Some Things That Stay

by Sarah Willis

  She reaches over and strokes my hair. “Go to church. Take a look and see. You can make up your own mind what you think of it all.”

  That’s not really what she means. She wants me not to believe, to just trust her about all this. She wants me to see the world as she does. But maybe believing in God is like wearing glasses. Maybe some need God.

  I wonder what God will look like.

  That night, I dream of God. He looks like Albert Einstein.

  My father’s parents don’t talk to us, don’t write, anything. I have never even met them. They are very religious. They blame my mother for turning my father away from God. And away from being a math teacher. They say she’s the devil. My father told them they couldn’t speak to her that way, and so they said they wouldn’t, and turned their backs on both of them. My mother’s getting pregnant before they were married didn’t help.

  I think my father has a little bit of religion in him, because every now and then he looks up, as if there is an answer to something above him. He doesn’t do it when my mother’s looking, and if she saw him, he’d just say there was a crack in the ceiling or isn’t the sky blue. I think he’d like to believe, but my mother is too important to him to risk it.

  I wonder if he’s just a bit pleased we are learning about God. Maybe he thinks if we get religion, he can talk to his parents again. I don’t know why he does everything my mother says. Maybe that’s what lust does.

  We all squeeze into the Murphys’ station wagon. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy and Helen sit up front. Robert, Megan, Brenda, Rusty, and I sit in the back seat, pressed tight together, our legs and feet all in a row. We look like a giant centipede.

  We are all scrubbed clean. Brenda’s hair is tied back, so you can’t tell so much that it’s all tangled. Rusty has on a suit coat and slacks and looks very uncomfortable in them. I decide I like him better in cutoffs. He has small ears, but not too small. His skin is beginning to get pink all over, and he has more freckles than I thought possible. He glances at me, blinks, then looks out the window.

  Helen has on a pretty flowered dress, much more stylish than I have ever seen her wear before. Mrs. Murphy, Brenda, and Helen are wearing white gloves. I feel slightly undressed without gloves and fold my hands under my arms so you can’t see them. Mr. Murphy wears a dark-blue suit, pressed and clean, although his nails are stained and the lines on his hands look etched in coal. It was hard for him to get in the car because his knee doesn’t bend right. I tried not watching, but Robert downright stared. Mrs. Murphy, who is driving, wears a light-green dress with a little green hat. She looks like a mother, which surprises me, because I always think of her as a waitress. I think of Helen as the mother.

  Mr. Murphy takes his wife’s hand as we walk from the car to the church. Except for his limp, they look like all the other parents walking toward the church, not like people who live in a tar-paper house. Everyone is dressed fancy, with gloves and hats and purses and shiny shoes. They stop and say hello to each other. They glance our way and I am sure they are talking about us. They all know each other. I bet they love having something new to talk about. The heathens have come to church, without their parents. The phones will be busy this afternoon.

  Helen’s church is a small brick Baptist church on the main street of town, next to the hardware store. It’s not much of a church to look at, not like the ones I’ve seen in Life magazine. You could easily miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

  We go up three steps and we’re inside a little front room. There are open doors that lead into the real church. Helen presses a hand to my shoulder and leads me forward. I follow her parents to an open pew, and we all file in. There are a few dozen people in the church already, but no one in this row. I can tell right away people sit in the same spots every week, and this is the Murphys’ pew. There is just enough room for Robert and Megan and me to squeeze in with them. Helen sits on the aisle, next to me. Brenda is on my other side. I am boxed in.

  The church smells of wax and dust and heat. Sun streams through the stained-glass windows, which are not large or elaborate, but still beautiful. They are on fire, the colors brilliant because of the angle of the sun; oranges and reds, yellows and golds. They are just a composite of small rectangles, with a symbol on the top under the arch; a gold star, a gold cross, a white lily, a gold candelabra. I think my father would like this place, the high ceiling, the open spaces. There is something about sitting here that is like finding a clearing in the woods. It feels safe and special, waiting for me to find it.

  My heart beats hard as the lady at the organ starts to play. This is really it. There is no backing out. I’m terrified God will figure out I’m an atheist in his church. It’s like I’m a rich person stealing food, or a Negro pretending to be white. I will be found out, then what? I remind God I’m not an all-the-way atheist. I’m just the product of my environment.

  The church is mostly bare of decorations. I don’t know if it’s the style of Baptists or if it’s just a poor church. The pews are made of a dark, highly polished wood, worn as smooth as satin, and there is a lectern on a platform in front, with two folding wooden chairs off to the left. And there is the organ of pale wood that looks like an ordinary piano, but the music vibrates and I can feel it on my skin. On the wall behind the podium is a plain wooden cross. I thought Jesus was supposed to be hung up there, on the cross, head down, wearing a crown of thorns. I know I saw that in a picture. I’m afraid that the little I know must be wrong, that I’m not prepared for this at all. I jump when Brenda whispers something to me. I don’t answer Brenda. I don’t know the rules. Maybe she can break them, since she’s saved, but I’d better be careful. I don’t quite know how powerful God is, but I bet if He gets mad at you, the worst place to be is in a church.

  Suddenly I want to be outside again, where not believing is safe.

  The lady quits playing the organ and two men walk out from a door in the back of the church, each wearing a maroon smock over regular clothes. One man has one of those white things around his neck. He sits in one of the wooden chairs. The other man moves behind the podium and says something I miss. Everyone stands, so I follow suit, glancing at my brother and sister. They stand. Their eyes are big and round. I can hardly blink. The lady plays the organ again and everyone sings. Robert looks at me and raises his eyes in question. I’m afraid to even shrug. Helen hands me a book from a pocket in the back of the pew in front of me. She points to a page with notes and verses. By the time I find my place, the song is over.

  The man behind the lectern says, “We will now sing ‘His Name Is Wonderful,’ page 64.” I quickly turn the pages and find the right one in time to join in, but I just mouth the words. I don’t have the courage to sing a song I don’t know at all. The voices fill the church, and it’s as if each voice has a place, like they fit together perfectly. It makes me sad and happy at the same time.

  Now the man behind the podium says a short prayer, and we sit down when he’s done. Then we sing again, while sitting. A song about obeying Jesus. I thought maybe there was some rule we had to stand when we sang, but I guess not. I wonder which songs you do have to stand for, and why, and how long it takes to remember which is which. Maybe there’s a formula, like in math. Maybe for all songs about God you stand and songs about Jesus you sit. I wonder if there’s a book in the library about all this. While I’m thinking this, another thought creeps into my head. I think I hear my sister’s voice. I look over. She is singing. I don’t believe it.

  After the song, the man behind the lectern asks if there is anyone special we should include in our prayers today. A tall, hunch-shouldered man in the second row stands up and tells a story about his son and daughter-in-law, who have moved to Montana. He says he hopes we can pray for them to find a good congregation in their new town, a good Baptist community. This seems like a very small thing to be bothering God about. Shouldn’t we ask Him to make sure no one drops the H-bomb on us? Or for world peace? Then again, He’s their God. I’m certainly not g
oing to ask Him for anything yet.

  Now a lady with a pale pink hat says her mother is in the hospital and she is very sick. She wants us to pray for her recovery. The man behind the lectern writes this stuff down, then asks if there is anyone else. To my complete horror, Helen rises to her feet.

  “We have new neighbors, the Andersons, and they have no beliefs of their own. They do not know Jesus or accept Him into their hearts. I would like to add to our prayers that they find Jesus and be saved.”

  “Yes, we can do that,” the man says. He writes it down. “Is there anyone else?”

  No one speaks.

  “All right, let us pray to Our Lord Jesus Christ, first for Mr. Henry’s son and his wife …”

  Everyone bows their head. My face is burning; it’s so hot I think I might pass out. I want to kill Helen, and yet, at the same time, I hope it works. I tell God this is it, this is what I came for. I want to be saved. Helen has told me if I am not saved I will burn in hell for all eternity. The man behind the lectern prays out loud. When I hear him say, “We pray, too, that the Andersons, who are new in town, will discover the love of Our Lord Jesus Christ and find salvation,” I prepare myself for God to appear in the rafters, the bright and blinding face of a wise old man with a beard, who will call out my name. Tell me He loves me. Tell me I’m saved. But all I hear is the man in the maroon robe. When the prayer is over, I’m just the same as I was, except my arms and legs hurt from being so tense.

  We stand and sing “God Bless America.” I just mouth the words, even though I know them. I definitely hear my sister and brother singing. If they were just saved and I wasn’t, I will kill them. I was the first one to say yes to Helen. They are just tagging along. We sing another song, about praising Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I thought they didn’t believe in ghosts, just heaven and hell. But this ghost is holy, I guess, so they do make exceptions.

  The man behind the lectern introduces the man who is sitting. He’s the minister, and he stands up. The first man sits. The minister is short and fat with a red face and puffy lips. His cheeks are so high they push up his eyes into permanent squints. He talks in a huffing way, as if he has just run up a hill.

  The minister tells us a story about himself, when he was young and found Jesus. It’s a long story about growing up in a happy family, where everyone loved each other and helped each other, then one day he realized a family down the street wasn’t so lucky. The father lost his job and their child died. The minister’s mother helped the family by baking them things. The minister’s father helped them paint their house. One day the mother from the other house comes over with some wildflowers and starts crying. The minister’s mother takes the crying lady to her church, they just walk over there, and the minister, who is then fourteen, tags along. In the church they pray. The mother tells her son to pray as hard as he ever has, and he does, and Jesus comes to him. Jesus tells him he has to devote his life to God. And the boy does. Which is obvious, since he’s up there preaching to us. He tells us that the family did fine after a few years. The father got a job. The mother learned to live beyond her grief and love Jesus again. So now I know you can pray hard. Does that mean there is such a thing as a weak prayer?

  We sing another song, “Something for Thee,” still sitting. I didn’t know there would be all this singing, but I like it. Then they say a short prayer that everyone knows the words to, then all of a sudden people are standing and moving out of the aisles and the lady is playing the organ. I missed some clue.

  As soon as we get outside of the church, I miss it. I want to go back. I keep thinking if I just sat in there one more minute, God would have found me. He was busy with all those prayers and songs. If I had just stayed …

  On the ride home I sit next to Rusty. We are so tightly pressed together I can feel his chest expand with each breath. I am warm as toast in the back seat, a warmth that moves inwards. It’s a very nice feeling. Rusty smiles shyly at me and I can’t help grinning. We’ve never even talked to each other, but, like my mother says about the thunder, I know exactly what he’s saying.

  When we get home, my father is just about to start on his couch picture. He places the easel down in the middle of the living room and switches on the little oblong light that’s attached to the top of the board. The painting is of a dove on a mountain-ash branch. The orange berries will match some lady’s curtains. “Well?” he says. “How did it go?” He sounds like he’s really interested. He pauses with his head tilted. Waiting.

  “Okay,” I say. Robert and Megan say the same thing.

  “Where’s Mommy?” Megan asks.

  “I think she’s taking a nap,” he says.

  Megan goes off looking for her.

  I don’t want to see my mother right now. I don’t want to see her be happy that I didn’t find God today. I go outside and sit on the porch, looking for Brenda or Rusty. No one comes out. The whole family stays inside.

  The next day, no one is home at the house across the road. I sit on our lawn by the edge of the road, near the ditch. I play a game I used to play when I was young, piling sticks at cross angles to make a tiny campfire. I pretend I am lost in the woods, all alone, and must survive by eating berries and killing rabbits. I take a stick and rub it between my palms, feeling the heat of friction, imagining the sparks fly.

  My mother yells out my name in a sharp, scared voice, so unusual I jump to my feet and turn around, expecting the house to be on fire. Ten feet away from me, to my left, is the bull. He stares at me with crimson eyes. He snorts and scratches at the ground. I run. Toward the house. Toward my mother on the steps. I move so fast my feet leave the ground and I fly, above the grass. The porch is thirty feet away and my feet never hit the ground until I land on the top step. My mother grabs me, pulling me inside. The bull has actually chased me and stops at the bottom of the steps. We face each other through the screen door. In my ears I can still hear my mother scream. I must have screamed too, but all I really remember is flying.

  My mother calls Mr. Burns, who comes and puts the bull back in his pen and fixes the fence where the bull escaped. Mr. Burns apologizes fifty times.

  Later, when we are all calm, I ask my mother if she saw me fly. She says I am imagining things.

  But my father was outside, painting a picture of a stand of pine trees. He says I flew. He says he turned when my mother screamed and he saw me fly. He shakes his head as he says this, as if he doesn’t believe what he saw.

  “It’s very strange,” he says. “Very strange indeed.”

  My mother doesn’t disagree with him, but she shakes her head in the same way and walks off. Robert and Megan, who missed the whole thing, ask me a million questions. They want to believe. My brother says he’s heard of stuff like this happening.

  Ladies lifting cars off their children. Men bending spoons. He follows me around all day.

  That night my mother comes to my room. “Your father has a good imagination, you know that, don’t you, Tamara. You both do. An imagination is a great thing to have.”

  “I flew,” I say.

  “Well, good night,” she says. “Just don’t try jumping off a roof.”

  As I fall asleep I wonder if this is the miracle I was asking God to perform so I would know He was real. It might be, but I’m not sure. Maybe I flew because my body was going through a metamorphosis, like fish crawling out of the oceans and breathing air. Survival of the fittest. Maybe I’m a new species.

  I’m worried now because if this was God’s sign to me He might get mad because I’m not totally convinced yet. I better go back to church. I’ll ask Him for another sign, something I can’t misinterpret.

  Three years ago my mother decided to teach us at home. She wanted to invest in her children’s education. We were the perfect age, she said. Finally, she could go back to teaching, and her students would be the most important students in the world—who else should she teach if not us? Anyone else, I would say now.

  She approached the whole thing with enthus
iasm and abundant energy. School lasted from morning to night, from opening our eyes to laying our tired, heavy heads back down on the pillow. It is that year that I remember falling in love with the comfort of a bed, the anticipation of silence, the dark gray that became an empty black inside my head as I drifted out of consciousness.

  But near the end of that year her enthusiasm lessened. She became sluggish, tired, drained. She cut back our school hours, or left us for long periods of time in the library to do our own research, rather than picking out books for us and turning the pages as she sat next to us. This home schooling, which was meant to be a forever thing, lasted from one move to another. Two years ago, when we moved to Deer Isle, Maine, we were simply enrolled in a new school. No debate, no questions. No arguments.

  During that year, I learned fifteen new words every day. I knew the botanical names of every plant and flower, the species, subspecies, and genus of every bird, insect, and animal, and every word in our dictionary to the letter R. I knew a million words, which have since escaped me. I feel lighter for their absence. If those words were still in me I would have been gored by that bull, too heavy to fly. I would be dead of an overdose of vocabulary.

  A few days after the bull charged me, I walk by my father as he paints. I stop and stare. In his picture there is a child flying, not me, but a kid about nine or ten. She looks a little like my sister. She is not obtrusive in the picture, nor is she flying very high, only about ten feet off the ground. She’s flying in front of the pines. It’s not a picture about a flying girl, but you can’t ignore her. She catches your eye and because of her the pines take on a whole new feeling. They become mysterious. I begin to wonder what might be in that pine forest.