by B S Steele
I had always been bewildered that our teacher never noticed, or they’d probably been too embarrassed to confront her. Either way, I now had become as hideously mean as any one of them, and my place among them was tentatively secure. Seventh grade was definitely going to be my year. Too bad it was unbeknownst to me that I was just weeks away from moving two hundred miles away, and that what was left of my childhood was melting down as fast as the candles we’d light on my twelfth birthday cake.
Chapter 12: A Hymnal of Hope
Just after my birthday, my parents informed us that we would be moving into duplex a few hundred miles away. I had no idea what a duplex was, but my Mom said it was only temporary until my stepdad could close on a house they were interested in buying. I didn’t want to move. I’d be leaving behind my childhood, my family and friends. I didn’t understand why my stepdad had to relocate. What was wrong with the old location? The duplex was in a tiny town, with the population literally in the single digits. We had a park across the street from our duplex, and a church down the road. One blink, and you would have driven right by the whole town. I’ll never quite know how we all squeezed into that tiny house, but somehow, we managed it. My parents enrolled us in a small charter school, and we joined a Baptist church not far from where we were living. My first church service was a strange experience to say the least. Waterfront Baptist was larger than my hometown church, with over two hundred members. I sat with my parents, trying not to be obvious as I checked out the other youth. The teenagers all sat together, boys on one side, girls on the other, right at the front. I noticed right away that not one girl was wearing slacks. I’d seen women like this before, but I’d just assumed that they just preferred dresses. The boys all had very short haircuts, slicked to the side, looking like miniature versions of the Preacher who stood behind the pulpit. The Preacher’s introduction was familiar to me, a welcome and a prayer, a few songs sung out of hymn books, most of which I knew by heart. A few of the members seemed pleasantly surprised to notice that my family sang along with an obvious familiarity. After all, if you know those old songs by heart, there’s no question you have spent a decent amount of time in a pew. The sermon itself was what was downright startling. I kept stealing glances at my stepdad, hoping he’d tell us to gather our Bibles and head to the van. He ignored me, and although he looked a bit uncomfortable, he seemed intrigued.
“Hell is at our doorsteps, brothers! We have children having children, young women dressed like harlots! The homosexuals all over Hollywood, doing the work of Satan!” He growled into his microphone, his chin shaking, face red as a beet.
“He goeth about like a Lion, seeking whom he may devour,” he said fervently, breathing heavily, and mopping his sweaty brow.
My ears were ringing from the booming of his voice. I wanted to cover them with my hands, but I was afraid the Pastor might come right off his pulpit and scream in my face that Satan was at work, trying to tempt me to block out the Word of God.
As he closed his sermon, he whispered into the microphone, looking earnestly at the audience and saying, “My friend, let me ask you this? Have you accepted the Holy blood of Jesus, the purest sacrifice that God has given, pure enough to wash away your sin?”
A tear trickled down his face. I felt embarrassed, thinking that I must not really love Jesus as much as this man obviously did, or that maybe I hadn’t really accepted Jesus into my heart in Sunday school like I’d thought I had. My hazy memory of saying the sinner’s prayer and asking Christ to come into my life and to take me to Heaven when I died was all but a distant childhood memory.
I’d been baptized twice, once at my Mother’s Pentecostal service, and again at the little Church in the Wildwood, just a few Sunday’s after I’d prayed for Jesus to come into my heart. As the Pastor called for those to come forward who would like to accept Jesus, I remained firmly rooted in my seat. I was sure I’d said that prayer, and that I’d meant it. Not to mention my parents considered themselves Christians, and when I thought about it, I considered myself one too.
I wasn’t totally absolute on what being a Christian meant, other than we spent a lot of time with other Christians, went to church, studied the Bible, and occasionally my Mom would decide we weren’t celebrating Halloween, or a “material” Christmas. Realistically, I was twelve. I didn’t care about theology or the mechanics of Christianity. I just wanted to make my parents happy and have fun while I was at it.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Pastor closed his prayer and dismissed the congregation. As everyone moved around the church shaking hands and socializing, a group of girls walked my way, their long skirts swishing, and faces beaming. I was feeling shy, but I smiled at them as they approached. A girl about my height with honey colored skin and long wavy black hair smiled brightly at me.
“Hello, I’m Stasia,” she said, her brown eyes looking confidently at me.
I squeezed the back of the pew in front of me.
“I’m Anna,” I replied, reaching out to shake her hand.
I wasn’t used to girls being so inclusive right away. A little burble of hope formed in my stomach. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad here. I raised my eyebrows, not knowing what to say. The girl named Stasia seemed to be their leader, so naturally, she broke the silence and peppered me with polite questions like where I was from, how old I was, if I’d been to another church before, and what I thought of Waterfront so far.
I stole a glance at my parents. My Mom had always been charismatic, making friends very easily. It was keeping them that was the tough part for her. I saw her smiling and nodding. It was nice to see her dressed up. My Mom didn’t usually do her hair or her makeup. She always said that we took too much of her time, leaving her too exhausted to take care of herself.
Today, she looked pretty with her soft curls and Sunday dress. My stepdad stood next to her, nodding and being his usual awkward self. He was a man of few words. Confident, but more of an observer like myself. I noticed a look of hope and relief in his eyes. I’d never really thought about how my parents might feel about leaving behind their own friends and family. Now I could see why it was so important for us to find a church. I felt lucky that my parents came here rather than going to the bars to find friends.
My stepdad caught my gaze and waved me over. It was time to go roundup my siblings, and head home. The house my parents had purchased was a dream come true for my Mother. It was light blue with white trim and porches on every side. I can remember pulling up in our van, my brother Ben bouncing in the seat at the sight of the backyard swing set. My Mother had been flushed, telling us all about the house.
“Anna, you are going to love your new room! It was like it was made for little girls. It’s already painted pink, with fluffy white curtains and everything!” she gushed.
I smiled, looking over at Emma.
“There is so much potential in this house,” she continued. “It used to be an old schoolhouse and has a tall room in the back we can renovate.”
When they finally let us out to explore, I blasted out of the van, ready to discover the yard and decks. I raced along the side of the house, noting the mossy area around the far end, complete with two shady plum trees. I ran through the back gate, and around to the largest tree in the yard. It was an old cherry tree full of knots and curs.
R.J. was walking slowly across the back lawn, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. He’d left behind his friends and didn’t want to appear interested in the new house, just in case any of us were to doubt his utter disapproval.
“R.J.! Ray Jr.!” I yelled. He looked up at me, his face blank. “Hey, look at that cherry tree!” I said, pointing and laughing at it. “It has a butt!” I giggled.
He glanced down at the knot that had formed in the tree’s base, his usually somber face breaking into a grin. We walked around it’s trunk, busting out into laughter when we realized it not only had a maximus glutinous, but a very phallic like protrusion on the other side of the tree.
I c
ontinued to explore, noticing a trail leading into the woods just beyond the fence. Both of our new neighbors had dogs. I wondered if we might be allowed to get a dog. The deck had a lattice credenza and a screened in area where the previous owners had installed a hot tub. I could overhear my parents making plans for planting roses along the lattice.
The living room had tall windows that looked out to the back yard, letting in plenty of natural light. The kitchen had an open layout, adjacent to a formal family room separated by a pair of French doors. A large back room led to a loft that featured a small door to the attic beyond.
The room I would share with Emma was just as my Mom had described it. Pink, white, and fluffy. I’d never had a room with a theme, and like many other little girls, I was fascinated with all things glittery and pink. I couldn’t even complain about the boarder of wallpaper along the ceiling that consisted of hundreds of Mother Geese.
When my Mother was happy, our lives were perfect. Not long after we became permanent members of Waterfront Baptist church, my parents enrolled us in Waterfront Christian School.
I’d long since given up jeans and slacks, telling my Mother it was something I wanted to do for Christ. I’d learned all about modesty from my new church, and that according to the book of Deuteronomy, women should not wear any clothing that would make them appear like a man. The truth was that I wanted to wear skirts because I realized quickly that the members of the church were very exclusive.
While they were friendly and welcoming to the public, only the true followers were allowed into personal folds. My sweet and soft-spoken new friend Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind either way, but the assistant Pastor was quick to remind her that I was still a “worldly girl,” and that she needed to limit her time with me.
I remember him coming out to the back of the church where we were playing a game of tag. His faded maroon dinner jacket blowing in the wind as he walked toward us with a smile on his face. He was a large man with a military haircut and sharp blue eyes that didn’t match the pasted on smile he usually wore.
When he reached us, we stopped running, breathlessly laughing as he waved Elizabeth over. I started to follow, but he held up his hand, signaling for me to let him speak to her alone. My smile faded, wondering if we were in trouble. I saw him admonishing her, leaning in close to her face, appearing like a concerned Father to a daughter. When they were finally done talking, she walked up to me, her face a mask of confusion and sadness as she explained to me that we couldn’t be friends until my family proved that we were going to become concrete Baptists.
“He thinks you’re a bad influence,” she said sadly, as she turned to walk away.
I’d never in my life had an adult say things like that about me. Despite my mischievous side, I’d always stayed away from kids who seemed intent on causing any real trouble.
It was my first reality check. The first time I realized that the world had many wolves, most of whom hid behind the guise of a friendly smile. Or worse, behind the power of a pulpit.
Chapter 13: Hush Little Baby
Sometime after we moved into the little blue schoolhouse, things started to look up. Mother was making friends at church and I’d often hear her laughter across the auditorium. Her lips that once had begun to pale, now shone brightly with beautiful shades of lipstick. She wore a beautiful bronze dress coat and smelled of Wind Song and Obsession. She’d even gotten a little pair of gold earrings. I’d never known my Mother to wear any jewelry at all.
Morning Glories bloomed along our fence, and tiny sweet plums hung heavily on the branches of their trees while Lilac bushes bloomed brightly, surrounding our new home with their delicious scent. My parents even bought a puppy. A purebred Collie we named Sir Kenrick, or better known as Buddy.
He was a beautiful dog with a fluffy coat and a perfect plume for a tail. I was also allowed to keep a rescued Guinea Pig I’d named Olga da Polga, and her two playmates, Ellie and Wilbur. I would dress them all up, playing for hours with my pets. We even had an old tortoise we kept at the top of our playhouse until we realized he could scale fences up to six-foot-tall forcing us to let him go back to his home underneath the Lilac bushes.
My Mom seemed full of life, and for the first time since I could remember, my parents went on a date.
“Anna, you are in charge while we are gone,” my Mother said, tucking her purse under her arm and standing by the front door.
My stepdad stood next to her looking handsome in his sweater and slacks. I was happy for them and felt proud that they trusted me to take care of the house while they were out. R.J. had gone to live with his Mother at the start of the school year and I was now the oldest child in the house. Of course, the minute they left I made chocolate pudding and broke the rule of no dessert until after dinner, but what were big sister’s for? Half my parent’s rules were made because I invented the need for them in the first place.
“Everyone sit at the table,” I instructed in my best Mom voice.
Emma and Ben looked happy as I scooped heaps of pudding into their bowls and then completely shocked when I dumped my own bowl out onto the table and began smearing it with my hands, smiling mischievously at them. I’ll never forget their giggles as we drew pictures in the mess.
Life went on, and although our new Pastor never stopped yelling about Jesus, we now nodded in agreement, loving every emotional minute of his sermons. He convinced my parents to enroll us in the church’s school, and not long after, R.J. would come to live with us again. He’d moved to Pennsylvania to stay with his biological Mother and our brother Eric. He was failing High school, and my Mother was sure he was on his way towards a future as a drug user or a bum. Operation “save Ray Jr.,” was going to be rewarding indeed. He would be welcomed by our church with open arms, and with a little help from God, we could get R.J. off Satan’s path.
Summer marched on, and in late July of that year, I was sitting on the porch, dangling my legs in the sun. It was Emma’s tenth birthday and we were waiting for her cake to cool enough to frost it. I was sitting watching the road when an old rusty car whipped into our driveway, tires spitting gravel and startling me. I hopped down, walking cautiously towards the car. A man I’d never seen before came bursting out of the driver’s seat, screaming for help. His eyes were wild. His face drained of all its blood. I felt nothing except confusion as a blonde woman wearing pajamas leapt out after him, tears streaming down her face.
She opened the back door of their car and pulled out an infant, it’s lifeless body limp in her arms. I ran as fast as I could to the house, screaming for my Mother to call 911. One look at my face and she ran outside, the screams of the baby’s Father echoing through the yard.
My Mother looked at me and said calmly, “Anna, call 911, and tell them to come as fast as they can.”
My hands shook as I dialed the numbers on our telephone, pressing it to my ear, my heart racing as I waited for someone to answer.
“911, what is your emergency?” A woman’s voice asked.
“There is a baby, it’s not breathing. We need help.” I said, my voice wavering as I spoke.
Ben and Emma stood in stunned silence. Their eyes full of questions.
“Okay sweetie, do you know who the baby is?” The woman asked.
“No. They just drove up, and they are still outside with my Mom,” I said.
“Alright sweetheart, I have an ambulance on the way. I need you to go get your Mom.”
I set down the phone and ran outside. The baby was laying on the grass, my Mother bent over his chubby face, gently breathing into his mouth. He was as white as tracing paper, his small veins starkly blue against its pale surface.
I knew he was dead. A feeling inside told me I was looking at the shell of what was once a living, breathing child.
“Mom, the 911 lady needs to speak to someone,” I said timidly.
The Father of the baby looked up at me, hope in his eyes.
“Are they coming?” He asked, his voice strained.
I watched as my Mother cradled the baby, blowing into his tiny mouth as we rushed inside to the phone. The parents calmed down for a split second, as the little one’s face seemed to get a rush of color while the 911 operator guided my Mom through proper infant CPR.
“Ma’am, check for a pulse on the child’s wrist, do you feel it?” she asked.
My Mom paused, holding his tiny wrist in-between her forefinger and thumb.
“I’m not sure.” she said, a tear pooling in her eyes. The Father’s knees buckled, crumpling his thin frame so that he looked like a small child.
“OH, GOD!” he screamed, his body shaking with grief.
It was if in that moment, he knew that his son was gone. His wife sat on her knees, her sobs silent and filled with an emptiness I still can’t shake from my memory.
Moments later, the EMT crew arrived. The heroes in blue, their official badges and shiny stethoscopes sending relief down my spine. After they left, I sat and looked at the carpet where the little boy’s soul had left his body. The birthday cake sat on the cupboard, looking garish and forlorn.
Poor Emma, her birthday would forever hold the irony that we would be eating cake on a day that someone else would be drinking a defeated pull off a bottle of whiskey. I never learned the names of those people, nor even the baby’s name. All I was told was that they were living down the road from us, that they had no phone, and that they had found the baby in his crib, in a deep sleep from which he would never wake.
Chapter 14: Back Roots
When the news came that my Stepfather’s job had yet again transferred, a dark cloud settled over my family. Our church family at Waterfront Baptist had grown dear to our hearts. I was just beginning choir while my brother R.J. had quickly become a favorite at our Waterfront Christian School.