Timeframe: Immediately after "Just Say No".
Disclaimer: I own not so much as one chunky scarf in the vast fictitious universe that is Joan of Arcadia.
Feedback: Why the hell not? Noavail4@yahoo.com
Limitations
At breakfast with her family that Saturday, Joan ate very little and said no more than ten words. She didn't take the bait when her older brother teased her and passed Luke the syrup without even looking up. He waited until the rest of the family was deep in conversation about the editorials, then waved his hand in front of her face. "Hey -- you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine", she snapped, quietly. "I just .. . I've got a headache." She stood up then, announcing to her family, "I'm going for a walk." As she took her plate into the kitchen, Luke looked at his mother, questioningly. "Are you . . . um . still mad at Joan? I mean, is Joan still mad at you? About her boyfriend, or .. about the paintings?"
Mrs. Girardi looked at her son with a tired face softened by his concern for his sister. "No, we talked it out, honey. We're fine." As Joan passed through the kitchen on her way to the front door, Luke moved to follow her, but his mother shook her head. "Listen .. your sister's just going through something you can't help her with. Let her take a walk."
Luke nodded. "She, er ... has she figured out yet that Clay's just a jerk?"
"Honey, you don't need to tell her again."
*****
Joan had no real destination in mind for her walk--it was more about just getting out of the house. Away from the room where her mother had spoken, last night, about what had happened to her in college. Away, even, from her mother--from the way in which she saw her now. She was still her mother, still the woman who hassled her about homework and reluctantly put chocolate chips in her pancakes. She was still the authority, the rule- setter, the punisher, the person Joan loved and hated, sometimes simultaneously and with equal ferocity. But the idea of what had happened twenty years ago suddenly hung over every part of her mother for Joan, like the taste of yesterday's onions on apples just cut with an old steel knife. Her mother had been helpless. Her mother got hurt. Entering the park, she saw a boy who looked to be about her age. Handsome, with a face both arrogant and kind. She almost turned away, but she knew that he had seen her, that he was, in fact, waiting precisely for her. Inasmuch as the word "waiting" could apply here. Seeing him there, for all the world like a teenager just loafing around on a Saturday morning, Joan was almost knocked flat by how angry she was. She took a deep breath and marched herself towards him.
"You .. you let that happen. To my mother. You let it happen,"
"Joan, I can't explain this to you."
Joan let out a small, bitter laugh and began walking again, more quickly. "Can't? You're using the word "can't"? What is it they say about you making a rock so heavy you can't lift it?"
"Funny, I've never even tried to do that. Joan, listen to me: you're hurting. Let's not make jokes here. Let's not change the subject."
"You just said you can't tell me anything about it. What choice do I have except changing the subject?"
"You could walk away from me. You could tell me how you're feeling, without the snide remarks. You could even hit me, Joan, if you wanted."
"You'd stop me. You could stop me. Can't you . . . can't you do that?"
He smiled then, sadly. "Yes."
"You . . . people always say you can do anything."
"Yes." He had slowed his pace slightly, letting her walk a few steps ahead.
"You could have stopped him." She didn't look at him when she said it.
"Yes."
She spun around then, forcing her eyes to meet his for a brief, angry second. "Why didn't you? Why did you just let it happen? Why are you still letting it happen, everywhere, to everybody? Why are you .. . . why are you standing here, talking to me?"
"Joan. Listen to me. Please. Sit down for a second and listen to me." He gestured towards a spot of grass below a maple tree--the tree he had shown her, when she asked for a miracle. She sat down, sniffling and catching her breath. He dropped to his knees beside her, close enough to touch but still somehow above her.
"I put a lot of thought into all of this. The planets, the air, the trees. People. All of it. You know what was the hardest bit of all?"
She looked up at him but didn't answer. Somewhere in her belly, she felt the anger slipping.
"The human mind, Joan. I could have made you all just exactly like me. I could have made it so you can know everything. Can you imagine how much easier it would be? If each living person had absolute knowledge, wisdom, understanding. If you had a mind that could fully understand, Joan, why I'm still a loving God when your mother got raped. "
"If . . . if you'd done that, it wouldn't have happened at all. If . . .. we were all like that, he wouldn't have . . . . he wouldn't have. . . " She couldn't say it again. Her mother hadn't been able to, when she was telling her daughter about it. Joan had finally made herself say it for both of them.
"Raped her." He said the word evenly, without emphasis, but she noticed a crack in his usual composure. He was fidgeting, she realized: picking up a strand of grass and letting it fall. He was no longer looking directly at her.
"Yeah .... Why didn't you make us like that?"
"Joan, I can't answer that question precisely because I didn't make you like that. There are things your mind just can't wrap itself around. Not yet. Not here. And I did that on purpose. There are parts of what I do that will always have to be just beyond your understanding. That's just the way it works."
Seconds went by before he spoke again.
"This isn't helping you, Joan, is it?"
Her head was throbbing from the swallowed tears and the overload of thought. She tried to make sense of it, to repeat it back to him to make sure she had it right. To give him a reason to keep trying to explain. She wanted to believe that it could, someday, make sense. The harder she tried, though, the more her head hurt.
"No. I'm just .. more confused."
"Joan, here's the thing you need to know about all this. As long I try to explain myself to you, you will always end up feeling more confused. The best minds of every generation since the dawn of time have come up short on the questions of good and evil and an all-knowing God. It's part of the wiring: not the best part, I know. But I want you to believe me when I say it's for a reason."
"This .. this conversation isn't gonna end well, is it? If you can't help me understand."
"What's going on in your mind right now isn't about understanding. It's about hurt."
She nodded, then.
"No matter how much I explained it to you--even if you could take it--no matter how much you understood what happened to your mother, it wouldn't go to what's hurting right now, for you. You don't think pain, Joan: you feel it."
"So, what do I do now?"
"You feel it. You keep feeling it. Your mother deserves how angry you are. You wouldn't be who you are if you weren't experiencing just exactly this. And it wouldn't be right for me to take that away."
She'd never stopped talking to him before: it had always been him who waved her away. Suddenly, she realized that she was ready to be done with it: not for always, she didn't think, but definitely for right now. It just hurt too much to keep at this conversation.
"I think .. I think I need to go now."
He nodded, smiled softly, and turned away. She wiped her face and tugged at her scarf, feeling unbalanced and obvious, another cousin Florine rattling through the park. She looked around for witnesses but only saw him, noticed how he walked like an ordinary man.
I always thought you'd just disappear, she thought to herself, her mind flashing up an image of smoke. Clouds of angels, thunderclaps. I always figured you'd, I dunno, pop up and fade away. Twenty feet away from him, she stopped suddenly and called to him across the lawn. "Will it be this hard next time, if I see you again?"
"No. But I can't promise you it will never be this hard again. Will you take that risk?"
She smiled, then, weakly but sure. "You know the answer."
"Go be with someone who won't give you such a headache. Goodbye for now, Joan."
******* Joan watched him, briefly, as he walked past the maple tree and towards the tennis courts. She went to the drinking fountain, wet her hand and rubbed gently below her eyes, then lowered her head and shook like a dog. She stood by the fountain until she felt a little better before shifting her bag back onto her shoulder and walking out from the park and towards Adam's shed.
Disclaimer: I own not so much as one chunky scarf in the vast fictitious universe that is Joan of Arcadia.
Feedback: Why the hell not? Noavail4@yahoo.com
Limitations
At breakfast with her family that Saturday, Joan ate very little and said no more than ten words. She didn't take the bait when her older brother teased her and passed Luke the syrup without even looking up. He waited until the rest of the family was deep in conversation about the editorials, then waved his hand in front of her face. "Hey -- you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine", she snapped, quietly. "I just .. . I've got a headache." She stood up then, announcing to her family, "I'm going for a walk." As she took her plate into the kitchen, Luke looked at his mother, questioningly. "Are you . . . um . still mad at Joan? I mean, is Joan still mad at you? About her boyfriend, or .. about the paintings?"
Mrs. Girardi looked at her son with a tired face softened by his concern for his sister. "No, we talked it out, honey. We're fine." As Joan passed through the kitchen on her way to the front door, Luke moved to follow her, but his mother shook her head. "Listen .. your sister's just going through something you can't help her with. Let her take a walk."
Luke nodded. "She, er ... has she figured out yet that Clay's just a jerk?"
"Honey, you don't need to tell her again."
*****
Joan had no real destination in mind for her walk--it was more about just getting out of the house. Away from the room where her mother had spoken, last night, about what had happened to her in college. Away, even, from her mother--from the way in which she saw her now. She was still her mother, still the woman who hassled her about homework and reluctantly put chocolate chips in her pancakes. She was still the authority, the rule- setter, the punisher, the person Joan loved and hated, sometimes simultaneously and with equal ferocity. But the idea of what had happened twenty years ago suddenly hung over every part of her mother for Joan, like the taste of yesterday's onions on apples just cut with an old steel knife. Her mother had been helpless. Her mother got hurt. Entering the park, she saw a boy who looked to be about her age. Handsome, with a face both arrogant and kind. She almost turned away, but she knew that he had seen her, that he was, in fact, waiting precisely for her. Inasmuch as the word "waiting" could apply here. Seeing him there, for all the world like a teenager just loafing around on a Saturday morning, Joan was almost knocked flat by how angry she was. She took a deep breath and marched herself towards him.
"You .. you let that happen. To my mother. You let it happen,"
"Joan, I can't explain this to you."
Joan let out a small, bitter laugh and began walking again, more quickly. "Can't? You're using the word "can't"? What is it they say about you making a rock so heavy you can't lift it?"
"Funny, I've never even tried to do that. Joan, listen to me: you're hurting. Let's not make jokes here. Let's not change the subject."
"You just said you can't tell me anything about it. What choice do I have except changing the subject?"
"You could walk away from me. You could tell me how you're feeling, without the snide remarks. You could even hit me, Joan, if you wanted."
"You'd stop me. You could stop me. Can't you . . . can't you do that?"
He smiled then, sadly. "Yes."
"You . . . people always say you can do anything."
"Yes." He had slowed his pace slightly, letting her walk a few steps ahead.
"You could have stopped him." She didn't look at him when she said it.
"Yes."
She spun around then, forcing her eyes to meet his for a brief, angry second. "Why didn't you? Why did you just let it happen? Why are you still letting it happen, everywhere, to everybody? Why are you .. . . why are you standing here, talking to me?"
"Joan. Listen to me. Please. Sit down for a second and listen to me." He gestured towards a spot of grass below a maple tree--the tree he had shown her, when she asked for a miracle. She sat down, sniffling and catching her breath. He dropped to his knees beside her, close enough to touch but still somehow above her.
"I put a lot of thought into all of this. The planets, the air, the trees. People. All of it. You know what was the hardest bit of all?"
She looked up at him but didn't answer. Somewhere in her belly, she felt the anger slipping.
"The human mind, Joan. I could have made you all just exactly like me. I could have made it so you can know everything. Can you imagine how much easier it would be? If each living person had absolute knowledge, wisdom, understanding. If you had a mind that could fully understand, Joan, why I'm still a loving God when your mother got raped. "
"If . . . if you'd done that, it wouldn't have happened at all. If . . .. we were all like that, he wouldn't have . . . . he wouldn't have. . . " She couldn't say it again. Her mother hadn't been able to, when she was telling her daughter about it. Joan had finally made herself say it for both of them.
"Raped her." He said the word evenly, without emphasis, but she noticed a crack in his usual composure. He was fidgeting, she realized: picking up a strand of grass and letting it fall. He was no longer looking directly at her.
"Yeah .... Why didn't you make us like that?"
"Joan, I can't answer that question precisely because I didn't make you like that. There are things your mind just can't wrap itself around. Not yet. Not here. And I did that on purpose. There are parts of what I do that will always have to be just beyond your understanding. That's just the way it works."
Seconds went by before he spoke again.
"This isn't helping you, Joan, is it?"
Her head was throbbing from the swallowed tears and the overload of thought. She tried to make sense of it, to repeat it back to him to make sure she had it right. To give him a reason to keep trying to explain. She wanted to believe that it could, someday, make sense. The harder she tried, though, the more her head hurt.
"No. I'm just .. more confused."
"Joan, here's the thing you need to know about all this. As long I try to explain myself to you, you will always end up feeling more confused. The best minds of every generation since the dawn of time have come up short on the questions of good and evil and an all-knowing God. It's part of the wiring: not the best part, I know. But I want you to believe me when I say it's for a reason."
"This .. this conversation isn't gonna end well, is it? If you can't help me understand."
"What's going on in your mind right now isn't about understanding. It's about hurt."
She nodded, then.
"No matter how much I explained it to you--even if you could take it--no matter how much you understood what happened to your mother, it wouldn't go to what's hurting right now, for you. You don't think pain, Joan: you feel it."
"So, what do I do now?"
"You feel it. You keep feeling it. Your mother deserves how angry you are. You wouldn't be who you are if you weren't experiencing just exactly this. And it wouldn't be right for me to take that away."
She'd never stopped talking to him before: it had always been him who waved her away. Suddenly, she realized that she was ready to be done with it: not for always, she didn't think, but definitely for right now. It just hurt too much to keep at this conversation.
"I think .. I think I need to go now."
He nodded, smiled softly, and turned away. She wiped her face and tugged at her scarf, feeling unbalanced and obvious, another cousin Florine rattling through the park. She looked around for witnesses but only saw him, noticed how he walked like an ordinary man.
I always thought you'd just disappear, she thought to herself, her mind flashing up an image of smoke. Clouds of angels, thunderclaps. I always figured you'd, I dunno, pop up and fade away. Twenty feet away from him, she stopped suddenly and called to him across the lawn. "Will it be this hard next time, if I see you again?"
"No. But I can't promise you it will never be this hard again. Will you take that risk?"
She smiled, then, weakly but sure. "You know the answer."
"Go be with someone who won't give you such a headache. Goodbye for now, Joan."
******* Joan watched him, briefly, as he walked past the maple tree and towards the tennis courts. She went to the drinking fountain, wet her hand and rubbed gently below her eyes, then lowered her head and shook like a dog. She stood by the fountain until she felt a little better before shifting her bag back onto her shoulder and walking out from the park and towards Adam's shed.