— What happened to your father’s hand?
Emily didn’t think Agnes had noticed his missing fingers, something Emily is so accustomed to that she doesn’t even think about it.
Emily doesn’t answer right away. She waits a few moments, twisting her hair around her finger and counting the tiles on the board. Sixty-four. She takes her turn and then Agnes takes hers and quickly snatches up two more of her pieces.
— He was in an accident. When he was little. Emily doesn’t look up.
— What kind of accident?
Emily isn’t very good at the strategy necessary to win at checkers. She keeps unintentionally setting herself up for Agnes to take two of her pieces every turn. Each move she makes leaves exposed vulnerabilities she didn’t even know she had.
— Just an accident. In a thunderstorm.
— What happened? Did his hand get mangled in a machine? And they had to amputate to free him?
— I don’t know.
— Really? You don’t know? Why not?
Agnes takes her turn and overthrows another black piece.
— He doesn’t like to talk about it.
— Was it a car accident? Was anyone else hurt?
That’s the part they’re not allowed to talk about. Years ago, when Lenora was younger, she asked a lot of questions too. Her father clenched the side of the kitchen table so hard you could see the bones in his good hand almost tearing through his skin. He told Lenora Never mind, to stop asking so many questions, and she persisted, But why, what happened? until finally he picked up his half-full dinner plate and threw it against the far wall. Emily was very small, but she still remembers the spaghetti inching down the yellow floral wallpaper below the clock, like earthworms on the sidewalk after a storm. He didn’t speak to any of them for a week after that, and their mom has since made sure they know it’s one of the things they’re not allowed to talk about.
Emily doesn’t look up at Agnes. She doesn’t want to have to lie outright, so she shrugs instead and finally takes one of Agnes’ red pieces. Emily is relieved when her mom calls them down for dinner.
They sit down at the table and her father is in his chair and Emily’s mom sets the casserole and salad on the table before taking her seat. Lenora’s chair is empty. Music drifts from upstairs, but no one tells Lenora to turn it off.
— Bow your heads.
Emily’s father prays. She sneaks a look at Agnes. Her eyes are scrunched up tight and she clasps her hands in front of her. She hopes that their prayer doesn’t seem too strange compared to what Agnes is used to. She doesn’t know how the Pentecostals pray, if it’s always the same set of memorized lines like the prayer at school, or if they make it up from scratch every time, so it’s genuine.
— Our Lord and God in heaven, we thank you for this meal and all that we have . . .
Emily tries to focus but keeps peeking out her left eye to see if Lenora is waiting in the doorway or has somehow appeared in her chair. She doesn’t want her parents to yell at her in front of Agnes. Her stomach is so tight she doesn’t know if she’ll even be able to eat.
— Give us the strength to always keep faith in you even when persecuted, that we might please you and live forever and see our loved ones again after the Resurrection.
He pauses for a minute and Emily isn’t sure if he’s lost his train of thought or what.
— Please forgive all of our sins, as we are imperfect and make many mistakes we don’t mean to.
He clears his throat and continues.
— Please continue to bless us in our weakness and forgive us, in Jesus’ name, Amen.
— Amen. Emily and her mom murmur in unison.
— Amen! Agnes chirps so loud her father starts.
Emily exhales loudly.
Her mom serves them the macaroni and cheese with a big wooden spoon, and Emily can tell that her smile is fake. She is only being nice because they have company. She must be mad at Lenora again. She sits down and rearranges her cutlery several times while the rest of them begin to eat.
Emily’s dad swallows a couple of mouthfuls, then clears his throat and sets his fork down. None of them are used to having unfamiliar people over.
— So, what did you two get up to today?
— We played checkers, Mr. Morrow. I won every game, didn’t I, Emily?
— Yeah—
— Don’t talk with your mouth full, Emily!
— Sorry. Emily apologizes to her mom but wishes she hadn’t snapped at her in front of Agnes. She stares at her food and moves it around on her plate while her father asks Agnes polite questions about school. Emily and her mom eat in silence.
When they are nearly done, Lenora bursts into the room like a hurricane, her long black and red plaid shirt billowing around her. She plops several spoonfuls of macaroni and cheese onto her plate and doesn’t seem to notice a couple of sticky noodles drop to the floor. Then she shakes a bottle of Tabasco sauce over it all, so it’s speckled with red. The chair rattles as she drags it across the floor and she sinks down heavily.
— Your macaroni and cheese is really good, Mrs. Morrow. I’ve never had it homemade like this before.
Lenora seems to notice Agnes for the first time.
— Who on earth are you?
— Thank you, Agnes. I can give you the recipe to take home if you like.
— Um, this is my friend Agnes. From school.
It’s embarrassing that Lenora even asked, and Emily coughs, then kicks her sister under the table.
— Ouch! What’d you kick me for?
— Nothing.
Lenora turns to Agnes, swallows her food, and grins.
— So, are you worldly?
— Lenora . . . Their mom is using her warning voice.
— It’s a valid question. I mean, ‘bad association’ and all that. Right?
Emily doesn’t look up, just keeps moving her food around, her head close to her plate. Agnes turns to Lenora.
— I don’t really understand the question. What do you mean?
— I mean, are you going to start coming to the Kingdom Hall with us? Or is Emily wasting her time?
— Shut up! Emily turns bright red and can’t look at anyone.
Agnes looks from Lenora to Emily, then back at Lenora.
— What do you mean?
— What do I mean? Emily isn’t allowed to hang around with worldly kids. Unless she’s converting them. Right, Dad? Isn’t that how it is?
— Lenora.
He looks at her with that sharp, long look that means you’re in trouble, but Lenora ignores him.
— I know you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses and stuff, but I have my own religion.
— Well, that’s good to hear that you read the Bible. Their dad tries to take the conversation away from Lenora.
— What religion do you belong to?
— I’m a Pentecostal. Agnes smiles and crunches her lettuce.
Their parents exchange a look between them and Lenora laughs.
— Wow. Hard-core. That’s like the thrash metal of Christianity!
Emily doesn’t know exactly what that means, but knows enough to recognize that her sister is making fun of Agnes.
— Shut up, Lenora!
Agnes, however, openly ignores Lenora, which impresses Emily.
— Can I ask you a question, Mr. Morrow?
— Sure, Agnes. What is it?
— It’s kind of a personal question, so I hope you’re not offended.
Emily sucks in her breath quickly and swivels her head toward Agnes, then coughs, trying to signal her to be quiet. Even Lenora has stopped eating and watches her, waiting to hear what she’ll ask. The room goes silent and Emily can hear the clock tick louder than it ever has, every second, she counts six of them before anyone speaks.
&
nbsp; — How come you’re missing two fingers on your left hand? Was it from an accident?
Emily’s face burns, her mom drops her fork, and the clatter echoes. Lenora blows a low, slow whistle between her dark red lips.
No one speaks. Her father folds up his napkin and sets it gently onto his plate. Then he looks at his deformed hand, turns it palm-side up, then back again, as though seeing it for the first time.
— There was an accident. I was just a kid. I don’t remember very much.
He doesn’t seem to say this as much to Agnes as he does to himself, but Agnes persists.
— I think you went to school with my dad. Cal Vandergroot? Do you remember him?
— I don’t think so.
— Are you sure? He remembers you.
He says nothing more, just stands up and walks out of the kitchen, still looking down at his hand. His footsteps recede as they reach the top of the stairs. The bedroom door snaps shut.
They finish eating in silence.
— Would you like some help with the dishes, Mrs. Morrow?
— No, thanks. Go outside and play or something. You have about an hour until your mom will be back.
In the living room, Emily asks Agnes what she wants to do. She avoids looking her in the eye. She wishes she’d just go home early.
In the yard, they take turns on the tire swing. Agnes climbs on top of it, swaying and holding on to the rope.
— Push me harder!
Emily does, then stops her and stands in front of her.
— Why did you ask my dad about his hand? I already told you he was in an accident a long time ago.
— I think there’s more to the story than that. Don’t you?
Emily shrugs.
— And why did your sister say all that stuff? She’s weird.
— I know. She wasn’t always this weird though. She’s a teenager.
Emily says this almost proudly, as though teenagers are rare and exotic creatures, as though it explains everything. Agnes gets off the swing and grins and points behind them.
— Let’s go way back there by the bush.
Without waiting for a response, Agnes jogs toward the woods at the rear of their lot, through melted patches of snow and muddy grass and slush. Emily bites her lip and looks back toward the kitchen window. The sun is starting to set, and she isn’t allowed to play far from the house after dark, but she doesn’t see her mom at the curtains. Knowing her dad will be mad at her about what Agnes said, she doesn’t want to go inside either.
— Wait up!
Agnes is fast and plunges into the trees while Emily flails behind her, snapping twigs and trying not to fall. There is still enough light to see flashes of Agnes’ white-clad legs as she weaves between oak and poplar and maple trees. Unlike Agnes, Emily picks her way carefully, watching that she doesn’t step in any mud or trip over a log. She’s surprised; she always thought Agnes was so prim.
Ahead, Agnes stops and bends down to the ground.
— Look what I found!
She catches up with Agnes, who holds something in the air with both hands. Emily comes closer and screams. She backs away from Agnes.
— Don’t be scared. It’s just a plain old garter snake. It won’t hurt you.
She moves toward Emily, still holding out the snake. It tenses and twists in her grip. A real, live serpent.
— He must be confused by the warm weather this week. Maybe the snow melted wherever he was hibernating, so he woke up early. Poor little guy!
Agnes coos and smiles at it, like it’s a kitten or a puppy, and Emily covers her mouth when Agnes leans in to kiss it.
— Put it down!
It writhes and twists, trying to get free, and Emily backs away. She’s never seen anyone touch a real snake before. After what feels like hours, Agnes the Pentecostal tosses the snake into the undergrowth behind her.
— Scaredy-cat!
— I am not!
— You are too! You looked like you were going to cry!
— Snakes are disgusting, that’s all. I wasn’t scared.
Agnes smirks.
— Last month a real live snake handler came to our church. He was from Tennessee.
— What’s a snake handler? Where’s Tennessee?
— In the States somewhere. He talked funny and had a gold tooth, right here. She points to her upper left incisor. Emily’s stomach churns and she cringes; Agnes touched her own mouth after holding a filthy snake.
— What was he doing here?
— He tours North America with his copperheads and rattlesnakes and comes to Pentecostal churches in every town. It’s an honour.
Agnes nods her head up and down. Emily wonders if this snake man is like their District Overseer, who tours the region, giving talks at all the different Kingdom Halls.
— But what does he do with the snakes?
— He puts them around his neck and holds them up and lets other people take them.
— What for?
Agnes pauses.
— You know. For faith.
— Like a test?
— Yeah, testing your faith. Like in the Bible.
— Do they ever bite?
— Sometimes. But he’s a holy man. God is stronger than the devil and the snake handler won’t die from the venom. It’s like in the Bible, when it says, ‘They shall take up serpents . . .’
— So he brings real live poisonous snakes into your church? Emily wonders if it’s Satanism.
— Yeah, real live rattlesnakes. I wanted to hold one, but my mom wouldn’t let me. She was scared, just like you!
— I don’t believe you.
— It’s true! I might even be a snake handler when I grow up. I’d be really good at it.
— Where does it talk about that in the Bible? Emily knows the Bible very well, and she can’t think of any scripture that tells you to tease deadly snakes.
— It’s in Mark something. Chapter sixteen, I think. Look it up in your own Bible, there’s one in every room in your house.
— I will. But I still think you’re making it up.
— I never lie! Lying is a sin!
— What’s the scripture then?
— ‘They shall take up serpents, and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them . . .’
— That doesn’t sound right to me.
— Well it is. You want to know something else, a secret?
— Not really.
Emily has had more than her fill of other people’s secrets.
They pause and nudge the slush with their toes and finally Emily speaks.
— What, then?
— I’m not allowed to say.
— Don’t then. I don’t care.
— Promise you won’t tell? Especially not your parents?
— Okay.
Emily’s stomach feels weird, like before she puts up her hand to give an answer into the microphone at the meetings.
— My dad told me something about your dad. He knew him when they were still kids.
— He did not. My dad said he didn’t even remember your dad.
— He did too! He said they’re exactly the same age and went to the same school.
The bare branches rattle and Emily shivers.
— Well, don’t you want to know the secret?
— I don’t care.
— You can’t ever say that I told you, okay? Promise?
— I said I don’t care if you tell me or not. Emily shrugs and wishes she’d never asked Agnes to come over to her house.
— Well, I think you should know.
Emily bites her lip. Agnes doesn’t slow down.
— It’s your right.
— What is?
— To know the truth.
&nb
sp; — But I do. I already know the truth.
— No, you don’t.
— Yes, I do.
— Then how come I know stuff that you don’t? And it’s not even my family!
— You do not.
— I do too.
They both look at each other. A nearby branch rustles and a huge owl rises out of a tree and flaps off, screeching, into the dusk. Emily shivers again.
— My dad said that your dad killed his little brother.
Agnes takes a step closer to Emily, her hands on her small hips, chin thrust forward, and the wind stops blowing, the trees are still, and everything stops, even the birds, waiting for Emily to say something.
— That’s a lie! He’s an only child.
— It’s the truth. He used to have a brother. When your dad was ten and he was seven.
— You’re a liar!
The macaroni and cheese turns into a hard lump and it pushes against her stomach so hard she almost falls down, but she grabs a tree instead and lets it hold her up.
— I’m not lying. My dad told me. Ask him yourself. That’s how he lost his fingers. I swear to God.
Emily’s eyes burn. Agnes just stands there, watching her with her round, hard eyes that look like a crow’s.
— He did not.
Emily can only whisper. She doesn’t know what’s true anymore and what isn’t.
There is a car horn in the distance, and soon after, Emily’s mom calls them.
— Come on. We better go.
— Maybe I’ll let you be my assistant snake handler someday, unless you’re too chicken.
Agnes runs back toward the house and Emily trudges in the slush far behind. She doesn’t say goodbye, and the car door slams in the distance. The sun dips behind the trees and disappears.
23
I WAS READY TO BEGIN. The light, hot and metallic, buzzed and glared above the bathroom mirror.
In one hand I held a small, worn photograph, and in the other, a roll of tape. The edges of the picture were soft and curled at the corners, as though dropped in a puddle then left for years in a dark drawer. Two teenage girls in black pouted against a row of dented metal lockers.
I set the photo face up on the counter beside the sink.
The tape stretched and crackled when I tugged it, dangling sticky sinews of glue. I tore off the end, and the serrated edge of the dispenser gouged the side of my thumb, leaving a neat row of bloody dashes. I gritted my teeth against the sting.
Watch How We Walk Page 14