Lyla Leona led our parade. Close on her heels, all in black, Freda Graves followed. Lyla wore a white bonnet that tied in the folds of her chins, and a white dress that brushed the ground, turning it gray at the hem. She was going to be baptized. Like the rest of us good Lutherans, she’d had water dribbled down her forehead when she was a baby; now she said she needed something more, a true baptism, because she believed she’d been born a second time, and she was afraid she still carried more than the taint of original sin.
Lyla had been a free woman since she was sixteen. She was the first female to live at the rooming house, the only woman in Willis who had money all her own, not her daddy’s trust or her husband’s goodwill, but solid cash—coins and bills she counted every morning and took to the bank promptly at nine. I’d always admired her independence, her modest fortune, and had never worried myself over the nature of her work.
People remembered her parents. Her mother played the piano. She sang sweetly and off key, with an honest voice. Her father laughed a lot at other men’s jokes. Folks liked them and were sorry to see what became of their daughter. But Lyla’s parents had been dead for more than ten years. It was too late for her to be a good daughter and go home. Lyla sought salvation for her own sake.
Wind beat the trees along Bear Creek, and I knew how cold the stream was this time of year: cold enough to send a dull ache from your ankles to your thighs. But that didn’t stop Freda Graves. She unlaced her dusty boots and led Lyla into the stream. Water swirled up to their knees. Lyla’s dress floated around her and lay like a great lily on the water.
Night rose and walked the earth; leaves fluttered like dark wings. The sky was still desperately blue, but the ground sank into shadow. A fast river could knock a grown man’s feet from under him, throw him on his face and drag him all the way to Moon Lake. A body in this river wouldn’t be found till morning. We all had the same thought. I saw my cousin Jesse’s startled face. I wondered how the angels kept their laughter down when they witnessed the surprise of the dead.
Danger gave Lyla Leona a glimpse of glory. She risked her life to be clean in God’s eyes. I longed to be pulled under, not merely dunked but immersed. I knew I’d have to wait for the slow water of August for that.
Joanna Foot forgot herself and crushed Elliot’s fingers. She was wearing white shorts with huge yellow goldfish. They swam around her full bottom and thick thighs. They bobbed as she waddled to the shore. Eula and Luella Lockwood chanted: Dunk her in the river, give her to the Giver. Bo had a blanket ready. At last he’d have his chance to grab hold of Lyla, and even God couldn’t disapprove. Only Myron Evans seemed unconcerned. He limped over to the bushes, dragging his heavy shoe. I heard his zipper go down, then a soft spray on grass.
Freda prayed above the rush of Bear Creek. Her lips and hands praised God. “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and stuffed it against Lyla Leona’s mouth. Lyla bent at the waist, stuck her head in the black river like a duck going tail up. It was done.
Lyla sputtered and cried as she surfaced. Joanna Foot sobbed too and splashed into the frigid water to take Lyla in her arms. I thought they’d fall for sure, the way they were carrying on, rocking and moaning, their two huge chests heaving. Bo Effinger held the blanket wide, ready to enfold the reborn woman. He paced the shore, impatient, cheated by Joanna Foot.
When Lyla reached the shore, she pulled the blanket from Bo’s outstretched arms and wrapped it around herself. She was proud and separate, too holy for anyone to touch, the first among us to be baptized a second time, in the spirit. And she who had never been more pure than anyone meant to hold this moment close as long as she could.
For weeks after that night I didn’t see Lyla rub up against any of the men in her casual, accidental way. She stopped wearing red and started going door to door, witnessing. She won no converts, but Freda Graves praised her for her courage and told us the true test was to persist even in the face of defeat. When I first met Lyla, she was always busting into Amen and Sweet Jesus. She’d sing it out, jumping to her feet and shaking the floor to keep her sides from splitting with the joy. The river had truly changed her. Once, she had danced and shouted for God; now she shuffled. Her serenity gave me hope. I might still be saved.
Lyla Leona was born again, but she kept her old room at the boardinghouse. Now that the days were warm, the long porch was crowded with old men, some who lived there, some who didn’t. They smoked pipes and played cribbage. Lyla held her head high when she moved among them, but they failed to see her new dignity. They wheezed and whistled; they said, “Lyla honey, I got ten dollars if you got ten minutes.” She told us she ignored their offers, but they were hard of hearing and weren’t surprised by silence.
Mrs. Graves kept reminding us how the devil loved attention, and every Tuesday night we gave him that. We had to be warned before we prayed. Over and over she told us: the closer you are to God, the more the devil wants you. This made no sense to me. I thought of the devil as having every bad trait imaginable, laziness high among them. I thought, Why does he bother with people who are hard to trap when there are so many of us lingering near the borderline ready to be snatched?
The story that scared me the most was the one about Freda Graves’s daughter. The devil came after her in a serious way. She was pregnant, and Mrs. Graves was going to be a grandmother for the first time. Just days before the baby was due, Freda Graves heard a crackle of laughter. She felt a flash of heat in her brain. For a moment she went blind; then a voice inside her own head told her she’d have a surprise when she saw her grandchild.
The devil had spoken to her. She knew him. She didn’t pray to God to change things; He alone chose the time and place for miracles. No, Freda Graves was humble. If there was something wrong with the baby, she prayed to be strong enough to bear her trial.
After three days of prayer the child was born. A valve in her tiny heart had not closed, and she couldn’t breathe without a tube stuck in a hole the doctor cut in her throat. She had a cleft palate and low, unformed ears, shaped in the simple whorls of tiny shells. Oh, the little monster, well loved and taken back to Heaven in a week, she was born to test the fortitude of Freda Graves, a human sacrifice for the soul of another, Jesus born again and again so that we might be spared.
Freda prayed to understand, and God gave her an answer in the night. The child was too dear for earth, the beautiful soul in her ugly body too precious, and God had called her back to be with Him.
I wondered why God let Mrs. Graves’s daughter carry this child for nine months. He must have known all along that her soul was too pure for this world. Why didn’t He give the woman one of those pretty babies with an imperfect soul and hang on to what He wanted? The wooden Jesus writhed on his cross in the shadows of the bookshelf. I wanted to ask him to explain the reason we had to suffer, the reason he had to die. I didn’t know who to fear more—a careless God or a malicious devil.
I needed a glimpse of the Lord’s plan, so I came to Freda Graves’s house every Tuesday night, hoping to find a way to talk with Him. But I held back my paltry confessions. My temptations were pitiful things: the strawberries in Joanna Foot’s garden, a dream about Zack Holler, the memory of Gwen’s kiss in the tree house, my knowledge of my parents’ lives.
I believed I was still too far from God for the devil to have any serious interest in me, but Freda Graves thought otherwise. My silence meant I hid my sins. This was a fool’s crime; you can’t deceive the Lord. My redemption depended on Freda Graves, and she intended to have her glory. On the last Tuesday in June she headed straight for my sullied soul.
Her living room was darker than usual, the windows shut tight and locked. I thought Mrs. Graves wanted to make a point about hell, about gloom and heat and how much of it we could bear before we cried out. I vowed to be the last to complain, but I was worried about some of the others. Minnie Hathaway sat next to me on the sofa. Her head kept rolling back. She tu
gged at her gloves but wouldn’t take them off. I saw her swollen joints through the thin cloth. Her hands were crippled by arthritis. She was ashamed. All those years I thought she wore white gloves to look like a lady. Now I saw the truth. That was happening to me too much lately.
“One among us is afraid to give herself to God,” Freda said. “We must help her.” I thought of poor Minnie. “The dark one works in many ways. He squats in our hearts. He gives us doubt and keeps us from speaking to our Lord. He tells us our prayers are selfish and that the Father will not listen to our puling pleas. The devil wants to keep you for himself. Silence is the devil’s language. God longs to hear our voices raised to Him in exaltation. You will speak, my child. You will speak in the tongue God has chosen for you alone. Come to me, Elizabeth Macon.”
The sound of my name jolted my heart into an extra beat. No one called me Elizabeth.
“Come forward, girl,” said Mrs. Graves. I had to obey, but I slouched toward my redemption, certain I wasn’t ready to be saved.
“Gather around, all of you, gather around our child who is afraid to speak to the God who loves her. Help her open her heart and her mouth to Him. This lost lamb needs our guidance, needs our hands on her. Lie down, Elizabeth, here on the floor before me.”
The carpet was prickly, stiff with wine that had spilled and dried. I stretched out in front of those strangers who told their secrets to God while we stood witness. I laid myself before them and let them encircle me.
“Do not be afraid. God has given each one of us a language all our own, a language only He can understand. You cannot say the wrong words if you allow the spirit to enter you. Free His tongue to speak in you. Let your words flow like a river into the bottomless lake of God’s great mind. Your heart will know the truth. Do not try to understand. Trust the word of God, and He will raise you in His mighty arms. The Lord will ravish you with sweetness.”
I was willing to let her have her way because I still didn’t believe that anyone, not even Freda Graves, could make me speak in a language I didn’t know. If she failed, I’d be free. I could stop hoping for salvation. I could try to accept my weaknesses and learn to live with my desires.
They laid hands on me, all of them, as they’d done to Bo Effinger the night I watched at the window. Minnie had her hands on my shoulder, and she leaned close enough for me to catch a good whiff of her whiskey breath. No wonder she suffered from the heat. I hoped Freda Graves wouldn’t smell what I smelled. I was afraid of how she might punish Minnie.
Mrs. Graves touched my head. On my right thigh, Elliot Foot’s fingers burned through my dress. The man was still in torment. His hands exposed his guilt. Bo Effinger spread his palms across my stomach.
I didn’t have to raise my head to see who touched me. Myron’s hands gripped my left ankle so tight I thought my foot would go numb. Lyla Leona’s soft fingers rested on my hipbone. She rubbed me in a distracted, dreamy way. She led a celibate life but hadn’t lost her sense for pleasure. Joanna Foot poked at my knee, and the twins sat arm in arm at my side. For weeks I’d thought of these people as well-acquainted strangers, but now I realized I knew them all from their fingertips to their souls.
Freda said, “Close your eyes, Elizabeth.” She pulled on the s’s; a buzz hissed through my skull. “These hands on you are not human hands; these hands are the pathways of God’s love. Let yourself open wide to Him. Speak to Him in the voice He longs to hear.”
She was wrong. The hands on me were human, terrible and human. A dozen pairs rose and fell with the motion of my own breath until I believed my breath depended on those human hands. I thought: If they press too hard, I’ll choke and smother; if they lift their hands too high, I’ll take in air until I burst. My mother leaned against the thick-necked trucker; he laid his hands on her so gently she wept. Father moaned when Miriam pulled her hand away from his palm, the loss of that pressure too painful to bear. Sweat pooled at the backs of my knees and the base of my spine. I wanted to fling their searing hands from my body. Their palms branded my skin. I wanted to buck free and run through the cool night, like Nina running barefoot across the dewy lawn, like Nina running into the cool arms of the Indian boy, the cool arms of the devil. Let them have their fiery God. Let me be mute. I didn’t want Him this way.
But I had no will. My body was stiff, muscles clenched so tight I shook. I told myself I had to wrench free before I shattered, but their hands kept me bound. Their hands, gentle now, light as breath itself, barely touched me but held me fast as chains and shackles.
When I couldn’t stand it a second longer, when the sweat beaded on my face and trickled into my ears, when the murmurings above me merged with the endless babble of the dead, the flood of words exploded from my chest, the language I had never learned came to me. Sentences drummed through my brain, inchoate but pure. I cried out to God, honoring Him with every utterance.
The Lord looked at me and smiled. His eyes were blue, light as my father’s eyes, but they did not disapprove. He did not raise His finger to wipe the lipstick from my mouth; He did not pull at my teased hair. This father listened and forgave. My tongue fluttered with simple joy.
Slowly the fires flickered out as the hands lifted. Someone opened a window. A cool breeze whipped over my body, and I shivered with delight and was silent.
They all praised God, some in words I knew, some in strange tongues. Minnie curled into a ball and rolled on the floor next to me. Bo Effinger pounded the floor, a giant child on his knees. He stayed mute, but his hands knew another language, his hands beat out his story of desire. Elliot Foot was the only one who hadn’t loosened his grasp the moment I began to speak. He alone pinned me to the earth and kept my body from floating free to God. His fingers dug into my thigh, and I thought he’d rip my dress. But the memory of the words sang through me, and I was afraid to make him stop, afraid to defile my lips with an ordinary sound.
19
NOW THAT God was listening, I had to be ready for the devil to test me. I felt him crouched in my heart, about to spring. I thought the gift of tongues would spare me from desire. But instead I longed to touch my own body, to rock myself to sleep. I dreamed of dogs chasing me, nipping at my heels. The only way I could fall asleep was to chant: “In the name of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you, Satan. In the name of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you, Satan.”
Mother worried. She said I was too thin, too pale, too quiet. She said I slumped when I walked, I mumbled when I talked. How could I tell her that I was trying to pray without ceasing, that food and conversation got in my way?
Fortunately she couldn’t dwell entirely on me. She had to fuss over Daddy. He forgot to shave. His hair grew over his collar. He owned three pairs of jeans and five plaid shirts, one for each day of the week, but he’d started sleeping in his clothes and sometimes wore the same shirt for days in a row.
I felt responsible in a way for my father’s unhappiness, depriving him of whatever pleasure or peace of mind he’d had from giving money to Miriam Deets. But I still didn’t regret what I’d done. I figured he’d get over it soon enough and we’d all be better off in the end.
After dinner he’d often sit in his chair, rubbing his own ribs as he read the paper. He seemed to have conversations with himself: his lips moved; smiles and scowls flickered across his face. Mom stared until he looked up. “What?” he’d growl. “What is it?”
“You’re doing it again,” Mom said.
“Doing what?”
“Rubbing your side and grimacing.”
“I am not grimacing.”
“You’re rubbing your side.”
“Can’t a man—”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it doesn’t hurt.”
“You look like it hurts.”
“Christ, woman, lay off. I’ve got a little gas, do you mind?”
Mother suspected the pain in his side had something to do with Miriam Deets, though she didn’t know what I’d done. I don’t think she ever considered the possibility that Dad
dy’s discomfort might be truly physical.
She was sure to ferret out the truth sooner or later, and I knew she’d find me out too: she’d guess where I went Tuesday nights. I was as untrustworthy as my father. We kept our secrets, we told our lies. If Mother left us, we deserved nothing better.
I didn’t have to confess. It was a bad night all around and started to go wrong when Myron Evans pissed on Freda Graves’s front window. A splatter like rain hit the glass. We knew the night was clear, swirling with stars. Freda pulled the blind and it flapped on its roller. Myron Evans stood in her garden, feet spread and planted, penis aimed at the pane, its stream dwindling.
Mrs. Graves walked to the door, slowly, opened it, slowly, giving Myron plenty of time to dry out. “Come in here, Myron,” she said.
“You can’t help me,” he called. His voice cracked like a boy’s.
“No one can.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“He took my money and God didn’t stop him.”
“Myron, come inside.”
“I liked it.”
“What did you like?”
“And God didn’t stop that, either. God closed His eyes.”
“God never closes His eyes,” Freda said.
“God has no eyes.”
“God is all eyes.”
Myron looked behind him. “Monster!” he yelled.
“He sees you now, Myron. He sees us all. He wants you to come inside.”
“No, there are flames at the door. He won’t let me in.”
Meteors in August Page 14
