Out of Heaven's Grasp

by V. J. Chambers

  When I stopped, I realized how stupid it had been. It hadn’t been enough for my father to hurt me, I had to hurt myself too?

  All the exertion of beating up my truck knocked me out, and I slept again.

  It wasn’t until I woke up the next morning that I felt like I really had any energy and that my thoughts were clear at all.

  I had needs, things I was going to have to take care of. I needed a place to stay. I needed more money than five hundred dollars. I was going to have to get a job.

  I started going from store to store in the strip mall that contained the Costco, asking inside every place that I came to if they needed help. A few places let me fill out an application (which was an exercise in futility, considering I didn’t have an address or a phone), but most places took one look at me and told me to get lost.

  One manager said to me, “I don’t think so. I’ve tried hiring you boys from that weird commune place before. Never works out.”

  I realized that the problem was my clothes. I looked like I came from the Life, and that didn’t make anyone trust me. So I took some of my money and went into a clothing store. Once inside, I was sort of overwhelmed. All the shirts had things written on them, but it was confusing. Why did they say things like Levi’s Jeans? They were shirts, weren’t they? Jeans were pants, not shirts.

  I wandered around until I finally found some shirts that were just plain colors—no writing or pictures on them. I didn’t know what size I wore. My mother had always made my shirts, and some of them had been hand-me-downs from others in the community. I held things up to myself, trying to get an idea if it was right or not. With an armful of clothes, I wandered through the store to buy them.

  “Do you want to try those on?” said one of the workers.

  You could do that? I nodded. “Yeah. That would be great.”

  The worker unlocked a door to a room and let me in.

  I began trying the clothes on. I’d done a terrible job at guessing my size. Most of the pants were too small, others too big. I noted the size of the one pair that I’d gotten that actually looked okay. I wanted to just wear it out of there, but I didn’t know if that was permitted, so I took them off and put my community clothes back on again.

  I stepped out, looking for the worker who’d let me in. I wanted to ask him what I should do with the clothes that didn’t fit.

  But the worker wasn’t around. Instead, there was another guy. He didn’t look at me as he folded jeans. “You can just put the stuff you don’t want there.” He gestured.

  I recognized his voice.

  “Anthony?” I said. “Anthony Kelby?”

  He snapped around to look at me, and I realized that I was right. It was Anthony. He’d grown up in the community, but he’d been cast out about six months ago when they found out he was sneaking around with Marilyn Jones. It was Anthony, all right, but he looked different. He’d cut his hair and dyed the tips of it bright orange. He had piercings all over his face—his nose, his lip, his ears.

  “Whoa,” he said, grinning. “Jesse Wallace. What the hell are you doing here?”

  I let out a sigh. “Well, they, uh, they kicked me out.”

  He laughed. “All right. Welcome to the den of iniquity, man.”

  I managed a small smile.

  “How long you been out?” he said.

  “Uh… a day? Two days?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, it’s rough at first. Real rough. Look, where you staying?”

  “My truck, I guess.”

  His eyes widened. “You got your truck out?”

  “I bought it myself, so I went back and took it.”

  “Very cool.” He grinned. “Well, if you got nowhere else to go, you gotta come to the crash pad. There’s like four of us, and we’re all splitting the rent on this house. The more the merrier, you know?”

  Oh. A place to stay. That was good. I took a deep breath. “That would be great, actually.”

  He chuckled. “What the fuck are you trying to wear, man?” He started riffling through the clothes in my arms.

  I felt embarrassed. “I just, um… well, most of it doesn’t fit.”

  “No, no, no,” he said, pulling stuff out and tossing it. “None of this weird collar shit, okay? You’re gonna look like a grandpa. And plaid? Seriously?”

  “I…” I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Come on, I’ll help you find better stuff.” He gestured with his head.

  I put down the rest of the clothes and went after him.

  He turned to me. “Your dad do that to your face?”

  I looked away.

  He clapped me on the back. “Well, don’t worry. You’re never going to have to deal with that asshole again.”

  * * *

  Abby

  I must have fallen asleep at some point, but I certainly didn’t remember it. I woke up alone in bed, and sunlight was streaming in through the window. When I tried to get out of bed, everything hurt. It was sore between my legs. The skin there felt like it had been rubbed raw. I’d bled a little bit, and there was something sticky and liquid leaking out of me. I wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but it smelled disgusting.

  I hobbled to the bathroom, and I retched over the toilet. I hadn’t eaten much in the past few days, though, so there was nothing in my stomach to throw up.

  I could still smell Bob’s sweat on my body, and I felt soiled, so I got in the shower.

  There was no hot water, just as Fern had warned.

  The frigid water was bracing, but I needed to get clean, so I endured it for much longer than I might have normally.

  Afterward, I got dressed and started to braid my hair.

  There was a knock on the door.

  I jumped, afraid it was Bob, come back to do what he’d done to me again, just after I got myself cleaned up.

  But the door swung open, even without waiting for a response from me. In walked Holly, who was one of Sally’s children. She was about twelve. She looked me over, seeming unimpressed. “You’re supposed to be at the wives’ meeting.”

  What had I done to make this girl dislike me?

  “I just got up,” I said.

  “Well, Mother sent me to tell you that you were late.” Flipping her braid over her shoulder in disdain, she marched out of my room.

  I clutched the edge of the dresser, biting down hard on my lip. I wanted to go home.

  Tears threatened, but I forced myself to swallow them down.

  I finished my braid and went off in search of the other wives.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to look for too long. I found them in the dining room, all sitting at one end of the table.

  Fern looked up as I came in. “You missed breakfast.”

  I sat down in an empty seat. “I’m sorry. I’m used to someone waking me up at home.”

  “You should speak to Bob about getting yourself an alarm clock if you can’t wake up on your own,” said Fern.

  I nodded quickly, staring down at the table. I was sorry not to have any breakfast. I hadn’t been very hungry for days, but I realized that it had been quite some time since I’d eaten anything, and I was starting to feel a little light headed.

  “Now, that she’s here, can we please talk about the schedule?” said Sally.

  “Sure.” Fern opened up a leather-bound planner.

  “Since she took my night,” said Sally, “I think I should get two nights with Bob next round.”

  “I don’t see why that would be necessary, Sally,” said Fern. “Bob can take his night with you, and the rotation can just continue with Abigail inserted into it where she is.”

  “No,” said Sally. “Because that means that Abigail would come before me, and she shouldn’t be. She should be fourth.”

  May leaned across the table to touch Sally’s arm. Her voice was soft. “Does it really matter, Sally? After all, you’ll still be seeing him every four days.”

  Sally snatched her arm away. “Of course it matters. You two wouldn’t understand, but
then neither of you are having children anymore. I need to see Bob.”

  “Well, then I think we’ll adjust the rotation for this week to correct it,” said Fern, seeming unruffled by Sally’s outburst.

  “But then I miss a day with him,” said Sally. “That’s why I should have two nights.”

  Fern looked down at the planner. “All right, he’ll spend tonight with you, then, Sally, to make up for last night. But then next rotation, you’ll be third and Abigail will be fourth.” She raised her gaze. “Does that work for everyone?”

  Sally nodded curtly.

  “Good,” said Fern. “Next up, we’ll deal with the food preparation. Up until now, we’d settled into a routine in which I made breakfast, since I’m an early riser, Sally was in charge of lunch, since she still has small children, and lunch is a bit less arduous, and May has been doing dinner. But now, we’ll want to work Abigail in somehow. Now, there’s several ways we could do this. We could alternate days, having each woman do all the meals one day, and then be off for three days. Or we could each have Abigail spell us, so that one day Abigail will make breakfast, the next lunch, and the next dinner, and then she’d have a day off. In that way, we’d all have one day a week in which we didn’t have to do any meal preparation. It’s really up to us how we want to work it.”

  “Well, I certainly couldn’t make all three meals in one day,” said Sally.

  May nodded. “I think that would be a bit of a challenge for anyone.”

  Fern shrugged. “We’ve only got eight children left in the house. We’re not cooking for an army anymore.”

  “Well, but Abigail will be having children soon,” said May, smiling at me.

  I blanched. Even though my sister had told me that having children would make everything more bearable, I wasn’t looking forward to the prospect at all. Children would make me feel trapped here.

  I scolded myself for the thought. I oughtn’t think of this house as a trap. It was my new home, and I’d have to get settled here.

  “Um,” I said. “Lunches might be difficult for me. I do work at the school, teaching the small children.” They’d given me a few days off for my wedding, but I was planning to be back tomorrow.

  Sally sniffed. “You shouldn’t be there. You’re a married woman, and your place is at home.”

  “Doris still works there,” I said. “She’s been married for months.”

  Fern scribbled things on her planner. “What days do you teach? And what hours?”

  “It’s Monday through Friday. Eight to two.” I noticed that Fern didn’t acknowledge Sally’s pronouncement this time either. Was that how these women got along? By ignoring each other?

  I knew that there had been friction in my house, mostly before my mother had married my father. She was the third wife, and apparently, she’d helped to smooth things over between Mother Deborah and Mother Claudia, who’d argued a lot before she arrived. There had been a few spats, of course, but my childhood home had been a place of harmony.

  Fern scribbled that in her notebook. “Well, then, we’ll just make your lunch days one of the weekends, yes?”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d cook in this house. I didn’t know where anything was. I’d been assisting my mothers my whole life, but that was at home, in a kitchen that I understood.

  “You should probably shadow one of us a few times anyway,” said May, smiling again. “Fern has a certain way she likes things in the kitchen, and if you screw that up, she’s not a happy camper.”

  Fern’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t acknowledge that otherwise. “I think this might be complicated to work out, so it might be better if I sit down and work on it myself. Then I’ll post it in the kitchen so that we can all see it.”

  “What if we don’t like the way you’ve worked it out?” said Sally.

  “It will be fair, Sally.” Fern’s tone was firm.

  Sally made a face, but she didn’t say anything else.

  Fern cleared her throat. “Well, as far as schedule adjusting goes, that only leaves laundry. And we’ll just add in a day for Abigail.”

  “Abigail’s one person,” said Sally. “I don’t think she needs a whole day. You only wash your clothes and Bob’s. Why can’t you and Abigail share a day?”

  “Because Abigail will need her own day when she has children,” said Fern.

  “We could readjust then,” said May.

  Fern looked back and forth between the two of them. “Fine.” She turned to me. “I’ll have my laundry done by five o’clock each third day. You can have the evenings.”

  I nodded. I felt very uncomfortable. Things were very rigid, weren’t they? What if I screwed it up?

  * * *

  Jesse

  Ephraim Long had been exiled from the community over five years ago. I had a vague memory of him from when I was a kid. Now, he was big and hulking, wearing a tank top that showed off his tattooed arms. He smoked a cigarette in the kitchen of the crash pad house and leaned on the kitchen island. I’d never been inside a worldly house before, and—though it was somewhat similar to a house back home—the smooth, white walls and sleek electric appliances were definitely strange to me.

  I was on the other side of the island, standing with Anthony, who’d brought me here.

  “The lease is in my name,” said Ephraim. “So, if anything goes wrong here, it’s on me.” He pointed at himself. “As you can imagine, I want to make sure everything stays cool.”

  I nodded.

  “When I got cast out,” he continued, “it was damned hard. There was no one else out here to offer me a helping hand, and I had to work it out on my own. Which I did. And I don’t want any of you guys to have to go through that. Which is why it’s cool if you crash here. But there are rules.”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. “Stop pretending to be a hardass, Ephraim.”

  “I’m not being a hardass.” Ephraim flicked his cigarette. “I’m just telling him how it is.”

  “When I first got here, he scared the shit out of me,” said Anthony. “But he’s actually really chill.”

  “First up, you gotta get a job,” said Ephraim. “It’s no big deal if you want to use this address for that. I don’t mind. But everyone here works. No slackers. I know a couple places that you can check out, if you’re hunting. Lotta places don’t want to hire us because they don’t think we’re responsible, and the problem is that’s true more often than not. We all grew up in a very restrictive environment, and it’s real easy to cut loose and go crazy out here. But you have to remember that you have responsibilities here, same as there. Every single one of us worked hard in the community. You gotta work your ass off out here too. And you gotta know when you can play, and how not to play too hard. Got that?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded anyway. I really didn’t want to spend another night in my truck.

  “Good,” said Ephraim. “Second thing is that we all kick in for rent and groceries. You put something in this refrigerator, it’s fair game, okay? So don’t get all bent out of shape if someone drinks your soda or something. You want to keep something private? Buy your own mini-fridge and keep it in your room with a lock on it.”

  I was even more confused. I’d never really spend much time thinking about food. The women in the community prepared it, and I ate it. I was beginning to realize how much different everything was going to be.

  Ephraim kept going. “Third thing. No drugs. And I’m serious about this shit. No drugs of any kind, okay? It’s one thing to have a few beers and cut loose a little bit, but drugs are going to eat you alive. People who do drugs spend all their money on drugs, and they drag everyone around them down. If I catch you high, if I catch you with drugs, or if I catch you doing drugs, you are out of this house. That clear?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said.

  “Cool,” he said. He surveyed me for a minute and then his face broke out into a huge grin. “Well, then welcome home. You want a beer?”

&n
bsp; Anthony snickered. “See, I told you, he’s cool as shit.”

  Ephraim stubbed out his cigarette in an ash tray and opened up the refrigerator. He pulled out a can and offered it to me.

  I looked back and forth between Ephraim and Anthony. In the Life, the only time we ever drank alcohol was during the breaking of bread, in which we had a drink of wine and a bite of bread in remembrance of the Lord, as he’d commanded at the last supper. And when I said “we,” I really meant “they,” because only married people were considered strong enough in Christ to participate. The rest of the time, alcohol was strictly forbidden. I knew that some of the more rebellious guys sometimes scored some and drank outside the community in the desert, but I’d never been one of those guys.

  I’d never had a beer before.

  But… why not? I was going to Hell anyway, right?

  I grinned back. “Yeah, okay, sure.”

  * * *

  Abby

  “Math is stupid,” said little Jenny Long. She wrinkled up her nose at the subtraction problems she was trying to work on.

  I knelt down next to her. “It might seem like it now, but it’s actually really important. When you grow up big, do you want to be able to make food for your family?”

  She shrugged. “That doesn’t have anything to do with math.”

  “Actually, you’ll need to know lots of math if you want to double a recipe or if you want to plan out complicated meals for guests. You’d be surprised how much you use it every day.”

  She glowered at me.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I don’t get it,” she said.

  I’d noticed this about children. They had a very hard time articulating what they didn’t understand, and they used their lack of understanding as an excuse to not even try. Sometimes it was maddening, but today, I actually found that I was glad to have something to do that didn’t feel foreign and strange, the way everything did at Bob’s house.

  “Why don’t you read me the problem?” I said.

  “I can’t read it, it’s numbers.”

  “What are the numbers?”