As a mother. As a sister. Turned out I couldn’t be both.
“God, I feel like that’s in the job description.”
“Can you forgive yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Never. Not in a million lifetimes. Not for Billie.
“You’re holding back, my sister. No one is here to judge you.”
“I’m trying. One day at a time, right?” Apologizers Anonymous.
“Then let’s say the words. They will help you.”
“Our Father, who art in Heaven and also in me, shine your light on me, burn away my sin with the fire of your love, help me to make sense of the ashes and forgive myself as you forgive me.”
“Amen.”
Hope reaches into a pocket, takes out a coal and touches it to Cole’s lips, leaving black smudges—their Ash-Wednesday-every-day rite. “You are forgiven. You are loved. Be new, be bright in God’s glory.”
37.
Miles: Pilot Light
He feels like he has always been on the bus. There is nothing outside the bus. The bus is life. Hours and hours and hours every day, pushing for the next Heart in Atlanta. The thrum of the engine vibrates through the seat. Outside the windows, the scenery changes and stays the same and changes, through green fields and forests and small towns slipping past, and big ones, and he watches for repeats, glitches in the simulation. Didn’t he see that white barn before? Those grain silos look awfully familiar. They have definitely passed that exact strip mall with that exact Outback Steakhouse.
They stop regularly enough to prove that there is life beyond the bus. To stretch their legs and pray, or get some food. And he gets up and climbs out, with the Apologia trying to wedgie itself into his butt, and sometimes they hand out flyers, and sometimes they hold Repentnals, according to some mysterious schedule Hope is in charge of. And then they are back on the bus and it becomes the whole world all over again.
He watches the scenery and listens to the sermons from the Mother Inferior through the earphones plugged into an All Sorrows–branded MP3 player (because they’re not allowed to have phones, except for Hope and Chastity), her voice calm and warm and reassuring, and it’s not only Bible stories; she says a lot of wise and true things too. Even Mom would appreciate them, if she’d give them a chance.
And he traces the words on his Apologia, running his fingers over the big bubble letters that spell out “Sorry” over and over. It’s a kind of meditation, over the snaky S, the O that is the circle of life, R and R for rest and relaxation, redemption, and r-? Raisins, maybe. He’s definitely sorry they exist in the world. But there’s probably a better word. Y for you, which is him. And youth, which is him, again. And yellow-belly. Which, yeah, is him.
Mother Inferior’s voice in his ears tells him that he is loved, we are all loved, and God made us the way we are so He knows our struggles. We think we can do it alone, but we can’t. We need His guiding hand, His love, His fatherly direction. Because He knows what’s best for us and the biggest leap of faith you will ever have to make is accepting that! You are on the right path, the first rung of the ladder. But you have to grab it with both hands, plant your feet, be ready to make your ascendance, one step at a time, through all your sorrows, climbing the ladder to joy and forgiveness. Trust in God’s plan.
Hope the plan includes a bathroom break, he thinks. He’s desperate and he hates using the toilet on the bus, which smells of old farts under the blue chemical stink. And feels a rush of guilt at his irreverence. Sorry, God.
There must be one coming up. He shifts in his seat and glances over at Dad’s watch, clunky on Mom’s wrist hanging limp across her lap while she “rests her eyes.” Only an hour since they last stopped. But why does it look dark outside? Like the end of the world, a sulfur twilight.
“Mom.” He prods her awake.
“Mmmf.” She rubs her eyes. “What time is it?”
“I was going to ask you. What’s up with the sky?”
“Fuck.” Mom breathes out, looking ahead. A police car is slanted across the highway, blue and red lights swerving in the gloom and a lady cop holding up her hand. The bus is already slowing for the roadblock. Mom sits upright, squeezes his hand twice. I got you. It’s going to be okay. But is it? Really?
She pulls her Speak over her mouth and does this transformation just by changing her posture, hunching her shoulders, tucking her chin, becoming small and demure and devout. Assume the position, Miles thinks. He follows suit, tucks away a defiant curl, checks his Speak. Nothing to see here. Just devout nuns. His heart is stampeding in his chest, a whole avalanche of ponies. But it’s not only dread. It’s also hope, sort of, and don’t tell Mom, but maybe this is the end of it. On the run no more. It would be a relief, wouldn’t it? Kinda. Maybe?
The cop waves at Faith to open the doors, and thunks up the stairs to talk to them. She’s wearing those ugly polarized sunglasses like narrow bug eyes that don’t suit anyone, and doesn’t she know that cops are supposed to wear aviators? She’s skinny, with her hair in a French braid and a small mean mouth. He doesn’t know what they’re going to do when she points at him and Mom. “We’ve been looking for you,” she’ll say. “You thought you could hide from us. Hand over the boy.”
Mom is squeezing his hand hard. Because they don’t have a plan, and there’s nowhere to run, and this might be it.
There’s a gun on the police officer’s hip, but he knows Faith has a gun too, for their protection, and he imagines a fight busting out right here in the bus; a wave of neon nuns pulling ninja moves, robes flowing, lumo colors versus the dark blue uniform. And there would probably be casualties. Someone falling to the ground, a blotch of blood in the middle of the O of one of the Sorrys. Temperance, maybe. “Oh no?” she’d say, like it was a question. And Mom would be so busy trying to first-aid her that she wouldn’t see him rise up and go for the cop, because Chastity was in trouble, and the police officer had her in a headlock with her gun pressed to her head, holding her hostage, and he was the only person who could save her. And he would hit the cop with a Bible and knock her out cold, and Chastity would pull aside her Speak and kiss him and say she always knew. They all did. And they’ve been waiting for him…way too cheesy. He shouldn’t be thinking this way. God wouldn’t like it. Even fantasy. Our thoughts are the mirrors we hold up to our hearts, Mother Inferior says.
But the cop doesn’t say anything like that. She startles a little, gives them a little nod, like okay, sure, bunch of nuns in crazy clown outfits, why not. “Ladies,” she says. “Regret to inform you, road’s closed.”
Mom unclenches her hand and he shakes his to get the blood flowing again.
“But we’re going to Atlanta,” Hope says. “We have to get to Atlanta. There’s a schedule.”
“Not this way you aren’t. We got major forest fires in the Ozarks, right into Ouachita. It’s not safe.”
“Thank you, climate change,” Mom whispers. Like she’s relieved, so relieved that it’s only the whole forest burning, lungs of the world, and not the cops coming for them. Miles tenses up, and he notices her noticing, then trying to correct herself. “It’s awful. Sorry. The worst. I can’t imagine the devastation.”
“Maybe we could help,” he says, loud enough for his voice to carry to the cop. “Can we help?” Because that would be useful and meaningful, fighting fires.
“Aw, baby girl. You’re the sweetest thing,” Chastity says.
“We’re behind schedule,” Hope protests.
The cop shakes her head. “We got plenty of volunteers. People rallying. Unless you got extra pilots for water bombers up there on the bus, most helpful thing you could do is move along, stay out of our way.”
“We’ll pray for you?” Temperance offers.
“Appreciated,” the cop says and then turns on her heel. And Faith restarts the engine, and they are back in Bus World.
The detour takes them north around Arkansas (he rolls the word around in his mouth, arrrr-kin-saw), heading toward Tulsa. It takes another
five hours and the sky gets gloomier and gloomier, even driving away from the fires, and then slowly, gradually, the blue comes back, like a sign from God. Or the wind blowing in the opposite direction.
Late afternoon, Faith pulls over at a motel beside an airfield. A black and yellow Tiger Moth plane is sticking out the front of the building as if about to launch into the air—beside the neon sign that reads “Mile High Motel.” And more important signs: ones that read “Vacancy” and “Open for Business!”
“Add a letter and it would be your hotel,” Mom says, still trying to get back into favor after that climate change comment.
Chastity overhears and chimes in. “Mila High Hotel? I guess that’s more appropriate.” She elaborates, for his benefit. “Mile high is a sex thing.” As if he doesn’t know. As if he’s some dumb kid.
“It could be worse?” Temperance says. “We could be staying in a giant pineapple?”
The owner is a woman in her sixties with a white afro and a big laugh and she and Faith start bonding over airplanes, which is why, he guesses, she decided to stop here. Although it turns out she’s a friend of the Church, because while there are only a few dozen Hearts around the country, Helping Hands are everywhere.
“Hotel’s empty,” the woman says. “No one comes this way anymore. Not much leisure flying these days,” she goes on. “We closed down the kitchen months ago, but there’s a vending machine if you want to stock up on snacks or sodas. And there’s a diner a few miles away that does a pretty good breakfast, if you want to try that tomorrow.”
“Don’t be late for prayers tonight,” Hope calls after them as they scatter into the warren of rooms. The place is ugly and run-down and depressing, two tired twin beds in their room, and the smell of hot dust and maybe the memory of smoke from the fires.
“Explore?” Mom peace-offers. “Bet we could get in to some of those hangars.”
“Yeah,” he grins.
Grass is starting to push through cracks in the runway. A crow caws, lifting its wings at them, threatening them away from its carrion meal. A hare, maybe.
They wander down the airfield, to where the hangers are lined up, huge metal doors shut, starting to rust. The bus is pulled up in front of one of them, hood standing open, Faith tinkering around in the engine.
“Gen, pass me the half-inch,” she calls.
“Which one’s that?” Generosity says, crouched on the other side.
Cole walks over and pulls the right wrench from the toolbox. “Here you go.”
“Thanks! I’ve been meaning to ask. Hope says you have mechanics down as one of your blessings, and this bus is losing water like a bitch. I have to fill it up all the damn time and it’s driving me nuts. Can you take a look?”
“Sure. I can’t promise any miracles, though.”
“Come on, kid,” says Generosity, mischievous. “Let’s leave the experts to it. I want to show you something.”
Cole glances up, alarmed. “Don’t go far.”
“Don’t worry, Mama Bear, we’re gonna be right through here.”
Generosity leads Miles to one of the hangar doors. The corner’s been bent back, so you can slip inside. It’s pitch dark inside, and smells like damp. Even in the gloom, he can feel how big it is, the drafts raising goose bumps on his arms.
“The light switch was right…around…here,” says Generosity, and huge fluorescent lights roll on, ten yards above their heads. The ceiling is arched like a cathedral, latticed with metal beams. An assortment of planes is parked along the huge concrete floor at different angles, like toys swept up carelessly into a giant’s toybox. A wooden board leaning against the wall is painted with the crest of the Tulsa Aviation Society, the words “AVID FOR AVIATION” peeling away underneath.
“Whoa,” says Miles, darting over to the closest plane, a small thing, its wing running over the two-person cabin. He strokes the smooth tail.
“Oh man, this is a Cessna 150. I saw one of these at an airshow back in Hawai‘i when I was a kid. They made thousands of these things in the sixties.”
Miles pulls the door handle, and the door swings open. “Look!”
Generosity leans down and makes a stirrup with her hands so that Miles can step up into the cabin. She goes around and hauls herself up into the second seat. The seats are bright red leather, the dashboard a smooth cream. Miles starts pulling throttles, flicking switches.
“Whoa there,” Generosity laughs. “Don’t fly us into ceiling.” But the battery’s long dead, the displays blank.
Miles grips the control wheel, tests the resistance. How firm it all feels.
“How far do you think this thing could fly?” Thinking, maybe Mom could get it working. They could sneak off and hide, wait for the nuns to give up and start driving on to Atlanta. Fly all the way to freedom, into a glorious sunset.
“Ah, these things? They were designed for pilot training and for rich people to mess about in. I guess you’d get about 300 miles out of a tank of gas, tops.”
Miles drops his shoulders. It was a good dream while it lasted.
“Sister Generosity? Did you want to be a pilot?”
“Nah. Tell you what I really wanted? To be a lifeguard. Bit of a cliché for a kid growing up in Hawai‘i, but I spent one summer doing beach duty, and I loved it. If we get to a place with a pool, I can show you some rescue moves, if you want.”
“Sure, some time. So why didn’t you do it? The lifeguarding thing?”
“Seriously? Do I look like some Baywatch babe? There was competition. You’d think it was about the ability to keep swimming with some doofus clinging around your neck, thrashing and trying to drown you both, but no. You had to look hot in a swimsuit as well. Guys could get away with bulk and tattoos, but not the girls.”
Her voice grows conspiratorial. “Besides, there was something going on. In my body, I mean. I was a very confused teen. I hadn’t experienced God’s mercy yet. Do you know what the kids at school used to call me?”
“Your real name, uh, I mean, your sin name?”
“Manatee. They called me Manatee. You know why?”
“No.”
“You can’t guess?”
“Because you loved swimming?” He’s awkward, not wanting to be cruel, or obvious.
“Well, that’s a true fact. But, no. They called me that because I was fat. No, don’t apologize. It’s not like you didn’t notice. You were thinking that all along. It’s obvious,” she jiggles her stomach. “Fat was bad enough, but then I was first in my grade to develop boobies.”
Even more awkward. Miles crosses his arms reflexively, head down. “Uh, that sounds rough,” he ventures.
“Does your mom talk to you about this kind of stuff? The changes?”
“Yes,” Miles squeaks. “Yeah, she does.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed. This is God’s will for us, to grow into our bodies that will make us the perfect complement for man. We fit together.”
“Mila?” calls Cole, appearing around the bending door, tense as an overwound spring.
“In here, Mom.” He’s never been so glad to see her.
“The bus is all fixed. We’re heading back to the hotel. Vamos.”
Generosity helps him out the plane.
“Thanks. That was fun,” he says. Well, the almost-flying bits were.
“No sweat. Us girls need to stick together,” she says. Mila isn’t sure whether there’s the slightest stress on the word “girls.”
38.
Billie: Glamorama
Now I lay me down to sleep. Barricading herself in one of the rooms, hiding under a heavy wooden desk. Let them sort it out. Escalation. There’s shouting outside, hard to make out the content, but she catches a few words loud and clear.
“Didn’t fucking tell me…[mumbling, too low]…a boy.” That’s it. The magic words. A boy. The boy. Her boy. Boy among the pigeons.
She hopes they all kill each other. That’ll leave her free and clear. She imagines walking out of here with h
er white trash makeover, through the wreckage of the gangland woods, not even her lipstick smudged, getting in the car, driving away. She could leave it all behind. Forget Cole, forget Miles and what’s owed, and what’s been promised. Disappear.
Or.
Or she clears them out: they have to have money here, guns, drugs definitely (that mosquito sting). Does a disappearing act.
Or it’s not enough. Not nearly enough for what she has been put through. The mechanical scream of a drill bit. Smell of burning enamel. No, she wants them all to kill each other. And then she’ll take Zara’s phone and go find the boy (not her nephew, he lost that connection with all its privileges when his mother tried to kill her), and bring him back to Mrs. A. Or someone else: the buyer, another buyer. She doesn’t need them, she doesn’t need anyone.
More shouting. A gun shot. Someone screams, over and over. Not Fontaine. She’s heard her scream too much already, knows the tone and key. Shouting, fury. More shots. The screaming abruptly stops.
Fuck them. Fuck them all. Billie covers her head. She should have taken a pot from the kitchen, worn it as a helmet. She has a knife instead, but knives don’t stop bullets, and she wishes she had a bulletproof vest. Wonders what caliber they’re using, if it can tear through concrete and wood, the thick and sturdy wood of this desk, like the desk her father had in his office that she and Cole had played under, but only once, when it was “take your half-orphaned girl children to work” day.
It’s quiet. She hates that it’s quiet. She could crawl to the window, peek out. But bullets go through glass, easy-peasy. Something slams against the door and Billie jolts and hits her head against the top of the desk.
“Billie!” Zara roars. Another slam. “Open this door. Open this fucking door. Now. Billie. Now.”
Silence.
Does she think she’s going to answer? Come crawling out with her tail between her legs? She should have made for the woods, taken one of the quad bikes while they were all shooting each other. But driving in the dark woods, on unknown roads? Stolen the car, then. She hunches forward, listening.
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