Burning Up

Burning Up

John Tyler

Creative Nonfiction

“So that means dad’s going to hell, right?”
“No, no, no! It just means… it means… well, I don’t know what it means, but your father is not going to hell.” Angela backed away from her son and eased her backside up against the wooden countertop that encircled their kitchen. Not thinking about where she was maneuvering, Angela brushed up against the portion of the counter that had been worn raw from too many tenants, snagged her trousers, and right away cursed her thoughtlessness.
“Shit!”
“What?” Christopher asked.
“No… nothing.”
Christopher gave Angela little time to recover from her mishap, “But doesn’t the Bible say that if you don’t believe in God then you’re going to hell?”
“Well, sometimes there’s exceptions. And your father doesn’t not believe, so much as he doesn’t know.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.”
Had there been a window in the kitchen of their already cramped two-bedroom bungalow, Angela would have jumped out of it. Christopher was asking questions again, and Angela’s deodorant wasn’t doing its job. It didn’t help that there were cornish hens baking in the oven. She could feel beads of sweat drip down the small of her back only to be soaked up by linen pants that were ill equipped to do the job.
“I just don’t understand,” Christopher said, pursuing the topic and pushing Angela to her breaking point. He had a keen ability to pick moments when Angela was caught off guard or preoccupied when asking his theological questions. Christopher’s nine year-old inquisitiveness was a source of pride for Angela during parent/teacher conferences, but it was a bane in her own home. She knew to expect the unexpected from her only son, but had Angela been honest with herself she would note that she’d never be ready for this sort of question.
“Look, can’t we talk about this later? Your father’s going to be home soon, I’ve got to finish fixing dinner and it’s burning up in here.”
“Mom, this is important,” Christopher bellowed. Normally he would have received a time out and no dessert for that tone, but he had clearly painted Angela into a corner both literally and figuratively. Christopher’s wire-rimmed glasses fell down the bridge of his nose and balanced on the its tip during that last remark, giving Christopher the appearance of a man five times his age. Angela saw this and thought how he looked exactly like her husband when his glasses did this. He was like her little/old man. This image put Angela beside herself with sentimentality and as a result she let his outburst continue. Christopher could now get away with most anything. “Dad might burn in hell, so I just want to clear things up before he gets home.”
Angela’s shoulders slackened and she let the countertop catch her as she fell against it. She never broached the subject of her husband’s non-belief with her own children in much the same way she and Darren never broached the topic with each other. The two had been inseparable since their first meeting over undercooked pasta at a friend’s dinner party nearly ten years prior. Darren was at first compelled by Angela’s blonde, bobbed hair – sensible but seductive – and Angela couldn’t get enough of Darren’s dark features and bespeckled visage. For each, the other was so different from anything they had known before. While Angela was busy being raised by waspy educators, Darren was equally busy being raised by Jewish intelligentsia. At an early age, Darren rejected the faith of his family and set out to find a mate who would share his beliefs about the absurdity of religion. Then he found Angela.
Somehow, despite her fervent beliefs, the two had been able to base nine years of marriage on an agreement to disagree over theology. What Darren never realized was that this agreement was far more troubling to his wife than it ever was to him. Darren saw religion as a fun hobby that his wife participated in: much like crafting or scrapbooking. But for Angela there had been countless sleepless nights in the early years of marriage. Her mother was on constant breakdown watch, waiting for the next three a.m. call, just so that she could tell her eldest daughter, “Yes, you did make the right decision. Now go back to bed.”

“Fine, we’ll talk, but why, may I ask, are you bringing this up right now,” Angela asked Christopher.
“I was at soccer practice after school today and Brian Sambello was talking how his brother told him that their uncle was going to Hell because he doesn’t believe in God. He said he’s an alienist.”
“An atheist?”
“Yeah, an atheist. And when I told him that my Dad didn’t believe he started saying how we better watch out because you, me and Molly are gonna be in heaven one day and Dad won’t be. He said he knows it’s true too because he sees us in Church every weekend and his Mom always talks about how Dad isn’t there.”
“Don’t listen to that Brian boy. Plus, his mother is a nut case.”
Angela neglected to mention that she too had received the same lecture from Patty Sambello. It was at a Kroger (aisle ten, canned goods) when Angela stopped to say hello to Patty who she just as easily could of avoided because Patty was ass-deep in a shelf of Bush’s Baked Beans. However, this being Patricia Sambello: St. James the Less’ official potluck organizer, Girl Scout troupe leader extraordinaire, and (according to Angela’s husband’s recaps of locker room rumors) whore in the bedroom and lady on the street… Angela felt it was the “Christian thing” to say hello.
Angela had come down aisle ten for the same reason as Patty. The beans were on special, at four for a dollar, but now they were all gone and Patty had the last can in her manicured hand as she rose from her crouch.
“Hi Patty. Oh, looks like they’re all out. I guess the early bird really does get the worm.” Angela was ashamed the second she heard the words dribble from her lips. She detested ridiculous proverbs, but somehow speaking with a person like Patty Sambello inspired these inane sayings.
“I’ve always known that to be the case Angie and that’s why I’m never late.”
“I wish I could say the same for myself, but you know how time flies.” Angela couldn’t stop the ridiculous phrases from spilling forth. It was as if the mere sight of Patty was the bomb that was going to release all her uncultured ways into the world, drowning small villages with precious colloquialisms.
“Well, I hope you’re not teaching Christopher and Molly the same ways. Punctuality is key.”
“I totally agree,” Angela offered, hoping to move on to less accusatory conversation. Angela was fascinated by the way in which she completely caved when faced by Patty. She knew first hand about Patty’s hateful bad-mouthing and her all around fake ways, but it was always out of the question to call Patty on any of it. Better to just be polite: Smile and nod, smile and nod.
“Actually I was maybe thinking about picking up some ingredients for a cake for this weekend’s potluck. Do you have any preferences?” Angela asked in the most saccharine tone she could manage.
“Well the sweets are all accounted for, which you would know if you’d attended the meeting yesterday.”
“Patty, you know I have to pick the kids up everyday. I’m not about to let them walk home in our neighborhood. I just can’t make it to a five o’clock food meeting.”
“Oh sweetie, don’t get upset, of course I know. We’ve all got our priorities.”
Angela could taste the distinct flavor of tin in her mouth as she bit down on the backside of her right cheek and began to draw blood. She momentarily thought about what it would feel like to lunge at Patty’s blouse, ripping through the white silk and bury her claw into the cavity beneath Patty’s breast where a heart supposedly resided. If Angela’s hand found one when she got there, she decided she’d promptly rip out the festering mess and shove it down Mrs. Sambello’s throat.
“No I’m not upset. I’m just busy. Look, I’ve got to get going. Darren’s going to class tonight and he’s going to have to use the car.” Strike number three. Angela mentioned her husband’s name and she knew this was a faux pas worse than any clichéd proverb. Patty actually liked proverbs. She hated Darren.
“Yes Darren. How is he these days? You know it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I think it was at Molly’s baptism? Yes it had to be. I still don’t know how you got him to come to that, what with him not respecting your religion and all.”
“Darren likes my religion fine. He just chooses not to attend church with me and the children.” Angela thought how absurd it was that she was now defending her husband’s decision to not participate in one of the most important aspects of her life. Had she been talking to her own mother or one of her friends, she most definitely would have been crucifying Darren for his refusal to show up, but up against Patty, Angela had to play devil’s advocate.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Patty said. “Why, he’d be sitting right there in a pew for everyone to see if he liked attending. You know, Brian actually asked me a couple of weeks ago why all the other Daddies come to church with their families and Mr. Hagen doesn’t.” As Patty began her story she settled into her newfound home in aisle ten and shifted her ample polyester pants into the center of the lane, blocking all other customers from passing. In the midst of listening to Patty’s diatribe Angela neglected to notice as an elderly woman came up behind Patty, attempted to ask her to move in a weak voice and, upon failing, launched her cart into Patty’s. There was a clap of metal on metal that cause Patty to back up against a precariously balanced display of canned tuna, but much to Angela’s dismay there was no mishap.
“I’m so sorry Ma’am. Why I didn’t even see you there,” Patty said.
“If you’d shut up and move your ass out of the way, maybe you would,” the old woman said continuing down the aisle, not waiting to hear what, if anything, Patty had to retort.
“My goodness, what a wicked woman. Can you believe that Angela? That lady needs Christ in her life is what she needs. Anyway, as I was saying…”
There was no doubt in Angela’s mind that Patty was a truly despicable woman, scum of the earth, bitch extraordinaire, but this didn’t stop Angela from noting how even when Patty was delivering her hateful rhetoric, she managed to look luminescent all the same. Patty’s olive hued skin radiated a glow that Angela had only before seen on television and she showed none of the tell-tale signs of stay at home motherhood: under eye circles, ratty hair, or disheveled clothing. Nonetheless, Angela figured their conversation could not be salvaged and she wanted to keep her ire up so she attempted to end it as soon as possible. “Actually, I really do have to go.”
“No, but Angela, that’s just what I’m talking about. That woman right there. She doesn’t have Christ in her life! You don’t want Darren to end up some wicked old man who goes around bashing innocent bystanders with grocery carts, do you?” Angela knew that Patty thought she was doing the world a service by attempting to convert every person on the face of the planet to her way of thinking, but Angela knew this to be a futile effort. In Angela’s mind, Patty Sambello had it so easy: fall in love with your Catholic MBA sweetheart, marry in your audacious white gown, and have 2.5 perfect little children. Angela wanted these things too, but when she thought about trading off her atheist husband and questioning children for that life, her eyes began to well up.
“Darren’s not going to end up some wicked old man, Patty. The only people he hits with shopping carts are the ones who get in his way when he’s trying to buy some god damned twenty-five cent baked beans!” Angela’s face flushed and she gripped her cart so as not to let Patty see that her hands had begun shaking violently. Phrases like “primal rage” and “out of character” flashed in her head. Angela believed herself to be a “good Christian,” whatever that meant, and she was sick of all the Patties of the world telling her why marrying and having children with an atheist was a bad idea. Her parents had initially disapproved, her friends asked her what she would teach her children, and her former priest had unabashedly told her she was a heretic. She knew she was risking her reputation at church, but she was fairly confident that they weren’t going to excommunicate her.
“Fuck you Patty,” Angela told Mrs. Sambello, while still shaking inside. Angela thought she might officially burst into tears, but before Patty could respond and before Angela lost all semblance of composure, she backed up her cart and 180’d her way out of the canned goods aisle.

* * *

“Mom, just give it to me straight. I wanna know. Is Dad going to hell or not?”
Angela wanted to say no, but she ultimately didn’t know the answer and the last thing she wanted to do was lie about something like this to her children. She’d always felt as if she was betraying them slightly each Christmas and Easter morning, but at least Santa and the Easter bunny bring presents. Satan doesn’t.
“Christopher, I don’t know… I just do not know. Nobody knows what’s going to happen when we die. I may be right, or your father may be right, but who’s to say right now? All I know is that I choose to go to church because it helps me live my life, and I married your father with the belief that he would not be burning for all eternity.”
“That’s not an answer.” Christopher stepped away from Angela and quickly turned on his heel, while simultaneously managing to roll his eyes and “tsk” Angela all at once. It was a move so rife with drama that Angela had premonitions of his adolescence yet to come. All the arguing, all the disbelief, all the questions. She would never be able to change Patty’s mind, and right here and now she wasn’t making any headway with Christopher.
Christopher stomped off toward his room, but before slamming the door he ceremoniously threw his checkered red and black backpack out into the dining area. Angela was at this time still leaning against the wooden counter watching her world go by. She decided not to punish Christopher this time. There be plenty of opportunities for that later and she thought he’d sort of punished himself enough already.
The only response Angela heard when she knocked on Christopher’s door ten minutes later was no more sympathetic. “Mom, why won’t you answer me?”
“Christopher, I’ve already answered you and that’s just it… there is no answer and I’m not gonna lie to you.”
“Whatever, there’s got to be an answer.”
Angela leaned up against Christopher’s door, caressing the oak and speaking into it, wondering if she was doing a better job of comforting an inanimate object rather than her own son.
“Christopher, if there is an answer, this is the best one you’re gonna get.”