by Amy Espeseth
I cannot clean Naomi with my brother stretched out beside her. I will preserve her dignity. So I wait. There is no hurry here.
As we rest in the silence, I mumble prayers unto heaven; the Spirit indwells my soul. I can see my hands moving, fluttering in front of my face, but I am not making them move.
There is no sound except the language of angels.
31
AND MY EYES REMAIN GIFTED FOR THE SEEING. THE SPIRIT shows me the fierce angel. He has four faces: the rage of a man, the power of a bull, the lust of a hound, and the cruelty of a bird. I see him, screeching and flying like a bird across the silent fields. His wings swoop over the cornstalks that lie flat and shake with fear before him. He is the avenger: he brings pain disguised as love; he changes his squawking call to that of the hawk. He is blue on black on white on snow: he is Samuel.
And now he moults his feathers. He flies high above the frozen world, twisting in the wind and the snow. Sharp feathers from the jay fall like blue fire from heaven as he stretches his wings wider and wider until he bursts through the overstretched skin. He is born again: his new, broad wings scrape the sky with black, glossy feathers, and his sharpened talons leave scars. Upon his head are no feathers — he is red-naked above the neck. He is black on red on red on snow: he is vulture.
And he flies past the dark, standing pines. They drape their branches across the river; they shadow the ice with their arms. He does not bring it, but he delights in death. The stench of his food will call enemies to the nest; he must be careful to hide it well. His favourite is the eye; it is the choicest morsel. He is helped by decay; he patiently waits until his beak can break a softened hide. He vomits the carrion. Here the body will be well hid; her odour will call no one. Here he will keep his silence; his hunger is satisfied, for now.
And he leaves no totem, not on rock nor tree. He leaves no marker to guide those who would chase or mourn.
It is almost finished and then we will not speak of it again. Reuben hauls over the last red-brown scraps: he’s bundled and stacked the dirty hay like cordwood. Deep in the corners of the haymow, the straw will dry brittle; mixed with rat crap and dust, it will soon crush into dirt. Nothing will remain behind. My brother’s face is scratched and smeared with blood and dust; he looks like he wrestled a bobcat. That will wipe away. He has not spoken since I told him his job; he has just scraped the floorboards clean and hidden the soiled things away. He is able, thick back bending and strong arms scooping. His sweat began at the beginning.
Naomi is still shivering, lips murmuring nonsense as her teeth chatter. At least she is making sounds, even though this is from the cold now, as the shock is done. The snow was all I had so I used it, rubbing handfuls of white across her legs and the rest. It was blown-in snow from the triangle piles that grow at the widest cracks in the wooden walls. Snow that has fallen from heaven and has been taken by the wind is clean. It is clean and cannot be made dirty, and it helped her pain. We are going to leave this place, so she must be decent. I hold up Naomi’s jeans, but they are beyond saving. Turning my back to her — even though she isn’t looking, isn’t even really here — I take off my hand-me-downs and replace them with her ruined pair. Already stiff, the hardness makes me struggle; I’ll throw them into the burn barrels when I get home. I help Naomi into my too-small jeans; they’ll do until she gets home and maybe no one will notice the change. She is shaking, but clean and warm. We will be alright soon. I tell her ‘breathe in’ and she does, and the zip goes up only partway and she groans. The button won’t hold and hurts her so; partway is close enough.
We will leave this barn even if Reuben and I have to carry Naomi down the ladder. We will end this and be free forevermore. My brother walks toward me, crying again, the tears making white tracks down his grimy face.
‘What about these?’ With his boot, Reuben nudges a small pile at my feet: Grandma’s coat, Bible and quilt are all that remain.
I can’t just leave these things — no wolves or coyotes will scavenge them away — I have to take care of it. There is blood on my hands. But my mind aches with thinking of a sanctuary for the hurt and the wounded, and Grandma’s own pile: heads and hooves, ribs with meat still sticking, all spilling out of torn plastic bags. A head with a horn still attached and the other side ripped straight off. Some of them does and fawns, mostly bucks missing horns: bloody holes burrowed in the meat and soft fur between their eyes and ears. Curled-up hooves spilt out on the riverbank, picked-over bones lying right where Grandma was fixing to rest and remember and look at the water.
I hear her voice: I made up my mind — swaying there amongst the blood and the fur and the dirt — I made up my mind. The sins are on both sides.
‘Leave them.’ I will not lose Grandma’s way. ‘Just leave them alone.’
And we do: the coat and book and quilt will remain. Naomi can walk, but she still can’t talk. She can ease herself rung by rung down the ladder. We weave through the milking parlour of the barn where the concrete floor is cracked and patchy and the manure gutter is full of leaves and dirt. I guide Naomi around Grampa’s broken tractor; it is filthy with dust and old grease. Past the stacked buckets, Reuben is leaning near the window; he listens and looks and no one is there. We will walk through the door. We will walk through the snow and be saved.
The world drowns in the tears of the broken; everywhere that shadow and light remain, there is no comforter; the tormenters own power. Without fear, I speak it aloud: The dead, who had already died, are happier than the living, who are still alive. But better than both is he who has not yet been, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun.
32
TODAY IS SUNDAY, AND I HAVE FASTED SINCE FRIDAY. SINCE the haymow and the angels, no food has passed my lips. Last night while I sat quiet and still at table, Daddy looked at me strange, but Mom admires my commitment. She doesn’t know what’s on my heart, but she always believes in prayer and fasting. She believes I’m preparing my heart, getting clean. She’s closer than she can know.
But we can never be forgiven, never get clean again. There would always be talk. Even if some man would take her — for her family, her smile, or whatever reason — she would always be beholden to him. For men, a struggle is something that can be overcome, and by overcoming be made stronger. To confess and conquer is of the Lord, as long as his damage can be undone. A man can say he’s sorry and mean it; even more, a man can be believed. But for us, it would never be forgotten, never forgiven. She would always be stained.
Today is Sunday, and it is like every Sunday before: braided blonde hair like rows of field corn; callused hands held up to Jesus; babies crying in their mothers’ arms. Like always, the church smells of cow, sweat and soap. But this Sunday is Baptism Sunday. At the front of the sanctuary, my Uncle Ingwald smiles at a shaky grey-haired man in a too-big suit. The man is new to our congregation, and today he’s being baptised. He’s giving away the whisky, trading sorrow for joy. The pulpit has been moved so we can all see the baptismal tank sunk deep into the stage’s floor. Uncle Ingwald leads the man into the water and asks him to examine his soul. The man’s face looks frightened: he didn’t see this coming.
I have examined my heart every night since I can remember; even as a little girl, I would recount my day and seek out my sin. And it is often a self soul-searching. At church, I coloured in my own judgement with paper ladders of smiles and apples, ranking my obedience and kindness. At home, I admitted not just fighting but pride. At kindergarten — droop-shouldered with shame — I handed back crayons I accidentally took home, and I was alone there. Not that they ever leave you alone, even beyond church or home, but that they don’t need to accuse you of nothing much once you can walk. They know they can’t be there all the time, so they trick your mind into being them.
But the man just stands there with the water lapping at his waist. My uncle stares at him with burning eyes and waits. The water drips, an
d we wait. And we wait until the man speaks and tells of his pain and sin and sorrow, and eventually it is enough. Uncle Ingwald wraps his arms around him and takes him down deep below the water.
I’m having a hard time knowing what is real: birds with floppy necks, dog fur in a pillowcase, a grave surrounded by leaves, and a mouth without teeth. When I close my eyes, I see coyote fangs and starving ticks. When I open my eyes, I see the same.
All that I know is this: they believe that this water will bring us to God. I don’t know if it is real, but I believe it is needed. I believe we need to wash this all away. I have decided: now is the time. I take Naomi’s hand and take us up out of our pew. Now is the time for us to be baptised. After we emerge from the water, we will again be clean.
Naomi and I stand together before the church.
Uncle Ingwald holds up his hand. ‘Girls?’
‘We came to get clean.’ I match his eyes. Naomi waits silent.
And my momma is crying at the organ, her arms shaking. The music stops.
‘With your permission?’ Uncle Ingwald asks across the church. Daddy looks at Mom and then he nods his head yes.
Aunt Glory in the front row says, ‘Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Lord.’ Tongues fly up from her as she gets up and wraps her arms around Naomi.
The voices of the congregation echo the sound. Like the waiting time before a storm, the air presses on my skin. Naomi’s fingernails dig into my palm.
And Uncle Ingwald commands us as he commanded before: examine your soul.
And we do. We testify of our salvation and desire to walk with the Lord; we answer yes to any questions asked. I want to be clean; I truly do. But there is a dark pain inside me, a place where the water can’t go. The old will fall away and all will be made new, but I carry this stain and cannot and will not wash it away or forget it. I just wish I’d kept proof of something, something to know what happened and what didn’t. Maybe hair or I don’t know.
Water streams down her black braids and seeps onto her already soaked back; Naomi climbs up the stairs out of the baptismal tank at the front of the sanctuary. Behind her, she leaves a trail of damp footprints. Draped in a soggy towel, she stands with Gloria’s arms wrapped around her. Gloria don’t seem to notice that Naomi is wet; she must be numb as well as blind and dumb. Gloria don’t seem to notice anything.
Before the entire congregation, Uncle Ingwald has just finished baptising ‘the child of our hearts’.
My turn is next to go under the water, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
As Ingwald grabs my shoulders, I know that I should close my eyes — now is a time of the spirit, not the body — but I can’t squeeze them shut. I want to see for myself what is beneath the surface.
Water covers my body just like the snow blankets the ground, like the clouds hide the sun. My old spirit dies under the water, and I am waiting to be reborn as I take my first breath after breaking the surface. But before I come up, I see whatever is hidden. I see all that is buried under the water, under the snow, under the mud, and under the ice. Water flows and fish swim beneath the river’s ice, and they are not alone. Communion is blood and body, and baptism is water and body.
But this Sunday, Naomi’s blood is in the water.
My head comes up from the water. As she stands before farmers tired from morning milking and devout farm wives, the mothers of many children, Naomi’s chest streams with holy water and breastmilk. It takes blood in the tank, water changed into wine, for Gloria and Ingwald to open their eyes and see what’s underneath.
It is so hard to hold a secret tight. Like water carried in the palm of your hand, it will always leak out. But this dripping water cleanses us; we are clean and baptised now. Naomi and I have proof of our salvation. God knew before, anyway; God has always known. But now, we are comforted by the Third of the Trinity: the Holy Spirit will guide us and always be with us, and we will never again be alone. We weren’t alone, anyway, though. Wherever we went and wherever we will go, we are always three: Naomi, me, and what was our silent secret.
We are in the wings, behind the altar’s baptismal tank; there is space here only for extra chairs and hymnals and maybe a waiting angel in a Christmas play. But the women swarm with lowered eyes and arms crossed, their dresses clinging to their legs and ankles. I am still dripping, wet in my dress and barefoot. The carpet on the altar don’t reach into these small rooms, and my feet scratch along the uncovered chipboard. There are nails holding it down.
And Naomi and I have promised each other; we promised with our eyes. The women swarm us, smelling like violets and vinegar; they ask, and they decide without knowing. Aunt Gloria is holding Naomi tight and Mom is trying to peel them apart.
‘Hush now, hush now, girl,’ Gloria murmurs over and again while she rocks and squeezes hard.
Naomi sits with eyes closed and a blanket wrapped around her skin; the wet is soaking through the cloth. And my mother is gently pulling at my aunt’s hands, sliding her own hands beneath the bony fingers and between their pressed bodies. Naomi’s hair is dripping; water drops slowly hit wet on the floor. As they splash, I can see them true: they break as wasted eggs, laced with black blood. It seems no one else sees the dark. The women see only the water.
‘Let’s get a look at her, Glory. Let’s see what can be done.’ Mom has separated the two, and with a push sends Naomi to me to mind. ‘Settle now, Glory. Sit in the chair and pray.’
And we leave my aunt there, attended by the ladies of the church.
My mother takes Naomi and me by the shoulders and herds us behind a curtain. Mom is crying as she walks away. We alone must face the woman who knows what is unclean.
Mrs Turgeson is there. Her dry lips are in their straight line, and her eyes stay flat. She pulls me and Naomi toward her. Behind the curtain shrouding the stacked chairs, there is a gap only big enough for us three. Wordless, the weary midwife pulls back Naomi’s blankets and towel and then reaches beneath the wet dress, pushing deep between the trembling cold legs. Her hand comes back bloody, and she wipes it on my towel. She is calm and unhurried in her manner; she is used to both women and the problems of our sex. She alters her gaze. Again her hand drives out from her body, but now it aims on me: beneath my wet dress and into my legs, her rough hand scrapes inside my panties. Her fingers come back wet, but they come back clean. It is baptismal water that leaks from me.
She wraps up Naomi and looks at our eyes. ‘Tell me who.’
Naomi crumples down into a chair with her hands over her eyes, tears squeezing through her fingers.
I shake my head at the Turgeson woman, and she shakes hers back at me. I close my eyes and ask for words to speak.
There is simple peace in my mind; even with all the singing and prayer in the room and Gloria moaning beneath it all, there is a peace within my heart. I rock on my feet. I wait. And after a moment, I think Jesus gives me words. Two are better than one; we help each other stand. When we fall, we pull each other up. Together we lay down and keep warm. It is cold sleeping alone. We together can defend ourselves. A cord of three strands, braided together, is not quickly broken.
But then, as I open my mouth, nothing; there is nothing but a gentle hush in my head. As I listen to the wind blowing inside, Naomi begins to murmur.
‘Hebesheba nonna. Hebesheba nonna. Op it littlemoftastompka, hebesheba nonna. Keptilitforngorna keshnor link gup nonna fortuntintin. Jujkilop my organa rotyu. Jujkilop gorthu jus. Horphush young, most upostable ruk danke!’
There is silence now in the room. Over the tops of the chairs, the women are listening. There is silence in the room, but not in my mind. I swirl in pieces, seeing swallows waiting near the river amid clear air and blowing wind. The birds swoop down to the water, slicing nearby in loops. One flies into the water and one crouches high up in the branches of the low-hanging tree. The water
swallow does not drown, and the sitting swallow laughs; she takes joy in the slaughter.
I open my eyes and smile. Looking from wet Naomi and then straight to the harsh woman, I open my mouth to speak these words as the Lord has given them to me to speak.
But before I can bring the word, Mrs Turgeson cuts her eyes cruel at me. It ain’t enough for the woman, and she takes my shoulder and shakes me. It ain’t enough that the Lord has spoken, that Naomi is broken. It can’t be done for her.
‘That won’t work. That won’t work with me.’ Mrs Turgeson pushes those lips together and tries again. ‘I’ll know. If you lie, I’ll know.’
There is no moving her. Sunlight in the room shifts, and I look at my feet. They are still cold and dripping on the wood. The water beads for a moment and then soaks down, disappearing into the floor. The water would taste sweet.
From her chair, Naomi reaches over to take my hand. We both shake our heads. It is freezing.
And the woman shakes her head too. ‘If you are going to hold this, girls, get set to hold it tight. Don’t ever say it, not even to each other, not even in prayer. You’re through the worst. You’re through the worst, and going back would be harder. Swallow down hard now, and don’t make a sound. Swallow it down.’
She pats at her dress, smoothing the patches of damp, rubbing at a small smudge of brown-red at the edge of her sleeve. She folds the white towel with the finger smears, careful that the wiped colour stays on the inside. She breathes deep in and out, sets her face, then Mrs Turgeson leaves us with the chairs.
After pausing with the Turgeson woman and whispering awhile, my mom scuttles behind the stacked chairs with dry clothes. We strip off the wet and hold our matching Christmas angel robes in our arms. I don’t think there’ll be a potluck today.