The Second Coming by John Dalmas

“Where have you been?” she asked them.

“At school, Mom,” Becca answered matter of factly. “Children whose parents both work have to stay. You work on your homework first, and then, if there’s time, you can play on the playground or in the gym, or read if you want. Some of the other kids stay too, because there are teachers to help if you need it.”

Then both girls sat with their parents in the breakfast nook, describing their afternoon and their classes, and talking about new friends, till it was time to go to the dining hall.

That evening the commissary truck came by and delivered Lee’s order. When she’d put it away, she sat down by herself in the nook, to relax, and review her day over a cup of tea. She felt good about it, stimulated, unworried about Whistler’s suggestion. And the bill the commissary had given her, for her order from Walsenburg, hadn’t been as steep as she’d anticipated. But most especially, the girls had really liked their new school, and apparently there’d been no breath of cultism there. Perhaps there was a system of home teaching for that.

5

The frame house was a century old, but well maintained. Its raised front porch was as wide as the house, and shaded by maples that lined the street. Set back only a dozen feet from the sidewalk, it gave an elevated view of passersby. Just now, however, the residents were inside at supper.

Mrs. Edmund Buckels looked across the table at her daughter. “I don’t approve of that university anymore, letting that Ngunda Aran speak there. Your father and I have decided you should go somewhere else. Bethel. It’s a good Baptist school.”

Jenny Buckels shrugged slightly. “My scholarship’s at Chapel Hill, and I’ve paid for my room for this semester.”

Her mother’s lips pinched. “I don’t want you going to that school any longer. It’s run by atheists.”

Let it lie, Jen, her brother prayed.

She tried. It didn’t work.

“Speak to me when I talk to you!”

Jen’s voice was quiet. “Mother, I’m trying not to argue.”

“I suppose you went to hear him.”

She could have lied, but wouldn’t. “I did. It was an assignment in Journalism 201. Otherwise I wouldn’t have.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He was interesting.”

“That’s no answer!”

Jenny’s response was quiet but firm. “Mother, it is my answer. The man was interesting.”

“How long did he talk? An hour? It had to be more than just interesting.”

“My report’s in my course folder, back in the dorm. I’ll mail it when I get back.” She tried to smile. “I write better than I talk. I got an ‘A’ on it.”

So far her father had stayed out of the discussion. Now he stepped in. “Jennifer, don’t evade. Answer your mother.”

She straightened, turning her gaze to his, clenched fists on her hips, the softness gone from her voice. “All right. Just remember, you insisted. I found Ngunda Aran . . . thoughtful, tolerant . . . and compassionate.” She paused, shifting her eyes to her mother’s. “More than some Christians I know.”

Even as she said it, Jen knew she’d made a mistake. With a sharp cry of exasperation, Mary Lou Buckels grabbed her mashed potatoes and chicken gravy with a bare hand and tried to throw it at her daughter. Her multiple sclerosis and the consistency of the potatoes and gravy made the attempt largely unsuccessful. A bit of it reached Jenny’s blouse, but most of it squeezed out of her mother’s hand, or stuck to it.

“You insolent slut! Tolerance? Contempt is more like it! Contempt for God and His Truth! The Truth of His Words, written down in the Bible!”

A retort screamed in Jen’s mind. Like “you hypocrite?” “Love your enemy?” “Judge not?” But all she said, and softly, was, “I’m sorry I made you angry, Mother. I’ll pack and leave.”

She got up from the table, but her father moved between her and the dining room door. “You will go nowhere!” he said. “You’re grounded! Give me the keys to your car!”

She stopped, stared, then barked a disbelieving laugh. “Grounded? Keys to my car?” Her voice hardened. “I’m twenty-four years old, Father. A grown woman! I worked for five years saving money for college. I bought that car, such as it is, and earned the scholarship, such as it is.”

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