10. ELLEN IS QUITE HERSELF.

           She’s given up tournament bridge—actually she’s not much better at it than I. We play social bridge with Max and Sophie Saturday and Sunday afternoons.

It is pleasant to gaze out over Lake Pontchartrain from Max’s high-rise condo. The bright mazy sun whitens out the sky into a globe of pearly light into which the causeway disappears like a Japanese bridge into a cloud. Between hands Max goes out on the little balcony and focuses his telescope on a coot or a scaup bobbing like corks on the light, vapory water. Once, a memorable day, he put on the high-power lens and we saw a vermilion flycatcher perched on the bridge rail, pooped, taking a breather on the long voyage from Venezuela.

Later Ellen experienced a religious conversion. She became disaffected when the Southern and Northern Presbyterians, estranged since the Civil War, reunited after over a hundred years. It was not the reunion she objected to but the liberal theology of the Northern Presbyterians, who, according to her, were more interested in African revolutionaries than the divinity of Christ. She and others pulled out and formed the Independent Northlake Presbyterian Church.

Then she became an Episcopalian.

Then suddenly she joined a Pentecostal sect. She tells me straight out that she has had a personal encounter with Jesus Christ, that where once she was lost and confused, seduced by Satan and the false pleasures of this world, she has now found true happiness with her Lord and Saviour. She has also been baptized in the Holy Spirit. She speaks in tongues.

I do not know what to make of this. I do not know that she has not found Jesus Christ and been born again. Therefore I accept that she believes she has and may in fact have been. I settle for her being back with us and apparently happy and otherwise her old tart, lusty self. She is as lusty a Pentecostal as she was a Southern Presbyterian. She likes as much as ever cooking a hearty breakfast, packing the kids off to school, and making morning love on our Sears Best bed, as we used to.

She loves the Holy Spirit, says little about Jesus.

She is herself a little holy spirit hooked up to a lusty body. In her case spirit has nothing to do with body. Each goes its own way. Even when she was a Presbyterian and I was a Catholic, I remember that she was horrified by the Eucharist: Eating the body of Christ. That’s pagan and barbaric, she said. What she meant and what horrified her was the mixing up of body and spirit, Catholic trafficking in bread, wine, oil, salt, water, body, blood, spit—things. What does the Holy Spirit need with things? Body does body things. Spirit does spirit things.

She’s happy, so I’ll settle for it. But a few things bother me. She attributes her conversion to a TV evangelist to whom she contributed most of her fortune plus a hundred dollars a week to this guy, which we cannot afford, or rather to his Gospel Outreach program for the poor of Latin America. I listened to this reverend once. He’d rather convert a Catholic Hispanic than a Bantu any day in the week.

She has also enrolled Tommy and Margaret in the Feliciana Christian Academy, which teaches that the world is six thousand years old and won’t have Huckleberry Finn or The Catcher in the Rye in the library.

At least it’s better than Belle Ame, and the kids seem happy and healthy.

But I worry about them growing up as Louisiana dumbbells.

I might have held out for the parochial school, which was good, but it folded. The nuns vanished. The few priests are too overworked to bother. Catholics have become a remnant of a remnant. Louisiana, however, is more Christian than ever, not Catholic Christian, but Texas Christian. Even most Cajuns have been converted, first by Texas oil bucks, then by Texas evangelists. The shrimp fleet, mostly born again, that is, for the third time, is no longer blessed and sprinkled by a priest.

Why don’t I like these new Christians better? They’re sober, dependable, industrious, helpful. They praise God frequently, call you brother, and punctuate ordinary conversation with exclamations like Glory! Praise God! Hallelujah! I’ve nothing against them, but they give me the creeps.

Ellen often invites me to a meeting of her Pentecostals, who hug and weep and exclaim and speak in tongues. She wants to share her newfound Lord with me, especially the Holy Spirit.

“No thanks,” I say, after one visit.

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid Marva will hug me.” Marva, her mother, has converted too.

“I’m serious. Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why don’t you want to?”

“I can’t really say.”

“I know why.”

“Why?”

“You’re still a Roman.” There’s nothing new in this. While she was an Episcopalian, she began calling Catholics “Romans.”

“I don’t think so.”

“At heart you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“That that priest still has his hooks in you.”

“Father Smith? Rinaldo? He doesn’t have his hooks in me.”

“He got you to do Mass with him.”

Do Mass? “That was back in June. It was my namesake’s feast day. I could hardly refuse.”

“Namesake’s feast day. What does that mean?”

“The feast of Sir Thomas More. June twenty-second.”

“And he got you again last month.”

“He didn’t get me. It was the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination. I was the only one he asked. You wouldn’t want me not to go.”

“Do you know what he does now?”

“Who, Rinaldo? What?”

“When he calls you and I answer the phone, he won’t tell me what he really wants. He’ll make up another excuse like being sick and needing a doctor.”

“He’s a sly one.”

“And how about you taking the children to Mass last week?”

“It was Christmas.”

“We don’t think much of Christmas. The word means Christ’s Mass.”

“Well, after all Meg and Tom are Catholics.”

“I don’t care what you call them as long as you admit that neither you or Tom or Meg will be saved until you are born again of the Holy Spirit and into the Lord.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I thought I was born again when I was baptized.”

“How can a little baby be born again right after it has been born?”

“That’s a good question, Nicodemus.”

“What did you call me?”

“Nothing bad. Come over here by me.”

But she keeps standing, hands on her hips.

“Why don’t you go to the fellowship meeting with me tonight? The children are going.”

“I think I’ll stay home. But right now—”

“I know exactly what you’re going to do.”

“What?”

“Have five big drinks and watch another stupid rerun of Barnaby Jones.”

“That’s so. But for now, why not come over here by me? You’re a very good-looking piece.”

She sighs, but takes her hands off her hips, holds them palms up, looks up to heaven: what to do? Actually she’s quite content to have it so, as am I.

“Come by me.”

“All right.” She sighs again, comes by me—a wife’s duty— then smiles.

We get along well. It is my practice which is shot.