She pages through the Bible, which she keeps handy on a sideboard next to the dining room table. She reads from Leviticus 18:22: You shall not lie with a man as with a woman. And to corroborate that point she goes to a letter that the Apostle Paul wrote to the Romans 1:26–27: For this reason God gave them up to vile passions. For even their women exchanged the natural use for what is against nature. Likewise also men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust for one another, men with men committing what is shameful, and receiving in themselves the penalty of their error which was due. She is about to read from another letter that the same Paul wrote to the Corinthians I 6:9–10, but Obed has had enough. He declares that Paul was obsessed with homosexuality. He must have been a closet homosexual as is the case with many homophobes. Ruth is scandalized by this blasphemy, especially because it is uttered in the presence of a visitor. Obed needs to pray to save his soul from eternal damnation.
She feels very sorry for me after I make the mistake of telling her that in South Africa gay rights are no longer an issue since they are protected by the constitution. In that country the courts have pronounced that the common law stipulation that marriage is between man and woman is unconstitutional, and have given the government two years for parliament to amend the law to allow for gay marriages.
“Todoloo! Your country is Sodom and Gomorrah,” she proclaims. “I’m glad you came to the good ol’ U. S. of A. to escape the death and pestilence that the Lord is surely gonna visit on Africa.”
“On South Africa, to be exact,” I correct her, hoping that narrowing God’s wrath to only one country will comfort her a bit. “The rest of Africa doesn’t have such laws. I think the rest of Africa would rather agree with you.”
But Ruth hasn’t finished with John Kerry yet. He is a traitor, she says. He even speaks French, a fact he tried to hide but that was exposed by the vigilant Fox News. He is so wishy-washy he is likely to be a drinker of French wine and an eater of French toast when all good people the world over are boycotting everything French. Didn’t we all see him on television? He looked ridiculous creeping around in the wilderness shooting geese in order to prove that he was not a liberal.
She breaks out laughing at the strange image of a camouflaged and gun-toting Mr. Kerry bumbling in the woods, which obviously is still quite vivid in her mind. I can see what Ruth is talking about. The man tried to play to a jingoistic gallery but it did not applaud. It knew he was a fake. He only wanted to win their favor and as soon as he got it he would surely lead the country down a ruinous path of personal freedoms.
No one interrupts Ruth when she is on her political platform, except an occasional snide remark from Obed, who obviously does not share his mama’s politics but would rather not prolong the agony of sitting through another harangue by debating with her. Mahlon Quigley, on the other hand, just sits there and smiles. I have caught Ruth stealing a glance at him and breaking into a soft smile of her own, even in the middle of her fulminations against Kerry. He returns a sly look and the smile on his lips creeps to his eyes. It is obvious to me that the two are still very much in love.
At first I found Mahlon Quigley’s silence unnerving. I am getting used to it now although I still find it uncomfortable that no one attempts to draw him into any conversation. I wonder what thoughts are brewing in his head. What memories. Ruth told me the other day that there are things her Mr. Quigley remembers and there are things he has chosen to forget. One of the things he has tried to forget but that stubbornly continues to haunt his memory is the fact that his mother was unjustly confined to the mental hospital at The Ridges and no one in the family saw her again. She is one of the numbers on the headstones in the cemetery. Could that smile be hiding a quietly seething anger? Of course this is mere speculation on my part. Perhaps I am desperately searching for a motive for his aloofness. Those unsmiling but soft and compassionate eyes do not seem to be capable of any anger.
“It must be fun spending some time at the Center with your mates, Mr. Quigley, talking about the good old days,” I say, trying my best to draw him out of his private world into the communion of his family.
“As you can see,” he says without looking at me, “I’m old and decrepit. That’s a crime in this country.”
Ruth jumps to his defense: “Mr. Quigley is just feeling sorry for himself. He ain’t old at all.” And she smiles reassuringly at him.
The phone rings and Obed reaches for it. It is for me.
“You getting calls already?” Ruth wonders.
It is Beth Eddy. She withdrew the complaint, but with great difficulty. The police were at first adamant that they would not go along with her messing up an open-and-shut case that they had built against the perpetrator. They said they were still going to charge Obed with breaking and entering. She had to claim that she was drunk and didn’t quite remember what exactly happened: she must have opened for him, so he didn’t break into the building. I am amazed that she should go so far as to lie to the police to protect Obed. When it became clear to the police that she, the only witness to Obed’s crime, would not be a reliable witness they reluctantly withdrew the case.
It was more difficult to convince her sisters at the sorority because they were making a very good point. We live in a society with high rates of violence against women. Rapists are lurking in every corner and a new sexual assault is reported at least every month. Many incidents of sexual abuse and rape go unreported because of the intimate nature of the crime. It is part of the program of women’s organizations in Athens to encourage victims to come forward. After a long debate the sisters agreed to give Obed a chance. Again I am surprised that she went out of her way to give such a spirited defense of the scoundrel. But I keep that observation to myself.
She is the sorority’s judicial board head and sisterhood co-chair, she adds, and was therefore well placed to convince them to let Obed paint the building, which does need a coat or two.
“So, your friend can paint the house if he wants to,” she says.
“Not if he wants to, Beth. He has to, whether he likes it or not.”
As soon as I return to the table Obed asks anxiously: “What’s up, man?”
“Don’t worry, everything is fine,” I assure him.
“What have you two been up to?” Ruth wants to know.
“Never mind, Mama, it’s man’s talk,” says Obed. He is obviously gloating over the fact that there is something that is only between us men, to which his mother is not privy. He displays a self-satisfied grin. But Ruth is not impressed.
“You know how to work magic, man,” says an excited Obed. “I wanna be a professional mourner like you one day.”
He may be joking, but this is not the first time he has indicated that he is attracted to my vocation and to my austere ways. He has told me that I was chosen and placed on his path that night of the parade of creatures by the spirits of his ancestors…which, of course, is ridiculous. It was when he was happy with me. He regrets why he ever brought me here when he thinks I side with Ruth against him. Which I never do. I only tell the truth the way I see it, and most times it is against him because he is in the wrong.
“That’s a silly ambition, boy,” says Ruth, and then in a lowered voice she asks: “How’s Orpah? Did she eat?”