Cinderland

by Amy Jo Burns

  Before the evening’s vespers service began, each of us had taken a small white candle from a beat-up cardboard box. At the sermon’s close, the chaplain lit his candle with a match, then offered his flame to the person sitting at the end of the first row. That candle lit another, then another, than another, just like those boys who lit their hands on fire just down the hill from the chapel three years ago.

  Those boys I’d grown up with, those church boys, all sat around me now. Teddy, who kept swatting mosquitoes. Hoyce, whose cherubic face turned impish when he smiled. Mikey, who never lost his baby fat. We had a habit of sticking together, but we were about to break it. Tonight was the last time we’d sit together like this. Most of the boys were staying local, going to school somewhere close by. Aaron was still undecided.

  Hoyce leaned toward Mikey, tipping his candle so the hot wax dripped on his arm. Mikey elbowed him in the gut. Their stifled snickers were barely audible over the slow plucking of an old guitar.

  The service ended with a hundred candles hoisted in the air and a tepid a cappella rendition of “Pass It On,” a song we all hated but sang anyway because undoubtedly, one of the older church lady counselors would be overcome with emotion and couldn’t help but belt out the first verse. We weren’t the kind to leave her hanging.

  After the final vespers service, some of the other counselors and I decided to introduce a new ritual to our campers. We took them to the blazing campfire at the edge of the property by the cliff that led to the shore of Lake Erie, the same spot where Aaron had once spied Simon and me in the dark. The kids crowded around the fire, a few lucky ones snagging the four or five tree stumps as seats. Each camper wore the same beaded bracelet he or she had made in craft time earlier in the week. Every leather cord held five colored beads, each color a symbol of salvation.

  That afternoon, Becca and I had torn about thirty thin strips of paper, and we handed them out around the fire. I held my own tiny strip of paper in my palm. It felt light enough to float away. Someone passed around a box of mismatched pencils, and I stepped toward the flames.

  With his guitar slung around his shoulder, Aaron stood nearby. Aaron had always stood nearby. He’d only known me as Amy Jo, just a girl, not the performer’s persona I constantly tried to inhabit. The current strain on our relationship lessened the blow of the distance about to span between us, almost as if we’d done it on purpose. Holding resentment had become our means of separation. He’d found the girl he was going to marry. I was sure of it. I knew she wouldn’t let him go. I had no place in their future together, and Aaron didn’t need me anymore. Around the fire, he started to run his pick against the strings of his guitar.

  “We all have sins we hold onto,” I said to the campers. I felt the flames’ quick heat on my cheeks. “Let’s write those sins on a piece of paper, toss them into the fire, and watch them burn.”

  My words were met with silence and bowed heads. I caught flickers of faces aglow from firelight. Hoyce, who had dribbled candle wax on Mikey just a half hour ago, was the first to drop his paper into the flames. One by one, the campers did the same.

  Though I was leading this ceremonial expulsion of sin, I couldn’t bring myself to release my strip of paper. I felt shame for a myriad of things. I feared the icy heart I thought was to blame for my wanting to leave the only place I’d ever called home, a place I loved like my own family. I didn’t know what to write. Carly. Nora. Aaron. Pete. We’d all lost each other on our quests to get out of town, in our choices to remain. That was how the game was played, right? In our prisoner’s dilemma, even the winners lost.

  I thought my cold heart was beyond saving, but in time I would come to see what a lie that was. My heart was only restless, searching for a place to lay itself down for a while. Yes, I had missed the mark. I had remained silent when I should have spoken. I failed my town, my friend, and myself. And yet somehow, all this had been the very making of me, the friction I needed to push beyond the borders that penned all of us in. Out of the lie, a truer version of myself came to life.

  That night in Erie, I was years away from being able to capture something so monumental on a scrap of paper. Instead, I wrote down some innocuous misdemeanor—a tiny indiscretion I’d no longer remember the next day. Even though I know I must have written something down, in my memory that small strip of paper remains blank. It seems right to remember it that way, the clean white paper not just a symbol for the silence that enveloped me, but a promise for the coming day when I would no longer be haunted by my past regrets.

  For a long time, I’d done my best to keep myself in line. I hated the feeling of shame and regret, of missing the mark. I’d felt that way ever since I was five years old, when I attended kindergarten at a private Christian school three days a week. My teacher, Mrs. MacMillan, used to give us blue pens to use in our coloring books instead of crayons. It made me dislike her. After getting into a car accident, for weeks she perched stiffly in her teacher’s chair, her chin resting on a big piece of foam. Her rigid neck seemed to make all of her other joints rigid, too. She moved around like she was made of Popsicle sticks.

  I liked to use my pen to draw stars and hearts on my printing paper next to the questions I answered correctly. Mrs. MacMillan liked to grab my hand. “Now is not the time for drawing stars and hearts,” she would say.

  One night I woke up in a panic because I did not have my Bible verse memorized for that week. We were working our way through the alphabet, learning a verse that began with each letter. That week we’d come upon the letter V. The verse, written on an orange card, hung on the chalkboard in class. All week I’d been trying to memorize it.

  “Verily, verily, I say unto you, he that believes in me has everlasting life.” John 6:47

  I closed my eyes. Verily verily I say—. I opened my eyes. Verily verily, I say unto you—.

  Verily. What is a verily? Someone’s name. That must be it. A Bible verse for someone named Verily.

  I couldn’t take the worry, so I climbed out from under my covers and ran down the hall to the living room where my parents were reading on the couch.

  “I just can’t remember it,” I cried. “I just can’t.” I kept trying to put one word next to another, like train cars. But I didn’t know what they meant. Verily. Everlasting. What were these words?

  My father peeled an orange and gave me some of its wedges. My mother rubbed my back and repeated the verse with me until I finally memorized it.

  I inhaled.

  VerilyverilyIsayuntoyouhethatbelievesinmehaseverlastinglife.John6:47.

  I exhaled.

  “See? There’s nothing to worry about. You knew it all along,” my parents said and smiled, though they both looked concerned. They put me at ease, they put me to bed. The next year, they put me in public school. Even before Mr. Lotte, I had chased my own perfection. That memory of the Bible verse always made me picture the letter V, the shape flocks of birds adopt when making their escape.

  After scribbling something on my strip of paper, I stepped toward the fire and squinted as I peered into it. The crowd behind me had grown bored with the ceremony; they were ready for the solemn portion of the evening to conclude. Still, the fire drew me toward it, the perfect blend of yellow and red, the beaded color of God and Jesus mixed together.

  F. The letter F. For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23

  I. The letter I. In all thy ways acknowledge the Lord and the Lord will direct thy path. Proverbs 3:6

  R. The letter R. Renew a right spirit within me. Psalm 51:10

  E. The letter E. Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain who build it. Psalm 127:1

  I let the piece of paper slip from my fingers and watched it shrivel and blacken as it turned from what is to what was. I could think of no better rite of passage. The dark ash of everyone’s iniquities filled the air. The smoke stung my eyes. The soot of our sins dispersed, just as we were about to.

  Below us at the bottom of the cliff, gray w
ater lapped against pale sand, a soft liquid voice that sang us to sleep each night. I felt it, what my mother must have felt when she was young and decided to leave home. I made a decision to follow with blind faith the one steady command inside me: leave, leave, leave. But no matter where I went, I’d never be able to separate myself from the hometown, both infinite and mortal, both angel and demon, that formed me.

  That evening, our last evening together, we sat around a flaming pile of wood set beneath a wash of meager stars, an open sanctuary of sin. Here, we were ephemeral kings and queens by our own estimation, broken boughs our scepters and red plastic cups our chalices. Soon the fire died, the little bits of paper too quickly consumed to sustain it.

  Fire had fascinated me ever since the moment I first witnessed someone tame it. Picture this: a row of burning candles lined the middle of the buffet at a church Christmas banquet. In the dark, they resembled a string of shiny buttons sewn into the back of a woman’s black dress. The lip of the buffet table reached just above my five-year-old chest. On my tiptoes, I slipped my left hand into a pair of tongs and began to chase after a tomato that kept slipping through the metal.

  My father stood across from me on the other side of the table. His right hand, strong from the hours he spent installing roofs, nimble from pressing the strings of his guitar, reached across the buffet table and dug the tongs into the lettuce, heaping some of it on my plate. I felt embarrassed that I needed help. Being left-handed, I had difficulty imitating the ways other people maneuvered things like pencils, scissors, and shoelaces. I often led with my left foot instead of my right in ballet class and tended to pirouette in the wrong direction.

  My father’s arm stretched across the table for a moment as he let go of the tongs. The metal clanged against the side of the salad bowl. I remember the cuff of his dark wool sweater and the brightness of the candelabra’s flame in the dark. The flame latched onto his sleeve and snaked up his arm, around his neck, and down the other arm.

  The woman beside my father in line yelled, “That man’s on fire! That man’s on fire!”

  There wasn’t time to panic. Thin like a blade, the seam of fire surrounded him, setting my father’s top half ablaze.

  He dropped his plate, and it stuttered against the table. He grabbed the bottom edge of his sweater and whipped it off, smacked it against the ground and the flame went out in an instant. The sweater sat in a heap on the floor. He grunted slightly. The room was quiet. Then he picked it up and inspected it. The wool was dark and the room was dim. The sweater looked just as it had before it caught fire, like nothing had happened. My father put the sweater back on, returned to the line and finished filling his plate.

  I’d seen and heard of this sort of magic before. The prophet Isaiah had once said, “When you walk through fire, you will not be burned.” I’d also seen female baton twirlers in parades, of which Carly was one, how they threaded their fire batons through their fingers and in between their legs as if made from wax. Carly, I thought, was indestructible. How wrong I had been, I who had witnessed her destruction.

  I remember how still I stood in the church sanctuary. I watched the offending cranberry-colored candle drip wax onto the white table cloth. My father, a roofer, musician, potter. A fire tamer.

  My father spent much of his life walking atop Pittsburgh’s industrial skyline. He was on a roof in the early morning before the summer sun rose and the temperature peaked. He was there at night in pitch black conducting infrared tests. He dropped his cellphone from a roof into a river below. From this view, he witnessed his city expand, thrive, struggle, and shrink. He watched it grow old and give way to what was sleeker, faster, richer. Still, he loved it just as much as his father and his father’s father had. And that was why he chose to stay. He remained faithful to the city in times of feast and famine.

  I did not want to tell this story. I can picture the broad-shouldered men who used to work in town: spreading asphalt in the summer, hunting buck in the winter. I can hear them say, Shut your goddamn trap, will you? Not because they feel the need to keep secrets, but because they still believe in the innocence of a man I once protected.

  Who do you think you are, anyway? they’d say. You hightailed it outta here the first chance you got. Some hotshot you are.

  And they’d be right. My memories of this place are cinders floating in the air. Levis. Cheerleader skirts. Bonfires. Gravel. Four-wheeler accidents. A ticking piano metronome that mimics the constant ticking of a clock. The road that leads home is flanked with clusters of white-washed, wooden crosses: memorials for the dead that have been erected by those who are still asleep.

  This was my life on the outskirts of the Steel City. At times, people’s minds were like abandoned steel mills, filled with nothing but ghosts. We were kids growing up in the Rust Belt in a city past its prime. We knew what it meant to be born into the white of the dandelion, how to live life in a dying place.

  Yinz keep telling us that the Steel City ain’t what it once was, but just you wait. Nothing ain’t worth nothing unless it gets broke down and forged in fire.

  I still tend to put words together like train cars—words like obey and rebel, exodus and return. City limits, country roads. I try to sound them out, make them new. Make them mine.

  This is a rusty city past its peak, some may say. But set us on fire and see that we will not burn. Look inside us and see that we are made of steel and water and other immortal things.

  Acknowledgments

  First, to my agent, Meredith Kaffel, who is as wise, insightful, and compassionate as anyone I’ve ever met, thank you for being the perfect advocate and a dear friend. You saw something in my work that had yet to be born, and you found a way to pull it out of me. Amy Caldwell, thank you for loving this book and giving it a wonderful home. The amazing Beacon team—Helene Atwan, Pam MacColl, Tom Hallock, Will Myers, Melissa Nasson, Susan Lumenello, Marcy Barnes, Jane Gebhart, and Bob Kosturko—thank you for getting behind this book with such heart and enthusiasm. Kate Garrick and Morris Shamah at DeFiore & Co., many thanks for your hard work and expertise.

  To all of my Hunter classmates, thank you for sharing your lives and your work with me. Each of you gave me such courage. Lia Ottaviano and Samantha Smith, who read this book from its first words to its final draft, thank you for pushing me, challenging me, and loving me. Much love also to Krystal Sital for always calling at the right time. To my readers Janna Leyde and Jeannie Vanasco, thank you for examining my work with a keen memoirist’s eye. I’m indebted also to Rosy Kandathil and Amber Kelly-Anderson for their important last-minute assistance. Scott Cheshire, thank you for your advice on all things writing and life. Your heart and your talent are planet-sized. Kathryn Harrison, thank you for teaching me the importance of artistic risk. Louise DeSalvo, beloved teacher, mentor, and friend, thank you for believing in me when I did not believe in myself. Professor Michael Dowdy, thank you for telling me Pittsburgh needed to be written about. Jan Heller Levi, I’m so grateful for the opportunity you gave me to study alongside you.

  Bruce and Geneva Boyd, thank you for being such treasured friends and for inspiring me daily. Anna Philip, thank you for showing me what it means to be brave. To the real-life Layne and Aria, what would I do without your steadfast friendship? I am a better person because of it. To my brother and sister, thank you for making me laugh and for always welcoming me home. To my parents, thank you for loving me with every ounce of your hearts. If I ever have half your integrity and your spirit, I will count myself incredibly lucky. I am honored to be your daughter. And Rajan, thank you for always being the best part of my day. My life became infinitely better the moment you walked into it.

  Beacon Press

  Boston, Massachusetts

  www.beacon.org

  Beacon Press books

  are published under the auspices of

  the Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregations.

  © 2014 by Amy Jo Burns

  All rights reserved


  Printed in the United States of America

  17 16 15 14 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is printed on acid-free paper that meets the uncoated paper ANSI/NISO specifications for permanence as revised in 1992.

  Text design by Ruth Maassen

  Many dates, names, places, and other identifying characteristics of people mentioned in this work have been changed to protect their identities. The communal voice is not intended to presume upon the memories and experiences of others but to reflect the shared nature of the event itself, as the author remembers it.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Burns, Amy Jo

  Cinderland : a memoir / by Amy Jo Burns.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-8070-3703-4 (hardback : alkaline paper) — ISBN 978-0-8070-3704-1 (ebook) 1. Burns, Amy Jo, 1981—Childhood and youth. 2. Teenage girls—Pennsylvania—Biography. 3. Child sexual abuse—Pennsylvania. 4. Girls—Abuse of—Pennsylvania. 5. Truthfulness and falsehood—Social aspects. 6. Truthfulness and falsehood—Psychological aspects. 7. Community life—Pennsylvania—History—20th century. 8. Pennsylvania—Social conditions—20th century. 9. Pennsylvania—Biography. I. Title.

  CT275.B78594A3 2014

  616.85’8360092—dc23

  [B]

  2014009918