And the Philippines is where we picked up Pauly, our little brother. I love him like crazy, and, not to brag or anything, but I’ve basically raised him these past three years. Pauly’s got the best nature of any kid I’ve ever met, and I can’t understand how any mother could’ve abandoned him. But that’s exactly what happened. One morning, Mom opened up the front door to sweep the dirt outside. She looked down and saw him sitting on our doorstep, with a note pinned to his shirt:
Pauly looked up at Mom and smiled, and she was hooked. To look at him, you instantly know why. He’s really adorable. I sometimes wish I had big dark brown eyes and long black lashes like his, but then I remember it’s a sin to be envious, and I’m just happy that I can enjoy those features on Pauly.
I used to be Pauly’s favorite person by far, but since we’ve come here, Stretch is the one Pauly follows around all day long, from the house to the barn to the pigpens to the field. Stretch lets him feed the horses and even sets him on top of the pigs. He gives him rides on the tractor and makes him homemade pancakes every morning because they’re Pauly’s favorite food. Stretch lets Pauly pour on his own syrup and doesn’t monitor him when he brushes his teeth, which is not how a responsible adult should act.
Stretch’s farm is located on a gravel road at least ten miles from the nearest town, so we’re miles from people who need to be saved by God’s grace. Compared to the exotic places we’ve lived, this area is quite boring. The town has two small schools (one regular, one Catholic), a gas station/bait shop (LIVE NIGHT CRAWLERS HALF OFF!), and a café run by a woman who also operates a beauty parlor in the same building. Stretch goes there often to buy people’s hair from her. He says he uses the hair balls to repel deer and rabbits from his young vegetable plants. I think he just goes to the beauty parlor because he likes to ogle the breasts of one of the beauticians. She seems pretty nice, but she does flirt with Stretch.
The town also has a farm equipment dealer, a grain elevator, a small medical clinic, a funeral home (RESPECTFUL QUALITY THROUGH CARING COMFORT—BURY YOUR LOVED ONE WITH DIGNITY), an American Legion, and a butcher shop where Stretch sometimes brings his animals for slaughter. The town is so small it doesn’t even have a shopping center or a movie theater, though it does have a library, which has a couple of computers with Internet service. A nun named Sister Alice is the librarian, and she’s not very nice, but she did used to be a missionary, like my parents, so she can be pretty interesting to talk to if she’s not crabby. I think she’s bitter about having to wear that hot and itchy habit all day.
I try to be good and nonjudgmental and righteous in the Lord’s eyes. I do not like how my mom has ruined our family. I do not like how she embarrassed my dad and his church and all of us. You might think I’d be really, really angry at her, but I’m not. I’m just very, very disappointed. I do not like staying at Stretch’s farm while she’s on trial for distributing prescription drugs without a license to people who couldn’t afford them.
When Mom said she was sending us to an uncle we’d never even known, we were scared, so she tried to make it sound better by referring to Stretch’s place as Horse Camp, since she said Stretch had always had a lot of horses, and we’d probably be riding around every day like regular cowboys. My mom also tried to make the farm sound more appealing by telling me it was an organic farm, and that I’d be learning a lot about self-sustainability and going green. I’ve been to Bible camp and Jesus camp and the Little Saviors Camp and youth ministries camp, where they always had a point or a message. There’s no point to us being at Horse Camp. What’s more, the horses are very dysfunctional, and I, for one, would never ride them, for the simple fact that they are both clearly safety hazards. As far as the organic farm goes, it’s much dirtier than I imagined it would be, and I have a hard time dealing with things like manure.
So far, I just keep myself busy by cleaning up the house. One thing about me is that I’m very, very neat and clean. You can’t be too careful about germs, which are everywhere! Bleach and rubbing alcohol and hand sanitizer are very important to me. I also think personal hygiene is very important. I’ve seen how little parasites and germs and diseases can make a person really sick and even kill him or her.
Percy takes a shower only once or twice a week, which nearly drives me crazy. But since he’s my age, I can’t really do anything about it other than tell him he smells like rancid chicken soup and show him photos of awful skin diseases to scare him. I’m sure he’ll get an infection from that cut on his chin that Stretch just duct-taped together.
One good thing about being here and being perpetually B-O-R-E-D is that I have plenty of time to reflect and pray. I’ve been praying for a long time for the gift of tongues or the gift of healing like Dad has, but so far, it’s not happening. I don’t know why the Lord won’t give me a sign that I’m in His grace! It’s very frustrating. I love Jesus so much, and I try to be grateful for the gifts He’s given me, one of which is a very good memory. I remember everything and can tell you exactly how Mom ruined our family. A couple of days before we kids were sent here, I overheard Mom and Dad fighting.
Mom: Allen, cut the bull! (Can you imagine saying that to a minister?!) You may fool the parishioners, but I’m not buying the Holy-Rolling act anymore. I’m through!
Dad: Danielle, without me you cannot survive financially or spiritually. You are an empty woman.
Mom: Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m taking the kids, and I’m getting out of this crazy life.
Dad: Neither the children, nor you are going anywhere.
Mom: What’s that supposed to mean?
Dad: No court will give the children to an unstable criminal like yourself. If you want your children, you’ll stay right where you are and take your proper place in the front pew and at my side when I need you. You’re the one on trial. Remember? You need me.
Mom: I can’t, Allen! I don’t believe the things you say. I don’t like what you stand for. You’re a poser, a faker, and I’m not going along with it anymore. You’re taking money from people who’ve worked hard to earn it.
Dad: The money is donated for the church.
Mom: (Interrupting, again.) But you are the church!
The church’s success is your success. The money is for you, for your ego. The bigger the church, the bigger the man.
Dad: Well, you’ve not complained one bit about the life we’ve lived.
Mom: Well, I’m complaining now. Consider this an official complaint.
And on and on it went. Mom told Dad that she questioned his very belief in his own religion. She called him a money-hungry poser about a hundred and four times. She said he just watches televangelists and then copies basically everything they do, particularly their faith-healing techniques. Then she started shaking and raising her arms and mocking him in a low, rumbly voice like Dad uses: Do you believe? Do you believe you can be healed? If you believe in Him, you will be healed! Dad got really mad and looked up to the ceiling, and I thought he was going to call down some punishment on Mom. But he didn’t. He’s a very forgiving kind of person. He’s a servant of God, after all, and how can you argue with that? But then he said this:
Dad: Well then, I guess you won’t mind if I don’t post bail for you. You can sit in jail while you wait for your trial. Come to think of it, I don’t think it would be right to use the church’s money to bail out a criminal like yourself.
Mom: You’d leave the kids without their mother just to prove a point?
Dad: They’re better off without you, anyway. You’re a bad influence.
Mom: You wouldn’t dare. Who’s going to care for them?
Dad: That’s your problem. I’ve got to catch a flight out of here in the morning, to set up the next church. You figure it out.
Then he left. True to his word, Dad cancelled the check on Mom’s bail.
Mom likes to argue about everything. She thinks she’s above the law of God and everyone else. And that’s why we’re here at Horse Camp without Dad and Mom w
hile they sort out their professional and personal lives. She’s gotten herself into trouble for acquiring and distributing pharmaceuticals without a license. If you think it sounds bad, that’s because it is. Even though Mom is a nurse in the United States, that doesn’t mean she can go to any old country and be a nurse there. They have laws! But did that stop her from helping people? No. Did that stop her from bringing prescription medications to people in Africa and the Philippines? No. Did that stop her from buying cheap generic drugs from Canada? No. Did that stop her from holding meetings with the women of the villages to talk to them about diet, health, exercise, and immunizing their children? No. Did that stop her from warning those women about big drug companies coming into their countries and using them as guinea pigs to test out their new medicines? No. Did that stop her from writing extensive editorials to all the major newspapers about how the pharmaceutical companies are using human beings in poor countries to test out their new drugs? No.
What the trial’s really about is money, Mom says. She says that the big, fat drug companies are just mad that she revealed their dirty little secret, and they’re making an example of her. She says, shame on them. I see her point, but she is the one on trial and facing prison time. She is the one responsible for the disintegration of our nuclear family, and nothing’s worse than that.
Since she was arrested and sued, Mom has been in the newspapers and on TV and the Internet, and not in a good way. Even CNN ran a story on her arrest. Someone put it on YouTube, and most of the comments below the video are very disparaging. Dad got really mad at her for embarrassing him and threatening his authority in the new church he’s been working on. The week before we kids got sent here, he even gave a sermon about how good people sometimes have to cut the ties with bad influences and evil forces in their lives. Mom sat straight and calm in the front row like she always does, but her face turned from tan to white. Dad was pretty harsh, but she shouldn’t have been doing things that were illegal, for goodness’ sake. He does have to think about his flock and the way things look. I mean, that’s just the nature of his calling. Anyway, a couple of days later, he filed for divorce. I was pretty surprised, but now I can see that he’s just trying to teach her a lesson and doesn’t really want to divorce her.
You might think I’d be really upset about all of this, but I’m not. Dad is only trying to scare Mom straight. Being here seems like a sort of joke, and I don’t plan on having to stay for more than another week. Two weeks, tops.
DEAR OKONKWO,
EVEN THOUGH I AM PERSONALLY EXPERIENCING MANY PERSONAL TRAGEDIES IN MY OWN LIFE, ONE OF WHICH IS THAT I NO LONGER HAVE ACCESS TO THE INTERNET, I AM HAPPY TO HELP YOU. BEFORE I LOST ALL ACCESS TO THE OUTSIDE WORLD, I SAW AN AD FOR CHRISTIANS SAVING HUNGRY CHILDREN AND DECIDED TO ADOPT YOU. WHILE I DON’T HAVE A LOT OF MONEY, I CAN SPARE SOME AND AM SENDING $5 WITH THIS LETTER. I’VE SEEN MANY, MANY COMMERCIALS ON TELEVISION FOR CHRISTIANS SAVING HUNGRY CHILDREN AND EVEN LIVED IN AFRICA FOR A WHILE, SO I KNOW YOUR NEED IS GREAT AND URGENT. I ALSO KNOW HOW THIS ADOPTION THING WORKS, AND I MUST SAY YOU ARE ONE LUCKY YOUNG MAN. I WILL BE SENDING YOU MONEY AND THE WORD OF GOD IN THE MAIL ONCE A MONTH FROM NOW ON, AND I MAY MAKE A USEFUL SUGGESTION OR TWO TO HELP YOU LIVE A BETTER LIFE.
REMEMBER THAT EVEN THOUGH YOU ARE POOR, YOU ARE A CHILD OF GOD, AND JESUS LOVES YOU.
YOURS TRULY IN CHRIST,
PENELOPE PRIBYL
Chapter 3
Percy in the Granary
I’M IN BED, drawing by the light of my flashlight when I feel a whump—Pauly kicking the underside of my mattress through the metal bars from the bunk below. Another whump comes, and then another.
“Pauly, knock it off!” I whisper.
Whump, whump.
“Pauly!”
“Light off, P.P.,” says Pauly.
“Not yet,” I say to him. “I’m not finished, you jerk.”
Even though Pauly isn’t my real brother, he annoys me like a real brother. Everybody thinks he’s so cute. Penny always sides with him, and so do Mom and Dad, usually, but he’s not as cute as he looks. Even though I’m over twice his age, he starts about every fight we have.
Whump, whump, whump. The last whump is so hard that I go flying up like a horse bucked me, which would never actually happen around here because no kids can even ride the worthless horses.
“Pauly!” I hiss.
“Tohn yoh light off, Pohcy,” says Pauly, loudly.
Pauly has an R problem. I’d make more fun of him for it, except I had it, too, until second grade, even though we’re not related. As a result of this, he usually avoids R words. Like, instead of calling something a car because it will sound like cow, he’ll call it you know, that thing with wheels. It’s also one reason he often calls me by my initials, P.P., instead of Percy. The other reason, of course, is that P.P. sounds like, you know, number one. Pauly talks as little as possible, maybe because of the R thing or because he’s still getting used to the American English accent instead of his native accent or because he just doesn’t feel like it. He’s a man of action, as my dad says. Problem is, most of his actions annoy me.
Our door cracks open, and Penny sticks her head in. “Uncle Stretch said lights out!” she says. “You need to respect his word, Percy.”
Uncle Stretch did say we’re supposed to have lights out, but I really want to finish this drawing I started two days ago. It’s a freehand copy of a picture of Perseus, the Greek warrior guy I was named after, although I prefer to be called Percy. It’s from a book of Greek mythology that I was given by some pastor friend of my parents. In the picture, Perseus defends himself from an attacking soldier.
I’ve barely had any time at all to draw since Uncle Stretch decided on working me to death here at Horse Camp. Instead of drawing, I have to feed pigs and cows and shovel junk around and power-wash things. It’s exhausting. I will never be a farmer when I grow up.
“I’m busy, Penny,” I say, “so why don’t you go back to your own room and mind your own business, okay?”
“I rebuke that spirit of rebellion rearing its ugly, horned head in you, Percy,” says Penny. “I rebuke it in the name of Jesus.”
It frustrates me that Penny’s always trying to talk like Dad. Ever since we got to Horse Camp, it seems she’s trying to be Dad or Mom. “Go rebuke yourself,” I say back, loud. My voice gets loud when I’m excited.
There’s a pounding on the walls downstairs followed by Uncle Stretch’s voice yelling, “What’s going on up there?”
Penny’s eyes get big. “We have to obey Uncle Stretch,” she says.
“He can go to heck,” I say. “And you can go back to your room.”
Penny covers her mouth like she’s shocked, but she’s just a big faker. She turns to scamper out of the room, but first she says, “I’ll pray for you, Percy.”
I try to get back to work on the drawing, doing some shading on the muscles of Perseus’s arm, which holds a big sword. I wish I had a sword, sometimes. A guy we knew once in Zambia had one.
Just as I really begin to concentrate, Pauly kicks at my mattress again, making me scribble a jagged line across my picture.
“Dang you, Pauly!” I say, and I swing my pillow over the side, under the bed, and nail him. He kicks my mattress again, and I almost fly off.
“Pauly, stop it now!” I say. “You’re going to hurt somebody.”
He whumps again, and I have to hang on to the rail to keep from falling out of the bed.
“You little idiot!” I say, and swing my pillow under again. The overhead light snaps on as my pillow catches Pauly, and he thumps backwards into the wall. Hard.
Before I know it, Pauly’s crying, and Uncle Stretch is yanking me out of bed by my neck, throwing me to my feet, and kicking me in the butt. He wears an old-fashioned nightgown that looks like a woman’s. I’m caught between howling in self-defense and laughing. A weird sound comes out of my mouth.
“You should pick on somebody your own size,” says Uncle Stretch.
; “There is nobody else my size around here,” I say, rubbing my butt. “And thanks for breaking my tailbone.”
“You got a smart mouth, Son,” says Uncle Stretch. He goes over to Pauly and sits on the bottom bunk. “Stop crying now, kiddo,” he says to Pauly, who’s rubbing his head. “You’re fine now. Stop crying, I said. Be a man.”
Pauly stops crying instantly, like somebody turned off a faucet. He even smiles a little.
“Well, I’m not your son,” I say. I don’t know exactly what makes me say it. Maybe Uncle Stretch kicking me. Maybe the fact that Pauly listens to Uncle Stretch like he is his son. Either way, I’m usually not such a smart mouth.
“What?” says Uncle Stretch.
“P.P. said he’s not yoh son,” says Pauly.
“I heard him,” says Uncle Stretch, “I just can’t believe my ears.”
“Believe ’em,” I say.
“That’s it,” says Uncle Stretch. He grabs me by the back of the neck and marches me out of the room and into the hall. Penny’s standing in the doorway of her room, and we march right past her.
“Ow,” I say. “You’re crushing my spinal cord!”
Uncle Stretch doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t let go. He just stomps us down the stairs and out the front door. It’s dark out, but the air is warm.
“Where are you taking me?” I yelp.
A couple of Uncle Stretch’s farm dogs run over to us and jump up at me as I walk fast, hunched over, with Uncle Stretch’s eagle talon hand clamped on to my neck. I kick at one of the dogs, and Uncle Stretch stops us and jerks me straight up.
Horse Camp Page 2