THE HOUSE INSIDE ME

by Camelia Wheatley

  “It’s okay, Pearl. I’m good. You’re good,” I said with tears streaming down my face. It stunned me to realize that something so simple and overlooked could be my gift, my art, my purpose. Even in pain, or destruction, in sanity or insanity, no matter what, it was who I was. It was mine and I owned it. For the first time in my life I knew without a doubt, even in the all the pain and suffering—I was created for more. A simple profound more.

  8

  Behind The Pine Curtain

  My crown is called content,

  a crown that seldom kings enjoy.

  ~ William Shakespeare

  I got up earlier than I normally do. There was a nip in the air and the dew was still glazed over the plants and blades of grass on the lawn. The sun with all its magnificent colors was peeking over the pines, rising up like a yellow god. I sat on the porch swing. The creaking eek-eek noise of the old chain made my heart yearn for simpler times. I glanced toward the pasture. The forest beyond the fence line called to me with a voice only a child would recognize. My house was surrounded by national forest land, which was the reason I was attracted to this rental house to begin with. I had never explored the woods, until now. The next thing I know, I’m manipulating the barbwire and crawling through the fence. I could almost see Meg and I as kids behind our house, heading to the woods, her holding the wire up while I crawled under and Meg saying, hurry up fool, we ain’t got all day for you to roll around in the grass. I found myself walking a trail barefoot and still in my white cotton nightgown. The pine needles on my toes and the red dirt beneath my feet made me whimsical as if I’d been touched with magic. My arms reached side to side, touching various trees, shrubs and greenery. I had forgotten how quiet it was in the deep woods. Only small rustling sounds of nature nestling in uncertainty.

  I had momentarily closed my eyes to take in the sacred moments, my arms outstretched with invitation. I exhaled and opened my eyes, only to freeze up. I blinked to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But it was still there. An owl, a real live owl only a few feet away near a puddle of creek water. I held my breath and my movements to stare at the amazing creature. The owl rotated its head from side to side and watched me mysteriously and as curiously as I was to it. Maw Sue used to tell me owls were messengers of spirited things. There had been an owl outside my hospital window when I was born but she never understood the message it brought. As a kid it made me feel special, connected to nature, but as I grew older, I never thought much about it, until now. I stepped forward slowly to get closer. The owl lurched upwards and straight at me. All I could see was those long talons growing larger as I fell backwards flat on my back. There was a sharp pain in my arm, but I hardly noticed because time seemed to slow down in my mind to see everything in slow motion. The widespread wings and flapping feathers were spiritual fans. My vision sharpened with every detail and pattern. It had sharp, massive talons partially encrusted with thick clay from feeding in the creek beds. And then it was gone, returning to the sky it mastered. The sacred moment was over but I had been stirred to stillness. When I finally moved to sit up, I felt a sharp pain in my arm. A long gash with blood trickled down my arm where I had fallen and scraped it against the sharp thorns of the locust tree. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a Locust tree of swords since childhood. And then without warning—or maybe the thorn scrape was a warning, who knows, but regardless, a childhood memory emerged.

  A leaf drops from a tree branch, my little bare feet scruff against pine straw and my toes sinks deeply into the hot, crunchy red soil. Birds chirp from treetops, water trickles over sand and sifts through the creek bed while the hot Texas wind licks my skin like a damp dishrag. Sweat beads across my neck and soaks my hair, making it sticky and matted. Meg and I were gallivanting down a pig trail following Maw Sue’s footsteps. The tops of the pine trees bowed over us like guardians. They shut out the sun with their massive upper bodies and formed a tunnel of dusky shadows weaving in and out of the underbrush and played tricks on our eyes. A tangled mass of weeds, grasses and a variety of small hardwoods—oaks, elm, hickory, and sweet gum—had strangled the narrow path, making it hard to walk. I was hedged close to the tail end of Maw Sue’s skirt. Meg was behind me, her fingers locked into the belt loops of my shorts. Maw Sue was our forerunner through the dense woods, slashing, chopping and breaking a pathway. Small prickly bushes grabbed us with long boney fingers and scraggly nails. They pinched our thighs and lifted our shirts and left bleeding scratches. The forest could be a beautiful but dangerous place. Deeper and deeper it swallowed us until we reached a clearing. Acres of twisted vines snaked around numerous trunks, a highway of limbs spiraled above us, loops and drops, twists and turns connecting each tree. The mouth of the forest opened wide and we walked freely on its pebbled teeth and soft palette of mossy growth and a carpet of reddish-brown pine straw. Meg and I found plants, herbs and various other flora and asked Maw Sue a gazillion questions. She knew a lot about herbs, nature and medicinal recipes passed down from the Seventh tribe. It was important for her to pass tradition down to us. On this particular walk, she told us to gather up honeysuckle vines, dewberry brambles and scrapings of sticky pine sap and we were happy to do so.

  We were wading in the creek bed when Maw Sue approached a tree we had never seen. It was a Locust tree. A sword tree, a warrior tree. Tiny swordlike points sharp as needles stuck out all over the place. In my mind, tiny creatures of the forest would break off the swords and commence to do battle. Maw Sue snapped off a handful of swords and stuffed them inside her apron pocket along with a handful of green leaves she plucked off another tree. I assumed it was for herbal potions since she swore, she was a door knock away from death. She had more aches and pains than anyone I knew but she could whip up an herbal remedy in no time flat.

  She sat on a tree stump and told us to take a break. We knew what was coming. This was storytelling mode. My ears perked up and waited anxiously for a new story or some other grand tale about the newly found locust tree. She emptied her pockets and began sorting. She sifted through the wild arrangement of leaves, brambles, and honeysuckle vines on her lap. Then finally, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, she began her story. As she spoke, she sewed, twisted and wrapped. I listened and watched her seamstress fingers meticulously weave a strange and wonderful creation. Her fingers sewed a gift—while her lips sowed a seed.

  We were transported to a whimsical place of childlike wonder. The story was about a baby named Jesus and his miraculous beginnings. The words impregnated the forest with life as if Bethlehem were tucked under the haven of pine trees a few feet away. The power of it made my heart hurt. So much I clutched at my chest and pondered its profound ability to make me tear up. No other story had done this to me before. I was prone to being overly dramatic sometimes, but this was ridiculous. I was a mess. She spoke of his mother too. Her name was Mary, a simple woman whom God favored for no other reason than he knew she would say yes to anything he asked of her. God was right. Mary said yes. She did so without questions, without answers, without any knowledge of what the future held. Mary said yes. This thought kept running through my head over and over. I could never call her Mary. It didn’t seem fitting. I had to call her by her identity and her identity was in her faithfulness, and her faith was in her answer. Mary said yes. Her impulsiveness astonished me; her reckless abandonment gave me pause. Heck, I could barely go five minutes without asking twenty questions. I pondered this Mary said yes woman till my ears burned. Then the story got even more radical. The baby was God’s son. The son came from the womb of Mary said yes and all because Mary said yes. I mean…hello? It sounded so simple yet unbelievable. Plus, he was born poorer than white trash and under less than desirable conditions. More like scandalous! Mary said yes was an unwed mother.

  “Like Emma Parkinson?” I bleeped.

  “What?” Maw Sue stopped sewing and looked at me strange.

  “Emma Parkinson,” I said, shocked that she didn’t know. Everyone in this town knew everything about e
verybody. “You know…Maw Sue.” I stuck my hands out over my stomach and blew it out huge like a baby was inside. “That blonde woman with the big belly, the cashier at Pick-N-Pack. People say she’s having a bastard. Did Mary have a bastard too? And what is a bastard anyway?”

  Maw Sue looked perplexed in more ways than one. She spit a big wad of brown snuff on the ground.

  “Ewwww.” My nose curled in protest. “So, what about it, Maw Sue? Did Ms. Parkinson say yes to God too?” Maw Sue hem hawed, rolled her eyes and fidgeted.

  “Child, she said yes to somebody. Now are you going to listen to the story, or ask questions?”

  “Listen to the story,” I said sulking and drawing in the dirt with my fingers. Supposedly, the story goes that Mary said yes was taken in by a man named Joseph who cared for her and asked her to be his wife so he could protect her and the baby. It’s a good thing, cause shortly afterwards they would flee Egypt to avoid some madman who hated male babies and wanted to kill them. Mary said yes ended up in a barn and gave birth to her son surrounded by animals. Somehow, magically, a bright star announced his birth. He was visited by great kings and wise men who rode on camels. They brought him presents too. Special gifts, magical treasures that told him who he was, who he was to become, his identity and his purpose. Studying the heavens was the kings’ job, so they knew the star fulfilled an ancient prophecy that signified a birth of a messiah who would lead his lost people home.

  One king gave him gold. It meant kingship because only wealthy kings could possess precious metals. The second king gave frankincense, a fragrant oil to symbolize he was a priest, a man commissioned to represent God on earth for the people. For some reason, my mind reverted into deep thinking. Why can’t I have hints? Where is my star? Where are my gifts to tell me my identity? Where is my Mary Said Yes plan? Have I missed my important moment? Who am I and how shall I know?

  I was young and yet tormented by a quest for meaning. Why am I here? Why was I born? What am I supposed to do? I was relentlessly questioning my mind, my body and its desires, its ups and downs, or my heart’s ability to cope, to fall apart, to love and hate, to sin and worship, to break and recover, its resistance, its barriers, its resilience, its strengths and its weaknesses. I was tangled up in a collision course of my own making. I feared on a deeper level I had no identity. My three wise kings were tragically lost, and my shining star plummeted from the sky void of light and direction. And I missed it. I missed it all.

  My body was at war with my mind. My mind was at war with my spirit. My spirit was at war with my heart and my heart was tied to the chaos of a crazy world. Folks around these parts yack and yack about a place called Hell. If there is such a place, I lived it in my mind long before I knew I could be saved from it. I came out of my mind-wandering identity crisis only to discover the third king was a freak. He gave the gift of myrrh, which was a scented oil used to anoint a dead body. What kind of a stupid gift is that? Meg and I looked at each other awkwardly. This was the worst story Maw Sue ever told. It was heading in a direction neither of us cared for. This dude named Jesus was born with a purpose. His purpose was to die. And we didn’t like that one bit.

  “Well, that’s just stupid,” I yelled out. My heart sank. “I hate this story.” At the same time, I felt the earth split while I waited to be swallowed while Maw Sue finished the story. The pain in my heart overwhelmed me with grief and guilt and odd feelings I had never had before. Maw Sue said the gift of myrrh foretold of his sacrificial death on the cross for our sins.

  “What’s a sin?” I interrupted for the umpteenth time. Maw Sue looked at me confused.

  “Didn’t they teach you this in church, Cass? A sin is a sin. It just is.”

  “All they told us in vacation Bible school is a bunch of sentences we had to memorize and if we could recite them, we got a dumb certificate, a soda pop, a chocolate bar and recess on the playground. If I’d known that, I’d never have done all that work to memorize. I don’t get it. Still don’t. They did speak of sins, but said, if we ask Jesus to take them, he will. I think I did—but how am I supposed to know what he’s taking if I don’t know what a sin is to begin with? It’s just bullshit, Maw Sue. Don’t make no sense a ’tall.”

  Maw Sue smirked a little bit and rolled her eyes. “Watch your language. Lord. I don’t know how to explain it no other way….” And then Maw Sue hem-hawed and crawfished, and spoke long words till I felt my head hurt.

  “I don’t know exactly, Cass, a sin is just according to the person, if you feel bad about doing something then, I guess that’s a sin. The rest of that malarkey they taught at the church, well some of it is just straight-up bullshit.”

  I did know the reference for bullshit and heard it quite frequently from Dad, my uncles, and Papa C, usually in conversation like, “Bill, you see that car over there? It goes 100 miles per hour in six seconds flat on a straight run,” and they’d answer back, “That’s a crock of bullshit. Ain’t no Ford can do that.” Of course, over the years, I’d heard several scenarios where the word was used. I was just shocked the church was using it too. For a mere second, I imagined the Pastor up there saying, “Jesus sat with the little children and told them stories and all kinds of bullshit.” I wasn’t sure it fit him just right, but who was I to question the called. Then Maw Sue pulled me out of my daydreaming.

  “Can we get on with the story now?”

  “Yeah, Maw Sue. I’m good.” I smiled and lifted my hand in agreement because the next time I saw the church reverend I planned on calling him out on his bullshit.

  Maw Sue continued her story of the man named Jesus who was born to die. I listened and listened, but suddenly things got strange. Feelings inside me burbled up like a deep hole in a stream. The saliva pooled in my mouth. A frog crawled up my throat and clogged the pipe. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I felt responsible for the dude named Jesus’s death for some reason, and I’m guessing sin was the cause of it. Maw Sue tried to reassure us it was his life mission. He. Was. Born. To. Die. For the world. For you. For me. For us.

  I finally swallowed the frog down my throat after almost choking but at least I could get words out. “Naahhhh,” I said in disbelief. I held my hand up to push the words away but some deeper part of me uprooted. Dislodged inside my chest cavity. I had no idea what came over me. I felt my bones detach and I struggled to catch air until my heart started flip-flopping in my chest. My eyes leaked and leaked until I couldn’t blink them back. My body rocked forward in little ticks. I was restless. I wanted to run. Run away from my feelings, run away from the story, run away from what it meant, the deep inner message that stirred me, undid me. I felt a shift inside my heart, my soul. I was plucked to an otherworldly place. My eyes took on an altered sense of reality. My vision crisp and my hearing keen. It was like God came down to meet me. He pulled the curtain of the pines back and walked on in. He sat down beside me like common folk. If I had sin, he sure wasn’t concerned with it. I looked up at Maw Sue to see if she noticed, but obviously it was just me hallucinating, or maybe it was really happening. I’ve seen stranger things before, so I wasn’t too sure. He could tell Maw Sue was talking about him and he seemed to enjoy it, which was weird because when someone’s talking about your death, it seems odd to smile about it. Of course, my opinion didn’t matter none. Maw Sue was finishing up her story and personally, I didn’t give two shits because in the end he died. Some story. But then the tables turned on me. I was wrong. Well, half-wrong.

  He did die, but then he rose up. It was like magic. Then he told everyone to follow him and they would rise from the dead too. My jaw dropped. I didn’t like the idea of a lot of dead people rising up and walking around. It sounded too Edgar Allen Poe-ish. Turns out, before Jesus left, he passed out ghosts named Holy as a free gift to everyone and then he up and skedaddled. By this time, my jaw was jacked open so wide a mockingbird could nest in it. I was plain irked with the whole concept of this unbelievable story. I looked at Maw Sue and then at this spirited Jesus ma
n sitting beside me. I wanted to roll out the questions on him and get some serious no-bullshit answers, but that would alert Maw Sue and I didn’t need no more trouble, so I kept it to myself, but I sure did give him the stink eye. I mean, who gives ghosts for presents?

  While the mystical presence of my insides rolled around like magic marbles, Maw Sue had finished sewing. In her lap were two beautiful locust leaf crowns intertwined with honeysuckle vines, brambles and pine sap. She slipped them over her wrist and stood up. They dangled in the air like hula hoops.

  “Okay, girls. We are going to have a Seventh Tribe ceremony.”

  A what? Meg and I looked at each other. We had no idea what a Seventh Tribe ceremony was—but if Maw Sue was involved, it was going to be a doozy. I mean, we had heard all sorts of stories about the seven sisters, and the tribe, but not a ceremony. I turned to look at Jesus and he was gone. I was almost offended that he didn’t say goodbye, but then I remembered the ghost and obviously I had one somewhere and I was just about to start looking when Maw Sue snapped my attention back to her.

  “Are you ready, girls?” Maw Sue stood up and held one of the locust crowns in her hand and walked in front of Meg. She held the crown high over Meg’s head. Meg was wide-eyed and bushy tailed and bowed her head like a true princess.

  “Meg Collard. You are a child of God gifted with a precious and beautiful gift. Anointed from a great line of Seekers. You are empowered with the blessing of the Seventh Tribe.” She placed the crown on Meg’s head and reached her hands to the heavens, closing her eyes.

  “Birds of the air, oh the lilies of the field. Great stars of Heaven. Meg wants to be whole and complete. Make her seven. Send her crumbs so she may consume and make her life a beautiful bloom. In honor of the seven. Amen.”