by Amy Espeseth
They gather now in the rusty pick-up trucks and the old cars we drive in winter. We tend to drive beaters in the snow because of the good chance of hitting deer or sliding off the road. And the road salt eats out the paint anyway. The prophet Elisha healed the water of the land with salt: he put it in a new bowl and then threw the salt in the spring. The Lord healed the water; nevermore would it kill or make barren. And the water has remained wholesome to this day. The church parking lot fills with the tarnished vehicles of the saints. They have come to lay hands upon the sick and to anoint him with oil. Jesus used spit and mud to heal the blind; He used blood to heal us all.
Farmers keep their chore jackets separate at home — hanging in mud rooms or piled on porches — to try and keep the cow smell out of their town clothes. I don’t think that they know it ain’t working: even with hair wet from the shower and clothes that have never seen the inside of a barn, the smell of feed and manure clings to each farmer like fur on a cat. I’m not bothered; it just smells warm to me.
The elders have gathered and are making coffee. Murmuring to each other bits of what and where, each man passes along what he knows. When late men push through the double doors, stamping boots and breathing out cold air, their high greetings are met with downcast eyes and hush. They know pretty quick that trouble is here. Coffee drunk and cups stacked in the sink, the men sigh with their shoulders and head into the sanctuary. Ingwald and Samuel await them there.
From my peeking, I’m set to slink behind, hoping to hear the goings-on without getting caught. I am with the women in the nursery; near the cribs, Mom and Aunt Gloria are slumped in rocking chairs, and Naomi has curled up in one of the toddler beds. My leaving won’t bother them none; they are weary and need to rest.
As I’m sliding one leg out — stocking foot only, my snowy boots dripping on the mat — I again hear the creak of the double doors, the push of wind, and the voices of men. Daddy stayed behind in the kitchen, quiet for some time, but now two other low talking voices have joined him there. I feel the cold enter the church. In my daddy’s asking for help, Uncle Peter was the last call he made. And Peter brought Reuben with him.
These men have forever stood, brothers, shoulder-to-shoulder. My daddy has always had a way with wood, so he helped how he could. As a boy, he built a pulpit — hammered together two-by-fours, crooked but strong — for Uncle Ingwald to preach to birds, deep in the pines behind the barn. As a man, he’s worked construction — barns and bridges, a dock for Uncle Peter, and some cabins — throughout the northwoods. He’s had sore muscles and sore hands, slivers stuck deep in his palms. And when I had a sliver in my finger, he’d help me pull it out. But Daddy would usually wait with his own sliver, worrying against the moment that it might break halfway through the pulling. He’d rather let it grow out, allowing the skin to harden. The skin will push it out.
As the men talk, I feel the seeds beneath my skin: the tiny spots of sand or grit that wait for me to pick. I rub the seeds and feel my nails start to scrape.
And Peter tells my brother to speak.
Reuben does: falling from the sky, riding quick across the snow. He is weeping, but he needs to have nothing to fear. ‘I set the fires, not alone — Samuel was with me sometimes — but it was me.’
My daddy puts his head in his hands; he does not speak.
‘Our neighbours?’ Uncle Peter’s voice is fierce. ‘All Turgeson’s stock?’
Reuben’s voice is shaky. ‘I started just with the wrecks — whatever fell I burnt. And Turgeson’s pump house was all we were trying to light. It all just lit up.’
I see cows straining in agony in the heat and smoke. Pulling on their chains, rolling and trying to kick through the concrete and stone walls.
‘Why didn’t you let on?’ Daddy’s hurt.
‘I tried. I tried to tell you in prayer — my unspoken request. I just couldn’t say it. I never hurt those animals on purpose.’ His voice is failing but still he talks; my brother breaks again. He’s wide open. ‘And Samuel didn’t hurt just Naomi.’ Then he tells them my name.
The older men get low and slow; I hear both my uncle and my daddy.
Daddy’s crying. ‘It ain’t your fault, Reuben. And I don’t give a damn about the barns. That boy hiding in the sanctuary — Samuel — he’s the one, always been.’
‘Shouldn’t have to come to it, but it has.’ Uncle Peter’s voice is certain. ‘We need to fix it for good.’
‘How?’ Daddy looks at his hands.
If a guy falls from a stand — out poaching deer or some such — he might land on a twig, be impaled and be finished. Or his gun might go off in the tumble or finally when he hits the ground. Hunting accidents happen: maybe attacks by bear or coyote, or trips and necks breaking it could be. Or shooting a rock and having the bullet ricochet.
Daddy built hunting stands for himself and his older brothers all through our woods. There’s hanging boards tangled in weeds or clinging to the high crooks of trees.
We need to check the shotguns for turkey hunting — that’d be believed. Uncle Peter remembers. ‘It’s certainly time, overdue even.’ It’s patterning instead of sighting-in: check the spread or adjust the choke.
But I’m busy with my nails in my hair; the dandruff looks like the tiny parts of flowers, stamen and petal. Maybe pine pitch stuck my hair together; the clumps are hard to break.
And the twenty-gauge shell is smaller but the plastic lip is wider than the twelve; the lip could be shaved down just enough to fit.
‘Stuff the shell down the break,’ my daddy is thinking out loud. ‘Maybe with a rifle cleaner; most men don’t even check their barrels, a boy won’t.’
The twenty would stop the following shell from travelling down; she’d bubble up then probably banana-peel. Standing to the sides would be the most dangerous; he’ll have to watch out. Peter knows to be careful.
Make sure the sides are clear, so that the shot goes where it’s meant and get her done. The barrel will blow, just explode. Samuel needs to shoot the gun.
I’m hoping on leaving now, just walking out of this place, slipping over to where the boots are stacked. Some men don’t take them off, but most fear tracking mud or manure through the sanctuary. Icy bits melt down the treads, the murky water sticking at stones and grit. Farmers’ boots are different than factory workers’ or the slick bottoms of a stray accountant. The soles show their owners. Samuel carries a twelve gauge for sure.
When Uncle Peter sees me, I stay silent. What I saw and what I know — then and now — it is inside me. The men can see me and they can ask; I can’t help that. My family can stop me from leaving — pulling my arms from my shoulders — but what I did is mine alone.
They stop pulling when they sit me down firm, but they don’t need to worry about me none. I have kept my mouth shut and I always will.
Reuben is bawling and saying he is sorry.
‘We’ll protect you forever.’ My daddy is stroking my hair, trying to comfort me. ‘No one’s ever going to know what happened, not to you or her, not even to him.’
Peter looks at me, and his eyes have changed. He don’t see me clean anymore.
What they want from me, I will not give them. I’ll nod about Naomi and I’ll nod about Samuel, but about me they won’t get a word. They can just keep on asking; I’ll sit here as silent as a stone. Their flannel and wool steam in the heat.
All Reuben’s eyes do is cry. Thick shoulders quivering, he weeps.
Daddy holds Reuben’s hands. ‘All we have left is Jesus.’ He doesn’t sound certain.
Peter shakes his head. ‘Nothing makes sense in this place.’ He looks around the church, at our felt banners and cracked oil paintings. ‘Give up this crazy chase.’
Daddy waits. Reuben weeps.
Their voices blend together and pull apart, and I leave them as they argue amongst themselves on th
e metal chairs. Inside my head, tangling ropes swim, twisting and pulling tight against me. I pull away and start floating around the ceiling, sticking close to the tops of the walls. I’m flying, but I’m afraid that I’ll come crashing down hard to the floor. So I open my eyes and go into the nursery. I go to find Naomi.
38
MOM AND GLORIA BOTH SLEEP IN THE NURSERY ROCKING chairs; their heads hang down, chins touching their chests. It is night and this horrible day will not end. Folded and bent like a fawn in a field, Naomi still dozes in the toddler bed. She needs to wake now.
‘Girl.’ She hears me but does not move. I touch her knee. ‘Naomi.’
She opens her eyes. There is a hollow in her, like I can see into her mouth and all the way down. ‘I’m hungry.’ She moves her knee away from my hand and curls her body tighter.
‘There’s nothing to eat.’ I touch her knee again. ‘The elders are in the sanctuary. They’re in there deciding what to do.’
And I do not expect it, but she awakens and uncoils. Naomi gets up and walks out of the nursery.
We hide in the back of the sanctuary. Naomi and me are laying on our bellies, low and flat like coyotes on the pews. Our faces are opposite, almost touching; I can hear her breathe. I sometimes sneak a look over the top of the seats. We will remain quiet. We will be witnesses to the healing power of the Lord.
They are still praying. I’m keeping my mind on anything else, taking myself out of this church, out of this family, out of this Failing. But they remain here; they stay. At the front of the sanctuary, the elders hold their hands down on Samuel hard. Ingwald’s words are mixed: forgiveness and healing and the unforgivable sin. He speaks in the language of sinners and in the language of angels. They are praying for the healing power of Christ to come down and heal him, to heal Samuel.
‘Hear us, Lord; hear our prayer.’
Samuel won’t weep or thrash or nothing — he is just waiting for it to be finished. He stands underneath the weight of their hands; he is unswayed.
They finish praying. Nothing’s left.
Straining from the back pew where we hide, I can hear them murmur amongst themselves. Broken-down farmers, tired loggers and bored factory workers, the elders reckon that they know the Bible and Jesus, that they know the world. But I’m guessing they don’t know about the little tree planted in Babylon. Buried in the snow beneath the heavy boughs of old pines, that sapling won’t ever grow.
Somehow chosen, these men stand on Sunday mornings in their best jeans and flannels to pass the collection and communion plates. From my place in church, I’ve watched them hunkered in their pews. I’ve watched their hands paring dirty fingernails or digging out black slivers with hunting knives. I’ve watched their eyes struggling against sleep after a late night delivering calves or harvesting crops. But I’ve never watched them show themselves so; I watch them close now.
‘She’s bad as he is, if you ask me.’
‘No worse, no better.’
Naomi won’t open her eyes; her head is pushed down against the worn wood beneath us.
‘If the law finds out, the boy won’t be able to hunt. That ain’t no life.’
Naomi never got to hunt; that don’t bother them none.
‘He’s just a boy.’
We do not speak.
‘How they all act these days.’
Naomi’s eyes stay shut; she won’t look. I won’t close my eyes.
Ingwald will not hear any more of it. He is his son, but she is his daughter. The pastor’s hands stay up; they are flailing and swinging with his screaming. He casts the elders out of the church; he commands them to leave him with his boy. Samuel sits on the front pew and does not move.
Quick, the men walk: on their way out, they file silent past our pew. I smell their sweat and hear their steps, and I look up to see their true faces. I want them to see me now. None will catch my eye. None until Mr Turgeson; he has not lifted his voice in this sanctuary. As he passes, though, he tilts his chin and stares me plain in the face. In those eyes, I see his hurting; with his blinking and chewed lip, he’s asking me to say it is done. He wants me up on that cross looking down with my son and then forgive and finally my Father and for it to be over.
But I can’t, or I won’t, so I shut my mouth and my eyes. I shut them and wait. Turgeson can remember his daughter forever, laying bleeding on his lawn. I just wait until his breath leaving tells me he’s gone.
And when I open my eyes, it is time. At the altar, there is a miraculous transformation.
Ingwald unfurls his wings, and his wings are tipped with claws. He grabs Samuel by the shoulders and heaves him against the communion table. ‘Tell me! Tell the Lord!’ Powerful and mighty, he is revealed.
All this time, all this time, I never knew: my uncle is the Seventh Angel. With one foot on the land and one on the sea, he straddles the world. He commands time to cease; he brings down heaven to earth.
He screams at both God and man. He screams ‘Jesus!’ and then he screams ‘Samuel’. He screams and screams. The sound is a torment: wailing and gnashing of teeth. I can feel it burning on my tongue. I believe I am screaming too.
‘I didn’t do nothing.’ And this time he spits. Samuel spits a gob of snot onto the carpet of the sanctuary, and it stains deep down into the floor. His spit sizzles and rises like smoke, like a spirit coming straight from hell. It rises like steam from the backs of sweaty horses gone out into the snow.
He is a demon, Samuel is, or there is one in him. He stains us all.
But the hand of the Lord is upon us; he brings us out by the Spirit and puts us in a valley of bones. Dry bones cannot live; we, the sons of men, speak now. In the Bible, the prophet says that the sovereign Lord alone can know, but we know. Even if we prophesy to the bones, foretell the breath of the Lord entering them and their coming to life, we will not see it happen.
He is the Lord, but there will be no rattling sound, no noise of the bones knitting together, bone to bone, with tendons and flesh appearing and skin covering. There will be no bodies, so there is no need for breath. There will be no breath prophesied; the sons of man will not call the four winds to come and breathe into the slain, that they will live. No wind will come and none will arise to his feet. There will be no vast army of the Lord. We are alone here, the living. Alone amongst only the awake; we will not call those already asleep. We are waiting to die.
Almost collapsed, Ingwald kneels beneath the picture of Christ. ‘I am dead. I am dry. I am old, dry bones.’
Samuel just walks; he don’t look right or left. He sure don’t look at her or me. He sees us lying on the pews and he whispers as he passes. ‘I didn’t do nothing.’ Three times he’s denied us now, and he walks out of the church.
And as Samuel leaves, Mom catches the door and comes in; quiet in the pews, she holds me and rocks me. I am on her lap and she questions another time. I’m still and saying nothing even though Reuben was ‘yes’ to the men, and again Naomi is ‘yes’ to our mommas, and those liars are ‘yes, yes’ to everything ever asked. Naomi cries and they listen to her cries. Everything I gave — everything I now am — is for nothing. My wounds, on my hands and feet and heart, are only scars.
Now Gloria is here too and she has Naomi, and they are both crying; the momma hurting so with, ‘Samuel, Naomi, my babies,’ over and over. We are covered in our mothers and their coats. We are wrapped like the little Amish infants, swathed both summer and winter: too hot in warm but barely thawed in cold. Tiny faces peek out beneath black wool bonnets with cloaks hanging down, held in their black wool mommas’ arms. In winter, the wool smells wet always, even on pink babies with still-closed eyes.
My momma is too pretty, skin too soft and hair too shiny. There are maps that show what grows, beef or wheat or corn; men see us the same. Our dresses are too thin and show what women have to give: mostly guilt, never-ending.
A black cloak hanging down, like the Amish, could save us those stares.
We should’ve all stayed covered, just to be safe.
Gloria’s talking and can’t stop. ‘Ingwald hasn’t touched me since I was healed. Never. I’ve so missed being loved; my heart has withered away.’
My mom is crying now and reaches over to touch Gloria’s face. Gloria grabs and holds Mom’s outstretched hand; she pulls it to herself.
‘My Glory, I get lonesome too.’ My momma is trying to take some of the woman’s pain.
But Gloria’s face hardens. She straightens her back and stares. ‘You know, Marie?’ Anger coarsens her voice. ‘All these years, watching those two men adore you almost killed me.’
Mom snatches back her hand, nearly hitting me in the face. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She can’t breathe. She straightens herself and pushes me off her lap, stern.
Gloria drops her head. ‘My husband and I don’t even share a bed. But you have more than enough love.’
The breath comes in and the breath pushes out. My mother loves Uncle Peter.
‘I can’t begin to know what you mean.’ My mom’s shoulders slump down and she puts her hand to her forehead.
Glory is weeping again; we can barely understand her words. ‘But you do.’
‘Sometimes it takes two men to make a whole.’ And Mom drops her head for a moment, a silent slump into sorrow. ‘I could have never left Reuben behind, and then the Lord gave me Ruth as comfort. Glory, girls, we can’t always choose who God gives us to love. His ways are not our own, and His timing is His.’ She raises her head. Mom is no longer crying.