The bedroom I ended up sharing with Chastity is light green with an entire wall of glass bookcases. Of course Daddy went and filled them all full of books about the Bible, which was too bad since it would have been the perfect place to show off our Barbie dolls. When the new baby arrives she’ll sleep in the room that used to be Daddy’s study. He’s already moved his desk into a corner of the dining room. Not that he studies there much anyway. Mostly he uses an office in the church, and the rest of the time he does his studying in the bathroom. Half of his books have toilet paper hanging out of their tops because he uses the squares as bookmarks when one of us comes banging on the bathroom door.
Hope and Joy have been helping to paint the new nursery. We already have a crib left over from the four of us girls, so it’s just about set. One of the ladies from the sewing guild called to tell us they’re making a framed needlepoint for the wall. They can’t finish it until they know the name and birth weight of the new baby. She wanted to know what colors we’re making the room before they buy fabric. Daddy chose blue. I’m not about to tell him God is giving them another girl. I wasn’t trying to find out. A few weeks ago I sat in front of the sofa while Mama combed tangles out of my wet hair. When I leaned back so she could get to the front, my head rested against her belly and I just knew this one’s coming as a girl.
I don’t know her name because that’s up to Daddy. Mama tells us that after each baby was born Daddy held his fat, black Bible over our tiny bodies and the Lord bestowed upon him a name for his children. To tell you the truth, I don’t think Daddy was listening very well. Or maybe God changed His plans, because none of us fit our given names except for maybe Hope, who is the oldest. When Mama was barely pregnant with Isaac and me she had a premonition about Hope, who was three at the time. Mama was standing at the sink washing up the lunch dishes when she “saw” an accident in her head. She raced to the front yard barefoot, still carrying the wet dishrag, just as the ice-cream truck backed over Hope. Mama fell in the ditch and rolled in the pricker bushes before she reached her little girl lying in the road. I imagine that’s where I got my prickliness.
Daddy doesn’t like Mama to talk about the premonition. He says it’s normal for a mother to worry about her children. He also claims the only reason Hope survived her head injuries is because all the ladies started a prayer chain at Community Bible Church, where he preached before we moved here. The ladies took turns kneeling in the sanctuary in shifts throughout the night.
“By morning, the blood was pouring out of your sister’s ear,” he said. “If it weren’t for the Lord God Almighty the pressure on Hope’s brain would have killed her, but He saw fit to let her live.”
Hope recovered, but her brain didn’t. She goes to a special school on account of her learning disabilities caused by the accident. I can’t really tell anything is wrong with her except that she’s small for her age and kind of clumsy. One thing I do know is that since the day all those ladies prayed for her she got a huge dose of religion and it stuck. She might be brain damaged, but she can memorize Bible verses like nobody’s business. Sometimes right out of the blue she’ll spring some of God’s Word on you. Like the entire twenty-third Psalm, for instance, which is her favorite.
Next down the line is Joy Ann, one year younger than Hope and two years older than me. Unlike her name she’s one of the most serious people I know. The only thing that seems to bring her any joy is putting another dollar in her passbook account. She’s been saving for college ever since she was seven, which seems like a pretty dumb way for a kid to spend her allowance. Even though she gets all As, Joy bites her fingernails until they bleed and paces in circles around the kitchen table when she’s studying. I’ve learned not to interrupt her when she’s doing that. Or when she’s counting her money.
Chastity just turned eight years old. Her name might be the biggest joke of all. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up starring as a saloon girl in the movies by the way she insists on wearing dresses every single day of the week and makes sure everybody sees her flowered underpants. Last year she begged until Mama gave in and bought her play high heels with elastic straps to hold them on. They’re silver and sparkle like crystals. She sleeps with them just so nobody else can play with them, but one time I tried them on when she wasn’t home. I fell down five times before I finally gave up.
This is because, although Daddy named me Grace, I’m about as agile as a three-sided rock. I’ve always wished I could take tap and ballet, but it would probably be a waste of money on someone as klutzy as me. Not to mention the fact that good Christians aren’t supposed to dance or listen to certain kinds of music. Daddy says dancing and rock and roll lead to fornication, which means sex. Seems like it would be hard to make a baby when you’re dancing.
The other thing about me is I don’t look like my sisters one iota. They’re all blond and blue-eyed like Mama, which makes my red hair and green eyes look like a sourball accidentally mixed in with a bowl of butterscotch candies. But the thing that separates us most isn’t on the outside. My way of knowing things stands out even more than my fiery hair. If it weren’t for my connection to Isaac, I’d surely believe I was adopted.
Daddy named my twin brother after a story from the Old Testament. He says his son was sacrificed as a way for him to prove his love and devotion to the Lord, just like Abraham. I once asked Isaac if that was true. He told me that what’s true for one person isn’t always true for another, but that doesn’t make it a lie. It’s another one of those fuzzy replies that doesn’t really answer my question. I have a lot of unanswered questions.
* * *
Mama stands at her dresser and tears pink tape off her spit curls, then teases her blond hair into a flip. She sprays so much Aqua Net she sneezes. We girls scramble around the house looking for a clean dress and shoes while Mama and Daddy prepare the fixings that will slowly cook while we’re at church. Breakfast is a find-what-you-can kind of deal because we have such a big meal after Sunday services. Joy made scrambled eggs for herself and Chastity. They always eat early because Joy likes having the bathroom to herself. Hope and I are slowpokes. I help take soft rollers out of the back of her head while she spreads jelly on our slices of toast.
Daddy slides our pot roast into the oven, then clips a striped maroon tie on his white shirt. He scoops up his big, black Bible that has papers sticking out every which way and calls for us to hurry up. Mama joins Daddy at the front door, where he hands us coins for the offering plate and checks to make sure we all have our Bibles. Chastity has a pink one, which I tried to trade her for mine, but she wouldn’t do it. Pink is my favorite color.
I got my Bible from Mrs. Franks when I was six. She was praying at the end of Sunday school and asked who wanted to take Jesus into their heart. I peeked around to see if anybody was looking before sticking my hand in the air. I knew I didn’t want to go to h-e-l-l. I saw a picture on one of Daddy’s religious tracts that show how demons float around so they can rat you out if they catch you trying to sneak out of the lake of fire. Mrs. Franks told me that heaven is a glorious place where people spend all day worshipping Jesus. It sounded to me like going to church every day, a pretty boring way to spend eternity in my opinion, but better than going down inside the ground where the devil lives.
After Sunday school that day Mrs. Franks took me into one of the little side rooms where the deacons count the tithes. She asked me if I knew I was a sinner. Truthfully I’d wanted to grab a fistful of those dollars sitting right there in the offering plate, so I told her yes. She nodded like she already knew that and it was exactly what she wanted me to say. Then she told me to bow my head and ask Jesus into my heart.
I closed my eyes. “Dear Jesus,” I whispered. “Will you come into my heart and forgive me for being a sinner?” I waited, but nothing happened. So I just said amen.
Mrs. Franks hugged me. “Now you’re a child of God. Remember, Grace, He sees everything you do and hears every word you say. And if you’re ever in trouble, al
l you have to do is ask for His help because He’s right there.” She patted my jacket over my heart.
Mrs. Franks handed me a little, white Bible and told me I should read from it every single day. I promised her I would, but knew I wouldn’t. I don’t even read my Richie Rich comic books every day.
When I got home from church that day I announced over Sunday dinner that I had been saved. Daddy said, “Praise the Lord!” But he’d just taken a bite of potatoes so it came out “Pwaise da Load.” Joy rolled her big, blue eyes at me because she thought I was just trying to get attention, which in a way I was. Around here it takes a lot to be noticed unless you do something really good or really bad. In my case it’s usually the second of those things.
Later that night as I lay in bed I rested my hand over my heart to see if it felt any different. I knew there were supposed to be three guys in there: God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost. The third one scared me, so I pictured him like Casper the Friendly Ghost. Casper reminds me of myself, wanting to be friends but scaring people away. Anyway, it didn’t feel one bit different. I thought I’d feel like a new person, but I just felt like plain old Grace. I still don’t feel any different today. I don’t tell Daddy that. I talk to God sometimes, but mostly I talk to Isaac.
* * *
Daddy holds hands with Mama as we cross the street. People are gathered around the sidewalk in front of the church, talking. It’s started to sprinkle. When they see Daddy, they say things like “Morning, Pastor. Morning, Mrs. Carter. How are you today?” And he answers, “Morning, Brother” or “Morning, Sister,” even though we aren’t related.
I find a place at the table in my Sunday school classroom. Our teacher, Mrs. Lankfurt, sits at the end of the table squeezed into a little wooden chair not meant for grown-ups. Mrs. Lankfurt is about 100 years old. The kids call her Mrs. Stankfart behind her back. Her long chin has a single hair sticking out of a mole that almost touches the brooch on her blouse. I always stare at her chin when she talks. It’s rude, but I can’t help it.
Today Mrs. Lankfurt is telling the story of Zacchaeus, who climbed a sycamore tree to see Jesus because he was too short to see over the other people’s heads. I’ve heard this story in every grade of Sunday school so I know it by heart. Jesus was so pleased that he honored Zacchaeus by having dinner at his house, which made the other people mad because he was a tax collector. I think the point Jesus was trying to make is that He loves everybody, even tax collectors. Even bullies like Billy Wolf.
After the story Mrs. Lankfurt hands out papers so we can cut out pictures of Zacchaeus and paste them onto the picture of a tree. It seems like such an immature project for ten- and eleven-year-olds, but I don’t care. She’s old so we probably seem like babies to her and besides, the Sunday school activities are the least boring thing about church.
I ask the girl next to me to pass the mucilage. Donna Sue hands me the brown bottle with a pink rubbery top and a slit in it. I smear a bit of what looks like snot on Zacchaeus’s back. Just as I’m about to perch him in the crook of the tree a little voice inside me says, Put him on Jesus’s shoulders. Not Isaac’s voice. Just a silly voice like everybody has inside of them.
Apparently everybody but Donna Sue.
She looks over and yells, “Mrs. Lankfurt! Grace put Zacchaeus on top of Jesus!” When I glare at her she looks at me smugly and folds her pudgy hands in her lap. Mrs. Lankfurt walks over and peers at my picture. Her breath coming over my shoulder smells like fish.
“Grace, I’m going to have to tell your father about this.”
I can’t stand Donna Sue. She’s gloating like she just won the county-wide spelling bee. But there’s something I know about her that makes up for it. Someday Donna Sue is going to marry a preacher and be stuck going to church nearly every single day. Serves her right for being such a snitch.
The bell rings outside our door and we all head upstairs for the morning service. I lag behind the rest of the group so nobody can see my angry tears. When I kick the wall with the toe of my shoe a pair of hands slip over my eyes from behind me. I try to wheel around, but the hands grip tighter on the sides of my head.
“Guess who?”
I know the janitor’s voice. “It’s Mr. Weaver,” I say.
He lets go, then gently cups my shoulders and turns me to face him. He squats down so we’re eye to eye, then wipes my tear with his hankie. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing,” I say. I look down at my shoes. Partly because I’m ashamed and partly because Mr. Weaver has a funny-looking face and if I stare at it too hard I might start laughing. His face is shaped like the doll whose head Joy squished and it stuck that way. His head is small, but his forehead and chin bulge out.
“Well, in that case, why would you put a mark on the wall for Mr. Weaver to have to wash off later?”
I look up, but focus on the door handle over his right shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was mad at Donna Sue.”
He smiles. “We all let our emotions get out of hand sometimes. I forgive you.”
Mr. Weaver pulls a bag of pink peppermints out of his pocket and holds it toward me. I take one and immediately pop it into my mouth. “Thank you,” I say. “You won’t tell my daddy, will you?”
He pets my hair, then squeezes my arm. “It’ll be our little secret, Miss Grace. Now get along upstairs, but be nice to the walls on your way or next time I might have to put you over my knee.”
When he stands I scoot toward the front of the church. As I climb the steps to the auditorium I’m already feeling nervous about how mad Daddy will be when he hears what I’ve done. He’s always saying how we have to set an example for the other children. Hopefully old Mrs. Lankfurt will forget to tell him.
I scooch past Mama and sit next to her in our pew with Joy to my left and Chastity to the left of her. Hope helps in the nursery, a room that smells like spoiled milk and poopy diapers, so she’s not here. Mama digs into her big, black pocketbook and fishes out a breath mint. All three of us lean forward and watch her slip it between her glossed pink lips. She gives in, peeling three more wintergreen Life Savers from the roll, and hands them to us.
“No biting,” she whispers, just as I crunch mine into a hundred pieces.
Loretta Smith starts playing the processional hymn on the organ, which is Daddy’s cue. He walks up the left aisle stopping to pat Mama’s hand as he passes. Daddy clutches his Bible, nodding and smiling at his congregation all the way to the podium. Burt Lohman, the deacon who gave us the first tour of our house, walks up the right aisle at the same time. Burt has a round face with rosy cheeks and ears that stick straight out from his head. I like Burt. Joy gets to have him for her Sunday school teacher this year.
Daddy stands at the podium and smiles as he scans the crowd. And then he says the same thing he says every single Sunday.
“This is the day the Lord hath made. Let us be glad and rejoice in it!”
Loretta bangs louder on the keys, the signal for all of us to stand and sing “Praise God, from Whom All Blessings Flow.” Mama always sings the harmony part. She’s an alto. Then Daddy prays in his up-and-down voice and we all sit down again. I’m supposed to keep my eyes closed during prayer, but I know Daddy’s are never closed because he’s looking around for stuff on the pulpit at the same time he’s saying the prayer. I do my fair share of peeking, too.
We sing a few more songs while Burt waves his hands around like he’s swinging an invisible jump rope. When Daddy starts preaching I find things to use up the minutes. I start by counting the organ pipes, all lined up like broken matchsticks from short to tall in the front of the church. I’m only about two thirds of the way through when they start to blur and I lose my place. Joy pokes me in the side and points to a song in the hymnbook. The song is titled “Hold the Fort,” but she has her finger over the second o and I know she wants me to fill in the blank. This is one of Joy’s best finds so far and I can’t help but giggle. Mama reaches over and twists a hunk of skin on my upper arm. I turn my head away f
rom Joy, who is trying to get me to look at another song title, and concentrate on the back of Earl Felt’s head.
Earl is a farmer who spends a lot of time in the sun. The back of his neck has crisscross crinkles that make me want to stick cloves in it like an Easter ham. He raises sheep way out in the boondocks. I think he and Mrs. Felt have about ten kids. Their family takes up two whole pews. He sits at the end with his wooden leg stuck straight out in the aisle. I can’t believe nobody has ever tripped over that big, old, crusty shoe of his.
Daddy’s talking about idols and graven images, but all I hear is blah, blah, blah. I stare at the patterns in the stained-glass window above our pew, the way all the colors swirl into a design that looks different every time I study it. If I look hard enough I can see a face with eyes, nose, and a brow. When I close my eyes and open them again the shapes remind me of rippled water after you throw a stone in it. The different ways of seeing the designs is kind of like my thoughts when I know something. Sometimes the message is clear like a drawing and other times my thoughts are more blurred, like a watercolor painting.
Somewhere on the edges of my eardrumss Daddy’s preaching breaks through the blahs and hits my brain like a smack on the side of the head. “One who hears what God has to say, who knows what the Most High knows, who saw the vision that the Almighty revealed, who keeps stumbling with open eyes . . .” When he pauses I glance up to see if he’s looking at me. He’s not. I grab my bulletin from the hymnal pocket on the back of the pew in front of us and open it to look for the Scripture reference before realizing I left my Bible downstairs in the Sunday school classroom again. I lean over Mama, trying to find the words in the open Bible on her lap. He’s preaching from the book of Numbers. Mama sees me eyeballing the page and points to the verse. I read it again. And again, the words are like a drumbeat in my chest. That’s me! This Balaam guy is talking about the Knowing, how I see things like dreaming with my eyes open, awake.
This I Know Page 3