NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE

Why does summer have to be so LONG!

            Jeremy entered the living room of his childhood – high ceiling; glaring overhead light; faded, flowered wallpaper; hardwood floors, scratched and splotched, forming a wide border around the threadbare rug. He plopped into what remained of a ‘60’s era sofa and began reviewing the Family Home Evening lesson he would be giving in a few minutes.

            The roar started innocuously enough as a muffled rumble, but he knew better and braced himself. An 18-wheeler was starting down the adjacent freeway off-ramp. It was so close to the house that every time, as the noise became deafening, he imagined the truck pummeling through the upstairs bedrooms and, cartoon-like, leaving tire tracks on everything in sight, a hole in the wall forming a silhouette of the intruding Peterbilt. He stood up and shook himself to calm his jangled nerves.

            Mom and my current stepdad aren’t going to show – haven’t yet. How many stepfathers had he had growing up – four, five? He recalled as a child of three or four, sitting on the bar of the Dew Drop Inn, the drinking establishment to which the house was attached. It constituted the source of the family’s meager income; his mother, he now realized, had been the main attraction. She had taught him little ditties which he had sat there and sung, oblivious to the double entendres and enjoying the raucous reaction of the customers. He shuddered at still another recollection of the oft repeated account, accompanied by hilarity, of the circumstances of his entry into the world. His mother had left home at 15, gotten pregnant, then married, and had given birth to him at the ripe old age of 16. His father, 19 at the time, rather than staying at the hospital with his bride, had gone out and gotten drunk.

            “Where do you think you’re going?!”

            Jack braced himself once again for the onslaught, this time from the direction of the kitchen.

            “I’m leaving, Mama – I told you that. I just can’t take it around here any more! I’m moving out.”

            “O no you don’t! Who do you think you are?!”

            “I’m 17 – two years older than you were when you left home! I got a mind of my own. I figure I can decide what’s best for me. Outta my way!”

            “I’ll do no such thing! I oughtta . . .”

“MELODY! Where’s my shavin’ cream! Why do you always let me run outta shavin’ cream! What’s a man gotta do around here to get some attention, for [bleep] sake!” The stepdad in the bathroom was oblivious to the crisis in the kitchen.

“How’m I s’posed to know when yer outta shavin’cream! When yer out you write it on the shoppin’ list!”

“I told you I was getting’ low! Why ain’t that enough?! I can’t believe you, woman! How’m I s’posed to get ready for work if I can’t even shave? If I lose my job again your [bleep] is grass, hear me?!”

“My [bleep]! You didn’t put it on the shopping list . . .”

Jeremy stood up and forced himself to remain calm, sending a silent plea heavenward for strength. How did I ever think I could put up with this for another summer? He felt his thoughts being led toward the bishop of his youth, who had found his name as a child of record on the ward membership list when Jeremy had been about 13. The bishop had sent the Scoutmaster, who had come by and invited him to Scouts and to church. That simple act of compassion and courage had made the difference, and he had become active, involved, baptized, and had served a mission when the time came. Tears of gratitude momentarily filled his eyes as he once again felt why he had come home – in response to an impression that he would be able to touch a loved one for good – a younger brother or sister, perhaps – the way he had been blessed by his Scoutmaster.

The seventeen-year-old in crisis didn’t make it, but the younger ones all came: giggle – settle down! – poke – tickle – bribe with the promise of refreshments – opening song – giggle – prayer – poke – threatening stare – feigned contrition – review last week’s lesson on faith. Repentance was tonight’s topic.

How long she had been standing there he did not know. Near the end of the lesson he sensed something and turned to meet the gaze of his mother, who was propping up the door frame. Her arms were folded across her now-ample midriff – caked-on make-up, tell- tale signs of “firm foundation” undergarments showing through her nylon dress, once bright blue, a study in how not to preserve one’s youth.

“Hah!” Her voice was loud and grating. “Well, one thing’s for sure. It’s too [bleep] late for me!”

“No, Mama.” Jeremy spoke with a long-latent tenderness that surprised him. “It’s not too late for you. Not for anybody.”

She met his gaze an instant longer, then jerked her head away, her too-blonde tresses arching fan-like behind her as she disappeared down the hall.

Her mascara had started to run.