"Fina-fricking-lly!" I exclaimed, pulling off my tie as I walked through the front door of my family's house.
"Watch your language, Seth," my mother warned, following behind me in one of her best dresses, a bright blue affair with a shawl draped over her shoulders.
"I'm sorry," I replied, not disingenuously. "It's just that Dad makes us stay for so long after the service ends. The congregation members are interested in talking to the pastor, not the pastor's family. And I hate wearing ties."
"I know, I know," Mom assured me. "But we have to stay for the sake of appearances. Now go ahead and change if you want, I'm going to start the oven for dinner."
"OK," I replied, starting my way up the stairs, grateful that another Sunday service was behind me.
Overlooking the stair landing was a family portrait, depicting a father and a mother along with a young son and daughter. All of them were wearing the clothes that were both literally and figuratively their Sunday best.
You see, I am Seth, the eight year old boy in that picture. It had been a decade since that photo was taken, and I was now an 18 year old recent high school graduate. It was summer and I had decided to take a gap year while figuring out exactly what I wanted to do for college. Not that there was any doubt in my parents' minds on that subject.
To understand why and to understand my family, you have to start with my father, the older man in the portrait. His name was Adam, and he was a Christian minister as his father had been and his father had been. Being a man of the cloth had, in essence, been the family business going back at least six generations.
My grandfather and father had both served at the local church in a small town in the American South. I won't say what town or even which state, but suffice it to say that it is one of those really rural areas that's deeply conservative, religious, and about 99.999 percent white.
It is the kind of place where the family of a preacher is treated almost like royalty. That does come with certain perks; authority figures are often willing to give you the benefit of the doubt when you get in trouble, for instance. But it also comes with certain expectations, like being seen but not heard before, during, and long after Sunday services.
Me and my sister Grace, who's older than me by about four years, both chaffed under those expectations. We were children of the internet age, and got a lot more exposure to the wider world via social media and other outlets than our parents' generation did. I wouldn't call us liberals or atheists, but our political and religious views didn't really match up with the rest of our town's.
That was the reason why Grace had elected to go to college on the other side of the state from our hometown. She was in a five year nursing program, so she was now a single year away from graduating with her degree.
Unfortunately for me, I was under significantly different pressures than she was. Because she was a daughter, Grace wasn't expected by our parents to become a preacher. Chalk it up to old fashioned sexism or tradition or whatever, but my parents expected me, as my father's son, to be the seventh man in the family line to take up the cloth. I didn't really want to though, not that I ever had the guts to tell my parents that. So they assumed that my indecision about college was over which seminary program I wanted to go to, when in reality it was about what I wanted to do instead of seminary.
I had been staring at that portrait for an extended period, pondering that very issue, when the front door opened.
"Evangeline, I'm home," my father said as he entered, calling my mother by her given name.
"The oven's on for dinner," my mother replied, walking up the bottom few steps of the stairs. "I'm going to change out of this dress while it's heating up."
My father nodded and walked to the living room, no doubt to put his feet up and read newspapers while he waited for dinner to be ready. He always locked himself in his study to work on his next sermon during the latter parts of the week, so there always more newspapers piling up for him to catch up on once Sunday was past.
"What you looking at?" my mother asked me as she reached the landing, where I was still staring at the family portrait.
"Oh, just...thinking," I replied, tiptoeing around the subject of my own doubts.
My mother turned her eyes to that decade old photo, slowly nodding her head. "Yeah, that picture is a little out of date. We should do a new one next time your sister's in town. You've both grown so much."
"Yeah, sure," I replied, in the back of mind wondering if she would really approve of the way in which Grace and I had both grown over the previous ten years.
"Come on, move your feet," my mother ordered, gesturing for me to continue the path up the stairs.
"Oh, sorry," I replied, realizing that I was blocking her way. I hurried up the stairs and to my room. I closed the door behind me, eager to separate myself from my parents and the weight of their expectations, even if only for a moment.
***
After I had changed my clothes to something more comfortable and casual and after my mother had finished cooking, I was called down to the dining room to join in the family meal. We didn't always eat together as a family, but we always did for dinner on Sunday. To hear my mother tell it, it was the first chance every week for us to be a family again after two or three days of my father holing himself up in his study, preparing for his next sermon.
For me though, any meal with my parents was endlessly awkward, afraid that I might say the wrong thing and betray my inner doubts to my parents. That's why I'd become used to these meals being silent since Grace left for college. Iwas surprised when my father actually spoke to me during this meal.
"Have you given any thought on where you want to go after your gap year?" he asked me.
"Hm?" I grunted, a forkful of food in my mouth. I hurried to swallow it to answer him. "I'm...not sure. There's a lot of...variables to consider."
"I understand," my father began, a comment that almost caught me off guard. Had I been giving my parents too little credit?
"I dealt with a lot of indecision over this when I was your age," he continued. "Picking the best seminary program for you can take some time, but I'm sure you'll figure it out."
Of course I hadn't given my parents too little credit. They were still the same ignorant, presumptuous assholes they'd always been. I silently berated myself for that thought. Whatever I thought of my parents, I still loved them, and I understood that they were the products of their environments as much as anybody else.
"Actually," I began as an idea popped up in my head. Unfortunately, the words had started coming out before the idea had reached completion, leaving an awkward silence for my parents to wait in.
"Yes, son?" my mother prompted me.
"Um," I continued, getting my bearings. "I was actually wondering if I could live with Grace for a while." While my sister would come back home during summers for her first couple of years of college, by her third year she had started earning enough as a waitress to rent her own place year round. Now she only came back for the holidays, and if my parents agreed to my request then it would at least get me out from under their thumb for a while
My father leaned back in his seat, thinking. "Yes, there are some big programs at the colleges near her. It could be a good opportunity for you to see what they have to offer." My hopes soared, wondering if my hastily put together plan was going to work. "Though," my father continued, causing my heart to sink. "I don't really agree with some of the doctrines that they teach at those schools." Ah, there was something I hadn't thought of when I hastily came up with this scheme: my father's narrow minded views.
"Oh, honey, let him go," my mother interrupted. "At the very least it will be chance to see what life away from us will be like and if he wants to stay near home or not." She put her hand on my mine, adding, "and in any case, I think spending time with your sister is a wonderful idea."
If there was one thing I could count on my mother for, it was wanting to keep the family as close together as possible. She had been heartbroken when Grace announced her decision to move cross-state for school, but the prospect of my sister and I being together was like catnip for her.
I turned my attention to my father, because it was his stamp of approval that would determine if all this worked or not. Because, you know, conservative family values and all that.
"Very well," my father said, in a tone that communicated that he wasn't all that enthused by the idea, but that he was at least willing to follow through on it for me and my mother's sake. "If you pack your bags tonight, I can take you tomorrow."
"Really?" I asked, surprised that my father was following through on this so quickly.
"Yes," he replied. "It's almost a full day for the trip there and back. I have no other engagements this week, so I would like to do it sooner so that I have time to prepare my next sermon after I get back."
"I'll start packing as soon as I'm done eating," I said. My father nodded in return.
"Oh, this is so exciting!" my mother exclaimed. "I'm going to call Grace," she said, standing up and all but skipping out of the room. No doubt she was going to get her cell phone, she never allowed them at the family dinner table as a matter of policy.
I, for my part, just kept on eating, unable to suppress my smile.
***
Late the next morning I was sitting on the bottom steps of the stairs, tapping my foot on the floor as my luggage laid strewn about my feet. Despite my father saying that he wanted to leave the house sooner rather than later, he sure wasn't acting like it. He was instead sitting in his easy chair, reading more from the newspaper.
"Just be patient, honey," my mother said to me.
"I'm sorry, but can't we just get going?" I asked.
"Honey, you know that your father is a creature of habit," my mother replied. "He's not leaving until today's mail arrives."
I rolled my eyes, having had more than enough of my father's ingrained habits. "Can you check for it again?"
My mother sighed. "Sure thing, honey," she said with a mixture of annoyance and care before walking out the front door to go to our mailbox. After a few short minutes she returned with a bunch of envelopes in her hand and a package under her arm.
"Mail's here," she called out as she checked everything for names and addresses.
"Good," my father stated, walking out of the living room. "I'll read those in my study," he added, grabbing for the envelopes.
"Nuh-uh, mister," my mother reprimanded him, pulling the mail out of his reach. "You promised your son that you would take him to Grace's today and you will. You'll get these when you get back."
My father sighed, seeing that this was not an argument worth having. "Very well," he said before grabbing my duffel bag and walking out the front door with it.
