Hill William

by Scott McClanahan

  Then she went looking through her house for some dollars.

  Her son came down the stairs and said, “You need some money, Mother?”

  “O no,” Sissy said. We stood still. It was the strange guy who tried hurting Walter, except the strange guy wasn’t strange anymore.

  He ground through his pockets and felt around and pulled out a couple of dollars. He mentioned to his mother about this lady being sick next door. He told his mother to get an extra candy bar. His mother smiled. He took his candy bars. He let me keep the change. I could tell his mother loved him and he was a good son and she loved him more than anything in the world.

  I started going to church. I figured if Batman couldn’t help me then maybe the Lord could. I started going to the Springdale Church of Christ, and I sat in the back pew. I did this on Sunday morning, and Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening. The next week I did it on Sunday morning, and Sunday night, and then Wednesday evening. I listened to the old women complaining about their gout, their arthritis and I listened to the old men too, complaining about their bad knees, bad backs, black lung, how we needed to get the car removed from the side of our church. A week before a woman had committed suicide by running her car into our church. The authorities took her broken and bloody body, but left her smashed car, so we kept having church with the car sticking halfway out.

  “Sheriff said he didn’t think the building would fall in,” one of the elders told us. I sat and listened to the complaints and the prayers and then we stood around singing songs.

  I thought about how God can touch you.

  I listened to the voice of Harold Sifers, and Joyce Hanshew that sounded so ugly alone, but if you put them together, they sounded so beautiful. To Canaan’s land I’m on my way/where the soul of man never dies/My darkest night will turn to day/where the soul of man never dies. And there was something about those voices, so ugly by themselves, but beautiful together, that seemed like the meaning of the world to me.

  I sat in the pew with my mom and dad, listening to the songs being sung by all of the ugly and beautiful voices together.

  Then I prayed a prayer inside my head. “Dear father in heaven, you’re the only one who can help me now. Please help me not be so afraid because I’m in junior high now. Help me not to have the stomach ache every morning and get so nervous. I want to know about eternal life.”

  I prayed about all of this and put my arms on my knees and closed my eyes and pictured a cross inside my head. It was communion time, the forgiveness of sins, but since I wasn’t baptized yet I couldn’t take communion.

  I prayed, “O Lord. I want to be baptized and I want to be forgiven.”

  I opened my eyes and watched my mother eat the cracker which represented the body of Jesus. Then I watched my mother drink the juice, which represented the blood of Christ. We were eating and drinking God. After that was done, I passed the communion tray down the pew and perhaps that was the real reason why I wanted to get baptized—not because I wanted eternal life, but because I wanted to eat the crackers and drink the grape juice.

  I told my mother I wanted to get baptized. I wanted to live eternal. I picked a Wednesday night (so no one would be there) and sat nervous in the pew reading about Jacob wrestling the angel of the lord. Before I knew it, the sermon was over and there was a prayer and then an invitation song. I was going to be fine now. When I heard the song I stood shaking and went forward to the first pew where I waited for the song to end. Brother George, the 70 year old bear of a man, who did our preaching, sat down beside me.

  I kept looking away but I told him I wanted to be baptized, and then the song ended. He put his big arm around me. He asked me to stand up. I stood up and bowed my head.

  He said, “Even on a simple Wednesday night in Springdale—there are thousands of angels rejoicing in Heaven. I’ll have you know that this boy, someone we’ve loved for a long time, has made what will be the most important decision in his life.”

  Then he turned to me, took my hand in his giant bear hand and said, “Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God?”

  I said, “Yes sir I do.”

  My mother was crying happy.

  He smiled and patted my hand with his other giant hand and told me, “I believe that you do and upon your confession we’ll now go forward and baptize you in the name of the father and the son.”

  I went into one of the backrooms and changed into the giant baptism underwear they kept in a zip lock bag. Eternal life was just a few minutes away. I put on the giant baptism dress, which wasn’t anything more than a sheet one of the women had sewn together into this oversized shirt, and I walked out to the baptistery. My father opened the door for me and I stood all nervous at the steps of the baptistery in my oversized dress. The baptistery was covered in green goo on the steps and then a rust color in the deep bottom of the baptistery. George Deitz was already standing waist deep in the baptistery, but he wasn’t getting wet because he was wearing a pair of chest high fisherman waders.

  “Be careful,” he said holding out his hand and pointing to the thick algae on the baptistery steps.

  I stepped careful into the water with one foot and then the other foot and the congregation whispered from the pews and watched us.

  George turned to the congregation, splashed water on my shoulder and said, “Upon your confession of baptism, I baptize you in the name of the father and the son and the holy ghost.”

  The congregation was quiet and then I turned with my back towards George. I looked at the wall.

  He let me fall into the murky water until it covered my head and came rushing over my face in waves before he finally lifted me back up.

  When I came out of the water the congregation was singing a song. A rose is blooming there for me/where the soul of man never dies. I was born into a singing room. I wiped the water out of my eyes, and wondered if this is what it felt like to be forgiven, if you suddenly hear song.

  When I got out of the baptistery I went into the little room and changed. I took off the wet sheet and put it in the garbage bag. George Deitz’s wife was going to take them home and wash them. Then I took the fluffy white towel and started drying myself off. I dried my arms. I dried my legs, and I dried my butt. Then I looked down at the towel and lost my breath.

  I’d left a skid mark on the towel.

  Somebody’s going to see it when they wash it.

  “O my god,” I said and started thinking horrible mixed up thoughts.

  I tried rubbing the towel together but it wouldn’t rub off. There was shit on the towel. The church didn’t have indoor plumbing yet so I wasn’t able to run any water over it.

  My father was knocking on the door telling me to come out, people were waiting.

  I rolled up the towel into a tight ball and pushed it down deep behind a pile of old grape juice boxes that were sitting in the corner. Then I walked out to meet everybody, and they all kissed and hugged me and whispered, “Congratulations.”

  “We love you so much.”

  “O we love him.”

  Then they hugged me and kissed me more.

  I felt ashamed.

  I was worried, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I kept seeing the pile of boxes in my mind and I kept seeing someone moving the boxes and discovering it. I knew the Hanshews wiped down the pews and cleaned the church and vacuumed the carpets every two weeks. They were going to move those boxes.

  I had to get rid of the towel. I needed a plan.

  I came up with one. I would wear a jacket to church that evening, and go to the bathroom during the invitation song. I would wrap the towel inside the jacket and then come out. Everyone would just think I was carrying my jacket.

  That Sunday night I sat waiting for the right time. I wasn’t interested in Brother Blaine Cook who God fearing mothers named their babies after and who grown men cried in front of. He was this man in his 60s with slicked back salt and pepper hair, and eyes that sparkled and shined when he shook your hand and smiled
.

  He preached, “If you want the Lord to forgive you, all you have to do is close your eyes and pray.”

  Later in the sermon he took out his little pocket bible and shook it at us. He quoted entire passages from memory. He preached and quoted and made his points until he came to the end of his sermon. I kept thinking about my plan.

  Take the jacket.

  Wrap the jacket around the towel.

  I knew it was the end of the sermon when he walked down from the pulpit and stood among the rest of the congregation. There were tears in his eyes and he told us a little story, “See friends, there was a family who had a baby and they had an older child who was about five and they were worried about how this child would accept the new born baby—a little baby of no more than a few weeks old.”

  He told us that each night they noticed the older child sneaking into the little baby’s room, and the mother and father were worried that maybe the older child was hurting the baby. He told us they thought maybe the older child was jealous. So one night the parents crept up outside the door after the older child went into the room, and instead of discovering the older child being mean, they discovered something else. Brother Blaine told us they saw the older child leaning down and push close and whispering to the baby.

  The child was whispering, “Tell me about God again baby brother. I’m forgetting. I’m forgetting.”

  Brother Blaine was tearing up.

  He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, and opened his arms, and said in a trembling voice, “The Lord’s waiting to comfort you. So come on home to the Lord. Come on home, and be forgiven.”

  We rose up and held our song books and flipped to find the right page and sang the invitation song. All the voices rose up, so ugly apart, singing on their own, but so beautiful like this when they sang together. We prayed the closing prayer, and in the middle of the prayer I looked around and I saw everyone had their eyes closed and their heads bowed—praying for forgiveness.

  I never closed my eyes.

  I took off towards the back room. I took off towards the back room and the skid marked towel. I had my plan.

  I pulled my jacket tight around my waist even though it was the middle of summer. I shut the door behind me and locked it and wiggled the handle to make sure it was locked. I went over to the corner where the stack of boxes was. I picked up a couple of the empty grape juice boxes, and there it was.

  I fell to my knees and held it to my chest like a baby to my breast. I looked down at the towel and then unfolded the towel. I saw something amazing. I saw my skid mark wasn’t a skid mark anymore. I looked down at it and saw my skid mark had become a new shape now.

  It was a shape that was shaped like a Jesus fish.

  Then I rubbed the towel together and it became a new shape. It was shaped like a smile. Then I rubbed it together and it spelled a new shape: LUV. The stain was there and would always be there. I knew a secret now. I knew the secret of the shit. Then I rubbed it once more and it turned into its last shape. It turned into a flower.

  And there wasn’t any light and there wasn’t any voice from high above, but I knew that I was touched by the hand of god. I was a man of destiny and I knew a secret no one else knew. I sang, To Canaan’s land I’m on my way/where the soul of man never dies/My darkest night will turn to day/where the soul of man never dies.

  I whispered to everyone I knew: “Tell me about God again. I’m forgetting. I’m forgetting.”

  THE BLIND AND DEAF KID

  The next day I tried to impress Derrick. We were getting ready to play touch football and Derrick was finishing up skinning squirrels. I was throwing the football in the air and catching it and talking about the teams. I didn’t talk about Gay Walter or how the Fingis family was moving. Derrick slipped the knife into the base of the tail, pushed and made a little snip. Then he squeezed his fingers under the hide and started pulling the squirrel skin up and over the body. The hide popped and ripped like he was pulling off a rubber glove. Then the squirrel looked naked—like a baby squirrel, or a stupid squirrel who’d forgot to put on his squirrel clothes. He threw the carcass into a plastic bucket. I asked him if he wanted the blind and deaf kid on our team. He shook his head and said something about the blind and deaf kid doing faggot shit.

  I knew Derrick could kick my ass but I said, “You mean like what we did?”

  I giggled. He didn’t say anything and put the knife down.

  I looked down into the bucket full of the naked squirrel bodies. Everybody was in the back of the house who wanted to play.

  Then he said, “Okay, let’s pick teams.”

  Derrick asked for the ball.

  I tossed it to him.

  He said, “Why don’t you take the other team. I’ll take the blind and deaf kid.”

  “What?” I said. I was always on Derrick’s team.

  Before I could say anything else, Derrick started walking around and picking his team. He picked the blind and deaf kid. So I picked Sissy. He picked Charity, the girl who could throw. I picked Bad Bart. We took sides and started. Derrick’s team took the defense. Sissy hiked the ball. She tossed it over to me and I took off running and bumbling and stumbling down the sideline by the woodpile. Derrick ran over, held out a stiff arm and pushed me hard into the wood pile. I slipped. I felt a piece of kindling jab me in the back and scrape the skin.

  “God, Derrick,” I said and touched my back.

  I shook my head wondering why he was doing this. My T-shirt had a big hole in it and I felt my back was all scraped. We ran another play. I passed the ball to Sissy. She caught it and ran and jumped. We scored.

  Then the blind and deaf kid dropped the ball on the next throw off. I picked it up before it hit the ground and scored again. Then I intercepted a pass between Charity and Derrick. I scored again.

  “You wish you picked me now?” I asked him.

  Derrick ran the throw back all the way to the chain-linked fence and scored. Afterwards, he bumped into my shoulder with his shoulder and I jolted back.

  “What the hell?” Sissy said.

  “Yeah, what the hell?” I said.

  Derrick pointed his finger at me and said, “Quit being such a puss.”

  Sissy ran the throw off back to the busted up cinder block porch. She hiked the ball and tossed it to me. I zipped and zapped and dodged and ran for the touchdown.

  “How you like that?” I said and spiked the ball, hoping he would notice.

  Then I felt Derrick behind me, pulling me to the ground. I was on the ground and my back sweat stuck against the sticky grass. Derrick was on top of me punching me in the face. He was punching me in the chest and neck, and the neck and the arms, until it stung. He was punching me in the neck again and smacking me. I couldn’t breathe.

  Sissy tried pulling him off. “What are you doing?” she said. “We’re just playing.”

  Derrick was sitting on my chest bouncing on my bones and laughing like it was all a joke. He smack punched me in the mouth again and bloodied my lip. I was finally able to wiggle away like a worm and get up. I was spitting my blood spit and my mouth was numb now. Derrick kept laughing and Sissy was shouting at him, “What’s wrong with you?”

  I started cursing, “You motherfucking asshole. You son of a bitch.”

  I tried thinking up the worst thing I could say, “Fucking. Asshole. Shit. Cocksucker.”

  I walked all the way home crying and cussing, and feeling guilty.

  I kept shouting, “I guess I’m not good enough to be on your team, huh? You pick the blind and deaf kid. I could score touchdowns for you, but you made me take the other team.”

  I kept walking and I stopped shouting, but I started up again. “Fucking. Asshole. Shit. When you had the ball I didn’t push you in the wood pile, but you pushed me into the woodpile.”

  I spit. “We’re good on the same team.”

  I undid the gate to the chain-linked fence behind my house and flung it open wide. Then I walked and swung the screen door op
en like I was going to rip it off and I went inside. I was crying so hard I was hyperventilating.

  Mom came into the kitchen and said, “What’s wrong?”

  She was trying to calm me down, but I had mush mouth. She couldn’t understand what I was trying to tell her.

  I couldn’t catch my breath long enough to tell her, “I guess Derrick doesn’t think I’m good enough to be on his team. He picked the blind and deaf kid. Then he just jumped me.”

  I went into my bedroom and flopped down on my bed. My mom got some ice and put it inside a washrag and placed it on my face and my lip. She took another wash cloth and wiped it over my forehead, and then I started crying more from all the bad words I said.

  “I said the F-word Mom. I said shit in front of little kids.”

  She told me she didn’t think I knew those words, but I did.

  She said, “Well, maybe you should apologize for what you’ve done.”

  I went to find Derrick later that evening and tell him I was sorry. I walked to Derrick’s tree stand where he always was when the sun went down sighting in his bow and watching the deer eat from the salt lick. On my way there I practiced how I was going to apologize.

  I practiced, “I’m sorry about getting mad today. I just had hurt feelings about the teams. I’m real sorry.”

  I kicked some gravel and ripped a stick from a branch and started smacking some elderberry bushes. I thought, “Shit, that’s no good.”

  So I started again, “I’m sorry about saying all of those bad words. I guess I was geared up for us to be on the same team and when that didn’t happen I started rubbing it in.”

  I threw my stick down. I ducked underneath the rhododendron bushes in the woods and felt the leaves slide damp on my back. Then I crossed the creek on the warped board like a tight rope walker. I almost lost my balance but I made it over. I walked up the hill to the tree stand and I heard voices. It was Derrick.

  He was putting a new salt block and corn feed block beneath the stand. Someone else was there. It was the blind and deaf kid. He was wearing his giant hearing aids that let him hear shouts but never whispers.