The Life of Ripley

April 28, 2024 Leave a comment

Luke Ripley, the focal character of A Father’s Story by Andre Dubus, begins his narration with what he calls “my life” – the life people in northeastern Massachusetts know about. He then goes on to detail his personal “real life.” And later, we hear about his life without peace after an incident involving his daughter. After all is said and done, I wonder what you would think about this self-reliant guy who is comfortable with his contradictions and who refuses to sacrifice his daughter. And, who is he really protecting when all is said and done?

Luke’s publicly recognized “my life” is that of a stable owner. He boards and rents out thirty horses and provides riding lessons. The “my life” that people would see if they looked in his front room window at night is a solitary “big-gutted grey-haired guy, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, staring out at the dark woods across the road, listening to a grieving soprano.”

Luke’s “real life” – the one nobody talks about anymore, except Father Paul LeBoeuf”- is revealed to us before the accident in the first three-quarters of the story. What do we learn?

Luke Ripley is a divorced Catholic and an empty nester with three sons and a daughter off somewhere else. His solitary existence is lived out in routine. We learn of Luke’s morning habit of prayer while making his bed and then going to feed his horses. He talks to God because there’s nobody else around.

His morning habit also includes seeing his best friend – Father Paul Leboeuf, the priest at a local Catholic church. Most mornings Luke rides one of his horses over to church where Father Paul’s officiates. There Luke hears the Mass and receives the Eucharist.  During the week the two men get together for a dinner meal.  With Father LeBeoeuf present and a can of beer in hand Luke verbally grieves his despair over losing his wife and his family.

At one point Luke tell us about the importance of ritual, having already told us that he is basically lazy person:

Do not think of me as a spiritual man whose every thought during those twenty-five minutes is at one with the words of the mass. Each morning I try, each morning I fail, and I know that always I will be a creature who, looking at Father Paul and the altar, and uttering prayers, will be distracted by scrambled eggs, horses, the weather, and memories and daydreams that have nothing to do with the sacrament I am about to receive. I can receive, though: the Eucharist, and also, at Mass and at other times, moments and even minutes of contemplation. But I cannot achieve contemplation, as some can; and so, having to face and forgive my own failures, I have learned from them both the necessity and wonder of ritual.  For ritual allows those who cannot will themselves out of the secular to perform the spiritual, as dancing allows the tongue-tied man a ceremony of love.

Nasrullah Mambrol offers this perspective:

The life that Luke tells the reader about is one filled with a variety of contradictions: He is a devout Catholic but divorced; he attends Mass regularly but does not always listen; he enjoys talking to his priest but casually, preferably over a few beers, and what they discuss is mostly small talk; he is a self-described lazy man who dislikes waking up early but does so each morning to pray, not because he feels obligated to do so but because he knows he has the choice not to do so. Luke Ripley is a man who lives with contradictions and accepts them.

Luke wants us to know that he lived through difficult days after the divorce and what he believed ritual could have done for his marriage:

It is not hard to live through a day, if you can live through a moment. What creates despair is the imagination, which pretends there is a future, and insists on predicting millions of moments, thousands of days, and so drains you that you cannot live the moment at hand.  That is what Father Paul told me in those first two years, on some bad nights when I believed I could not bear what I had to:  the most painful loss was my children, then the loss of Gloria, whom I still loved despite or maybe because of our long periods of sadness that rendered us helpless, so neither of us could break out of it to give a hand to the other. Twelve years later I believe ritual would have healed us more quickly than the repetitious talks we had, perhaps even kept us healed. Marriages have lost that, and I wish I had known then what I what I know now, and we had performed certain acts together every day, no matter how we felt, and perhaps then we could have subordinated feeling to action, for surely that is the essence of love. I know this from my distractions during Mass, and during everything else I do, so that my actions and my feelings are seldom one. It does happen every day, but in proportion to everything else in the day, it is rare, like joy.

The loss of his wife Gloria and her leaving the church and the loss of his children figured large in Luke’s life. But the “third most painful loss, which became second and sometimes first as months passed, was the knowledge that I could never marry again, and so dared not even keep company with a woman.”

Luke lets Father Paul know that he is bitter about this. And, that when he was with Gloria he wasn’t happy with the “actual physical and spiritual plan of practicing rhythm: nights of striking the mattress with a fist…”

Early in the narration we learn Luke’s thoughts about his friend Father Paul, the Catholic church, and tithing – “I don’t feel right about giving money for buildings, places.”

We later hear his reflections on Jennifer, his only daughter, becoming a woman: “It is Jennifer’s womanhood that renders me awkward.”

He relates how her growing up affected the ‘ritual’ of memories he kept of her as his sheltered little girl at home. Jennifer became an on-her-own twenty-one-year-old girl with a purse full of adult symbols including a driver’s license. Luke says that he wants to know what she is up to and he doesn’t want to know what she is up to.

And then one night, Jennifer involves her father in a life-altering incident. Luke, to manage the situation, sticks with ritual as if nothing had happened. Ritual, we learned, might have saved his marriage to Gloria. So, Luke returns to default ritual to “save” the only other woman in his life. He wasn’t about to give her up, not even to Father Paul. Luke continues his rituals but does not confess to Father Paul.

The story ends with Luke telling the reader how he justifies himself to God, in Job-like fashion each morning, for what he did: the love a father has for a daughter is different than he has for a son and he loves his daughter more than truth.

Luke’s OK with a guy being hit by the car and but not a woman. Men, like Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood, are supposed to take the bang ups and arrests and prison time.

In the end, however, Luke must answer to God for what he does to protect Jennifer. Self-serving ritual will not save him.

A Father’s Story – Andre Dubus IIIDownload

I’ve read this story twice. The first time, several years ago, I felt I knew the protagonist. He was like a former father-in-law: a divorced Catholic man in his fifties who wore Old Spice, hid Playboys, had daughters, and who thought himself manly in a Hemingwayesque sense. So, it was easy to have a sentimental attachment to Luke. I could empathize with his grief about losing a spouse and children and with his ritual-managed loneliness. And especially so as he acted instinctively to protect his daughter.

After a second reading this past week, I saw Luke differently – beneath the surface, so to speak. And, I had some questions:

When all is said and done by Luke, is he really protecting himself, his “real life”, his ritualized sources of comfort, when he protects his daughter from being taken away?

Did Luke really just act out of laziness (laziness being the opposite of love) in order to maintain ritual and continue life as he knew it?

Was Luke’s manhood tied to his comfort from women?

Wasn’t it cruel, unjust, and devastating to the other family and father involved for Jennifer and Luke to leave the scene of the crime and to let things just go on without answers?

As a parent, what would I do in this situation?

A Father’s Story was first published in the Spring 1983 issue of Black Warrior Review. 

Profile: Andre Dubus (youtube.com)

Andre Dubus: Father and Son – YouTube

Dubus (youtube.com)

It’s Time for Some Pruning – Bishop Barron’s Sunday Sermon (youtube.com)

Filed under Catholicism, ethics, Literature Tagged with , , , , , , , ,

Easter Morning

March 31, 2024 Leave a comment

Easter morning me and father are down in the basement brushing shoes. We put polish on them last night with a rag father keeps with his shoe shine kit on a shelf over the washing machine. I used the rag but brown polish came through on my fingers. We polish our shoes every Sunday but I know this Sunday is Easter because we went to church on Friday and we died eggs and my mother set the dining room table and there’s a lily in the front room and ham in the refrigerator and yellow jello with something in it and plastic eggs in a basket on the kitchen table and the sun shines like this only on Easter. I woke up cold this morning. I put on clean pajamas and put the wet ones in the clothes basket. Then I went into the kitchen and ate cereal. Father woke up. He got the Sunday paper off the front porch and came into the kitchen to make coffee. He waits for me to finish eating and scratches his belly and yawns. He tells me to let mum sleep in. She works too he says. After I’m done with my cereal we go downstairs to polish our shoes. We go back upstairs and father sits at the kitchen table drinks coffee. He opens the Sunday paper and gives me the funnies. We wait for mum and my brother to wake up. They wake up. My mother has coffee and my brother eats cereal. My mother says something to father in his ear. He tells us kids to go into the front room so he and mum can talk. We go. I share the funnies with my brother. We sit there for an hour. We look out the picture window and see father walking around the bushes with a basket of plastic eggs. We know what he is doing. We run to the back door. I hold the door handle and my brother bites his nails. Father comes to the door and says there are fifteen eggs hiding in our yard. See what you can find he says. We run to the front yard and look through the bushes and behind trees and in the mail box. The grass is wet and sparkly we find eggs but there are more we run to the back yard and find more. We pull up the bottoms of our PJ tops and hold the eggs there. We count them I have eight and my brother has seven we go back inside and see what’s inside Jelly beans gum tootsie rolls mother says to have only a couple she doesn’t want us bouncing around in church she says. Father is in the kitchen peeling sweet potatoes. Mother is washing goblets. I don’t know why she calls them goblets. They are not scarry to me. Me and my brother get ready for church. The clothes feel stiff but I wear them to look nice mother says. Father combs my hair and my brother’s hair. We wait in the front room and read the funnies. Finally it is time to go. We get in the car and drive to our church. I’ve never seen so many people. Mother wants to get a seat before they are gone we sit next to my friend Jeremy’s parents I smell flowers. People are talking a lot. Mothers are telling kids to be quiet. My friend Jeremy is sitting on the other side of his parents. Hes kicking the pew in front of him. The lady in front of him with a flower hat turns around looks angry but she smiles when Jeremys mom puts a hand on Jeremys knee and makes him stop. My best friend Billy isn’t here his family doesn’t go to church. We have to stand up and sit down a lot and listen a lot the seat is hard and I can’t sit still and I can’t listen a big woman is singing a high song that hurts my ears. I want to draw. I take the pencil in front of me and a card I draw Easter eggs and the face of the big woman I show it to Jeremy and he laughs. The man up front walks back and forth and then he stops and says o death, where is thy sting o grave, where is thy victory and I think about bee stings and moms gravy. Finally he stops and we stand up again and my pencil and card fall under the seat. A man behind me picks them up and gives them to me and smiles. Everyone smiles today even the woman at the organ who made a big burp sound when the music fell. Father and mother talk and talk and talk and finally we get back into the car and go home. On the counter is a strawburry pie. Mother puts on her apron and puts the ham in the oven. Father mashes the sweet potatoes. I tell them don’t forget to put marshmallows on the sweet potatoes. Mother takes a bag off the shelf and gives me and my brother a marshmallow. She tells us to go watch TV while they make dinner. We go downstairs. I turn on the TV and only Charlie Chan is on. Finally mother calls us and we go upstairs to eat we have to wash our hands before we sit down. Mother lights two candles on our table before the food comes father prays he thanks God for the food and Jesus and empty tomb abundant life heaven and earth sea and dry land family and friends those present and not present wonders great and small and mother says amen. Finally mother brings out the ham and the sweet potatoes and something green. Everything is hot she says. When the rolls come out me and my brother grab one. My mother asks me if I washed my hands. I look at them and my fingers are brown. They smell like polish it’s shoe polish soap and water and some scrubbing will take it off father says I tell them I better eat first because scrubbing is a lot of work. The end of what we did special on Easter Mrs Meyers your student Micheal M Skokram.

~~~

©Lena Johnson, Kingdom Venturers, 2024, All Rights Reserved

Filed under Christianity, Short Story, short story, Writing Tagged with , , , , , ,

Watercolors

March 17, 2024 1 Comment

A short story . . .

On a cold and damp March afternoon, Maeve met with funeral director Finn Joyce to discuss final arrangements. The appointment was set up after she responded to a mailer asking if it “would give you peace of mind to plan in advance so that your family would not have to make the arrangements themselves” and after reading an article about “Unexpected Deaths in The US Are Rising at an Alarming Rate.”

Director Finn, a tall thin man with dark auburn hair, pale skin, soft hands and a whisky voice, greeted Maeve and showed her to the Arrangement Room. There, he offered her coffee and water.

Finn began their conversation by pointing to a photograph on his desk: “My wife Fiona and I have lived in the area and have operated this funeral home for twenty-five years. Fiona works with families of the deceased to arrange details of the funeral and the obituary wording. She also does the makeup and . . .”

Maeve broke in. “I was here for Eileen Delaney’s funeral. She was a friend of mine.”

“By the number who attended the funeral, she was well-loved. How long had you known her?”

“We worked together at the Evercrest Nursing Home for some thirty-five years.”

“I know the place. I been called there many times. Do you still work there?”

“Yes. I’ve taken over Eileen’s responsibilities.”

“Ah, well then, maybe I’ll see you there. My wife helped Eileen’s husband with the funeral arrangements and wrote the obituary with the help of her husband and family. We have a list of services that we can offer you and we can talk about your last wishes.” He handed her a brochure.

“We prepare obituaries, arrange clergy services and pallbearers, coordinate with the cemetery or crematory . . .” Finn stopped when he saw that Maeve wasn’t paying attention. She was looking over his shoulder at something on the wall.

“That watercolor. I know it.” Maeve said.

Finn turned around. “My wife bought it at an art show here in town. I love how the light filters through the trees.”

“That’s Summer at Blossom Grove.”

“You know the artist?” Finn got up from his chair and looked at the corner of the painting. “You know M. Monahan? Wait. Is that you?” He looked at the application on his desk. “Well Maeve, you’re quite an artist.”

Maeve blushed. “I painted the same scene at four times of the year. I wanted to show the greening and flowering and the fading and falling of leaves and the limbs in winter.”

“You know, Maeve, people have brought watercolor portraits of the deceased to the wakes here. The portraits are a beautiful memorial. They have a graceful ethereal quality to them. I provide an easel next to the casket for the portrait.”

“I paint them. I paint portraits of the people in the home. When they pass, I give the portrait to the family. I got the idea when I attended my Irish grandfather’s funeral. Family and friends came to look at his dead body the night before he was buried. They drank and shared stories about his life. When a person dies at the home, the funeral home is called and the deceased is abruptly taken away. With my portraits, I give the family a corporeal reminder so they can share stories about the person’s life.”

“The portraits are well done. You’ve must have been doing this for a long time.”

“Thank you. Yes. I started as an oil painter years ago when I worked as an ER nurse. I wanted to depict the actual strangeness of the real world I encountered every day with surrealism, in a Frida Kahlo kind of way. But over time, the work and my life were becoming too dark. So, I decided to make a change and work in a nursing home where there is a less tragic and more of a long-suffering realism. And, that’s when I became a watercolor portraitist. I like the medium. Watercolors have a life and a flow of their own when you brush them on the paper. You let go and see what happens. They are kind of unruly to a certain degree as are the subjects I paint.”

“From the comments I overhear at the wake, you certainly capture the essence of the person,” Finn remarked.

He went on to explain his services and then invited Maeve to the display room where several different caskets were showcased. He then showed her the Reposing Room where the prepared body rests until the funeral takes place. He went on to show her a Reception Room where memorial services are held.

“There will be a wake in this room tomorrow. A tragic story,” Finn shared. “A 46-year-old man – a husband and father and founder of an investment firm – was killed in a car-jacking. The newspaper said the killer got away.”

“How terrible. The sudden loss of a husband and father must be devastating for that family.”

“Yes, it has been. I met with his wife this morning. She is having a hard time . . . How does one reckon with the out-of-the-blue senselessness of what happened?”

At that moment, Fiona walked up and introduced herself to Maeve. She recognized Maeve from the art show and praised her work. She then mentioned to Finn that a call had come in. She gave him the name and location.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Finn said. “Feel free to call if there are any questions. Maeve offered her hand. Finn took her hand and put his hand on hers.

“Sorry to share that with you. I am deeply saddened by what happened. After all my years as a mortician, I have never become accustomed to such unforeseen tragedy. And, sadly, there will be no watercolor portrait to place by the casket tomorrow.”

Maeve nodded her understanding and then thanked Finn and went on her way.

~~~

The next morning, after working a night shift at Evercrest and then making a stop, Maeve drove home to Valley Mobile Home Park and found two cars parked out front of her mobile home. She parked next to her trailer, grabbed the mail from the mail box, and then ran to the door and walked in. Sitting at the kitchen table were her younger sisters Molly and Morren and her niece Maisie. Duffy, Molly’s Pomeranian, began barking wildly when she walked in. Maeve put her purse and the mail on the counter and looked at all three.

“Who died and why is Duffy carrying on like that?” Maeve asked, taking off her rain coat. The three women sitting before her reminded her of nesting dolls – Molly the largest of the three and Maisie the smallest.

“Duffy doesn’t like that black cross running down your face.” Molly replied.

“It’s raining.” Maeve grabbed a napkin form the table and began dabbing her face.

“And Duffy doesn’t like that guy next store.” Morren added.

“My neighbor?” Maeve asked. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a disgusting creature, Molly blurted. “Those tattoos, that yellow skin, his scarred-up face and watery eyes. He looks like a carny who runs the Tilt-A -Whirl. He was out in front of his trailer and gave us a nasty look when we got out of the car.”

“Well,” Maeve asked the group, “was Duffy barking at him and did you give him a nasty look when you saw him?”

Molly sighed loudly. The other two just looked at their hands.

“I don’t know him, “Maeve said. “He stays to himself. There’s something sad about the guy – like he’s had a hard time of it.”

“Maybe so. He is what he is,” remarked Morren.

“We’re here to check on you,” Molly declared.

“Check on me?” Maeve laughed. She poured coffee for herself and the others and sat down.

“Yeah, Moreen and I are wondering why you’ve been so quiet lately.”

“I’ve had things on my mind. Last things things. Do something about Duffy.” Maeve replied.

Molly had Duffy come up on her lap.

“Is that why you went to church this morning?” Morren asked.

Maeve looked at the three of them. “I thought I should become a familiar face around there. I want to be recognized by the gate keepers when I go the way of all the earth.”

“I see that you’ve been reading the obits,” Molly held up the open newspaper.

“My co-worker Eileen died suddenly. Cardiac arrest. I wanted to see what they wrote about her,” replied Maeve.

Molly looked through the obit page. “Let’s see what it says . . .

“Eileen Delaney passed away on . . . at her home aged 68. She will be greatly missed by her family who adored her, friends who loved her, and many people whose lives she impacted in such a beautiful way at Evercrest Nursing Home. Eileen was along-time member of such and such Church. Eileen was born . . . married William Patrick Delaney. . . celebrated a beautiful 42-year marriage. Bill passed away . . . Eileen greatly missed him. She and Bill had many adventures together . . . traveling to Europe and Caribbean and Alaskan cruises. Ballroom dancing and hiking were their favorite pastimes. They are survived by two children . . . three grandchildren. Sadly missed by brothers . . . brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, relatives and a wide circle of friends. Eileen stayed active throughout her life . . . she was a member of the American Needlepoint Guild. Eileen Delaney’s’ family invites you to join them in celebrating her life. Please attend with your best Eileen stories. The funeral service and burial will be held . . .

“How long have you been working at that nursing home,” Morren asked Maeve.

 “About thirty-five years. Since the divorce.”

“Maeve, you could’ve gone on to get your doctorate in nursing like me,” Molly said. “Then you could write papers, have them peer reviewed, and published in journals. You would be recognized for your work, make better money, and move out of this trailer park.”

“Recognized?” Maeve replied. “I see myself doing what I’m doing. I don’t see myself doing anything else or living anywhere else.”

“Maybe not. But do you hate life? Morren badgered. “I mean, c’mon, you haven’t remarried and you haven’t gone anywhere and now you’re thinking about death. What about life?”

 Maisie spoke up. “Aunt Maeve, do you have a bucket list?”

“A bucket list?” Maeve got up and walked over to the kitchen window and looked out. She was surprised to see her neighbor looking back at her from his kitchen window. How strange, she thought.

“Yeah, you know, things you want to do before you die.” Molly said.

“I had an appointment with a funeral director yesterday to talk about funeral arrangements,” Maeve pointed at her sisters, “so you two won’t have to bother with them – and I have an appointment with Father Flannery tomorrow after work to talk about the art of dying.” Maeve took the Joyce Funeral Home brochure out of her purse and placed it on the table.

“What brought on all this morbidity Maeve?” Molly prodded. “Is it because you are with the dying five six days a week? What about living a little?”

“It’s not morbid to plan one’s death. And besides,” Maeve smiled, “I am thinking outside the box.”

“Not too would be a grave mistake,” Molly came back.

“The funeral director blamed the cost of living as driving up the cost of dying. He said I could pay now or pay later with a payable-on-death bank account accessed by my family.” Maeve sat down and waited for a reaction.

Morren looked at Molly and then at Maisie. She wasn’t sure if that was a joke.

Maisie laughed. “Now I know where I get my weird sense of humor. Aunt Maeve, I meant doing things like travel. You could. . . go see the world, see the pyramids.”

“You want me to go look at tombs? No, thanks. And no, I don’t have a list like that.”

“You could go to Barcelona or Rome and meet some dashing foreigner and be swept off your feet.” Molly urged.

“You know,” Maeve replied. “I listen to the stories of seniors in the home. Their stories are better than romance novels and what’s on TV. The things they’ve seen and done . . . you’d be surprised.”

“I just want to see you broaden your horizons,” Morren pleaded. “You have work. You have a hobby. But with all that that the world has to offer, why not live a little.”

Molly looked at her watch. “Well, Maevy, we came to check on you. My TV program starts in twenty minutes. We better get going. If you suddenly decide to take off to parts unknown let us know.”

Maeve picked up the coffee cups and put them in the sink. She saw her neighbor again standing in the window. But this time he had a gun in his mouth. Maeve yelled “Oh God!” and ran out the door. Molly, Morren and Maisie ran to the kitchen window.

“What’s that creature doing?” Molly scoffed. “If he offed himself there would be one less freak in the world.”

“What’s aunt Maeve doing?” asked Maisie.

Maeve was standing in the rain between the two mobile homes in her blue nurse scrubs. She was saying something to her neighbor but his window was closed. He kept shaking his head. Maeve pleaded with him, “Open your window! Open your window!” Finally, with one hand, he pulled up the kitchen window.

“Talk to me, “Maeve begged, “I’m listening.”

The man took a swig of something and then wiped his mouth with his arm.

“Lady, my best girl died in January been together for fifteen years she was on dialysis my dog Biscuit hell I think some of those mean kids around here ran off with her I lost my job at the steel mill I’m about to lose my trailer.” The man held up a piece of paper. “I find myself in the impossible position of being who I am right here and now.”

“I’m listening,” Maeve replied.

“What are you looking at?” The man jerked his head angrily toward Maeve’s kitchen window where Molly, Morren and Maisie were watching. He waved his gun at the window and the three women disappeared from it. Molly called the police.

“I’m here . . . for you,” Maeve pleaded with her neighbor. “I don’t know your name. What’s your name?

“Esau.”

“Esau, don’t die like this.”

“Is there a better way to go about it?

“You could die holding someone’s hand. Can I call Father Flannery?”

“What’s he gonna do throw holy water on me and make it all better hell I was baptized as a little tiny baby and look at me now I done some stupid things in my life but I paid all my debts I am good people labeled not good enough to attend my own daughter’s wedding can you picture that?

“Yes! I can paint you,” Maeve offered.

Esau laughed. “Paint me?”

“Yes. I paint portraits.”

“Lady don’t you see I’m already painted.” The man pulled off his tee shirt. “My cross hain’t bleeding like yours is I got this in Nam.” The man pointed the gun at the cross tattoo. “I got a lot of things in Nam that’ll change a man forever.” He put the gun back in his mouth.

Maeve dabbed her face with her sleeve. Overhead, the sky was growing darker. A sudden crack of thunder and its rumbling off had Duffy howling. Large drops of rain were falling.

“I’ll paint a portrait of you, right now Esau. So your children can remember you.” Maeve said this to buy more time.

“Lady, they want nothing to do with me.” Esau scowled.

“They never will if you shoot yourself,” Maeve replied.

He took another swig from the bottle. “You’ll stand in the rain and you’ll paint me?”

“Yes! Or inside if you’ll let me in.” Maeve replied. “Do you have family?”

“Yessss I havvvvve family,” the man howled. “My best girl has family but you know NO ONE wants to see you until you’re dead.” He put the gun back in his mouth.

“I can call them. Hold on. I can paint your portrait for them. Hold on Esau,” Maeve yelled. “I’ll get my phone and paints.”

As Maeve turned to run back inside, she heard a loud pop. Esau was gone from the window.

Moments later, heavy downpours arrived.

©Lena Johnson, Kingdom Venturers, 2024, All Rights Reserved

~~~

Filed under Death, FICTION, Short Story, short story, Writing Tagged with , , , , ,

Thrown Off Balance

March 10, 2024 Leave a comment

One of the greatest disciples of the twentieth century was neither a priest, nor a religious, nor a married person. She was a celibate, single woman who spent the last 13 years of her life battling lupus while writing some of the best fiction the world has ever known—all while living on a 544-acre dairy farm in Milledgeville, Ga. with her mother, her books, and forty-four peacocks. Her name was Flannery O’Connor.

-Fr. Damian Ference, The Vocation of Flannery O’Connor

Writing that may be dismissed as jarring, acerbic, and too controversial by people who are loathe to sit in the same room with someone who won’t validate their narrative – whether Progressive or Christian – are the short stories of Flannery O’Connor (1925–1964). She didn’t compile fluff for people to sit with the comfortable.

“She believed that story-telling ought to help modern men and women see “things as they are,” cutting through the fog of a culture that tells us that everything can be just the way we’d like it to be.”  -George Weigel, Flannery O’Connor and Catholic realism

O’Connor’s stories are typically set in the rural American South. Her sardonic Southern Gothic style employed the grotesque, the transgressive, and wild, comical and deeply-flawed characters who are often alienated from God and often in violent situations. Because of these traits, her stories may be dismissed by some readers – they do not sense a clear-cut Gospel message in her work or a comforting message.

Faith, for O’Connor, was not something easy or comforting. It involved a struggle with doubt within the seeming randomness and cruelty of life. She understood that struggle as maturing her faith.

In a letter to Lousie Abbot, O’Connor wrote

I think there is no suffering greater than what is caused by the doubts of those who want to believe. I know what torment this is, but I can only see it, in myself anyway, as the process by which faith is deepened. A faith that just accepts is a child’s faith and all right for children, but eventually you have to grow religiously as every other way, though some never do.

What people don’t realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe. If you feel you can’t believe, you must at least do this: keep an open mind. Keep it open toward faith, keep wanting it, keep asking for it, and leave the rest to God.

O’Connor wrote about the world as she found it in the Protestant South and etched her Catholic worldview into her stories. She professed: “I see from the standpoint of Christian orthodoxy. This means that for me the meaning of life is centered in our redemption by Christ and what I see in the world I see in relation to that.” 

Her signature short story, A Good Man is Hard to Find, embodies this. You might recognize yourself and what’s at work in your life upon reading it.

The title of the story is the title of a well-known song of O’Connor’s day, sung by Bessie Smith. But the story doesn’t reference a woman’s hard time with men as the song does. The story would have us look at what it means to be a “good man”. Everyone has their own definition of what it means to be good, as do two characters in the story – the grandmother and the Misfit.

The grandmother values her Southern upbringing and mannerisms. For a road trip, the grandmother is all fancied up, white gloves and all, as is the habit of Southern women. The grandmother thinks goodness is being polite, nice, respectful, and agreeing with her views on things. This is brought out in her conversation with Red Sam, a character as fatuous as the grandmother. He delivers the title’s line that comes across as a cliché dismissive of the real world’s Misfit-type violence.

The escaped-convict Misfit, also steeped in Southern tradition, views the world through an amoral nihilist filter. He is unconcerned with traditional morality or even the value of other people’s lives. He shows up in a big black hearse-like vehicle. By a turn of events, generated by the manipulative grandmother and her cat, they meet. The grandmother, “good” in a decent person sense of good does not appreciate what she is up against. Will she finally grasp what makes a “good man?”

The family members, who shout and argue until someone gives in and behave in petty selfish ways without much reflection or moral thought find themselves in a less-than-good situation. What happens to them?

What does the Misfit say about punishment, the law, and about Jesus and the resurrection?

And what does the story show about the activity of and need for grace and the state of the human condition that refuses it?

I have purposefully not given you a summary of A Good Man is Hard to Find. Reading it first and then listening to podcasts would be the best introduction to her work.

Why do I read Flannery O’Connor?

Her unsentimental gimlet-eyed Kafkaesque realism speaks to me as a writer in our distorted and moronic times.

“Writers who see by the light of their Christian faith will have, in these times, the sharpest eye for the grotesque, for the perverse, and for the unacceptable. To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.” ― Flannery O’Connor

Flannery O’Connor. Photo: Joe McTyre

Her stories move mystical concepts down from a theological mountain into the hands of her characters – the misfits, freaks, and outsiders who reckon with them or don’t. Her ‘parables’ hit home more than all the logical sermons I’ve heard on grace, salvation, goodness, punishment, forgiveness, and moral decay.

And, like Jesus, she’s “thrown everything off balance.”

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A Good Man Is Hard To FindDownload
The Great Books Podcast: ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find’ Flannery O’Connor

The Great Books Podcast: ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find’ Flannery O’Connor | National Review

A Good Man is Hard to Find BONUS episode

A Good Man is Hard to Find BONUS episode (1517.org)

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Bishop Barron Presents | Ethan and Maya Hawke – Understanding Flannery (youtube.com)

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Further on Flannery:

Flannery O’Connor Reads ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’ in Rare 1959 Audio | Open Culture

A Good Man Is Hard to Find by Flannery O’Connor — HCC Learning Web (hccs.edu)

How Flannery O’Connor and Cormac McCarthy Helped to Invent the South – By Nick Ripatrazone | The Marginalia Review of Books

The Complete Stories (archive.org)

Flannery O’Connor Reads ‘A Good Man is Hard to Find’ in Rare 1959 Audio | Open Culture

Flannery | American Masters | PBS

The Vocation of Flannery O’Connor – Word on Fire

Flannery O’Connor Reads “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” (1959) (youtube.com)

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(Cormac McCarthy (1933 – 2023) had a several influences including O’Connor. Georgia-born O’Connor wrote in Southern Gothic mode and Tennessee-born McCarthy in Appalachian Gothic mode.  Both, with grim-humor, created grotesque characters and nihilistic settings – O’Conner to reveal the possibility of divine grace and lapsed Catholic McCarthy to wonder about the meaning of life. Both writers use violence in their stories. McCarthy to the extreme (Anton Chigurh, No Country for Old Men.)

Flannery O’Connor on Why the Grotesque Appeals to Us, Plus a Rare Recording of Her Reading “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”:

In these grotesque works, we find that the writer has made alive some experience which we are not accustomed to observe every day, or which the ordinary man may never experience in his ordinary life. We find that connections which we would expect in the customary kind of realism have been ignored, that there are strange skips and gaps which anyone trying to describe manners and customs would certainly not have left. Yet the characters have an inner coherence, if not always a coherence to their social framework. Their fictional qualities lean away from typical social patterns, toward mystery and the unexpected. It is this kind of realism that I want to consider.

All novelists are fundamentally seekers and describers of the real, but the realism of each novelist will depend on his view of the ultimate reaches of reality.

Filed under Christianity, Flannery O'Connor, Writers Tagged with , , , , , ,

Nothing More Than Alright

February 11, 2024 Leave a comment

A short story . . .

My father, on the nights when my mother goes to bridge club, makes creamed chipped beef with peas on toast for supper. He told me one time that in the military it’s called “shit on a shingle” or SOS for short. He makes me eat it even though I can’t stomach peas or the dried beef or the gravy and I’m not a soldier. Tonight again, my mother is at bridge club and I’m sitting here with SOS.

After looking at my plate for a long time, I move the peas out of the gravy, off the toast and onto the plate with my knife. I’m hoping I won’t have to eat them. The kitchen phone rings and I jump to answer it. My best friend Janey wants to know if I want to go with her and her boyfriend Nick to watch West Side Story at the Sky-Hi Drive-In. I say I sure do and hang up. My father doesn’t want me on the phone during supper.

The peas are cold and clammy now and I say I they’re cold and clammy and I can’t eat them. My father tilts his head down and tells me to eat them. I want to say no but I need his okay to go to the movie. So, I stab some peas with my fork and swirl them in the flour gravy and then I eat the green-grey mush with a bite of toast. I gag. I drink some milk and wash it down. My father lifts his head and says “alright”. I clear the dishes and wash them. I’ve done what he wanted, so now I can ask him about Friday night. But I wait until he’s sitting in front of the TV.

An hour later, my father is in the basement watching TV. I sit with him and ask about his movie. He says troops have been ordered to risk their lives and retake a hill that’s not important in the battle. I ask him why. He says it shows the enemy their resolve to continue to fight if an agreement is not reached in negotiations.

A Marlboro commercial comes on and I ask him about Friday night. He wants to know about the movie. I tell him it’s a musical about people fighting, dancing and falling in love and he says “Okay. Ask your mother when she come home from playing bridge”.

My mother finally gets home and I tell her about Friday night. She says she knows the movie. “Saw it with a friend when it came out in ’61,” she says. She knows Janey and Nick and she says it’s okay with her that I go.

Saturday night Nick’s car pulls into the driveway. He honks the horn and I yell “They’re here”. My father yells from the basement “Have a good time honey. Call if there is a problem.” Mom, on the phone with someone, yells for me to come straight home after the movie. I yell back “I will”.

I get in the back seat of Nick’s Chevy and we drive off – but not in the direction of the Sky-Hi. I ask where we’re going. Janey turns to me and says that Nick asked his friend Tom to come along. He had nothing to do, Nick says. I immediately panic. I wonder if I look alright.

I have a face full of pimples and a bony nose that’s too big for my face. I wonder if I used enough concealer. The green top I’m wearing is wrinkled. It was at the bottom of my closet. And the jeans I’m wearing are worn thin. I was expecting to sit in the dark and watch a movie with Nick and Janey.

We pull up to a ranch house on the other side of town. Nick honks the horn. A skinny blonde-haired guy walks out the front door and down the front walk. “Here’s Tom,” Janey says.

Tom gets in the back seat. Janey introduces Tom. I don’t know him from school. I give him a quick smile and then give Janey a stare. She just winks back at me. She knows I don’t have a boyfriend.

Tom is neatly dressed. He’s wearing a button-down shirt, khaki pants and loafers. His boxy glasses make him look like a bookworm. In junior high school he’d be called “a climber” and Nick “a greaser”.

The Twin Theater Sky-Hi Drive In is on the west end of our town. On the way we listen to the AM radio. A Chicago station plays Born to Be Wild and I Will Always Think About You. Tom and I sit quietly in the back. I suck in my lips and look out my window. The cloudy sky looks like flour gravy.

We arrive at Sky-Hi and pay for our tickets. Nick drives over to a center spot in the East Theater. Nick and Tom say they’re going to the concession stand. They ask what we want. Janey and I ask for Cokes and popcorn. I hand Nick some money and they head off. The guys return after twenty minutes just as the coming attractions start. I roll down my window and Tom hands me the Coke and popcorn. I say thank you. He gets into the back seat on the other side of the car.

Janey’s been sitting next to Nick the whole time he’s been driving. Now Nick puts his arm around Janey’s shoulder and they snuggle together. Janey asks “are you guys okay back there?” I say I have to move over to see the screen. I look at Tom and he gives me a nod that says it’s okay. I scooch over to the middle of the back seat and put my legs to the left side of the floor hump. “That’s better,” I say.

Finally, the movie begins. There’s an overture and then the Jets sing about being a Jet and beating up other gangs. The Jets and the Sharks want to fight each other for control of the streets. But first they go to a dance. It’s a musical, so I guess it doesn’t have to make sense.

At the dance, Tony of the Jets meets Maria, Bernardo’s sister. Bernardo is the head of the Puerto Rican Shark gang. Tony and Maria fall in love at first sight. Nobody is happy about that except Tony and Maria. Tony’s half in half out about the gang stuff but he’s all in on Maria. He wants to run away with her.

Tony and Maria start singing Tonight and I stop eating popcorn. I put my hand down on the car seat so I can lean forward and hear what’s coming from the speaker. My little finger touches Tom’s little finger. He takes my hand into his. We stay this way, looking at the movie and holding hands, until the movie ends and headlights turn on.

It’s past midnight when we leave Sky-HI. Nick says he’ll drive me home first. I go back and sit behind Nick. Tom looks out his window. Everyone is quiet. Nick turns on the radio. Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing comes on. I suck in my lips and look out my window. On the way home I see a car with one headlight and say “perdiddle.”  Janey and Nick kiss.

At home I get out of the car and say thanks to Janey and Nick and goodnight to Tom. Tom says good night looking at Nick and Janey.

I go inside and hear the TV on in the basement. I walk down the hallway to my bedroom. My mother is sitting in her bed reading her magazines. She sees me and asks “Susan, how was it?” I poke my head into the room and tell her it was alright.

“Just alright? Nothing more?” she asks.

“Nothing more than alright” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “Now go to bed. It’s late. Tomorrow’s another day.”

As I walk away she reminds me that she has bridge club again tomorrow night. I say okay.

In my room I take the ticket stub out of my jeans pocket. I find a pen and write on the back of the stub West Side Story Tom. I pull my keepsake box out from under the bed and put the ticket stub inside along with the Valentine cards from third grade and my second-place medals from clarinet solo contests and some poems I wrote. I close the box and put it back.

I go to bed thinking about the movie and Tom and peas on my plate.

©Jennifer Ann Johnson, Kingdom Venturers, 2024, All Rights Reserved

Filed under Short Story, short story, Valentines Day, Writing Tagged with , , , , , , ,