All I could focus on was Joy’s uncharacteristically strong grip on my arm. I felt the pulsing of my forearm trying to regain circulation from her sausage finger hold. “Sit!” she hissed through her teeth and motioned towards her un-homey kitchen, in which I toasted my frosting-less Pop Tarts every morning, and she shoved a wooden chair in my direction. I did as she ordered, hoping I could explain my situation.
“Gideon forced himself on me, Joy, not the other way—” Blunt force centered on my right cheek before I choked out the rest of my explanation. Joy slapped me across the face. As soon as I recovered from shock, she connected with my other cheek, hurtling me off the chair and onto the cold linoleum. The room appeared blurry as I tried to focus on returning to the chair. The entire situation was a misunderstanding. Certainly, if I could just tell my side of the story, I could make Joy understand. Shakily, I climbed to my original seated position and clutched my throbbing face, unable to find words. Instead of arguing, I stared at the floor, where Joy’s skirt met the linoleum.
“Do y’know how much you embarrass us? Huh? DO YA?” Each word that poured out of her thin lips was tinged with a curse. “I get why your parents didn’t wantcha, and I consider your grandparents lucky for not havin’ta raise such a stupid, little wretch. Then again, I guess it don’t matter. They’re all in Hell, anyway.”
“Simmer down, Joy. That’s enough,” Pastor Sprite smiled with sticky sweetness, emerging through the kitchen door with Joy’s husband and Gideon in tow.
Why are they here? Perhaps to apologize. Maybe Gideon didn’t realize what a stir such a silly lie could cause. Maybe he’d come to take back what he said.
Eerie silence blanketed the room while Pastor Sprite considered me, sitting in my chair, nervously swaying back and forth with reddened cheeks. I thought for a moment if I had ever carried on a conversation with the Pastor or even studied him up-close. Surely not, otherwise I would’ve remembered his stark white hair, an unexpected shade straying from the usual salt-and-pepper at his age. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t recall ever seeing him with the shiny, ornate cane he carried through the threshold, which he was currently tapping on the ground beside his black leather boots. The silver grip of the cane appeared to be a bull’s head, and not the kind of bull you’d catch on a steakhouse wall.
Through silver-lined spectacles, the pastor peered at me with icy blue eyes, which would’ve been a lovely shade of blue on anyone else except the man before me. I raised my gaze to meet his, hoping to convey an inaudible, tiny plea of mercy. Unfortunately, the message was deflected, or ignored at the very least. Panic set in, and I was convinced the pastor was going to slap me, too. Instead, he cut the silence with a single question: “Do you want to go to Hell, Katie?”
Rhetorical or not, I remained silent, wanting to roll my eyes but not challenging the moment out of fear. Who would actually stand up, hand extended in the air, and shout: “Yes! I volunteer! I would love to tour the great depths of Hell. Please steer me across the lake and let me loose! Hold on one second, let me take my shoes off first, before I dip my toes in the water.” No one would say that. No one.
In one, swift movement, the pastor chucked his cane down and grabbed both sides of my face, inducing more distress than I had ever previously experienced in my young adult life. “I asked, DO YOU WANT TO GO TO HELL? Where your cursed family rots, suffocating in the consequences of their transgressions, drowning in God’s loathing? Or would you prefer to enter the gates of Heaven?” Pastor Sprite’s close proximity and general enthusiasm left traces of his spit across my pained expression. I closed my eyes during his yelling to escape the oppressive smell of sour milk and boiled eggs exuding from his flesh.
Feeling brave enough to peek at Gideon, he was standing wide-eyed next to the dated microwave. He averted his gaze, so he wouldn’t have to look at me, but I wanted him to look. I wanted him to hear me. Taking a deep breath of foul-smelling air, I met Pastor Sprite’s icy stare: “I’d rather spend an eternity in Hell than another moment with ANY of you—in Heaven or on earth.”
The room returned to silence for what seemed like forever, but then the pastor exploded in horrible laughter: “That’s what we thought you’d say, Miss Fox.” He spun around on one heel and started up a flame on the gas stove, then bent down to extract his cane off of the linoleum. No one else moved, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, scanning the room for a quick escape as an uneasy feeling filled the air. I heard my heartbeat thumping in my ear, like hastened footsteps down an empty stairwell. I was convinced everyone else could hear it, too.
“Wh—what are y—you doing?” I stuttered.
“Fixing you.”
Inquiry of further detail appeared unnecessary. I darted across the room to the nearest door, between the two eager expressions of Joy and Gideon. A swift thud erupted across my chest as Gideon threw an arm out in front of me with a force any soccer mom would have been proud of, leaving me to catch my breath. I snarled in his general direction, flailing my arms out, reaching for whatever I could: a fistful of hair, a smack across the face, or the opportunity to dig my nails into soft, warm flesh. But I was outnumbered. Several sets of hands latched on to my limbs in an effort to keep me still, to face my enemy, the pastor. Joy forced my arm across the countertop, while Bob, her husband, held my other arm behind my back, thrusting my shoulders forward and in the direction of the now-grinning pastor. Pastor Sprite steadied the bull-end of his cane over the flickering flame, rotating the tip to encourage even heat. “You are not allowed to scream. Do you understand?” he warned with a frozen smile.
Out of my peripheral, I noticed Gideon hurry out the door as the pastor moved forward with the molten end of the cane. Distracted, I initially didn’t witness the source of the searing sensation on my inner wrist. The skin itched and sent excruciating pains down my arm, but the scent that followed was the worst. The smell of scorched flesh met my nostrils, and it took several moments before I fully understood. A series of whimpers escaped my lips before the pastor finished his brand on the other wrist.
“How does God feel ‘boutcha now?” Joy spit at my pained face. My refusal to answer her unanswerable question spurred the pastor to spark the gas range once more.
God doesn’t care, I thought. If He did, He wouldn’t have sent me here, to live with these monsters, in such a strange and hateful little town. If God cared at all, He wouldn’t have killed my grandparents.
“God hates me,” I muttered, defeated. I glanced over at the pastor to see him turn the gas switch back to an off position, and I internally sighed in relief. But one last scan around the miserable room stirred something inside of me: God wasn’t here. The happenings around Blood of Christ Baptist Church weren’t His dealings.
3
Hands in the Fire
Essie and I followed Gideon down the snakey path through forest, which dumped into the secret spot. Finally, we arrived and the feelings of elation surrounded me, as I noticed the close proximity between me and Gideon was over. The clearing dumped into a massive expanse: a grassy area with a cozy bonfire at the center, surrounded by goliath tree trunks on which to sit. I had a night of marshmallow roasting, cheap booze, and storytelling ahead. Upon entering the clearing, I spotted two other kids from my school who had already arrived, and from the looks of it, were totally hammered.
“Katie!” Susanna yelled next to the fire, patting the log beside her. I had known Susanna since my move to Brushy Fork, but we never really hit it off like me and Essie, although Susanna and I attempted conversation from time to time.
Susanna’s frizzy chestnut hair appeared almost golden against the glow of the toasty campfire. The new grads stood around, poking the fiery embers with sticks, chugging cheap beer, and carrying on as usual. Wanting to distance myself from Gideon, who was now staring into the fire absently with his hands in his pockets, I took the seat next to Susanna with haste and began to munch on the lukewarm burrito I hauled from Essie’s car. The melted cheese layer had coagulat
ed into an unappetizing, rubbery texture. Whatever. Even though I was self-conscious about eating in front of others, it seemed like just as good of a distraction as any.
After swallowing my last bite, Essie’s flirtatious laughter caught my attention, audible over the crackling pop of the bonfire. I surveyed her batting eyelashes at Brushy Fork High’s former quarterback, Derrick, who had a full ride to the University of Georgia. Derrick shotgunned a beer, and Essie giggled in delight.
“So, like, what’s up with you and Gideon?” Susanna pried, leaning in close. Oh right, small town gossip was buzzing with rumors of my alleged relationship with Gideon, I realized. Gossip served as oxygen to Brushy Fork residents.
“Nothing is ‘what’s up,’” I replied, perhaps a bit too harshly, turning to poke at the fire.
Susanna continued to eye me, but eventually broke the uncomfortable silence by getting up to join Essie and Derrick, who were absorbed in conversation about the quality of freshmen dorms. I heard their laughter but was enchanted by the dancing flames before me, popping and twirling with a freedom that I did not have. Idly, I brushed a finger across the burn on my wrist, still tingling with an unmistakable freshness. I extended a hand toward the flames, feeling the heat beating down on my fingertips, not close enough to sear the skin but close enough to want to recoil. But I didn’t recoil.
“What are you doin’?” Gideon eyeballed me with suspicion, sauntering in my direction.
“Not offering you my virginity.” I shot Gideon a hateful scowl, with no desire to spend another second in conversation with him. With clenched fists, I staggered away from the circle to get away from the group and wander into the nearby tree line. Not even a box of cheap wine could revive this night. I briefly considered walking home.
The sound of a snapping twig shook me from my inner turmoil and back to reality. I turned to catch a sideways glance at Gideon, who sported folded arms and a smug expression, leaning against the wide trunk of a tall oak. I noted with disdain that he was wearing a crisp, white polo and his usual pressed khakis. He wore his blonde hair slicked to the side. He was, by anyone’s standards, a handsome boy. I immediately regretted getting lost in his appearance, because Gideon took advantage of my distraction and closed the distance between us.
Without a word, Gideon gripped my shoulders and slammed my back into the tree, with one hand clasped around my neck. Gideon moved his other hand over my mouth before I could protest, and he met my wide eyes with a blank stare: “Resist all ya want, Katie. But ch’yeah don’t see that I’m tryin’ to help you,” Gideon whispered, drawing his face closer with every word.
A shiver descended across my body and gasp escaped my lips. The smell, like rotten eggs and old milk, lingered in the summer air with the humidity. But the smell was familiar, like the odor that radiated off of Pastor Sprite’s mouth.
“Why dontcha be a good girl? I’ll let go of your mouth,” Gideon wagered. I quit resisting him in an effort to convince him of my obedience.
Once Gideon released me of his grip, I decided not to waste any time. I jabbed my knee into Gideon’s groin and tried to push him away with all the strength I could muster. I flailed my arms and smacked him across the jaw, all to no avail. He was hardly fazed, and amusement clouded his expression as he regained his balance within seconds. I took several cautious steps back as I saw something flicker in his eyes. Had W.H.O.R.E. really been able to brainwash my friend?
No time to ponder. Making a run for it was my best and only option, but Gideon blocked my path to back to the bonfire. The same bonfire Gideon and I sat around last fall, discussing our plans for after high school. Gideon divulged that he wanted to go Auburn for their Biology program. He always showed promise in science and math, but the teaching of actual science, not science from the Bible, was severely frowned upon by W.H.O.R.E.
Gideon gritted his teeth and lunged forward, shoving me into the dirt. I landed haphazardly between the oak tree roots with a dizzying force, but Gideon moved on top of me before I could regain my bearings. He pressed me into the earth with a strength that did not belong to the lanky teenager I knew, tugging at my dress with sweaty hands.
This can’t be happening. Someone will surely hear us and help me. I dug my nails into whatever flesh I could reach, but it was a wasted effort. Gideon grabbed my wrists, still sensitive and pink, and I was rendered defenseless.
“You lil’ bitch,” Gideon spit at me. I wriggled in agony at his touch, at his smell. It was all too much. “Ain’t ya learned your lesson yet—.“
A noise stirred beyond the tall oaks and caught Gideon’s attention. A low growl echoed through the darkness, and two piercing, red eyes emerged from between the trees. Gideon’s grip quivered and loosened. Without any hesitation, I utilized the distraction to my advantage. Whatever growled and clawed beyond the old pines couldn’t be any worse than the beast of a person whom I once considered a friend.
I scrambled to my feet and shot into the woods, at first not realizing where I intended to flee. I heard Gideon’s shouts behind me, followed by his clumsy footsteps through the night. I knew I wouldn’t be able to return to the bonfire without being intercepted. I snatched Essie’s keys prior to her alcohol consumption, so I decided to make a mad dash to her car.
I tore down the path illuminated by the full moon and allowed myself to scan the woods for my savior, the two red eyes, which were nowhere to be found. I stumbled over an usually large mound of fresh earth and spit out a mouthful of dirt. This wasn’t here on our way in. I gathered my balance, only to be jerked back by a feverishly panting Gideon. With wild eyes, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and tugged me back.
“No!” I screamed while Gideon dragged me across the ground, handling me like an unruly toddler who was playing with his favorite toy. I refused to let him overpower me again. I needed to get to Essie’s car.
I spotted the red eyes as they lunged toward me with a snarl, but I wasn’t the target. The rabid beast sunk its teeth into Gideon’s arm, with rivets of saliva leaking out of its terrifying mouth. The thick black fur covering its hackles stood straight at attention. Gideon’s wails fueled my adrenaline, and I managed to further myself along the trail, hopping over two more piles of fresh dirt before I finally reached the rusty red Honda.
Upon pulling into the Smith’s driveway, which was now cloaked in darkness of the night sky, a tangible layer of dread drifted in the summer air. The last conversation I wished to partake in was one involving Joy or Bob, regarding why I wasn’t still at the bonfire with my graduating class.
Finding the spare key beneath a loose brick on the porch stairs was quite a task that night, especially since I spooked at every cricket chirp. Inside, all the lights were off, which was odd for nine-thirty on a Friday night. I flicked on the dining room lights, revealing the wood paneled cabinets and faded linoleum floors, listening carefully for any sign of movement. Nothing. I padded down the hallway, shifting all my weight to my tip toes and covered my mouth with my hand to silence my unsteady breathing, not bothering to turn on any lights as I felt the wash of sweet victory, slipping into my bedroom.
My room was pretty desolate and plain for a teenage girl. No posters adorned the gloomy, gray walls. The only homey touch was a rickety, wooden bookshelf harboring a scarce selection of paperbacks, titles ranging from: Birth Control Is Sinful in the Christian Marriage and Also Robbing God of Priesthood Children!! to The Agenda: The Homosexual Plan to Change America. I wouldn’t ever describe the Smiths as “tolerant” or “open-minded,” so any kind of secular reading was off-limits. When I first arrived six years ago, Joy immediately enforced this rule, confiscating my copies of Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends. I salvaged my Grandpa’s leather-bound Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; I hid my most prized possession underneath the bookshelf, firmly duct taped to the underbelly of the shelf. Grandpa read me a chapter before bed each night, and I’d fall asleep listening to his soothing voice and the soft turning of pa
ges. Many an evening locked within the confines of the Smith household, I found myself immersed in Alice’s journey down the rabbit hole, wishing for such a convenient escape, but no amount of independent reading could evoke the same safe harbor of my grandpa’s narration.
Each night, Grandpa instructed me to close my eyes and imagine the scene as he narrated Alice’s adventures. Of course, this pre-bedtime ritual served a warm-milk sort of purpose. Reflecting back, I suppose an easy transition to sleep was his intention all along. Even as a child, I never wanted to sleep. My dreams always ended with a familiar darkness, which sought to engulf me within its black tendrils. Warm hands grabbed me from uneasy slumber, and I’d awake to the sound of my own screams and my Gram’s wrinkly arms wrapped around me, patting my back and whispering gentle offers of comfort until my eyelids became heavy once more.
My bed at the Smith’s residence was neatly made with one thin, scratchy gray comforter, which was rather unwelcoming despite being exhausted from the night’s unusual events. Bypassing the bed, I dropped to my hands and knees in front of the old bookshelf, feeling around underneath for the supple leather and quietly tiptoed back to perch on the creaky bed. I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and clutched Alice’s Adventures close to my chest. Closing my eyes and sucking in a deep breath, I scoured my memories for visions of my old room: spacious, with lavender walls and stark white crown molding, and a large bay window, decorated with dozens of colorful and sparkly throw pillows, that served as the perfect reading nook. At night, I’d slip into my giant, white four-poster bed and snuggled under a pink and white patch quilt Grams had sewn, surrounded by a collection of plush stuffed animals.
Kate Fox & The Three Kings Page 4