“No!” I yelled again. I pointed at the door. “Get out! I don’t want you here, Rufus! Get out of here!”
I never felt such a rage. And I wanted to throw Rufus out the window, I was so fed up with him. Rufus, always around, just always around and thinking he knew all the answers. Rufus who was always perfect and always right and always just there.
“Get out!”
Rufus was mad at me, too. I could see it in his face. His jaw was all tight and his eyes just glared. Rufus was strong. I figure he could have killed me if he wanted.
But he just gave me the sharpest, most cutting look I’d ever seen him give. Then he walked out and slammed my bedroom door shut behind him.
I stood there in the room, my body freezing up hard inside, and didn’t know what to do.
I dropped to my knees.
“Help me,” I whispered.
Then I stretched myself out on that floor and cried like a baby. Cried the way I used to when Mother was going out the door. Seeing that door close.
He left with a girl. He left with a girl and me waiting for him.
I cried till I could cry no more. Then I just lay there on the floor.
Everything was so still. The sun was coming in hot through my window and it landed on my back and felt good. A bluejay carried on in the apple tree. And off down the street, I could hear the two Cornicelli kids, giggling and splashing in their baby pool.
He left me.
The Light
I never knew life could be so hard.
I had never wanted to know anybody’s secrets—not Mother’s, not Pop’s. Don’t tell me, that’s what I used to say.
I guess the secret I never wanted to find out was that life can be so hard.
And that people are not always what you think they are. Or what you want them to be.
Preacher Man never did come back. The story that went around town the rest of the summer was always changing, so I don’t know what really happened. But Darlene Cook did take off with him that night. And most stories held that she left home about nine-thirty. Same as me.
Darlene had her own car, so they took off in that. One story said she left her car at a Greyhound station and they hopped a bus. But another story said she and the Preacher did all their traveling in the car and didn’t take any buses—or hitchhike.
Darlene’s folks had one big fit when they found out she was gone. Some said her father loaded up his rifle and set out on the road looking for her and the Preacher.
But everybody agreed there wasn’t a thing he could have done, except maybe kill somebody. Darlene had graduated high school in May and she could do as she pleased.
Darlene was gone nearly three weeks. Then she came back home. And here’s where all the speculation comes in. It seems Darlene wouldn’t explain anything to anybody. She wouldn’t say where she’d been those three weeks or what she’d been doing. And she wouldn’t say one word about the Preacher. Not one word, good or bad.
So people in town took to making up their own stories. Some said the Preacher was the Devil in disguise and that Darlene found it out and came running back home. Others said the girl must have just cast a spell on the Preacher and it took him three weeks to shake it off and send her back. Some said Darlene probably thought she was going to have a baby. And then some said she probably wasn’t with the Preacher at all, that she just wanted to have some fun out on her own and she made up a story about leaving town with him.
Well, nobody ever knew anything for sure. Nobody but Darlene. And I hear she still isn’t talking.
The days after the Preacher left me were the darkest days I’ve ever known. Black days.
I wouldn’t talk to anybody. I ignored Mother and Pop when I had to be around them, and I stayed in my room the rest of the time. Rufus didn’t come back.
I guess I always believed hell was a pit of burning fire, like the middle of a volcano. I always believed it to be real, with red flames and all.
But hell is the only word I can think of to describe how I felt those days after the Preacher. Tormented. Hurt. And longing to cry out to God or to somebody, “Save me!”
I had been living my life trying my best to do right, to please God, so I wouldn’t be sent into the fire. And never knowing that all it takes is one person, one earthly person, to put you there.
Maybe there really is a hell where people burn and burn. I just know one thing: If enough people do to me what the Preacher did, then if I do go to hell, I’ll be used to it. I’ll be ready for it.
Those were dark days. Days of emptiness and loneliness and loss of faith. Yes, I’d lost that, too.
I’d pray at night to the Lord, begging Him to change things. Mostly I asked to be with the Preacher again. Or I’d ask for the hurting inside me to stop. I’d ask to forget what happened to me.
But the next day nothing would be different. I’d just wake up and not want to get out of bed. And I’d ask myself what in the world was going to become of me, when the Lord wouldn’t help me.
Mother and Pop were worried. They’d never seen me like that and I know they were watching me and secretly talking between themselves.
After about the fourth day of darkness, Mother tried to help me, to find out what was wrong. I was in my room that afternoon, lying on my bed, wanting nothing but to be with the Preacher, though by then I knew I hated him.
“Pete?” She knocked softly on the door, then came in carrying a basket of my clean clothes.
She didn’t really look at me. And she walked into my room the way you’d walk into a doctor’s office—when you’re trying to be so quiet and trying to look cool when you’re not.
She set the basket at the foot of my bed, hesitated a second, then said, “Peter, are you all right?”
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t bother to look at her.
“We’ve been worried about you, Pop and I. If there’s anything we can do for you …”
I just shook my head.
She waited a minute, then started out the door. But as she was closing it behind her, without turning around to look at me, she said, “We love you, Pete.”
And when the door closed, I wanted to cry again. But I didn’t. I’d done enough crying.
Things stayed that way about a week or so. My folks left me alone, which not many folks would be good enough to do. But mine were different.
Yes, I guess if I learned one thing that summer, it was that I had a great mother and a great father. And not just because they left me alone when I needed it. There were other reasons.
Like, I knew, positively, that I could always count on them. Maybe their ideas about the world were different from mine, but I knew they’d still stick by me. And until the summer of the Preacher Man, I never really thought about it. I guess I just expected them to be like that.
But I know now that you can’t expect anything from anybody. If somebody loves you, it’s because he wants to. And it’s never because it’s what he’s supposed to do.
Don’t expect anything. That’s what I learned.
I never expected Rufus to forgive me for throwing him out of my room that day, either. I lost the Preacher and I lost my best friend. I didn’t expect to get either one of them back.
So after that week of darkness, when the hurt in me finally started to lighten up some and I felt like getting out of the house, I went around town, missing Rufus. I’d think how good it would be to get a chili dog with him, maybe ride our bikes out to the lake and take a swim. I’d even think how good it would be to hear him say, “Hell, Pete.”
Something else I learned: Not many friends in the world were like Rufus. I sure missed him.
By the time Darlene came back to town, I’d stopped being angry with the Preacher. I sure had hated him for betraying me the way he did. But even though I thought he could have handled things (me and Darlene) a lot better than he did, I wasn’t mad at him.
I thought about going to talk to Darlene, too. But I couldn’t risk it. Besides, it really wouldn’t have changed
anything for me. It wouldn’t have taken away those dark days.
I did wonder, though, if God had a real purpose in allowing the Preacher to hurt me so much. Because, the way it turned out, I never knew about all the riches I had till the Preacher came into my life … and left it.
I’ve got to admit, I still worried about him. I worried he might be lonely. I figured he never wanted to hurt me or anybody else. I figured he just didn’t know what to do about being lonely.
I still had Mother and Pop. And, before the summer was over, I had Rufus, too.
It was already August and I was mowing Mrs. Donaldson’s lawn, just down the street from us, when Rufus rode by.
The mower was loud, so I couldn’t have yelled at him if I wanted to. And I wanted to. I wanted to wave both my arms in the air and bring him back to me, smiling and cocky and saying, “Hey, you old hound dog!”
But I just watched him go by.
Then, before he was very far down the street, my mower ran out of gas. Just sputtered down and stopped. Everything was real quiet.
And I said, “Hell.”
I didn’t mean to. I still wasn’t one for swearing.
But it just slipped out, and Rufus heard it.
He put on his brakes and he turned around and he looked at me like I was some creature from outer space.
Then his face burst into this big, wide grin and he chuckled, then he gurgled, and finally he just laughed out loud.
At first I just gawked at him. And I didn’t know whether or not he was making fun of me.
But next thing I knew, I was giggling, too, and there we were, both of us, holding our stomachs and laughing our heads off. Him on his bike and me on the grass, laughing like hyenas.
Rufus and I made up that day. Somehow after the laughing was done, Rufus wheeled back to me and we got to talking. Then we went for a pop, and things were like they’d always been. Well, like they’d been before the Preacher came.
I still hadn’t properly thanked Rufus for sticking by me that night I waited for the Preacher. So before the summer was over, I used some of my mowing money and bought him a used guitar. He nearly hit me over the head with it because I spent my money on him. But he liked it a lot, and the first week he had it he learned to play “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”
I also bought Mother and Pop something: That picture of the three of us—the one I took from the album when I was packing to leave—I got it blown up. And I bought a nice frame for it and hung it in the hallway, where you could see it if you were coming in the door, or going out. Even now, a year later and a year older, I never go through that door without looking at it.
Amen
Rufus and I had a good time in eighth grade. He made me go out for football with him, and after the first day of practice I was so near dead, I figured Rufus must want me gone so he could finally have my bike.
But I didn’t quit. And even though I didn’t get to play much during the season, I could sit right out there on the bench and yell at Rufus to kill them, and pound him on the back during timeouts, and squirt some water down his throat before he ran off again—and for those times, getting beat up in practice was worth it. I’m even going to do it again this year.
Rufus and me, we had a good year. I also helped him pass English.
That summer of the Preacher Man just drew Rufus and me closer than ever before. And not because we were finally the same. Because we’re not.
Rufus, he’s still a hard-nosed atheist. He’s a good, honest person—somebody I figure anybody could respect—but he still won’t have any of that heaven talk.
And I won’t try to change him. I’m hoping that’s just something God will let slide.
Me, I still go to church sometimes. But it’s a real quiet thing for me now. Sort of like a nice swim in a lake.
One thing I see now that I couldn’t see last summer is that after the revival is over, the world is a place that isn’t anything like the inside of a church on a hot summer night. It’s a world where good guys like Rufus are happy atheists, and nice folks like my parents don’t care much about church, and spiritual people like me wander around on earth wishing it was heaven.
It’s a world where somebody like the Man can work so hard to save a million doomed sinners but come near killing the soul of one mixed-up kid. And never meaning to. I really believe that. He never meant to hurt me.
Is that what it’s taken me a year to understand?
I’ve still got Mother and Pop. And Rufus. I know each one of them would walk through fire for me.
And I wonder, a year later, what the Preacher has got.
Maybe he’d say he’s got the Lord. Maybe he’d say he doesn’t need anybody else but the Lord.
Well, I do. I need Mother and Pop and Rufus with me.
Is that what’s taken a year to understand?
But it still doesn’t end there. Because even though I don’t go to church as much—I’m still trying to figure church out—even though I don’t seem to need church as much, I know I need God.
I just don’t know how to get Him. And fit Him in with the other folks I need.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t throw away these pieces of broken ceramic cross. The day I fished them out of my duffel, stuffed them in a paper bag, and put them in my drawer—that day, I thought it was the Preacher I was shoveling into the bag. Pieces of the Preacher. I wasn’t ready to let go of him yet.
But now the pieces aren’t him at all. They’re me. They’re me and God and all the powerful feelings I still have about Him. And I think now I can’t throw away these pieces because they’re a cross.
That’s what finally needs finishing. The Preacher Man is behind me. But God is still right there, in front.
And just yesterday, just yesterday Rufus and I were sitting at the firehouse when I said, “Rufus?”
He said, “Huh?”
“You think you’ll ever believe in God?”
“Doubt it.”
“Well, you think maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, Pete,” Rufus answered, “I know.”
And, finally, I know, too. That throwing away this mess doesn’t mean I’m giving something up. Or losing something I can’t get back.
It’s that there are too many pieces and too much dust.
I’m just ready for something whole.
A FINE WHITE DUST
By Cynthia Rylant
ABOUT THE BOOK
Pete is thirteen years old the summer the Rev. James W. Carson, a traveling minister, comes to his small North Carolina town to hold a revival. The Preacher Man, as Pete calls him, delivers “hell fire and damnation” sermons that are so powerful people swarm about him to have their souls saved. Pete is among them, but his parents aren’t. Neither is his best friend, Rufus, an avowed atheist. Pete feels betrayed by those he loves, but he is so caught up in his search for “truth” that he can’t see the darkness that lies before him. When the Preacher Man invites Pete to travel with him and “spread the word,” Pete packs his bags, leaves his parents a note, and sets out to meet the Preacher Man. The Rev. Carson never shows up, but Rufus does. It takes the remainder of the summer for Pete to come to terms with his feelings about the man who betrayed him, the man he had made into a hero. Through it all, Rufus is quietly by his side, proving his loyalty and friendship during Pete’s darkest days.
PRE-READING ACTIVITY
Tell students that A Fine White Dust deals with betrayal. Ask them to define betrayal. Have them write a journal entry about a time in their life when they have felt betrayed. Consider the following questions: Who betrayed you? How did you know that you were betrayed? How did you deal with it? At what point were you able to move on and forget about the betrayal? Students who don’t wish to write a personal entry may choose to write about a main character who deals with betrayal in a novel they’ve read.
DISCUSSION TOPICS
Pete feels that before he can move on with his life he
must deal with the disappointments of the summer of the Preacher Man. How does telling his story help him “finish it”?
At the beginning of the novel, Pete judges his parents because they don’t go to church. How do Pete’s father and mother react when Pete gets “saved”? Why does Pete’s mother show up at the revival? Discuss why Pete and his mother never talk about her presence at the church that night. Pete’s mother leaves a new Bible by his bed. How is this symbolic of her support?
Communication seems to be an issue with Pete. After he is “saved,” he has a difficult time dealing with his parents and Rufus, his best friend. Explain the irony in this.
Betrayal is a central theme in the novel. How does the Preacher Man betray Pete? Discuss how Pete betrays his parents and Rufus. Pete’s mother and Rufus never betray him. How does Rufus demonstrate his loyalty and friendship, especially during Pete’s toughest moments?
Pete makes references to loneliness throughout the book. Why does he think the Preacher Man is lonely? Discuss how Pete’s assumptions may be incorrect. He also says about Jesus, “The last person on earth who should have been lonely. But He was the most alone person I ever could imagine.” (p. 75) What is the difference in being alone and being lonely? Why do you think Pete seems obsessed with loneliness? How is Pete lonely but not alone at the end of the novel?
Pete says, “I guess I wanted somebody to make me better. To save me from hell.” (p. 7) Debate how this feeling contributes to Pete’s reaction to the Preacher Man. What does the Preacher Man offer Pete that he can’t get from his parents or Rufus?
Why does hearing about the Preacher Man’s wild days make Pete uncomfortable? The Preacher tells Pete to call him “Jim,” but Pete never does. Debate whether this request from the Rev. is part of his scheme to hook Pete. Why can’t Pete allow himself to call the Preacher Man by his first name? Discuss whether it has something to do with hero worship.
Define the term “con man.” Discuss how the Preacher Man conned Pete, and the entire town. What does Pete learn about “saved souls” during the summer of the Preacher Man? How does Pete’s faith change? What does Pete say at the end of the novel that indicates that he has forgiven the Preacher Man?
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