Rapture Practice

by Aaron Hartzler

  The decorative cross over the choir loft in our Bible church is empty. “We don’t keep Jesus hanging on the crucifix, like the Catholics do,” Mom likes to say. “The empty cross is a reminder that Jesus is risen!”

  While Dad talks about God’s amazing grace, I try very hard to understand how letting your child die a horrible death for someone else is an act of mercy. It seems to me an all-knowing God could have headed this off in the first place. If he’s truly omniscient, God knew Adam and Eve would sin long before he created them. He made the snake, after all, and the fruit, and the rule that said Adam and Eve couldn’t eat it. Why bother to make humans in your perfect, sinless image, then allow a temptation test you know they will inevitably fail, and then blame them for their failure?

  It doesn’t seem very merciful to set a trap where millions of people will spend eternity burning in hell and the rest will only be saved by the grisly death of your own beloved Son. Why not start by committing to loving all of these imperfect people you’re planning to create without engineering the whole heaven-and-hell situation in the first place? The test seems unfair—rigged from the beginning—and I sit in the pew wondering just how amazing God’s grace really is.

  “Jesus is coming back,” Dad says as he ends his sermon. “Accept God’s gift of grace, and be ready.” I glance around the auditorium. The whole thing seems preposterous, but these are the fundamentals of our faith. Am I the only one bothered by this?

  As I bow my head for Dad’s closing prayer, I wish I could accept God’s grace without all of these questions; or that maybe, God would simply accept me, just as I am, questions and all.

  A few weeks later, right before Thanksgiving, Dad walks through the door holding a brand-new TV just in time for the holiday weekend.

  General mayhem ensues. Or, as I told Daphne later, “If there were a Bible story written about this moment, it would read, ‘Great rejoicing was heard throughout the land.’ ”

  The idea that a brand-new color television is now a permanent fixture in our home, that it will not disappear with the Christmas tree during the first week of January, is something both thrilling and unbelievable. The magic of the holiday season is truly at hand.

  “Where is my father and what have you done to him?” I ask Dad. Josh and Miriam are already unpacking the set, plugging in the VCR, and setting up the antenna.

  Dad explains he’ll be keeping a tight rein on the remote, but he feels he can trust us now. “You kids are all older now. You know the difference between what’s acceptable and what isn’t. We won’t be watching anything unpleasing to the Lord. Besides, it cost almost as much to rent a TV now as it does to buy one. It’s a better use of money.”

  Holiday tradition at our house dictates that Dad’s extended family comes over for Thanksgiving, and we spend Christmas in Memphis with Mom’s extended family. Each year there’s an unofficial contest to see whether Dad’s turkey smoked on the grill or Mom’s roasted in the oven is the prettiest.

  Mom bakes all kinds of breads the night before Thanksgiving—banana, pumpkin, cranberry—and makes the creamiest chocolate fudge you’ve ever tasted. She can whip up a centerpiece from nothing more than a brown paper grocery bag, some Elmer’s glue, and a series of clever folds. An authentic-looking horn o’ plenty results, and spills tiny pumpkins and squash across the kitchen table beneath the festive Pilgrim and Native American mobile that hangs from the ceiling fan.

  Mom insists it’s a shame that the stores leap right from Halloween to Christmas.

  “We have so much to be thankful for,” she says.

  As I look around this year, I can see so clearly that she is right. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade has never appeared sharper or more brilliant, and after the whole family sits down at three different tables, Mom starts passing a little basket around, and directs our attention to the three kernels of popcorn that have been preset on everyone’s plate.

  “Everyone! When it’s your turn, place each kernel in the basket and say one thing that you’re thankful for!”

  Once dinner is over and the bowl games have begun, I sneak downstairs to the family room to call Daphne and check in.

  “Wait. You’re serious? A color television? Like a full-size TV?” She’s as shocked as I am.

  “I know. It’s like aliens have landed and made off with his body, leaving an impostor in his place. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, call the police.”

  “What’s happening now?” she asks.

  “Well, it’s halftime of the Cowboys game, and the cheerleaders are immodestly dressed, so Dad has turned off the new TV until the second half starts, and is leading a headstand contest with the cousins in honor of my late grandfather.”

  “Aaron, your family is so weird.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you. The last Thanksgiving Grandpa was alive he showed us all how to do a headstand after dinner.”

  “Your grandpa could do a headstand?”

  “He was incredibly graceful,” I say. “Never kicked anyone in the face. He was a pro.”

  Daphne laughs. “Are you going to brave the shopping crowds tomorrow?”

  “Yep. I have a date with Mom at Walmart to score the predawn deals. Then, I work at the ice rink until six, and I’m taking Megan to dinner afterward.”

  “So, you asked her out.” I can hear Daphne smiling. Does she sound surprised? “What are you going to do?”

  “Trying to take her to see a movie,” I whisper into the phone. “I’m spending the night at Bradley’s afterward, so it should work out.”

  Daphne sighs. “I get exhausted listening to your schedule. It requires more energy for you to take a girl to a movie than most people exert in their entire lives.”

  “Trust me. I know.”

  “I have to go eat more turkey now,” she says. “Have a good headstand.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Are you gay?”

  Mary Alice Sizemore has two French braids running down the back of her head. Her blonde hair is almost as perfect as her blue eyes. She is eight years old, beautiful, and loud. Very. Very. Loud.

  Every head in the skate office turns toward the counter, where I am busy drying the blades on returned rental skates, and tucking in laces before sliding them back into the appropriate cubbyhole.

  I pause and try not to acknowledge the eyes. All the eyes quietly watching for my response. Derrick is helping out in the skate office this weekend. Carla is here, too, doing paperwork for next week’s schedule.

  “No,” I say, rolling my eyes. Oh you silly eight-year-old, my face seems to say.

  “Do you have a giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirlfriend?” Mary Alice giggles. All of her little friends giggle. Each wears perfectly matched jackets and tights and tiny white figure skates. None of these girls is wearing rental skates. They are members at the Carriage Club. They’ve taken lessons since they were five years old. Mary Alice is already landing a toe loop.

  “It’s none of your business, Mary Alice,” I say. Why are you explaining yourself to an eight-year-old?

  “So you don’t have a girlfriend?” Mary Alice persists. That’s one thing about her when she’s in a mood like this. Ignoring her doesn’t work. “If you don’t have a girlfriend and you figure skate, that means you’re gay.”

  Carla, the ice rink manager is fortysomething, and curvy with curly brown hair and a wide, kind smile. She sidles over to the counter.

  “Mary Alice, do you have a lesson starting soon?” she asks.

  “No. I’m waiting for my mom.”

  “I want to see your toe loop,” says Carla.

  “It’s too cold,” whines Mary Alice.

  “It’s February,” says Carla. “It’s crisp, not cold. Out there. Now. Let’s see your toe loop.”

  She smiles as she grabs her jacket and follows Mary Alice out toward the ice rink sandwiched between this clubhouse and the tennis courts. “God, these little rich bitches are tap dancing on my last nerve.”

  Carla steps outside and watches Mary
Alice and her friends practice their tentative toe loops. Mary Alice lands a jump and Carla claps and gives her a thumbs-up.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, and continue stuffing laces in skates. Derrick comes over to the counter, grabs a towel, and starts wiping down blades.

  “So…” he says.

  “So, what?” I ask.

  “You gonna spill the beans about this girlfriend who is none of Mary Alice’s business, or am I gonna have to ask you questions?”

  I smile in spite of myself. Derrick is twenty-five years old. He’s shorter than I am, but muscular and handsome. He used to be a cheerleader at University of Kansas. I’ve seen a couple pictures of him lifting really pretty girls high into the air with one hand on their privates. He’s shadowing the general manager of the Carriage Club this semester to earn credit for his master’s degree in business.

  “C’mon, Hartzler.” He bangs into me from the side with one of his thick, former-gymnast shoulders. He catches me off guard and I stumble sideways into the counter.

  “Hey!” I laugh. “Knock it off.”

  “She hot?” Derrick gets a dimple on either side of his mouth when he gives that square-jawed grin of his. He has perfect white teeth.

  “Her name is Megan, and she’s not my girlfriend,” I say. “We’ve gone on a few dates.”

  “Attaboy. Make her work for it.” Derrick nods as Deena swings through the door into the lodge area, her cheeks pink from the chill.

  “Who are you making work for what?” she asks.

  “Aaron’s breaking hearts,” Derrick says.

  “Really?” Deena pulls off the headband that covers her ears, and pats a mittened hand over her long blonde French braid. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  “Her name is Megan, and it’s nothing serious.”

  “Wait—was she in your musical last fall?” Deena asks.

  I nod. “She was one of the girls who did the jig,” I said. “Not the lead or the little old lady, but the other one.”

  “Curly hair?” Deena had come to see the play with her kids and Carla.

  “That’s her.”

  “She’s beautiful!” Deena says with a girn. “And sort of mysterious.” She elbows Derrick. “You’d like her.”

  “When was this play I wasn’t invited to?” Derrick asks

  “Last September,” I explain. “Before you started here.”

  Derrick turns to Deena. “Was he any good?”

  “Good? Aaron was great!” Deena is pulling off her skates after four half-hour lessons in a row. “The music was awesome, and he was the best dancer. It’s no wonder he’s so good on the ice.”

  I smile at Derrick, “It wasn’t dancing. It was choreography. It’s a very Baptist school.”

  “You are getting really good out there,” Derrick says.

  “I saw you working on a toe loop,” says Deena. “And your spins are looking good, too. Did somebody help you with those?”

  “Mary Alice.” I sigh. “Every time I ask her for help she shows me how to do it, and then when I try it she yells, ‘You SUCK.’ ”

  “That little girl is gonna be a total ballbuster,” says Derrick, laughing. He tosses the wet towels into a laundry bin and then grabs his coat. “I guess you’ll have to bring this Megan chick to the ice show party so I can meet her.”

  “Oooooh, that’s a great idea,” says Deena as she tosses her skates in her bag. “Bring her to the party.”

  The Carriage Club Ice Show is a big event every February. It’s a recital for all of the kids taking skating lessons, and there’s always a big party for the rink staff afterward. Usually, they have it at the bar upstairs, but this year is different.

  “I’m not sure I’m even going to be able to come to the party this year,” I say. “My parents aren’t wild about me going to a bar with everybody.”

  “Oh! Fuzzy’s South is a restaurant, too. They serve food and everything,” says Deena. “I’ll call your mom and tell her that it’ll be okay. I’m going to be there with the girls, so I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Will I be able to get in even though I’m not twenty-one?”

  “Sure, man.” Derrick grins. “You’re cool as long as you’re sitting at a table on the restaurant side.”

  “Sounds good. Sure you don’t mind talking to my mom, Deena?”

  “Of course not. I’ll catch her tomorrow at church. Is your dad preaching again?”

  I nod. “I think they’re going to make him the interim pastor until they find somebody to take the job full-time.”

  “That’s great!” Deena seems really excited. Everybody loves Dad’s preaching. He’s actually really good at it. He’s more of a teacher than a preacher, plus he’s funny, and has good, clear outlines. People always line up afterward to tell him how much his message touched their hearts.

  “Son of a preacher man, eh?” Derrick smirks as he zips up his jacket. Deena covers a laugh with her hand.

  “What…?” I ask.

  “Oh it’s an old song,” Deena says with a smile and a wink at Derrick.

  “What song?” I hate not knowing the songs everybody else knows. I always feel like I’m missing out.

  “Dusty Springfield,” says Deena.

  Derrick sings into an imaginary mic: “Only man who could ever reach me…”

  Deena joins him: “Was the son of a preacher man….” They both dissolve into giggles. I smile, and feel myself blush. I’ve never heard this song.

  I guess that means that preachers’ sons are… sexy?

  Derrick sees the look on my face and punches me on the shoulder as he heads out of the skate office toward the parking lot.

  “You are so set. This Megan doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Megan is flying toward the ceiling of the gymnasium, high enough that I hold my breath a little.

  Blastoff!

  I smile as she lands in Heather’s and Angela’s arms, and the crowd at the homecoming game goes wild. It was a perfect basket toss.

  “That’s Hartzler’s woman.” Bradley nudges his friend Jacob, a tall guy with dark red hair who graduated from Tri-City last year. He’s flown back from Stanford for the weekend to see his little brother play in the postseason basketball tournament. Turns out our younger brothers are in the same class. Bradley is watching their JV game with us before he plays with the varsity team.

  “Wow. Little Megan is all grown up.” Jacob smiles at me. “Nice work. Funny how people change.”

  I blush a little in spite of myself and smile. What does nice work mean? I didn’t do anything….

  “Awww. Look at Hartzler, all smitten and smiley.” He laughs. “Putty in her paws.”

  Erica is wearing a gold-and-white-striped rugby shirt tucked into a long, straight purple skirt. She waves at Jacob and comes running up to say hi with Janice.

  “Erica Norton,” Jacob says. “Way to sport the purple and gold.”

  Erica smiles and points to me. “Aaron won class theme day. Our theme was ‘Take Me out to the Ball Game.’ ”

  “You had the best baseball uniform?” Jacob asks.

  “He came as a carton of popcorn!” squeals Janice. “With brown grocery sacks of real popcorn stapled inside. We ate out of him all day long!”

  “Wow,” says Jacob. “That’s impressive.”

  “Mom and I were up until two AM popping popcorn.” Late-night arts-and-crafts is one of Mom’s special skills. Since the Native American outfit covered with fringe we made when I was in fourth grade, Mom and I never have more fun than we do staying up late making costumes and class projects that win awards. Mom and I craft to win.

  “See? That’s the kind of stuff that girls totally go for,” Bradley says. “Your mom helped you land Megan.”

  When Erica hears this, she’s ready to move on. “Nice seeing you, Jacob,” she says. “C’mon, Janice. Let’s go get seats on the front bleacher so we don’t miss anything.”

  Janice smiles and waves good-bye, oblivious to the reason they’re leaving. As they
go, Bradley lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Hartzler, you’re killing me with this.”

  Jacob frowns. “Wait. What just happened?”

  “Love tri-an-gle.” Bradley emphasizes each syllable. The horn for the fourth quarter of the JV game sounds, and Bradley gets up. “Okay, boys. I gotta head to the locker room now for Coach’s pep-talk-slash-prayer-meeting.”

  “I’ve seen your jump shot,” says Jacob. “It’s the other team that needs the prayer.”

  Bradley smiles. “Hey, Jacob, try not to let Hartzler break any more hearts tonight, will ya?”

  Jacob laughs as Bradley leaves. “Love that guy. Now, what’s going on with Erica Norton?”

  I smile, grimly. “Nothing. And that’s sort of the problem.”

  “Megan more your type?” he asks.

  “Something like that.” I’m never sure how to answer questions like this one. Megan is beautiful, but so is Erica. There’s something about Megan. I see it when other guys look at her, too. Sometimes I think Megan looks even prettier to me because other guys find her so attractive, which makes me feel strange. Am I dating her because I think she’s pretty, or because they think she’s pretty?

  Jacob turns out to be a great guy. Smart, funny, well read. After the games, I meet his parents. Our moms are already acquainted from being at our brothers’ soccer games. This is perfect. He’ll be one more friend Mom and Dad approve of.

  Jacob is flying back to Stanford tomorrow. He gives me his phone number. “I’ll be back this summer. Keep in touch.”

  “You’ll be home by eleven?” Mom asks. I’m shoring up plans for the Carriage Club Ice Show party tomorrow night.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I assure her.

  “Remember we have church the next morning.”

  Mom hasn’t said so, but the look on her face and the struggle to score this “yes” makes me certain that she’s letting me attend this party against her better judgment. She doesn’t want me around people who are drinking in a bar, even if I’m sitting at a table across the room.

  A few months after the drunk driver hit our car when I was in sixth grade, my teacher gave us a blank sheet of paper with random lines drawn across it at different angles. The places where the lines crossed created little spaces, random angled windows all over the page. Our teacher asked us to draw a different pattern or picture in each one. I loved this assignment, and in a window toward the very center, I drew a waiter from his bow tie, to his cummerbund. On the silver tray in his white-gloved hands rested a martini.