Her father was disillusioned not by what had but by what had not happened to him; and as with so many unhappy people, he was defined by his failure. He’d known the call of the church from his childhood and when he came of age had approached the priesthood by running leap. The church did not feel he had a place in their ranks, however; he was discouraged in his efforts, and then sharply discouraged. When Connie’s father demanded to know precisely what the issue was it was explained to him by a parish representative that the men and women of the community didn’t like being around him, didn’t like him, and so it ran contrary to common sense that the church would train and prepare him for a position that would inevitably put him in close contact with said community. “Your faith is evident,” the representative told him. “It’s your social talents, or lack of them, that we take issue with.” Connie’s father received this assessment as a blunt trauma from which he could never recover. Even after he achieved a distance from the church, after he’d married and sired a daughter, there still existed in his mind a fixation, a powerful need for any stripe of revenge that did not diminish with the passage of time.
Connie’s mother proved a steadying presence, and talented at diffusing her husband’s less-healthy inclinations; she allowed him his letters to the editor but drew the line at physical confrontations and one-man demonstrations. Connie spoke of her mother appreciatively, but without love. “That she would choose to give her life to a man like my father tells me she entered into adulthood looking to make compromises, so I never did respect her, but she was comparatively down-to-earth, and her influence over my own life was helpful. Looking back I guess I have a lot to thank her for. Because my childhood experience wasn’t half as risky as my home life is now. After she died, my father was let off his leash.”
Connie’s mother possessed a modest legacy that had long kept their home intact; once she was gone it was revealed by way of the will that the legacy was not so modest after all, which would have been good news were it not for the sting of betrayal that accompanied it. Connie’s father had no inkling that he was a member of the upper-middle rather than the lower-middle class, and he was scandalized that such a thing should have been kept from him. This bad feeling joined forces with his other bad feelings and became one big bad feeling. Free to do as he wished, now, and with all the money he could need for the upkeep of his lifestyle, Connie’s father gave in to his long-suppressed and stranger inclinations.
His demands of his daughter came one at a time, and almost sheepishly. He would bring up this or that concern as though it were only half a thought: “I’ve been wondering if we shouldn’t make some changes to the clothes you wear, Connie.” Once an individual concern was addressed and the change enacted he behaved as if it had always been so and was the norm — and to stray from the norm was sinful, unthinkable. Over the next eighteen months he became an unbending and tyrannical maniac for whom to leave the house was to enter the field of battle. Which was all fine for him, Bob supposed, but why was Connie made to come along on these campaigns? “Well, that’s a toughy, Bob. I think the short answer is that he believes he’s earning his ticket to Glory, and he’s after my being saved along with him. I don’t doubt it’s hard to read, but my father, in his way, is very devoted to me.” She paused. “You understand he’s never hit me or anything, right?” This was helpful for Bob to hear; because he had not understood this, and the thought had nagged him. Connie, sensing his further curiosity, told him, “And he’s not one of these perverts, either.”
“Good, great,” said Bob.
She was two years out of high school with no plan or desire to continue her education. As it had been with Bob, she’d made no significant friendships in school, but whereas he had been an unknown in his peer group, Connie had had a more involved and confrontational experience. She came under the category of Other, as her language and behaviors were considered obscure by those around her. Certain of the bolder boys made romantic overtures in her direction but they were met with unblinking ambivalence and cryptic dismissals; these same boys came together to discuss Connie Coleman’s spookiness. She was made uncomfortable by the young men, and young men in general. They were so totally without empathetic sensation that Connie thought they should not be granted access to walk among the population, much less given permission to operate automobiles on our streets and highways. Her female peers, she said, explained her away by saying she was a snob and a witch both. “And at the same time,” she told Bob. “Imagine that.” The word snob was not an accurate descriptor, according to Bob’s understanding of her personality; but he was not surprised by its employment. Connie could never be demure, and confidence of her sort, in the era of the mid-to-late 1950s, was unwelcome. He believed her ostracism was borne of a kind of envy summoned by Connie’s self-knowledge. Bob saw no evidence supporting the theory of her being a witch.
Time passed at the Information desk with Bob and Connie coming to learn the details of one another’s lives. Bob felt the burgeoning relationship was going very well, and it was, but the next level felt far-off for him. Connie had offered any number of hints she would like to visit Bob’s house, hints that became declarations: “I’d like to see this famous house sometime.”
“Oh, sure, of course,” Bob would answer, then excuse himself to blot the sweat from his forehead in the restroom. Connie saw that Bob was out of his depth and that she would need to give a nudge; at last she dinged the counter bell and said, “If you don’t invite me to your house right this second, I’m walking out the door forever, Bob Comet. How’s that for Information?” Bob touched the brass dome of the bell to quiet it and said that yes, she was officially invited, and on the following Sunday she played at being ill so to excuse herself from her traditional bus-riding rounds with her father. After he’d left for the day, she dressed, picked an assortment of flowers from her garden, and took a taxi across the river to Bob’s house. She knocked on his front door, bouquet in hand; when Bob answered, he was also holding a bouquet of flowers. They exchanged bouquets and moved to the kitchen, where Connie sought out a vase and filled it with water, mingling the flowers together. She set the vase on the table in the nook, then broke off to look about the house. Bob followed behind her, naming things: here was where he read; here was where he also read; here was his childhood bedroom; here was his workshop. Connie walked with her hands clasped at the small of her back, like a museumgoer. She was impressed by the rope handrailing and agreed it had been best to keep it in place. They stood side by side in Bob’s room and Connie said, “I suppose you think I’m going to jump right into bed with you for some wild afternoon lovemaking, is that right?” Bob turned so red that Connie thought he was choking. He’d not thought to prepare anything to eat but had made a pot of coffee, though she wanted tea. “I’ll buy tea for next time,” he said — his stab at flirtation, to reference a future meeting, as though it was understood they’d be spending time together again. They took their coffees into the backyard and sat on a mossy bench among the overgrown tangle of weeds and grasses and bushes. Connie surveyed the area with a stony face. “This garden is a disgrace. Did your mother keep it up when she was alive?”
“No, she couldn’t have been less interested.”
“And you take after her in that way?”