Juniper Willoughby

“June, it is time for you to show Malcolm to the door.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Willoughby. It was really a treat joining you for church. And the brunch was delicious!”

“You’re quite welcome, Malcolm. I’m pleased that you enjoyed yourself. Now don’t keep your mother waiting. I’m sure she’s arriving as we speak.”

“Yes, Mrs. Willoughby.”

Malcolm stood from his chair in the dining room, and his napkin fell from his lap to the floor. Oblivious to the faux pas, he proceeded to step on it, making haste to shake Mrs. Willoughby’s hand, to which she said, “Oh!” and waved him off as she appealed with her eyes to Juniper to be the good hostess and escort her guest away.

June stood and said, “This way, Malcolm,” and he dutifully followed, his blue blazer dusted with the powdered sugar from a donut, and his tie, a clip-on, askew. He wore seer sucker shorts, argyle knee socks pulled to the patella, and light tan canvas Docksiders.

Malcolm drew even with June and matched her stride down the hall, lined with framed artwork and cushioned with an Oriental runner.

“It was really quite good of you to let me join you, June.”

“Well, you asked.”

“Actually, Mother asked Mrs. Willoughby for me.”

“Same thing. We couldn’t exactly say no.”

Malcolm smirked as June opened the front door, revealing Malcolm’s mother, a blunt cut, salt-and-pepper-haired woman who refused to wear make-up or heels, but who always wore a skirt, sitting in her car, waving.

“Frumpy” was the word Mrs. Willoughby had used to describe Malcolm’s mother to June’s father the evening of their encounter at the middle school office some weeks before:

“Hello, Mrs. Willoughby?”

Mrs. Willoughby, who had arrived to pick June up from school early for a doctor’s appointment, turned to face the unfamiliar voice. “Yes?”

“I thought it was you. I’m Cass Brewer. My son Malcolm is in class with your daughter, Juniper. June.” Cass extended her gloveless hand with unpainted nails.

“I see.” Mrs. Willoughby, mildly perturbed being accosted in this manner, nevertheless shook Cass’s hand without removing her gloves, beneath which she maintained perfectly manicured nails. “Olivia.”

“You are Catholic, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Willoughby furrowed her brow.

“I apologize if this is an intrusion at all, but I was under the impression from Malcolm that you are members of Holy Family Church. Is that not true?”

“No, it is true. My husband generally only attends for Christmas or Easter, but I try to go more frequently than that. At one point, I had to so June could go to Sunday school, when she was little. Now she’s preparing for confirmation this year.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think that Malcolm could join you sometime that you and June are going to Sunday mass?”

“Well, I don’t see why not. Is he interested in attending services?”

“He is. And, well, quite frankly, my husband and I are committed secular humanists. We don’t believe in God, and we think religion is a crutch. As Karl Marx said, ‘the opium of the masses’.”

“Well, if that is how you feel, why would you want Malcolm to be exposed to the teachings of the Catholic Church?”

“As secular humanists, my husband and I refuse to constrain our children’s belief systems. Both Malcolm and his older brother, Johann, are quite drawn, it seems, to the Church, each in his own way.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, in the case of Johann, who is now in his freshman year at Yale, he seems to have become rather taken with the pomp and grandeur of the High Anglican Church, and he has joined a congregation. I supposed we shouldn’t be surprised. We are, after all, sending our children to the Episcopal Academy, aren’t we?” Cass smiled.

Olivia did not reciprocate, though she took pains not to scowl as she regarded the woman’s face, the shape and dental structure of which seemed strikingly equine, and wondered why and how and, why, again, was this obligation being visited upon her now, and, at the same time, what was taking Juniper so long, for goodness sake? She absentmindedly glanced at her watch.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you. But, as you know,” Cass lowered her voice, “there are not that many Catholics that go to school here, and, since Malcolm has interest in the Catholic Church, if you wouldn’t mind …”

“No, no, of course not. Just have him speak to June about it, and we’ll be happy to have him join us for services and brunch following.”

“Oh, that’s so kind and generous of you!”

“Would you care to join?”

“Oh God no, I could never set foot into such a place.”

“Suit yourself. June’s finally here and we are running late. I’ll let her know what we discussed.”

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“You what?”

“I said he could come to church with us.”

“Mom! Why would you do that? I mean, especially without talking to me first.” June crossed her arms and thrust her torso back into the passenger seat in grave dissatisfaction.

“Juniper! We cannot deny the yearning for knowledge of our faith! You of all people should know that by now, young lady! What are they teaching you in those confirmation classes if not that you are supposed to share the Good News of the Gospel?”

“Mom!”

“June, I realize this is unexpected. I certainly did not anticipate it, but what was I to tell the woman? No, her son is not welcome to come to church with us? The Catholic Church is not some secret society. All are welcome.”

“Exactly! So why does he need to come with us? He can just go to church himself.”

“Well, evidently Mr. and Mrs. Brewer are not comfortable going to church themselves, but they want to support their children if they are interested, so, I guess you can think of it as, ‘God is asking you to be a good hostess to your classmate and have him join us to mass’.”

“Don’t you see? He’s not really interested in church.”

“No? Then, why, pray tell, is his mother asking if he can come to church with us?”

“It’s not about coming to church. It’s the ‘with us’ part.”

“You think this boy has a crush on you?”

“I know he does. Everyone knows he does. And he’s gross and I don’t like him at all.”

“Juniper Willoughby! That is not a Christian way to talk. Is that how Jesus told you to love your neighbors? Answer me! Is it?”

“No.”

“Well, then. Can you please stop giving me such a hard time about this, and, look, even if he does have a crush on you, that is still not a reason not to let him come to church with us. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Okay. Now go ahead into the doctor’s office while I park the car. We’re late.”

===================================

The dreaded Sunday finally arrived. Mrs. Brewer would drop off Malcolm at the Church of the Holy Family parking lot ten minutes before 10 a.m., and Mrs. Willoughby and June would find him and then take their seats in their normal pew.

En route, Mrs. Willoughby had given strict instructions to June that she was to make a point of introducing Malcolm to Father Coyle, who always presided at the 10 a.m. service, on their departure.

“Father Coyle, this is Malcolm Brewer.”

“Malcolm, so nice of you to join us this morning!”

“Thank you, Father Coyle.”

“Is this your first time coming to church?”

“Yessir. It was very interesting to me.”

“Really? Do tell me, what about it did you find interesting?”

“Well…” Malcolm paused. “I liked how they rang the bells when you lifted the host and the chalice.”

“The body and blood.”

“Yes, the body and blood.”

“But, of course, you did not partake in Holy Communion, did you?”

“No sir, I knew that I could not do that.”

“I see. You were well counseled by–”

“By my mother.”

“Of course! A mother is always the first teacher.”

“Father Coyle, may I ask you something?”

“Of course, Malcolm, my son. What do you wish to ask?”

“When the bread and wine become the body and blood, what does it taste like? I mean, does the wine taste like blood and does the bread taste like you are eating flesh? You know, like, a body?”

“What do you think, Malcolm?”

“I think it does.”

Father Coyle nodded. “I suppose you will just have to find out for yourself.”

=================================

Middle school ended. Upper school began. School days, filled with classes, followed by sports and clubs, turned to weeks. Weeks became months, punctuated by midterms and finals, with holidays forming the breaks: Semesters became school years, then summers.

Malcolm never asked to go to church with June again.

After getting confirmed, June was no longer pressed into service or services. Mrs. Willoughby was satisfied that, as a confirmed Catholic, Juniper would have the good sense to remain chaste until her wedding day. She had done all she could do.

While Malcolm’s sartorial idiosyncrasies never abated, they evolved as the funkiness of the era did as well, finding convergence with a trend known as “Preppy Punk.” Blending seer sucker, pinpoint oxfords, and madras ties with shorts or trousers, but only if they were leather, or denim, and studded.

In terms of footwear, dress shoes were shunned for sneakers, cowboy boots or canvas cloth of any sort. A variation the following fall, while he was matriculating at Notre Dame, drove him into cowboy culture with zeal.

June, for her part, no longer answered to Juniper, having come to detest the notion that she had been named after berries. She did not particularly care for June, either, other than the month, but she would answer to it, and more extreme measures did not enter into her consideration until she had landed at college herself that same fall at Bryn Mawr, when she thought of changing her name altogether, but ultimately thought better of it, deciding that to participate in any way with the machinery of nomenclature identity in connection with the State was to perpetuate the patriarchy and to endorse it by her presence in the very institution she was being taught to disavow.

Their first semesters of freshman year (“frosh” at Bryn Mawr) concluded, and in time for Christmas, both were at their respective homes.

On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Willoughby finished dressing and went to knock on June’s door. “June, are you ready?”

June opened the door. She was wearing a white tee shirt and blue jeans.

“Aren’t you coming to church?”

“Mother, I don’t … I don’t know. I don’t really go anymore. I’m not sure I believe in God anymore.”

“Juniper, after all that we did to send you to Sunday school and then get you confirmed?”

“I didn’t ask for that!”

“Well, how’s that for appreciation on Christmas!”

“Arghh! Mother! You don’t understand! This is all a perpetuation of the patriarchy! It’s a totally human construct. God has nothing to do with it.”

“Juniper!”

“Mother! I hate that! Please!”

“I’m sorry. June. Won’t you please come to church with me?”

“Can’t you just go with Dad?”

“He’s asleep. Too much eggnog. Please June, don’t make your mother go to church alone on Christmas Eve.”

==============================

June and Olivia sat in their normal pew. Olivia wore gloves that hid her perfectly manicured nails. She glanced at June’s nails, which were unpainted. Her only make-up was dark lip stick, and she wore a skirt—wool, plaid—with Doc Marten’s and torn black stockings. The sweater she put over her white tee was pilled, and Olivia’s reflexive thought was, “Frumpy! How did my daughter get so frumpy?”

The thought was jarred by a man in black leather pants, cowboy boots and a plaid madras tie under a suede blazer, who approached from the aisle, Olivia’s side.

“Mrs. Willoughby, Merry Christmas!”

Olivia did not immediately recognize the man, and her furrowed brow signaled so.

“It’s Malcolm Brewer.”

“Malcolm! You’re so … grown up!” Mrs. Willoughby was indeed pleased at how this young man appeared in contrast to her recollection of the powdered sugar covered blazer. This young man appeared kempt in a way that his younger self had not yet mastered. Without taking her eyes off of him, she reached to her right, to draw June’s attention to her former classmate.

June was scrolling through Instagram posts from her frosh classmates when she felt her mother’s hand and looked up.

“Hello, June. Merry Christmas.”

“Malcolm! What are you doing here?”

“June!”

“I’m sorry. I mean, ‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’ Now. What are you doing here?”

“I’m Catholic.”

“Like, ‘Catholic’ catholic?”

“Yes, Roman Catholic. I was baptized at the beginning of the semester. I went through a crash catechism course, and I had my First Holy Communion a month later.”

“Wow! Congratulations, I guess.”

“Malcolm, I think that’s wonderful! Try to be a little more enthusiastic and supportive, June.”

“Well, it’s hard to be happy for him. He’s just going to become one of the new oppressors, reinforcing the status quo of the patriarchy, which, by the way, is at the expense of all of the rest of us. Meaning you and me. Women.”

“Honey, don’t talk that way. Is that what they are teaching you at Bryn Mawr?”

“Mrs. Willoughby, please, do not chastise June for where she is at this moment on her faith journey. If I have learned anything in my own journey, it is that it’s not a straight line.”

“Well, that’s very open-minded of you, Malcolm. Isn’t it June?”

“Yes, so frigging open minded of him, all right?”

=================================

Before graduating from Bryn Mawr, June, who had majored in Women’s Studies, decided to apply to Ph.D. programs in History, with a focus on Women as agents of change, and she was accepted to the University of Indiana at Bloomington.

Walking on campus, one of the early days, now wearing a blunt cut with hair dyed purple, June saw a figure wearing all black, including a shirt and tie, even his cowboy hat and boots. He walked towards her, as she continued on the path to the parking lot, her car, her apartment, home.

Suddenly, he was before her. He was recognizable. “Hi Malcolm.”

“Hi June.”

He persuaded her to turn around, to join him for a coffee, which ended up being a beer, then a second. It turned out Malcolm was starting law school. He wanted to fight for civil rights.

“Are you still all religious, though?”

“Yeah, I’ve been Catholic for over four years now. I go to church pretty much every Sunday, and I try to attend on all of the Holy Days and Ash Wednesday, too.”

“And, why do you care?”

“It’s been a very positive thing for me.”

“Well, before you think about fighting for civil rights, you might want to think about how much the church you are so … addicted to now… has damaged the civil rights of others throughout history.”

“I’m not defending the church’s crimes of the past. I’m just trying to do something good now.”

“You’re going to end up selling out and becoming a corporate lawyer, you know it.”

“Well, maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Have I ever told you: You remind me of my mom?”

“No, and I really have to go!”

“Okay. Well, I hope I see you again soon.”

=================================

That night, June’s sleep was restless. She tossed; she turned. She shifted, and she burned. Then, with no covers, she was cold.

“I hope I see you again soon.” The words echoed in her head. What did she hope? Did she want to see Malcolm again? Was his newfound cowboy Catholicism calculated? She stirred as her mind whirred.

================================

Two years and eight months later, Malcolm graduated with his J.D. He was going into private practice to do trusts, estates and wills.

“See, I told you you would become a corporate lawyer.”

“I did not become a corporate lawyer. I became a ‘trusts, wills and estates’ guy.”

“Same difference. You’re not doing civil rights.”

“True. Not doing civil fights. I mean rights.”

================================

“Malcolm! You’ve changed from the cowboy look! What are you doing here?”

“It’s our fifth year reunion, so I am back on campus. I am actually holding a brief panel session on estate planning if you’re interested.”

“Uh, my estate is not the kind of thing that requires planning, thank you very much!”

“Sure. By the way, what are you doing here? I mean still. What are you still doing here?”

“I’ve been ABD for the last three years. I am dissertating. Still.”

“Oh. Well, good luck with that.”

“Yeah, thanks. And good luck with your seminar.”

“Panel session.”

“Whatever.”

=========================

The next year, June finally graduated, receiving her Ph.D. and participating in the solemn hooding ceremony held by the History department.

She received an offer as an assistant professor at the University of California, Berkeley, and, once there, rarely returned to either alma mater. When she did return to Bloomington, she studiously avoided law school reunion weekends.

THE END