Mack leans against the front of the car and watches a few dirty-looking cumulus clouds drift overhead. In front of him, the road just keeps going. Where he stands it seems wide as a room, but as he watches it fall away from him its two edges draw closer together. Sunlight angles over the place, and each small stone of the gravel surface throws a shadow, making the road seem deeper than it is and oddly important.
“What’s happening?” he murmurs just over the breeze. He folds his arms and looks in every direction. Although he feels sure that something is about to move or speak, the afternoon remains steadfast and uneventful.
He gets back in the car and turns on the radio the rest of the way. He notices, for possibly the first time in his life, how many small cemeteries there are around here. Midwestern rose-yellow light descends on the landscape like curtains ending a scene. The country roads look old as they ribbon over hills and divide the fields.
Chat and dust fly at the house when he brakes and parks. He didn’t realize how fast he was driving. He shuts off the engine and sees the kitchen curtains part as Jodie checks out the racket.
He sits there while the engine whirs down to silence. Listens to himself breathe, coaches himself for walking into the house. Calm down. The day’s over. You’re home now. He and George talked about this, about how to talk to himself when his emotions are running riot. So far he’s not been very successful at it.
He sees Young Taylor walking up from the edge of the alfalfa, to the south. Behind the field, where the land drops toward the creek, is a stand of poplars and box elders. What did Mom say, something about Young Taylor disappearing for hours at a time? The boy’s long legs carry him past the old chicken coop and the low apple trees just east of it. He wears a black turtleneck and blue jeans and nothing else in the cold wind. When he stalks up the back steps, he doesn’t appear to notice Mack sitting in the car yards away.
Mack takes one more long breath and gets out of the car. He will forget the day and enter his home and talk with his kids and wife.
Jodie’s look asks the question: You all right? When Mack doesn’t answer, she asks, “What’s with the skidding stop clear up to my windowsill?” There is no humor in her tone.
“Didn’t mean to. I saw Young Taylor walk in.” He looks into the family room, which is empty, the TV blaring. “Kenzie home? It’s getting dark.”
“She’s at the church.”
“What’s going on there?”
“Youth group or something.” She sees his confusion and adds, “At the Baptist church.”
“She joined the Baptists now?”
She turns to him, and he can detect her stifled frustration. “She’s been going to their youth group for a few months now. She was attending before you went to the hospital.”
Everything in their family life is now marked by Before Hospital and After Hospital. “I forgot,” he says quietly.
Jodie turns back to the lettuce she’s tearing up. “Anyway, sometimes she stays for a while to pray or whatever.”
“By herself in the church?”
“Yeah. Says she likes to pray in the quiet.”
Mack sits at the kitchen table, leaking a sigh. “Is that where she is every day after school? Is that why she’s never home until right at suppertime?”
“I don’t know. Part of the time she’s there. I don’t pry—you know how kids are at this age.”
“I don’t remember any kids that age spending half their life alone in a church.”
“You didn’t run around with those kids.”
“I didn’t know she did.”
She’s chopping cucumber. “There are worse people she could be hanging out with.”
“The pastor knows she’s there? They just leave it unlocked, or what?”
“I think she has a key. She’s there early to open up the nights they have youth group and choir practice. Of course the pastor knows.” She sets the salad bowl on the table in front of him, reaches into the fridge for the small carafe of homemade dressing. “Mack, it’s a thing she’s going through.”
Kenzie
Once, Kenzie and Grandma Rita figured out that Kenzie bikes about eight miles every evening. There are a couple of places where the land is particularly hilly and slashed through by little streams and patches of trees, and the road goes off the grid for a bit. But Grandma Rita and Kenzie drove one day, along Kenzie’s usual route, and the odometer registered eight miles. When weather is bearable, this bike ride is her daily workout.
She became more interested in staying in shape after youth camp, summer before last. The speaker every night was Jackie Cleveland, an evangelist who had traveled a lot in China and other places where Christians are being persecuted. Jackie personally knew people who had spent years in labor camps. Always stay strong, he said, because if you live for Christ you might have to suffer for him someday. And if America doesn’t mend its ways and repent and purify itself morally, then God will continue to judge America by allowing it to be taken over by the atheists or the Muslims. There may come a time in your lifetime, Jackie said, when, because you are a Christian, you won’t get a decent job and you’ll have to work with your hands. Or if things get really bad, you might spend years in a labor camp. So stay in shape. Be soldiers and athletes for the Lord.
So Kenzie bikes every evening she can, imagining the answers she will give in the event that she gets interrogated one day. She formulates how she will defend the truth—by quoting Scripture—and how her interrogators will be left with nothing to say because God’s Word will stand on its own. So she bikes and thinks and memorizes critical Bible verses. She has memorized all of the second chapter of Galatians and the fourth chapter of Philippians. Plus about fifteen Psalms, to comfort her and other prisoners while they face torture or death. She has found, too, that setting verses to her own melodies helps her remember them.
A few times lately Kenzie has been interrogated in her dreams, and the person questioning her has sat in shadow the whole time, until the very end. And when the face finally comes into view, it is Young Taylor’s. Young Taylor with his black hair and dark made-up circles around his eyes. Kenzie knows that it’s a sign to pray for her brother.
She can feel in every part of her spirit that God is calling her to intercede for her family. She doesn’t have to go to China; there are plenty of people here to minister to.
The pink clouds have faded, and now long, flat stretches of pigeon-feather gray levitate just above the horizon. Kenzie realizes that her arms are shaking. The air has gotten cold. At the next intersection she turns back toward home.
As she approaches Mitchell Jaylee’s place, she considers what she knows about him. Since nearly running him over that one day, she has prayed for him at least once a day. He is about thirty and is unemployed most of the time. He grew up in the very house he lives in now, went away to some place on the West Coast for several years, then came back to claim the little two-bedroom house, all that is left of his great-uncle’s farm. The great-uncle died years ago, and since he never had any kids of his own, his property went to Mitchell, whose parents died when they drove into a freight train late one night when Mitchell was only twenty.
At least this is the information that Kenzie has heard, piece by piece, in various conversations. People talk about Mitchell as if he’s been in prison or has a drug habit, but no one can prove anything like that. Young Taylor says it isn’t drugs, just mental problems he was probably born with. Mitchell doesn’t work regularly, just takes a job here and there. He builds things—sheds, fences, chicken houses, gazebos. He isn’t very fast but does decent work. And then he won’t work for a long time. He doesn’t talk to people, and then he’ll be having conversations with everyone. This kind of inconsistency scares people, and they usually leave him alone, although they joke about him. Kenzie overheard Janelle’s dad, at the Citgo station, say one day, “Oh, Mitch is in a babbling phase this week.”
Kenzie is almost past Mitchell’s driveway when she sees him, bent over beside
the fence near the mailbox. Is he throwing up? She turns and looks back at him, then stops, reverses direction, and comes up to him slowly.
“Mr. Jaylee, you all right?”
He straightens up, slowly, and when he turns she can see a white gauze patch over his right eye. With his other eye, he stares at her.
“I’m okay. Got dizzy. Sinus headache. And my eye.” He wears no jacket, and his shirt gapes partway up, revealing dark hair on his chest.
“Does it hurt?” Kenzie looks at the patch.
“Some. Splashed it with paint thinner.”
Kenzie makes a sympathetic face.
“I dropped some of the mail, then got dizzy when I bent over to pick it up.” He raises a handful of envelopes.
“Can I help with anything?”
Warmth comes to his face. “That’s really kind. No, I’m fine, but thanks for asking. What’s your name? Kendra?”
“Kenzie. For Mackenzie.”
“Your dad’s name.”
She nods. He keeps staring at her, and she comes up with another sentence, quick. “So you’re painting something?”
“No. Stripping off paint, for my newest creation.” He smiles.
“What creation?”
“Come on. I’ll show you.” He doesn’t wait for her to agree, just turns and walks up the drive. She walks the bike slowly a few steps after him. He turns and says over his shoulder, “It’s in the barn. I’ve been working on it for nearly two months.”
“What is it?” She stays a yard or two behind him but continues to walk the bike.
“I guess you’d call it a sculpture.” He’s in the large doorway of the barn. He leans against the side of it and watches Kenzie as she covers the last few yards. Then he reaches behind him and flips a switch and points toward the center of the space.
Kenzie follows his gesture and says automatically, “Wow.” She is looking at a structure that is probably twelve feet high and several feet across. It is made of every sort of metal imaginable: old bedsprings, various implements, strips of aluminum, buckets and cans, chicken wire, the chrome fender of some lost vehicle. “You did this?”
“Yep. Just a little hobby.” He walks over to it and touches a blade that juts out from a sphere made of screen mesh. “I call it ‘War of the Worlds.’”
“It looks like a war—but it’s really beautiful too.” Kenzie walks up to the sculpture and runs her hand along a piece of it.
“Careful. Some jagged edges there.”
“Is it finished?”
“I don’t know yet. I just come out here and work on it, then I can’t work on it anymore, then I think it’s finished, then I walk out here one morning and decide it isn’t yet.” He smiles at her. “You like it?”
She smiles back. “A lot. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I could tell you had an artistic soul.” He pauses. “I remember when you were a little thing.” He hasn’t taken his eye off her. “You’re almost a lady now.”
“I’ve seen you at the church, haven’t I?” It seems the right thing to say, to bring up something Christian and fill the gap she feels when guys talk to her in a personal way. How else do you answer when a guy says you’re almost a lady? It’s a perfect opportunity to invite him to church.
“Yeah, I like to sit in God’s house sometimes.”
Something in her spirit perks up. “I know what you mean.”
“Really?” He steps closer, and she sees that he doesn’t look loony, just shy. Like someone who doesn’t exist in the midst of people much. “Yeah, you look like the type of person who thinks about spiritual things. You have soul, I bet.”
She smiles, embarrassed. “I hope so.”
“I know so. Some people just have it.”
“Have what?”
“That spiritual connection. I bet you get misunderstood a lot.”
Now Kenzie takes a step to close the remaining yard between them. “I do. But I don’t mind.”
“No, a spiritual person doesn’t mind. It goes with the territory, people not seeing the world in the same way.”
“You sound like you’re interested in the spirit too.”
He shrugs, and looks almost as young as Young Taylor. But the muscles under his shirt belong to an older man, one who’s worked a long time.
“Do you like Bible study, stuff like that?” It’s such a natural question, Kenzie feels confidence bubbling far below. This meeting has some divine intention behind it, she just knows it.
“Depends. Lot of preachers don’t get it, you know?”
It is her turn to nod. He’s hit on the very reason she switched from the Methodist church to the Baptist.
“Well, there’s a study Thursday night at the Baptist church, led by the youth pastor. I think he gets it.”
“Really. I’m not much for groups. I do like talking about the Bible sometimes, though.”
Kenzie smiles. Somehow it is easier to meet Mitchell’s gaze since he has only one eye visible. “I need to get home.”
“Yeah. Don’t want to be out on these roads in the dark.”
“Nice talking to you.”
“Same here. You take care. Stay in the spirit now.”
Her legs have extra energy in the remaining half-mile. What a conversation! She doesn’t know any adults, except for pastors and the youth leader, who will jump right in talking about the spiritual life like that.
But her mood shifts once she is in the house. Dad is in his chair in the family room, staring at the television. Mom is in the kitchen. They both say hi but clearly have other things on their minds. She wonders if they’ve had an argument. Worse, maybe they haven’t talked at all.
The next day after school, she stops at the church and prays for nearly an hour. She feels so full of…something…like longing—for people to find peace with God. Full of wonder at the fields glittering just beyond the soft windows. Full of a sharp hope that has arisen fresh from her conversation with Mitchell. She replays it again and again, regretting the things she could have said. She isn’t very good at witnessing to people, at bringing the Good News into conversation at any point, finding connection with whatever a person says. Mitchell planted almost every sentence with a spiritual question, even though he didn’t ask the question itself. But to someone more experienced at evangelism, it would have been easy to bring the conversation around to something more pointed and effective.
Mike Williamson walks in when Kenzie is finishing her prayer at the altar rail. Sensing his step behind her, she turns around. “Hi. I’m almost finished.”
“You’re fine. I’m on my way to the storage room.”
She watches him go by and suddenly calls after him, “I had a really strange conversation yesterday.”
He turns and strolls back toward her. She sits on the raised floor in front of the railing, looking up at him.
“You did? In what way?”
“This guy, a neighbor. He was really hungry to talk about spiritual things. I’ve never had that happen before.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t happen often, but it’s really cool when it does.”
“I’m not very good at witnessing when I don’t have time to prepare.”
“That’s why we have to be prepared all the time.” His smile makes it clear that this statement isn’t a rebuke. “You’re more prepared than you know. But it’s hard to speak up when you get surprised like that. With practice, it gets easier.”
“He doesn’t come to church, at least not here, hardly ever anywhere. I invited him to your Thursday study, because he’s interested in the Bible.”
“Now, see, you did just fine.”
“Maybe I’ll talk to him again.”
“You know this guy?”
She senses that mentioning Mitchell’s name isn’t a good idea. “Oh, yeah, for a long time. We’ve never talked much, though.”
He is turning back toward the storage room. “Keep it up, Kenzie. You need a ride home?”
“I’ve got my bike.”
“Shouldn’t be out after dark.”
Mitchell has straight black hair, sort of long, that swings around his face when he walks. Although he isn’t that old, he moves with an old-man sort of shuffle, as if he isn’t sure of himself. He’s a bit bigger than Dad, with pretty wide shoulders but a thinner face, dark eyes close together and a black mustache. There are little bags under his eyes. He looks sort of like a tormented soul, and several times a year when Reverend Darnelle asks for prayer requests, Mitchell’s name comes up.
Of course I should pray for him. God has caused our paths to cross, and I feel like Mitchell and I have an understanding. It’s almost like a spiritual link. I’m not sure what he believes about God and Jesus. But I bet he would talk about it if I brought it up sometime.
When I passed Mitchell’s place, there was one little light behind the sheer curtain of his back window. The rest of the place—the garage that sort of leans, the three sheds and old barn—just look like long shadows. Sort of like Mitchell’s life, all mysterious. Maybe a person’s house represents that person.
Like our house. It’s bigger and busier than Mitchell’s. But some days it feels sad, like Mom, or dark and depressed like Dad. And the upstairs especially can feel angry like Young Taylor.
Then I think about me. If I had my own house, what would it be like?
Quiet, I think. And full of prayer. At least that’s what I hope I am. I think God wants me to be quiet and strong and praying every moment.
Jodie
Her afternoon plays out like a bad movie. She leaves the school and heads to Oskaloosa to do grocery shopping. This takes well over an hour, stretched by an extra half-hour when she pushes her full cart out to the parking lot and realizes that she doesn’t have her ATM card. She hurries back into the store and asks at the register where she checked out and at the two registers on either side. No one has seen the card. She retraces her steps, walking frantically up and down aisles, trying to remember where she stopped to pick up more than one item at a time or to examine the produce a little closer. Then she makes her way out to the car, her gaze scouring the ground. From there she looks up to the gray sky, wishing she could just cry or scream. Life does not allow her to vent so freely; she has too much else to do. Finally she rummages through each bulging plastic bag before putting it in the truck cab. Sometimes she throws change into a bag rather than wrestle it into the zippered compartment of her billfold. Maybe she threw the ATM card in along with that and the receipt. But all she finds are two quarters and a penny. She stands there by the truck, swearing profusely, and goes through her jacket pockets one more time. Then, in a flash of memory, she checks her jeans pockets and finds it in the back right one, where she never puts anything. She is standing there putting the card into her billfold when Terry Jenkins comes up from the next row of cars.
Vinita Hampton Wright Page 9
