Pew

by Catherine Lacey

  I SAT BESIDE the attic window, waiting for night to come, for the light to leave us and for the fireflies to appear. It was somehow more important than ever that I see the fireflies hovering in the yard, the way they flashed and vanished and reappeared and vanished—that they could be and not be, be again and again not be.

  Below me I heard Hilda call out across the house to Steven, heard Steven shout back, their voices muffled, urgent. I stayed still at my place beside the window, sat there looking out at the night. A firefly appeared and I touched the warm glass.

  The door to the attic opened and Hilda’s voice echoed in the stairwell—Pew? Could you come downstairs a minute, please?

  Several lamps glowed behind shades in the living room. The parrot inched across his caged perch. The room was still and quiet enough to hear his talons grip and ungrip.

  We want you to know what’s going on, Steven said. All the decisions that have been made so far.

  Yes, Hilda said, then we all sat silent again awhile. We thought it was important that you know.

  The boys are staying over at their grandmother’s house tonight, Steven said. After today’s meeting, I talked with a few people from the community and they all agreed that it wasn’t a good idea to keep you so close to the boys. People had lots of different reasons for this and I have my own reasons, not that we need to get into them—

  We don’t need to get into them, Hilda said, though Steven spoke over her.

  —because they’re not really for you to know. It’s just a decision I’ve made about my family and it’s ultimately a private decision, a family decision. What I will say is that Jack’s behavior both at home and at school this week was very unusual for him.

  He’s usually not so— Hilda stopped herself from continuing.

  And I got the sense he may have been impolite to you—I didn’t see it directly, but that’s the sense I got—and I wanted to apologize for him. He’s really not that kind of young man and he’s been raised right, but he even got a detention this week at school, and that’s not like him, that’s not our Jack. He’s always loved going to church, the music, the morality of it … It just seems with everything going on, he’s been set off is all.

  I hadn’t come here, I knew then. I had always been here, and I knew I had always been here but I didn’t say that. I hadn’t needed even to be born here because I had always been here; I hadn’t needed to be born at all. I didn’t say that either. I didn’t say anything.

  My, it is warm, isn’t it? Hilda stood. Don’t you think I should turn the air conditioner up a little? Seems the summer just won’t quit. I keep thinking, tomorrow it’ll be cool, that it will finally cool off, but it keeps not happening.

  She was talking to herself as she left the room, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  The other thing I was told to discuss with you is that you’re going to be staying with the Corbin family, I believe, at least tomorrow night, maybe longer, we don’t know yet. Dr. Corbin is going to come get you in the morning.

  Hilda had returned but stayed close to the door, fanning herself with her hands. She wiped sweat from her forehead.

  He’s the reverend at Second Baptist, on the other side of town, which is, well, I suppose to put it bluntly it’s the black side of town, if that’s all right to say—is that all right to say, Hilda?

  I—I think so, Hilda said.

  Some people at the meeting today thought maybe you’d be more comfortable with them, that maybe you’d talk to those people if you won’t talk to us. Or maybe you’d rather live with someone over there if you don’t like living with us. Personally, I don’t know exactly why they decided for it to go this way, and I just don’t see why it should make any difference, but this is what I was told to tell you. I suppose there’s some disagreement about … well, I suppose some people think you look like one thing and some people think you look like something else and it seems you won’t speak up and break the tie so we’re just doing what we can. Now, I don’t mean for that to sound ugly, and I ain’t trying to be ugly to you. No one here is trying to be ugly, but we just—we never had this sort of issue before. Some people find it a little frustrating is all. But Dr. Corbin, from what I understand, is a very respected man, so you’ll stay over there for at least one night and they’ll bring you to the festival.

  Hilda leaned down to whisper something in Steven’s ear.

  Well, I thought they were going to be the ones to explain it, he said.

  It’s just that Harold thought you might do a better job explaining, Hilda said, since they don’t even go to it anymore.

  Steven squinted for a moment, then began—

  The Forgiveness Festival—well, there’s a very long story about how it came to be and I’m afraid I’m not the right person to tell all the history about it, but what I can say is that the festival is what sets our community apart from other communities in the area. It’s one of the ways we’ve decided to actively reconcile with our past, unite both sides of our community, and acknowledge that everyone—every single one of us—everyone is born broken. That’s what we believe—you know—that’s a core part of Christianity. That we’re all broken without God. And a few years back all the preachers in town got together for a meeting because it was starting to feel like the whole country was particularly angry, and people were always accusing each other, and whole groups of people start blaming whole other groups of people for their problems—blacks and immigrants, for instance, and women, of course—but I’ll admit that, in some ways, it goes the other direction, too, I suppose. Everybody really blames everybody and never blames themselves. Well, our preachers decided this had gone on long enough, so they prayed about it and they read the Bible about it—and a peculiar thing happened, which is that God spoke to all our preachers, all at once—

  Hilda muttered something to herself, but Steven didn’t notice and kept talking.

  And what He told them was to have a special day every year for everyone to confess all their sins together—out loud—so that we all understand that we’re all sinful, we’re all broken, and there’s no use in blaming anyone else for anyone’s trouble. Of course, people still want their privacy so there’s blindfolds and curtains that are set up—

  It’s very beautiful, Hilda said. Even with the blindfolds. You feel how beautiful it is.

  Yes, Steven said. And it’s moving to see the community come together.

  Well, almost.

  They’ve always been invited. We invite them every year. And Dr. Corbin, he was part of the group that put it all together anyway, but even he couldn’t convince his own church to come. That’s what I was told anyway.

  Well. I mean. I can understand why. It’s just that—

  Anyway, that’s neither here nor there, Steven said. Point is, Dr. Corbin is going to bring you to the festival on Saturday so you can see for yourself what it is, and what our most important values are.

  Right.

  And there are some things you might see at the festival or on the way that we decided it would be better for you to know about ahead of time.

  So it doesn’t startle you, Hilda said.

  On the way to the festival you may see a lot of policemen in the streets.

  The guns are symbolic. Hilda seemed to recite it from somewhere. They’re symbolic of the power of God, and of the powerful gifts he’s given to us.

  And also, they’re there just to make sure that no one gets hurt.

  That’s right.

  Because pretty much half the town goes to the festival, so half the homes are unattended, so we have our police officers keep the neighborhoods safe, you know.

  Hilda nodded, solemn.

  After the festival, the community is really exceptionally safe, but we do see a few problems that happen just before—

  Hilda whispered something in Steven’s ear.

  Oh, the rumor. Right. One thing everyone wanted to make sure was clear to you is that there’s nothing to be afraid of, and I don’t know what Nel
son or another kid may have repeated to you—but Kitty and Butch were concerned he may have told you the rumor that has been going around the high school, something about a human sacrifice that happens at the festival, which is just some lie somebody made up to scare the younger kids—

  We ease the children into it.

  That’s right. Most children aren’t let inside for the confession part of the festival—there’s a room just outside the main room where they’re kept. So I think what happened is that some older kids were just trying to frighten the younger ones.

  That’s right, Hilda said.

  Nothing to be afraid of.

  Oh, no, nothing like that.

  Ritual is something that’s very important to us, Steven said.

  Yes.

  So. That’s really all, I think. Dr. Corbin will drive you over and you might see more policemen on the street, and when you’re inside the festival, you’ll get a blindfold just like everyone else, and after that I think it will actually make a lot of sense.

  Oh, yes. I think so, too. Hilda’s body remained very still. It seemed she was not, for a few moments, breathing.

  FRIDAY

  WOKE UP HUNGRY; listened to wind whining in the trees beyond the windows. I slid out of bed, pressed my ear to the floor, heard nothing. My stomach moaned to itself and it sounded like a song.

  Hilda shouted through the door, up the stairs—Pew?—the sound of the door unlocking—Are you up yet? I sat up, went to the top of the stairs. She was wearing a white robe and had her hair pulled up in a towel.

  I just about forgot you were still up there, quiet as you are. Come have some grits when you’re ready.

  I ate standing up, facing away from her and listening to the parrot singing the same five notes over and over in the other room and after some time I looked down at an empty bowl. I put the bowl in the sink. The bird was still singing, singing as if it were practicing for something, as if this song would someday be necessary.

  Dr. Corbin will be over in a couple hours. He’s going to take you to lunch, I was told, then to a little party, some kind of gathering or something happening over in his neighborhood. Now you’ll have to excuse me to fix my hair.

  In the front room Steven was sitting in a plush chair, a newspaper shielding his head, his chest.

  I sat in a chair beside the window and looked out at the thick green bush just outside. A beetle was crawling across some leaves, trying to get through them, trying to go somewhere. The morning passed like this, Steven’s newspaper cracking open and closed—beetles crawling across leaves.

  Dr. Corbin came in a pale beige truck with one soft, undivided seat in the front. He wore a plain gray suit. His shoulders stooped and his chest caved as if he were forever peering over the edge of something. I had the feeling he’d just realized something dear and lost to him was never coming back. He held a complicated privacy, his own slow wind.

  I don’t know how it is I can sometimes see all these things in people—see these silent things in people—and though it has been helpful, I think, at times, so often it feels like an affliction, to see through those masks meant to protect a person’s wants and unmet needs. People wear those masks for a reason, like river dams and jar lids have a reason.

  Dr. Corbin did not tell me where we were going, and I did not need to know. The truck’s engine shook and muttered. I wondered if I might ever return to Hal and Tammy’s house. I imagined Tammy might give me a peacock feather, something useless and beautiful, a real thing to pass between two people since we cannot see all the unphysical things that pass between people.

  When the truck finally stopped, we were beside a narrow church on the edge of a field. It had been built of wood and painted white. We went inside the church, where an organ rumbled and spun, wide circles of notes sprinting around one another, frantic, unyielding. We sat in a pew in the back of the sanctuary. I could see someone’s small body at the jaw of the organ, thrashing and heaving itself at the keys. The organ spoke the notes it had been built and tuned and kept here to say. An organ is a machine, I remembered, that can always cry louder than a human will.

  Dr. Corbin turned to speak to me but I could not hear him through the music. His mouth moved and I watched his mouth move, and when it stopped moving, I nodded without thinking—whatever it was, I had agreed with it. We listened to the organ wail. Some time passed this way. It began to seem possible that a person might have pains and thoughts that resisted language and had to be transfigured through an instrument, turned into pure sound, spun into the air, and heard.

  The organ stopped one song and began another. Another ended, another began. I began to both remember and lose the shape of the years that had led me here. I could remember a low, windowless room. Three paces by two paces. A damp floor. The taste of blood. A child. A long hunger. Some years. Some years, but gone now. They had ended and would never return and would never end. They were mine, or had been mine, but now they were somewhere else, somewhere near and far from me. They didn’t belong to anyone, those untouchable years. All that was left of them was their imprint, the empty field they’d left in me.

  The organist flung one arm out to turn a page of music, but all the sheets went flying, scattered in the air. The music ceased, not even a shadow of it left, and the papers fluttered and fell the way dead leaves do. A soft curse from the pulpit. The organist crouched and began to collect the scatter.

  Dr. Corbin put a hand on my shoulder and smiled. We stood and left.

  THE TRUCK TOOK US farther down this road until we came to a low little building with a little sign outside it, burned-out neon—DINER. When we went inside, a chime sang at the door, but no one turned to look at us. Someone wearing dirt-flecked overalls sat hunched at a counter, pushing a sandwich into their mouth. Two small people in pale orange dresses sat in a booth across from each other, one of them forking into a slice of pie and the other staring into a coffee. No music was playing. The wide windows were faintly smudged with grease.

  A voice came from the kitchen—Two plates?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Someone who’d been leaning against a broom handle looked up and nodded to Dr. Corbin, who took off his hat, held it with two hands, and walked with me to the back corner. We sat in a booth and over his shoulder I could see a small television screen by the front counter—a silent, cheering crowd, their mouths stretched wide, so many trembling throats, waving flags and banners, fists punched into the air. I watched the crowd that seemed to watch me.

  Nice place here. Nice vegetables, and every day different ones. Nancy is there in the kitchen. She makes a good corn bread. Makes it every day so you never have to miss it.

  The chimes at the door sang again as a woman in a brightly patterned dress came in. She glanced around the room, then paused as if startled by the sight of us.

  Judy, Dr. Corbin said, as she approached our table. She looked at me, at him, then me again.

  Mrs. Columbus, she corrected him, her eyes turning bright and bitter. It seemed she was using a lot of energy to just stand there above us. Her hands fidgeted with the handle of a yellow purse.

  Well, Dr. Corbin said, didn’t I tell you true?

  May I sit down?

  Please, Dr. Corbin said, but Mrs. Columbus kept standing. You can see now for yourself, can’t you? Are you satisfied?

  Dr. Corbin, is there something of which I am unaware that gives you permission to use such a tone with me?

  Now, Judy, I just—

  You may call me Mrs. Columbus.

  Her every word was a stone. She was still staring at me.

  Mrs. Columbus, I’m sorry. I apologize, I really do. It’s just old habit. We all look for you down at the church on Sunday, but you’re never there. We look every Sunday, Mrs. Columbus, and we’re always ready to welcome you back. I’ve always—

  I was told I would have some time with the child.

  But you can see for yourself, can’t you? Dr. Corbin pleaded. This isn’t—

  That’s what
I was told I’d get. That was the arrangement.

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head. She was not praying. I don’t know how I knew this, but I knew she was not praying. For a few long moments she was quiet in that way that requires you to listen to it. A large truck went by outside, whipping the tree branches with wind, then a pipe sighed somewhere in the wall beside me, and the cash register opened and shut at the front of the room and all our blood kept going along within us, keeping time.

  Well, Dr. Corbin said. I suppose you can have a moment here. He stood and left us, went outside, climbed into the truck, and watched us through the scummy windows. Mrs. Columbus took his place in the booth. She looked at me as if she had known me from somewhere, but couldn’t quite remember. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she still does.

  I imagine you must be right tired of people trying to tell you things. I only say so because I know a thing or two about people trying to tell you something when they don’t have any clue about what you need … It’s enough to drive you half-crazy.

  She set her yellow purse on the table between us.

  It’s been just about a year since my son Johnny went somewhere, that or got taken. I still don’t know—no one seems to know. He was very close to Dr. Corbin, Johnny was. Took everything he said as gospel, you know. And I thought for a long while that was fine—Dr. Corbin is, for the most part, a good man, a good example for people about how to do right. But—you know, you can’t go losing someone without looking back and trying to find the moment you could have made it go the other way, made it not happen— Well. I can’t know for sure, but it’s hard for me to not see Dr. Corbin’s influence as having had an effect—too strong of an effect.

  You see, many years ago, when Johnny was just a little boy, I took him up to the zoo because he’d been asking after it for months—then, finally, I got it all together—gas in the car, took a whole Saturday off work to drive up there. But once we were there, he went right up to the lion cage and looks in there for a long while, just thinking, then he sat down on the ground and cried a whole hour, everyone looking at him, complaining. A guard told me we had to move along, that Johnny was upsetting everyone who was here to see the lion, but he wouldn’t move. Maybe another parent would have gotten physical with him, but that’s not the way I did things—maybe I would have if I could, but I never had the nerve. The lion was pacing at the back of the cage, not looking at anyone. I tried to get Johnny to come along, to go on to the next animal, but he wouldn’t. It just about took forever to get out of there and get him in the car to go home, and it wasn’t until the end of the summer that he told me what had made him so upset. He said he couldn’t see the difference between himself and the lion. And I said, Johnny—he was maybe eleven or twelve at the time—I said, Johnny you’re a little boy who goes to school and plays sports and sings in the choir and a lion is a lion. He was a very bright boy—ahead in all his classes, reading without me even asking him to, so I thought he’d understand, but he said—and I’ll always remember him saying this, he said—Ma, they’ve got eyes like anyone else. So I told him what I know, which is that a lion’s eyes are much bigger than a little boy’s eyes, that they’re not like his eyes at all, but he wasn’t having it. He started listing off all the other animals at the zoo—ones he hadn’t even seen—and saying how they weren’t any different from him either and he was just so sure about it. It was causing him pain, this idea, it was clearly upsetting him, all those animals locked up, but I didn’t know what to do about it. He couldn’t be reasoned with. Even as a little boy. He had his ideas and he held them.