by Jess Bentley
She looks at me back over her shoulder, pushing her braid to the other side. Her eyes narrow slightly as she considers it. I can tell that she was repeating a conversation the aunties must have had several times over the course of the day. It sounded rehearsed. They must have all been shocked at what got thrown away, maybe holding pieces up and laughing, maybe spinning tales about people who previously owned the things we have been given. And I guess I'm the first person today to disagree.
“Go ahead and eat,” I offer.
She pulls a bowl down from the shelf and sits at the table after ladling out a couple spoonfuls of stew. Through the steam, she tips her head and stares at me. I shift from foot to foot, plucking at the long skirts that brush around my ankles.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Oh, not today…” I shrug. “I had some tomatoes out of the garden earlier. Some porridge. Really, I'm stuffed.”
She tips her head forward, folding her hands over the wide metal spoon. Her lips move as she prays for an extraordinarily long time. I know she prayed this morning too. I could hear it when her knees hit the floor. But she just goes on and on. Why does she have so much to tell Him?
I hear people moving around outside and automatically glance over my shoulder. The procession has started. The sun isn't quite down yet, but people are gathering on our little dusty path, forming in small groups, exchanging excited snippets of conversation.
“You're not going out there,” Mama announces.
I cringe. I never should have looked at the procession. I never should have let her see what I wanted to do. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I just thought I'd walk along. Maybe find Tulip or Abbie and see how they were doing with their gardens, you know?”
“Don't you lie to me, girl,” she hisses, slurping back a mouthful of stew and pointing the spoon at me. The room is quickly becoming dark as the sun goes down, and I can't help it but feel like it's all becoming quite urgent.
“I'm not lying… well, I'm not trying to lie. Why would I lie about that? Everyone's allowed to go where they want, aren't we?”
She smirks triumphantly, as though I've admitted to something. “Yes, Angel, everyone's allowed to go where they will. But because you're not yet a woman, you're required to obey me.”
“I'm almost a woman,” I counter.
She shrugs and resumes eating.
“Almost is not the same as is,” she reminds me. “See, you get chosen for this ceremony, you don't get to insist. Father Daddy will decide when the time is right. It's as simple as that, Angel. You know that.”
I want to stretch. I want to hold my arms up or stomp my feet or something, but I know it won't do any good. It would only make this last longer. Mama has some say-so on when I'm chosen. She could delay the whole thing for another year she wants to, even though I'm older than most of the girls who have been through it.
Come to think of it, she must have asked somebody to leave me this way, to take care of the house and such for her. I’ll bet she told them she was ill or something.
Or maybe they just haven't gotten around to me. Maybe walking around without make up, dressed in what looks like a flour sack when it's hanging on the back of a door… maybe nobody noticed me at all.
Maybe they still think I'm seven or eight. Maybe when they look at all those other girls — those prettier, more outgoing girls with their wild hair, their curves blossoming so suddenly and drastically they practically burst out of their shifts like over-ripened fruit, spilling seeds from the top of the tree…. Maybe they have never seen me, at all.
I can't disobey her. She's right. It's against the rules and if she says I have to be here, that takes precedence over my right to wander around like any other Kingdom Come member.
“All right then,” I finally mumble and sit in a chair by the window. I pull my knitting out and start working on the blue scarf I've been messing around with for the last week. This way I'm working, even if I'm stealing a glance here and there at the people outside the window.
She eats noisily, banging her spoon against the bottom of the stoneware bowl to scrape up the last bits. When she's done, she gets up and shuffles over to the sink, washing the bowl and dropping it into the rack without saying anything. I can almost hear her thoughts bouncing around in her head and wonder what's going on in there. Is she thinking about conversations from today? Or is she thinking about the conversation we just had?
Then, strangely, she yawns hugely. Almost comically. When she comes back into the living room, she stretches out full-length on the sofa and folds her hands over her rib cage. Her eyes are closed almost immediately.
Her work they couldn't really have been that tough, could it?
That reminds me of a story that Abbie told me, of how her mom came home smelling of smoke and something sweet. A lot of the aunties brought in some bad habits from outside the compound, and Abbie was suspicious that sometimes the ladies got together and just did whatever they wanted. Gossiped, lied, drank alcohol or even worse. Alcohol is strictly forbidden here. Devil in a bottle, as Mama has told me several times.
And yet, she just started snoring.
The sun is down, and the crickets are loud and exuberant. The night is warm enough that everyone seems energetic. It would have been a good night for a bonfire. A good night for a dance, maybe, or one of those events where Father Daddy tells us Bible stories in his beautiful, haunting voice.
But the ceremony is all we have scheduled. It is literally the only thing happening in our compound tonight. Everyone is going except me.
And Mama, who seems to be snoring just to make the point that she doesn't care.
“Mama, are you sleeping?” I ask quietly.
She doesn’t answer, just continues to breathe. Deeper and deeper, a little slower each time. She's sinking into a comfortable darkness, letting herself succumb to her weariness. It must feel nice. But here I am, all nerves and energy.
I wish I could go out. A group of three girls in shifts has just hurried by, probably the last of everybody. Everybody's ready to go. Everybody's probably already at the barn already. Everybody but me.
“Mama?”
She continues snoring. The sound fills the room. The very clean room, which I was hoping she would have noticed.
“Mama, since I've done with everything… Would you mind if I go?”
She just snores some more. That's it.
Which means she didn't tell me not to go. She didn't answer me at all.
So without a direct order… I can go, can't I?
Before I have a lot more time to think about it and realize what kind of chance I'm taking, I drop my knitting back in the basket and stand. I'm through the front door in just three steps, silently closing it behind me.
Taking my skirts in my fist, I rush behind the group. I can only see them just barely, far up, with the light of torches bouncing back and forth like fireflies. They’re around the front of the ceremony barn now, gathered. Probably watching. Maybe hearing Father Daddy or Brother Owen make a speech. Sometimes they make speeches. Sometimes they call out words that just zing right through to the middle of my soul.
As I rush down the hard-packed trail, I see the other aunties from the reclamation shed. They don't see me. They're talking to each other, breaking into laughter every few seconds. I should probably avoid them, so I cut behind the back of the barn and around the far side. There's nobody over here, but there is also nothing to see. Everyone's on the other side of the barn and I won't be able to make my way to the entrance.
My heart sinks as I realize I missed my chance. And for what? Risking punishment to stand at the back of the barn and see nothing?
I'm about to give up what I notice an amber blade of light falling on the dark rushes in front of me. Carefully I edge up to it and notice a space between the boards of the barn. Light pours through it and I sneak up to the side, pressing my hands against the weathered boards, pushing forward.
My breath catches
in my throat. I've never seen this before. No one is allowed to see this, actually. The ceremony has already begun. The barn door has already been closed. Through the gap in the boards, I see the interior of the barn, lit from the strings of lights across the rafters. Father Daddy and Brother Owen are on their thrones to the right side. Gina walks up slowly with four aunties surrounding her. She looks nervous. But then she also looks like the bossy brat I've known all my life.
But then one of the aunties takes her arm and whips the back of her dress up, twisting it into a cable that she uses to pin her arms behind her. Gina starts to look different.
My heart begins to race. What is this? What are they doing to her? I've never seen anything like this… is this the ceremony?
And yet, only Gina is afraid. Everyone else seems to know what's going on. It must be all right. Father Daddy and Brother Owen would never harm her. They must be teaching her a lesson.
I press forward further, pushing up on my toes to see more. Two of the aunties mount the platform where Father Daddy and Brother Owen are seated. They slide around behind them and stroke their shoulders, reaching to the front and untying their robes. Father Daddy's eyes sweep the room, and I hold my breath, almost positive he's going to be able to see me. He knows things. He can see right through you. So many times his eyes have almost found mine, but then skated right over me.
I want to him to see me so badly. He's the holiest man in the whole world. He knows everything. He's been given the divine light, and I ache for him to share it with me.
Father Daddy and Brother Owen stand at the same time. The aunties drag the robes off their shoulders, letting them fall to the floor. I almost cry out. There they stand, in all their glory. Both completely nude, muscles rippling, shining in the light.
Their eyes are intense, almost furious as they stare at Gina. The aunties push her forward, positioning her between them. One of the women reaches around to the front of Father Daddy and wraps her fingers around his manhood. I can't believe it. It's so big, thick like a whittled hickory branch. It curves upward, pale and solid as wood. He doesn't even seem to notice it. He's not even looking at it. Yet, it's almost the only thing I see.
I need to focus, to see through the crazy confusion. I want to memorize all of this. Gina stands between them, until someone tells her to get on her knees. She kneels in front of Brother Owen and then opens her mouth. Is she singing? Is she going to say something?
But no. She leaves her mouth open and Brother Owen leans forward, drawing his own manhood across her lips. I'm astounded. What is that supposed to do? Is it a blessing of some kind? I've seen the diagrams and books and I know that is definitely not an act of procreation. Is she supposed to taste him?
But I don't have any clues. And it's over. He backs away, holding his member in his hand. His eyes are dark as he scowls into the corner, wrapping his hand around his member and clenching his jaw. Is he in pain? Does it hurt when a man goes all wooden like that?
But the ceremony is still happening. The aunties lay Gina down in front of Father Daddy. They take her by her arms and legs, pulling her limbs into a star shape, as though they're going to pull her apart. But then they stop.
Father Daddy leans in front of her. His rod is glowing, thicker than it was before. Pink at the tip and sparkling. He kneels between her open knees, leaning forward with his weight on his hands. All of the muscles in his thick arms flex together. The aunties say something.
“Take this flower,” I hear them.
Take this flower? Take it where?
And then I see it. His manhood dives into her womanhood… her flower. Slowly it sinks into her, like a knife into bread. Like a dart into fruit. Something aches in the middle of me, like it probably aches in her. I almost feel it. I almost…
“Angel!”
I jump back, holding my hands up defensively. Mama rushes toward me, her hands out in front of her and curled into claws. She snatches me by my dress and my hair, yanking me away from the space in the barn boards.
“I told you!” she hisses, her voice trembling with rage but still quiet so that no one can hear her. She doesn't want anyone to know what I've done.
Dragging me back to the far side of the barn, she pauses at the last moment, grabbing a handful of willow saplings right out of the ground. She throws me against the barn and rips up the back of my dress. I feel the first lashes sting across my backside as she whips me three, four, five times, snarling furiously some words I can't even hear. I just grind my teeth together and try to hold completely still, trying not to make it any worse.
When she's exhausted herself, she shoves me away from the barn, back toward the dirt road. Without even looking to make sure she's following, I gather my skirts and run as fast as I can, back toward home, back into my room, and throw myself on my bed.
Owen
The sound of crickets is so loud it's almost maddening. Everyone is asleep. All the little houses, tucked in and so silent, without a single light burning.
I don't even have to really be quiet about it, but it's a habit. I like feeling that I get to walk around without anybody watching me. This is some of the only private time I've ever been able to find here. Alone, at night, doing something almost nobody else gets to do.
I head down the hill, getting more excited with every step. And thirsty. Really thirsty. It's like having a girl waiting for me somewhere, even though there's no girl waiting for me. But something to look forward to, that's for sure.
The barn door squeaks as I pull it open, and I make a mental note to remember to get that oiled soon. Without even needing a flashlight, I slip through the rows of farm machinery to the back, and then fold the tarp back over my old Indian.
It's way too loud to start up here, so I roll it out of the barn and push the door back closed again. The hill behind the barn leads to a service road for the neighboring farm. That's as far as I need to get before I can get the motor going.
Usually I head to the grass, figuring that the motorcycle tire tracks will blend in with the tractor tire tracks, at least to anybody who's thinking about it. But, there really wouldn't be any consequence if anybody figured it out. I'm not a prisoner here or anything. I just like my privacy. A man can have a little privacy, can't he?
The bike catches speed down the hill and I'm jogging along behind it, feeling lighthearted and more excited with every second. Finally back in the other field, I only have to muscle it up a short incline before I'm on the gravel road that leads out to the county road. I set the bike upright and mount it, kicking the starter with my heel, pausing to enjoy the rumble of the motor beneath me. It feels so good, I just let it vibrate under my cock for about thirty seconds, relaxing into this beautiful state of freedom. Of being in charge of my own self.
The moon is bright, so I leave the headlight off and roll it slowly toward the road and stop. I think I see a figure, about two hundred yards ahead of me. Something white, something ducking among the shrubs at the edge of the little forest. Looks like someone else from the compound is stealing a few moments of freedom too. Maybe they'll meet me at the bar.
Wouldn't exactly be the first time. But it's not really likely.
The county road flies beneath my tires, and I give her gas and really let her go. It's only a couple miles, but it feels like flying.
The parking lot is practically empty, but I still ride around to the back. The service door is always open, and it keeps people from recognizing my bike from the road. There are still people around here who remember my dad, or who remember Silas from before he got called to holy duties or whatever. Not everybody is of the opinion he is such a saint.
Rhonda sees me first. She's always got a smile for me. She winks one heavily lined eye and pops open a domestic beer. She sets it on the counter, away from everyone else so I'll only have her to talk to, then puts a couple of shot glasses next to it. As I sit down, she's pouring tequila into each of the shots.
“Thanks, Rhonda. You’re a doll.”
�
�Oh, don't I know it,” she croaks, her voice rough and gravelly from years of cigarette smoking. With a wide, flirty smile, she licks her upper lip before downing the tequila shot in one gulp. Then she knocks the shot glass down on the bar and refills it immediately.
“Hurry up, Owen,” she quips. “I expect you to keep up with me.”
“Oh, you could always drink me under the table, Rhonda,” I laugh. It feels good to laugh. Just tell a stupid joke to somebody I barely know. Kind of nice. Sort of normal.
A couple of old-timers come in the front door and drop themselves into the barstools at the other end, immediately calling for Rhonda's attention. She rolls her eyes dramatically and heads off, leaving me alone at my corner of the bar.
This was practically my dad’s second job, sitting here. Drinking. Holding down this barstool, as he used to call it. It’s a lame joke, but I remember thinking it was pretty funny when I was ten or so.
Silas never thought that was funny at all.
But to be honest, I never understood why Silas had such a problem with our dad drinking anyway. It wouldn't have made anything better if he had stopped. We were always going to be poor. Life was always going to be kind of rough around the edges. If he stopped drinking it wasn't like he was gonna buy us all matching BMWs or anything anyway. So what was the real harm?
But Silas always thought he could smell what was off about people. He thought fixing it was his personal mission, just for the sake of fixing it. Whether or not a person's faults did any real harm. It never really occurred to him to wonder whether the act of fixing something was more damaging than just leaving it alone.
“If it ain’t the great philosopher,” Dustin says, scraping a barstool next to me and dropping his fat ass into it. He picks the tequila bottle up and pours himself a shot into Rhonda's glass. After he swallow it, he blinks one eye in comical discomfort and looks at me with the other one.
“Haven’t seen you for a few weeks,” he observes. “You been busy over there? Saving souls and whatnot?”
“I don’t save souls, Dustin. I just fix the tractors.”