In Search of Eden (3 page)

“Bye, teacher,” Roger said with a squinting grin, pushing those glasses back with his small hand.

Dorrie felt another twist of anxiety. He was so small and vulnerable. She looked at his mother. The woman's bangs hung down in her eyes. She was much too young to have such a responsibility. Who was she really? Who had qualified her for this? You ought to have to pass a test or something in order to raise kids. They were such little souls, children, and so desperately helpless.

“Yeah, thanks,” the girl said brightly, and Dorrie had a flash of hope that she was, in fact, an older sister with her platform shoes and short skirt.

“Look, Mom,” Roger said, squashing her hopes. He held up his artwork as the two of them walked away. Dorrie forcibly put Roger out of her mind, repeating a familiar refrain.
He is not your child. He is not your child.

She turned around to survey the room. It was a disaster, as usual, so she took a few minutes to put it in order, then turned out the lights and left the classroom.

She walked the few blocks to the bus stop and paced to stay warm. It was bitter cold. Sometime since recess, it had begun to snow. Tiny, mean flakes hurtled sideways through the frigid air. The bus arrived, warm and well lit inside. Dorrie took a seat near the middle and looked around. Her eyes brushed over the middle-aged men and college boys without thinking, coming to rest on a young girl. She looked about eleven. She was sitting with an older man who looked a little dissolute. Dorrie frowned. She took another look at the girl's face and was somewhat reassured. The child looked happy enough. Yes. She supposed so. She had brown hair and pale skin, and her pink coat looked dirty but warm. She studied the girl's features but looked away before she crossed the line to rudeness.

She deliberately turned her gaze out the window. They passed
a bookstore, a few coffee shops, a car dealership, and after a few more turns, the church that had once been a theater. The Father's House it was called now instead of the Rialto. Services Sunday at 10
A.M
. and Thursday at 7:00
P.M
. Open each morning for prayer. This week's message title was featured on the other side of the marquee. “A Place at Abba's Table,” it said. She didn't know who Abba was, but the image captured her at once. It would be a good place. She knew that much.

The traffic slowed. A line of brake lights lit up the gray dusk. There was an accident up ahead. Someone had probably spun out. Maybe a visitor to Minneapolis, someone not used to driving in the snow. She thought of all the places she had lived where winters were serious. There had been that winter in Chicago, a short stay in Bozeman, Montana, and the year in New York City. Yes, she'd seen her share of snow.

The bus wound around a few more streets. She pulled the cord. The bus groaned to a halt. She stood, wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck, and got off.

Dorrie stepped into the dark apartment and tensed.

“Hello, Frodo,” she said into the gloom. He was here. She knew he was.

Thump!
He pounced at her feet, and she started. She cringed as she turned on the light, but there was no mouse corpse slung over her shoe today, only Frodo himself, bored and a little angry at her for leaving him all alone again. She leaned over and tried to pet him, but he stalked away in a huff.

“You'll get over it,” she told him, giving up her attempt at affection. She hung up her coat, put down her book bag and purse, then filled his dish with dried food and replenished his water. Not that he was hungry, for the floor was littered with his breakfast.

She didn't know what she would do with him when she moved to another town, another job, another apartment. For she knew she would. She didn't ever
plan
to leave places, but then
again, she didn't plan to stay, either. It just seemed that whenever things started feeling cluttered or marred, she wanted to start over somewhere fresh. It was like turning over a new sheet of paper in her scrapbook.

Her pattern was the only thing regular about her. She would travel, work here and there, then go home to work in the Sip and Bite until she saved up for another six or nine months of travel. She couldn't imagine herself getting married and settling down like some of her friends from high school had done. Not that there was anything wrong with the boys they had chosen. It was just that they were so satisfied to stay in Nashville, working at the Jiffy Lube and bowling every Friday night. She knew that if she joined up with one of those men, she would never go anywhere, either. She would never go to Spain or France or any of the other places in those pictures she'd pasted in her journal. Every now and then someone would come close to convincing her, but then a part of her would become restless and drift away.

“You need to grow up, Dorrie,”
her mama would say.
“You're twenty-six going on fifteen.”
And she supposed Mama was right. Even about her so-called age. Fifteen
was
the year everything had fallen apart, so to speak. She knew that some part of her was still back there, waiting for . . . what? She had no idea, but she wasn't getting any younger, and she supposed she needed to prove, even if only to herself, that she was not going to end up bitter and alone like Mama.

Her life had certainly followed a different course than her mother's, a fact that Mama was prone to point out to her on any given occasion with a definite lack of admiration. Mama was married with a baby by the time she was out of her teens. And here Dorrie was at twenty-six, still rattling around. She would go somewhere and work, sometimes renting a room, sometimes an apartment, sometimes staying in hostels.

She just moved along until she couldn't find another job or her money ran out. And, of course, the destination she had been saving for all her life loomed before her as an unfulfilled dream—a
trip to the Basque country, that small bit of paradise situated between France and Spain high in the Pyrenees Mountains. Her father had come from there, and just the names of the cities gave her a thrill. Vizcaya, Alava, Guipuzcoa. She would go there someday. She
would!
Maybe she would hunt down her daddy and take him, too, she mused, a slight smile passing across her lips. She poured herself a glass of water and went to the window, watching the silent snow.

She supposed she had gotten her love of wandering from her father. He had loved showing her pictures of his travels, and finally, when life with Mama got too tiring, he had resumed them. He'd sent her postcards for a while. She had saved them all. They were pasted safely in her scrapbook: scenes of Tokyo, the Philippines, London, Tibet. Then they had abruptly stopped.

“He's probably in jail,” Mama had pronounced.

Dorrie smiled, remembering how he used to read her his favorite poem. She remembered bits and pieces of it now. “Vagabond's House,” it was called.

When I have a house . . . as I sometime may

I'll suit my fancy in every way.

I'll fill it with things that have caught my eye

in drifting from Iceland to Molokai . . .

My house will stand on the side of a hill

by a slow, broad river, deep and still,

With a tall lone pine on guard nearby

where the birds can sing and the storm winds cry.

She smiled and could see Daddy's handsome face, his dark snapping eyes. He blew in like a wind himself, bringing life and joy, and then abruptly he would be gone. And once he just didn't come back again.

“Good riddance,”
Mama had said.

Dorrie had grieved for a year. Then, Daddy's DNA asserting
itself, she had embarked on a trip of her own. She'd known Daddy was from somewhere east of them, so she had used her baby-sitting money and had gotten all the way to Sulphur Springs on the Greyhound bus before the police had picked her up.

“Where do you think you're going?”
the kind, grandfatherly Tennessee State Trooper had asked her, gripping her hand firmly as he escorted her into the waiting car.

“I'm going to find my daddy,”
she had said, jutting out her chin.

“Well.”
He had looked at her sympathetically as he had returned her home, perhaps already having encountered Mama.

She walked over to her Christmas tree now, a pathetic little thing she had dug out from under the fuller, more expensive trees. The man in that poem had a paperweight made of a meteor that had seared and scorched the sky one night. She had loved that part so much that one day Daddy had appeared with a small piece of spiky gray rock.

“Here you are, baby girl,”
he'd said.
“Now you've got your very own meteor.”
This year she had taken it from her jewelry box, tied a ribbon around it, and hung it from her Christmas tree. She picked it up now, let it dangle in her hand, and looked at it. She turned it over and tried to imagine it hurtling through space, never stopping, flaming bright and clear in the sky as people watched, then disappearing as suddenly as it had flared up. A shooting star right here in the palm of her hand.

She felt its cold weight and remembered how that poem ended. The vagabond man remembered a place he had missed, something he'd failed to see. He had left his people and his nice house and had set off again. She wondered if that vagabond man had ever found what he was looking for. She carefully let go of the rock, and it swung gently from the bent branch on her tree, still in motion as she walked away.

She paced restlessly around the small room. She opened the refrigerator, but nothing looked good to eat. She fixed herself a cup of tea, turned on the television, then sat down at the table, pulling her latest unfinished drawing toward her. She was always
sketching and scribbling, as her mother called it. This week's project was a Christmas scene, or at least a quick pencil sketch beginning of one. There was a beautifully decorated tree, warm candlelight, children playing on the floor, all viewed from outside the window, framed by the panes. She filled in detail now with ink. She would go back again and do a watercolor wash. She worked for several hours, until the only figures left to draw were the children. She outlined their faces and features, and as she did, the thoughts she'd been evading all day arrived on her with a thud. She felt tears rise up in spite of her resolve. She went to the bathroom, got a tissue and blew her nose, splashed some cold water on her face, then went back to her work, but it was no good. She had lost her concentration. She would finish it tomorrow, she promised herself, pushing the paper away from her.

She sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of life behind her. What did she have to show for all those years? She thought about her life and had a sudden sense of overwhelming . . . litter. She sighed again. Usually when this feeling struck, it forecast a change of address, the only remedy she could come up with.

She went back to the window and stared, her mind going back to the theater marquee with the beckoning words—“A Place at Abba's Table.”

After a short walk she stood in front of the imposing building, a huge brick-and-marble monument to Serious Religion. She felt suspicious and wary. She had never found anything but condemnation and rules in the church. Well, she could stand it for a night, she supposed, and she started up the stairs. She opened the heavy double doors, made her way into the sanctuary, and found a spot on the back pew.

The speaker was a fatherly-looking man in his fifties, Dorrie guessed. He was medium height and portly with gray temples. He wore nondescript suit pants and a shirt and sweater. Ordinary
in the extreme, except that he had a way of looking out over all of them just as a father would look upon his family. There was a tenderness in his gaze, a gentleness in his voice that made her want to move closer. She shook her head at her gullibility and stayed where she was.

They sang a few songs, the words to which were unfamiliar; then he launched into his sermon. He spoke about someone with a complicated name who was a friend of King David. The child of a friend, actually, who was lame. He was an orphan but had been adopted by the king. He sat at the king's table. Then it seemed to Dorrie as if the speaker was addressing her directly, telling her gently that God wanted to be like that to her. He wanted to be her Abba. Her papa.

“You were made for relationship with Him,” he finished now, in that “in conclusion” tone of voice. “He loves you. Just the way you are. You don't have to be perfect or to strive all the time. He wants to give to you,” he said, “not take things away. You can trust Him.” His eyes were pointed straight into hers, or at least that's how it seemed, and if he had held out his hand just then and beckoned her to come, she might have.

He prayed and she stiffened, waiting for pressure and guilt that never came. He dismissed them with a blessing. The people around her began to rustle, murmur, then chatter. A few people greeted her, but she tried to avoid a conversation. She turned her legs sideways and nodded politely as people clambered over her on their way out. She pretended great interest in the contents of her purse. She looked up front at the pastor. He was standing at the bottom of the speaker's podium, listening as an earnest-looking young man spoke and gestured to him. There were two others milling around, obviously waiting to speak to him. She sat. He patiently worked his way through the people. Still she sat. She had no idea what she wanted to say. Her thoughts weren't coherent enough to formulate a question. Still, she didn't leave. And pretty soon there were just a few clumps of people left talking. The pastor looked at her then. She looked back at him. She should
get up and go forward, but she felt as if her rear end were glued to the polished oak pew. Then he smiled and started toward her. She watched him coming, getting larger as he approached.