Roads in the Dark

[895 Words]          

              Mama said she’d raised me better. Ain’t no son of hers going off to be a fork-tongued attorney.
         
                “The devil’s work, that’s what it is,” she said without blinking.

         Her glacial eyes held tight to my gaze. As she rocked her chair into an easy rhythm with her toes tapping the cool concrete beneath the portico, I stood frozen and inarticulate. She could steal the wind from even the fullest sails; a gift, some called it. To my older brothers and me, it was a curse.

         Throughout my undergraduate years at Arizona State, I could hear that same stubbornness grasping in my own voice. Being the youngest and the last to leave home, I had spent more time with her than Darren and Jason. It was also during my junior year in high school that my dad left. Addled and intoxicated, I stumbled home late one night to find her wandering the house as though lost. I braced myself for her inevitable wrath. But, when she saw me, she just started crying and embraced me for what felt like hours, sobbing onto my shoulder as we stood in the darkness.

         It was in those last two years of high school that I began the gradual inheritance of the analytical curse. Of course, I could never openly explain it to her, but my rising potential as an attorney could be directly owed to this perception she awoke in me after all our long nights of conversation. I could never tell her that I saw how her eyes glinted when I would launch into argument with her.

         “There are as many good lawyers as there are bad, mom,” I said, trying to restrain myself. “It’s not all the devil’s work.”

         I hadn’t yet worked up the courage to tell her that somewhere along the way, I started to lose sight of God and religion. It would crush her to know. I guess a part of me was still holding out to the prospect of finding Him again one day. So I would bend my neck and nod when she would fall into preaching His word to me, as though somehow she already knew this change was taking place.

         “I know how thirsty you are for success, son. I’ve always seen more of that in you than the others. That’s what worries me.”

         “That’s what worries you?”

         “People fall into the misconception that the important choices that distinguish right from wrong are always lit up like neon signs pointing either to Heaven or Hell. If it was that easy, then temptation would not be what it is. No, Jeff, the choices are always made in the dark, beneath nothing more than moonlight and stars to illuminate the forks in the road.”

         There happened to be no moon out that night. Ours was a small farming community, so that the Milky Way would shine overhead like a highway full of headlights. The crickets worked their way into an orchestra of chirping from around the lawn.

         Honestly, I liked the way she would talk about spirituality like this. For those fleeting hours of conversation I could see how vividly she sees God and His mysterious ways, and I could live in those moments with vicarious belief. Still, even then, I knew that come tomorrow I would wake up again into skepticism, as though from a peaceful, lilting dream.

         “Jason bought me some night-vision goggles last Christmas,” I said, fighting off a twitching urge to grin. “I promise I’ll wear them to court every day.”

         She gave me that same icy, unblinking look again. Then, shaking her head, she slowly gave way to a sighing grin.

         “No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend, with a dry sense of humor like that.”

         “Ouch, that’s a little harsh, even for you. And who says I can’t get a girlfriend? ‘Can’t’ implies that I’m trying.”

         “Are you…” raising her eyebrows in sudden seriousness.

         “No, mom, I’m not gay.”

         “I would still love you, either way. It’s just that the Bible…”

         “I’m not.”

         The chirping of the crickets hit a crescendo of awkwardness, like the way groups at a party will suddenly raise their voices after overhearing an embarrassing confession from a girl who has had too much to drink. Huddled in their little insect clicks, I could feel them struggling not to stare at me as they discuss the weather and politics in their creaky, pretentious chirps.

         “So…”

         “Jeff.”

         “Yes, mother?”

          “Will you just do something for me first, please, before you start looking into law schools?”

         “Sure.”

         “Will you attend church with me tomorrow, and then pray about whether or not this is the right direction to take? I know you, son, I know that your heart has grown clouded, and your faith uncertain. But will you please just do that one thing for me?”

         I beheld her now in a different light. The icy gaze I knew so well had melted away, and stubbornness softened into an appeal so genuine, I was almost caught off-guard. At that moment, I saw that the curse we shared was just as much a token of gentleness. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like a curse at all.

         “Yes, mother,” I answered with an honesty and resolve that surprised even me. “I will go to church with you, and I will ask God to show me the way.”