at that moment, when Charlie Riggins swirled into my imagination, I felt so, so mature, a woman, really. He came out of church into the noon sun, his sandy hair glistening, his shirt white as sugar against his pink, shaved neck. He was fifteen and taller than most of the other freshmen boys at Frenchtown High and so handsome it made my heart feel tight. In a good way. A completely perfect way.

It was one of those warm April days in between the miserable cold-rain, wet-feet days, the grim days that seemed intent on stalling the arrival of what I thought was the real spring. Charlie was wearing a suit and tie and my mind snapped a picture, with every detail in focus. I can still see it today. His face was exactly as it would be years later – before things changed – relaxed by confidence, like he knew how spectacular he was, and I wondered, in that first moment, whether that had something to do with church.

I never went to church. On that morning, I was on my way to Phillips Rexall to buy a carton of cigarettes for my Mom. She never went in a church, either, and my Dad, who drove semis long haul then – before the mill closed – was always sleeping on Sunday mornings. So I didn’t know what went on in church, but I thought that it was supposed to be good for you in some way and I wondered whether the expression on Charlie’s face was a result of whatever happened inside the First Methodist Church of Frenchtown.

I didn’t think much more about church activity that noon. I thought, though, that I probably would have a good chance of getting Charlie’s attention if I was in his church, too. And I decided right then that the next Sunday, I’d be there.

Lucky for me, Cindy Mahon came through the big, arched church door not long after Charlie, while I was still stopped dead on the sidewalk, staring.

“Hi, Cindy!” I screamed it and sang it at the same time, like any mature woman, and didn’t hide my gawking glance at Charlie.

“Hey, Viv!” She sang back. “I didn’t see you during the service.”

“Of course not,” I sang, running up to her like she was my best friend.

Cindy wasn’t actually my friend at all. We were the same age, both in seventh grade. Our lives were as different as cake and vinegar, though. Her dad owned the local Chevy dealership out on the edge of town. They lived in a modern house that was right on the golf course. Once, my Mom was hired to be a waitress at one of their big parties. And, of course, they went to First Methodist. Almost all the families that had businesses went to First Methodist. That’s why Charlie was there, because of his family.

“I was going to Phillips and I saw people coming out,” I told Cindy, still loud, still glancing over her shoulder at Charlie, who was making his way toward the sidewalk. “You look so nice, all dressed up. I was thinking it must be fun to go to church.”

“You must be kidding.” Cindy tossed her short, dingy hair to the side and, to emphasize the misery she’d just endured, gritted her teeth, showing the yellow scum caked around her gums. That was one of her trademarks in school. She was rich and repulsive. I, on the other hand, was poor and popular. If she hadn’t come from a different social stratum than my family, I still wouldn’t have been her friend. But I was thirteen and saw no problem acting at that moment as though we were tight.

“Not kidding,” I said. “I’ve always thought I’d like church.”

‘God, it’s boring,” she groaned. “You sit there for a whole hour while that weasel in a black and purple gown drones on.” She smiled now, like she was pleased to be confessing to me. Good, I thought. Hold on to that feeling.

Then I saw that Charlie was getting into a car parked at the curb. I wanted him to see me, to notice me specially. When you’re thirteen, you get noticed by being noisy.

“Hey, why don’t you come down to Phillips with me.” Loud enough for Charlie to hear if his window was down. I started to back toward the sidewalk. “We could get an ice cream.”

“Okay,” she said, and she swung in beside me.

What I really wanted was to pick her brain about getting into the church. I didn’t know if there was a secret password or something.

I pretended to ignore Charlie when we passed the car where he was sitting. Out of the corner of my eye I could see he was looking at us, at me. By that time, Cindy was giggling at something stupid I was saying to make conversation.

There was an old-fashioned soda fountain in the Rexall, and I led Cindy to the chrome and maroon Naugahyde stools. I don’t think she had been at the fountain any more than I’d been in First Methodist, which was good. I could be sly with my questions while she was absorbing her new surroundings. I’ll admit I felt a little creepy buttering her up that way, since I knew I’d never truly be her friend.

“So how do I get to go to church?” I asked, balancing before my mouth a long-handle soda spoon heaped with strawberry ice cream.

“Just walk in,” she said.

“Then what?”

“Don’t you know anything about religion?”

“Sorry,” I shrugged.

“Well, first, you couldn’t go dressed like that.” Her head bobbed down and up as she looked at the slacks and blouse I was wearing.

“I know that,” I said.

“Well, then, what don’t you know?”

“Really? I don’t know what goes on when you’re inside.”

“You keep quiet unless it’s time to sing. There’re books with the songs in them. And you should bring a Bible. We always bring one for each of us.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Nothing. Oh, some of the old people read along in them when the preacher is talking. But you don’t have to.”

“So what’s the point.”

“You’re showing you’re a proper person,” Cindy said, then thought a bit and scooped a few spoons of ice cream into that gross mouth. “How you behave, what you wear, how quiet you can be, whether you follow the rules or not.”

“What rules? Is there a rule book?”

“Not really. You do what everyone else is doing.”

“So I can walk in there next Sunday – dressed like you, of course – and just follow along?”

“You can come with me,” she offered. “So you don’t make any mistakes.”

There were some girls in our class who wouldn’t be caught dead with Cindy Mahon, afraid they’d be labeled un-cool. I didn’t care what anyone thought, and I never would, as it turned out. In fact, I was beginning to think that when you got past actually looking at Cindy, she was almost okay.

“Thanks for the offer,” I said. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”