“It’s nice outside,” I said. “Let’s go for a walk. Summer won’t be here forever, and life is short.” I led them across Poleline Road and into the potato field, the man who loved me and the man who loved my husband. The imperfect white blooms had all fallen away from the exhausted plants. The field was dark. Our feet turned the soil and stirred up the soft brown scent of potatoes ready for the harvest. I filled my lungs with the smell, breathing in more and more of it until my chest ached.
“Look at all the stars,” I said, and took X and Brian by their hands. I thought in Brian’s palm I could still feel the touch of James’s own fingers. And in X’s hand, I could feel the memory of the portrait that had made James live on.
What we could not do for you in life, James, we will do for you now. We who have passed through the refiner’s fire – we who saw you and loved you – we will take you in our hands, take you in our arms and hold your memory against our hearts. We will fall with you through the veil into a black ocean, and together we will rise up, whole and clean. You have gone into the earth, into the harvest, into the endless cycle of white flowers blanketing the Bench. You are the shadow of the water tower. You are an R over my heart. You are sunrise, and birds in bounding flight over prairies of sage. You are a great flock of black birds twisting in the air, and the sound of their wings can drown out even the voice of God.
**
That night I rose up long after the crickets had ceased their chorus. I was in the grip of a waking dream, or perhaps I did not dream at all. I stood in the living room of the house on the Bench, and to the left and right of me Brian and X lay sprawled in sleep, breathing slow.
I heard a voice in the kitchen. I followed it. Like a spirit, the breath of a whisper led me through the darkness to the mud room, to the garage door, across the cold cement floor that smelled faintly of gasoline and mildew. It led me out into the front yard where the crab apple tree stood still under the starred sky.
There was movement at the tree’s roots. Two points of purple shimmered and blinked. The voice drew me closer.
Under the tree was the small black shape of a dog crouching on its haunches. It wagged its tail.
Hello, I said. I know you.
The bare bones of its face grinned at me. Its eyes were violet lights, living and deep. When it opened its sharp-toothed mouth a multitude of voices spoke at once. James’s voice, and X’s, mine and Katherine’s, my father’s, and more, voices I had never heard before.
And so you are going away.
I am.
The dog turned its purple eyes to the car, X’s hybrid slumbering in the driveway. I got into the driver’s seat. The window was down. The dog put its paws up against the door where its nails clicked in a timid rhythm, the sound of Marlee tapping at the window. When I reached down to untie the bailing twine from the dog’s neck I felt a collar, silvery and dull, chilling my fingers. I explored it with my hands, felt the badge shape with its heroic letters. I let the twine fall.
Thank you, said the dog in its thousand voices.
What do I do now? Now that I am going?
The dog laughed. It kicked the tire. A shower of sparks glittered across the yard, so bright they stung my eyes.
I told the dog, There is still an ember inside me. There is still a hot place where I can feel fear burning. I can feel the whole town burning there in my heart. I can’t breathe through the smoke.
It seemed important that the dog should know. But it said nothing, only turned its white pointed face to gaze out across the valley.
I tried again: There is something small inside me, but it feels as if it might burst open at any moment and overwhelm me.
You swallowed your faith, the dog reminded me.
How do I put out the fire? Tell me.
The dog’s mouth opened. Its thousand voices whispered together, murmuring, breathing. At last I made out their words.
Choose the right, they told me.
And I did.
**
In the morning I woke in the driver’s seat of X’s car. The window was up. I was very cold. I got out and stared around me, out into the field across Poleline Road where the three of us had walked the night before. A dark shadow slipped between the wilted plants, moving fast. An early frost lay on the potatoes, lacing the edges of the leaves. I glanced down at my feet, but there was no bailing twine lying in the drive. Of course there was none.
Down in the valley a dust devil swayed. The sun was sweet on Our Mountain.
The summer was over.
I went inside to pack my things.
THE END
of
BAPTISM FOR THE DEAD
by Libbie Hawker
Looking for more books by Libbie Hawker? You might enjoy these titles!
Tidewater: A Novel of Pocahontas and the Jamestown Colony
Daughter of Sand and Stone (coming in December of 2015 from Lake Union Publishing; available for pre-order now.)
The Elect – a haunting biographical novel of Emma Hale Smith, the first wife of Joseph Smith, founder of the Mormon Church. The Elect is coming from Running Rabbit Press in January of 2016. Join Libbie’s mailing list so you’ll be the first to know when The Elect is available for pre-orders and for purchase!
…And find many more books by Libbie Hawker on her web site.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to so many people whose help and influence made this book what it is.
Paul Harnden, words always fail when I try to express what you mean to me. If I can’t do it justice elsewhere, I can’t do it justice in the acknowledgments of my book. But I love you like I love the sage plains and the mountains, and the birds flying over them, and that says it all, I hope. Thank you for everything.
Tim Batson, thank you for your unwavering support and friendship, and for the many conversations that shaped these characters and their story. Thank you for never doubting, even when I did. And thanks for being unstoppable at Scrabble.
Thank you, Simon Bee, for trusting me, and for being such a good friend. People like you are why this story needs to be told.
Lori Witt, thank you for many, many critiques of this book and others, and many, many years of friendship. Lets never stop this crazy writing thing.
Alex Adams, thanks for encouraging me when I needed it most, and thanks for your honesty and expertise in critiquing this book. It is better because of you.
Lauren Park has been my most reliable and critical reader, asking all the questions that needed to be asked, and for that I thank her. She is also an excellent friend. Thank you, Lauren.
Therese Doucet provided valuable critique which shaped this book for the better, and was also the only publishing professional out of eighty-four queried to offer a contract for publication at her press, Strange Violin Editions. For personal reasons I chose to publish it independently instead, but Therese’s books are all fine and thoughtful and her press deserves your support.
Lisa Motherwell and John Hayner – thank you for critique, idea-bouncing, and good times. And to everybody who works at Cooper’s Alehouse: thanks for indulging the best writers’ group ever, and for furnishing us with delicious food and inspiring alcohol.
Speaking of critique and inspiration, the following folks gave specific feedback on the full manuscript or on significant chunks of Baptism, which was invaluable to me and for which I will always be grateful: Jasen Cooper, Raymond K. Wong, and Lina Prodromidou-Varotsis. Your time, thoughts, and honesty made all the difference.
Rita Starzmann, thanks for your understanding and support during a difficult time in my life. And the Harnden family, thanks for keeping me entertained, fed, and distracted. You guys are great.
Thanks to Bruce Mindt, Jim “Doc” Kovach, Kathy Ludgate, and Kim Anderson, all of them exceptional teachers who were instrumental in my decision to write fiction. Your influence on young people does make a difference in the world.
While I am speaking of teachers, my first-grade teacher was Faye Dawson, an
amazing woman who went out of her way to make sure my family and I understood that I had a future in books, and that my interest in reading and writing should be most emphatically encouraged. I owe my lifelong confidence in my writing to Mrs. Dawson. I still think of her almost every day.
Thank you to Roy Rard, whose gift of noise-canceling headphones was the only thing that finally allowed me to finish this book.
The whole crew of Ask An Atheist, thank you for working hard and being awesome. Big thanks, in fact, to everybody who is a part of the atheism visibility movement.
Thanks to Dr. Darrell Ray and Dr. Amanda Brown, whose timely research and writing on how faith affects sexuality in America informed my choices in this novel.
Nearly all of this book was written in a particular chair with a view of Puget Sound at the Edmonds Public Library, over the course of two of the hardest years of my life. The Edmonds Library was my only peaceful sanctuary during that time. Thank you to all the staff and volunteers for making it a wonderful place, and thank you to libraries and their people everywhere. You are important.
Thanks to the Ricks family for being understanding (I hope.)
An affectionate salute to my birthplace, Rexburg, Idaho, for being what it is: a fascinating and unique little town all its own, and not quite what I made it out to be in this fictional portrayal.
Mom, thanks for being enthusiastic. Granny, thanks for teaching me from an early age that the things worth having don’t come easily. And Sissy, thanks for being my best friend. I love you guys.
-L.G.
Seattle, WA
March 2012
References
Lyrics to the song “I’ll Be a Sunbeam for Him” were written by Nellie Talbot. The work is in the public domain. Lyrics to the hymn “Zion Stands with Hills Surrounded” were written by Thomas Kelly. The work is in the public domain.
Various passages from The Book of Mormon, The Doctrine & Covenants, and The Holy Bible were freely reinterpreted and laced throughout this novel. All three works are, of course, in the public domain.
Certain lines of teaching from the once-booklet, now-website “For the Strength of Youth,” published by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, are quoted in the scene where our nameless narrator recounts her first meeting with Adam. My use of the quoted lines is protected under fair use of U.S. Copyright law.
About the Author
Libbie Hawker was born in Rexburg, Idaho and grew up dividing her time between the Puget Sound area and the rural vicinities surrounding Rexburg. She is passionate about the American West and strives to bring her love for its unique landscapes, atmospheres, and people to life in her writing. She now lives in the San Juan Islands with her husband.
Find more of her books, as well as her blog and news about upcoming releases, at LibbieHawker.com.
Libbie welcomes comments of all kinds from readers at [email protected].
Baptism for the Dead
Libbie Hawker
Copyright 2012 – 2014, 2015
Libbie Hawker
Fourth ebook edition
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is coincidental.
Running Rabbit Press
San Juan County, WA
Cover design by Libbie Hawker
290 ½
Baptism for the Dead Page 19