“You’re welcome,” he says.
“Can we start our brunch now?” I ask. “I have to eat an hour after I take my meds.”
I begin to reach for the sausage-and-egg casserole Ron made. It’s fabulous, like biscuits and gravy in a baking dish. You’d think the fancy Le Creuset Sauteuse it was made in would reject the spicy Jimmy Dean sausage and cans of condensed soup like a bad kidney. It’s a recipe from Ron’s mom. We all loved and respected our mothers—more than most of them ever loved and respected their boys—and still do to this day. It’s like making their favorite dishes is a way to understand and forgive.
Recipe repentance.
Ron slaps my hand. Our routine never changes.
“Ouch!” I say.
“We haven’t prayed yet.”
Ron is wearing a proper, respectful church bonnet—in black, without showy flowers.
Yes, we wear bonnets to the Church of Mary every Sunday, based on theme, season or holiday.
I mean, who do you think we are? We were raised right. Mostly Midwestern and Southern boys who went to church and Sunday school every week with our mamas and grandmas.
Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Dorian Gay is one of the most popular vintage mid-century resale clothing stores in the desert. I can pluck the best bonnets for my family.
“Let us pray,” Ron says. “Dear Lord, thank you for having us gather here on this glorious Sunday. We thank you for the sustenance of this food and this friendship. As I was hiking the other day, I realized that we all seek a way to be better people. We all seek to ascend.”
I open my eyes and take in the breathtaking San Jacinto Mountains that surround us.
“Which is why the four of us go to church every Sunday,” Ron continues. “We strive to live at a higher level...”
Barry titters.
“Ssssh!” Ron reprimands before continuing. “We strive to be worthy of you.”
Ron has faith as high and majestic as these mountains. I glance at him as he prays. My mother told me before she died that it’s easy for those who have never been tested to have faith.
“When you feel like you’ve lost everything and have nowhere to turn, that’s when true faith comes to call.”
Ron has true faith. I think my telephone has been ringing my whole life, and I just don’t want to answer.
“Close your eyes please, Teddy,” Ron says, catching me staring at him.
Ron is now an esteemed interior designer who grew up on a farm in a town of five hundred people. He wasn’t allowed towatch TV or listen to music, so he watched thunderstorms roll in from the horizon for entertainment and listened to the purple martins sing at night. His father was a pastor at the country church. He preached fire and brimstone, and he tried to beat the sin out of his little boy, but the holy spirit still burns in sweet little Ronny, a pint-sized man with a mass of coiffed white hair that looks like cotton candy. You can actually see the sun through it. It looks just like his mama’s hairdo in old Polaroids.
“Dear Lord, thank you for our blessings and for allowing us to join together again in your outdoor church.” Ron takes a breath. “As I was shucking the corn today to make mama’s casserole...”
We release a collective groan at the meandering prayer of our Rose Nylund.
“Forgive them, Lord,” Ron continues undeterred. “Anyway, I was reminded of what she taught me growing up: that each strand of silk on an ear of sweet corn represents a single kernel of corn on the cob. One silk for every kernel. Lord, we all know the world tries to rip those special strands from our souls until we appear nekked, but let us remember today that you gave us those strands, and even if just one silk remains, it holds on to remind us of the person that you created, the unique soul that still remains. This tiny, soft thread ties us to our pasts and our futures. In God’s name we pray, amen!”
“Amen.”
Ron squeezes my hand hard.
“Ouch,” I say. “Amen.”
Ron looks at me and nods his head because he knows I need this affirmation more than anyone else.
He squeezes again, even harder, and I finally squeeze back. Ron smiles, pleased, and releases.
“Now we can eat,” he says. “Bon appétit!”
