by Amy Espeseth
Scribe Publications
SUFFICIENT GRACE
Born in rural Wisconsin, Amy Espeseth immigrated to Australia in the late 1990s and lives in Melbourne. A writer, publisher and academic, she is the recipient of the 2007 Felix Meyer Scholarship in Literature, the 2010 QUT Postgraduate Creative Writing Prize, and the 2012 CAL Scribe Fiction Prize. Sufficient Grace won the 2009 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for an unpublished manuscript.
Scribe Publications Pty Ltd
18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria, Australia 3056
Email: [email protected]
First published by Scribe 2012
Copyright © Amy Espeseth 2012
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.
THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV®
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Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Lyrics in chapter 1 from ‘As the Deer’
Words and music by Martin J Nystrom
© Universal Music – Brentwood Benson Publishing
All rights reserved. International copyright secured.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data
Espeseth, Amy.
Sufficient Grace.
9781921942891 (e-book.)
Wisconsin–Fiction.
A823.4
www.scribepublications.com.au
For my family.
We did the best we could.
We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.
2 Corinthians 4:8–9
AND THEN THEY STRING THEM UP. BRAIDED ROPES FLY UP through the high crotches of the old birch by the shed and slide back down the trunk like nightcrawler ghosts. Daddy starts pulling on one end of the rope, each pull pushing a moist cloud of breath out his mouth into the cold blue air. Higher and higher the deer rises until his hooves are hanging level with Daddy’s head. That’s my brother Reuben’s buck — only a yearling — but his horns’ll push three inches, and it will make him legal.
Another deer rises, cutting through the sharp air along with the sun that is sending heat toward our November morning. Reuben is pulling on the end of this rope. The deer is thicker around with well-muscled thighs and rump and will make good eating. Daddy took her because she kept standing there in the snow, stupid, just staring at him in his tree.
Mine’s next, and I can feel my legs quaking even inside my thick layers and crusty mud boots. I’m a little embarrassed that, even with him high up in the tree, you can still see the white spots on his hindquarters and that he ain’t even half the size of Daddy’s deer. But when I heard the low swift whistle from Daddy’s stand, I just pulled up quick and aimed and fired, my arms quaking hard even after I shot him. I know now that Daddy meant for me to take the big doe, but I still don’t know why I chose the fawn. Reuben says that I got the tag so I shouldn’t be worrying; it was a blessing to draw an antlerless permit, so he was mine to take, baby or not. I was glad when Daddy took his momma too; she almost looked relieved.
Sun’s not full up and three carcasses are hanging in our tree. Daddy is so proud right now, he is grinning that crooked smile. His whiskers are hanging bits of ice and frozen blood that must’ve splashed up during the field dress of the deer, and his teeth are tobacco stained. We look the same except I am thirteen and I am a girl. I have blonde hair past my shoulders, even features and clean skin, and that is part of the problem. When I hunt, I braid my hair back and hide it under my cap so that nobody mistakes me for a whitetail. When my daddy smiles, I can’t help but smile my version of his crooked smile too.
This old birch, with her peeling white and black strips waving against the blue sky, has shot out three brown and red furry buds this fall morning. Three slabs of venison cooling in the stillness, legs spread wide and swaying in the tree. I think it’s probably sacrilegious to wonder which two are the thieves, so I keep that question private to myself. At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light and the burden of my heart rolled away. It was there by faith I received my sight, and now I am happy all the day.
Daddy says you can tell a lot about a man’s heart from the way he kills a deer. First off, a body don’t shoot if he ain’t willing to take it all the way. A guy takes a bad shot and wounds something good, he best get himself ready for some long trails tracking. In the fading light, squinting at every broken twig and blood-smeared leaf on the path, he trudges along every step wishing he had shot her clean. Some folks around here won’t track farther than the tips of their boots, but that’s selfish and lazy, and in their hearts I know they know it. I’d rather crawl crackling through the leaves on the floor of the woods for eight miles, scrambling for slobber on berries and squeezing through the brambled patches where she fell, than leave one out there bleeding overnight.
So make sure you know what you are aiming to kill, shoot straight, and always finish what you started. A good shot will bring her down a few yards from your stand, and now that she’s down she’ll be wailing and kicking and making a ruckus like you won’t believe. Most folks don’t know that the thing sometimes screams a while once it’s hit. They see a pretty doe nosing through their gardens and leaping like a gazelle over the ditches, but can’t see that something with grace straight from heaven will fight for her life with all that she’s got. And something she’s got is a wailing like a sick nursing calf.
Now you got some choices. I’ve seen some fellas that they leave the thing kicking itself silly in a circle of leaves, bleeding to death and flailing like a child making a snow angel, while they slowly climb down out of their tree and then stand and look at it screaming. That sound pierces my heart and shocks the fear of God into me. I make doubly sure that I will be a good steward of this gift that has been given unto my body. I am thankful for both the meat and my life.
And my first deer is hanging silent in the tree now. Even early this morning, when I shot the fawn, I was not shocked at the sound coming from his mouth. I have heard that crying many times before, me waiting quiet beside my daddy shooting. When I finally got my own chance to shoot last year, I didn’t see nothing, didn’t even take a shot. But until I was holding the firing gun, I had never heard that death crying coming straight at me, and it scared me. I couldn’t think of anything but to make the sound stop. I had heard my uncle preach about the wailing and gnashing of teeth in hell, but I had thought that that was the result of sinners’ pain and was their punishment alone. I never knew that the hearing of some other’s wailing and gnashing would be another punishment, yet another coal heaped upon our tongues. So, I kept shooting. I shot whatever moved: blew off the deer’s front right leg at the knee, hit him again in the hips, and yet again in his baby back. I think that broke his spine, so he stopped hurting right then, and that made me happy.
Still, though, I had to wait for Daddy to come down out of his tree over the way and finish the fawn for me. Shame on me that I didn’t do it myself. But I was shaking too hard to climb down the ladder of old boards nailed on the trunk of the tree that led to the ground beneath my stand. Daddy’s a big believer in slitting throats; it don’t waste a bullet and it’s over right quick. As he walked across from his stand, though, he glanced up at me in the tree as I stood quaking. He saw that
my face was wet, so he put the muzzle of his rifle to the fawn’s tiny head and ended it with a bullet.
I came down from the tree and I lay the deer out on his back; the fawn’s quiet face peered upwards through the tangle of tree branches that laced the sky. Even though he was barely past a year and I’m almost grown, he was about as heavy as me, so it was a bit of a struggle to manoeuvre him into a comfortable position. So little blood spilt out in the gutting. It might’ve looked to be more than it was as it stained the surrounding snow and soaked out through the white until, from above, me and him tangled together must’ve looked like the stamen of a heart-red flower. Daddy helped me with the parts I wasn’t strong enough for, but he still let me guide my way through the carcass. He was mainly off to the side of me, anyway, beneath his stand carving up the fawn’s momma.
Then Daddy looped ropes around the neck of the fawn so he could drag both deer together. I should’ve drug him myself, but I was still puffing from the excitement of shooting and the effort of cleaning him out, so I just gathered up and started carrying the rifles. That was when we heard the shots from Reuben’s deer stand across the woods. We heard him fire then fire again. My brother yelled out that he’d filled his tag. Today was a good day for Rundhaugs, but maybe not so good a day for deer.
Before we headed off to find Reuben and start dragging the kill home, while Daddy was bent over his deer, I set down the guns and reached way in the pile of entrails and got my fawn’s heart and liver. They were cooling down already; I could feel it. Still, they were hotter than my skin; they seemed to beat in rhythm with my pulse. I didn’t have to hold them long, though; I had two square bags made of cheesecloth in my pocket, and I put each organ safely in its own little pouch. Tied with twine, they both would make it home safe and clean. I made the bags in the hope that I would get a deer, that I could give Daddy his favourite treat for supper. He’ll be touched I went to the effort. Too bad that there’s a hole in the heart where one of my bullets went through. There was enough left to eat, though, and I smiled a bit secretly to myself as we started to make our way home. I held and carried the organs close to my heart and pondered what small things please my father.
1
WHAT I KNOW OF WOMEN IS THIS: I CAN SMELL WHEN MY mother is happy. When I go hunting with my daddy and my older brother, I leave off dabbing my mom’s perfume behind my ears. The scent the men make from doe glands and urine and such is better; it lets me get closer before killing.
What I know of men is this: when I disappoint, my daddy lets the trees slap my face. When we walk together in the woods, he breaks path, I walk second, and Reuben guards the rear. The trees have sharp, spindly branches to hinder us, and when he’s mad, Daddy shoulders them and lets them fly back hard. Maybe we ain’t seen any deer or maybe he’s tired. Daddy tracking a big buck holds the branches longer and makes my way easy, only unless he’s too set on tracking to pause. He and my brother got beards and don’t know the sting. Reuben should: his beard is half cheek.
My family is my church, and my church — the Full Quarter Church of Failing — is my family. What I know of women and men I know from Full Quarter. There, folks have sore knees from hunting, farming and praying on concrete, crying out in the sanctuary and in the milking pen alike. Hands callused from axe handles, factory machines, and mixing spoons raise up in praise to the Lord. We sing holy, holy, holy and we welcome everybody, former drunks and wife beaters included. We don’t drink poison and raise the dead, but we might.
Sometimes I know what they are talking about in church, sitting in the sanctuary in our pews or on folding metal chairs in a circle in the fellowship hall. They talk about the lost, the world, keeping a clean house, and standing before God to give account. But they don’t question what I question. Like why we keep trout but leave suckers on riverbanks to die, and which caterpillars turn into butterflies and which to moths. How come cold rises up from the ground? Folks stay busy talking about flesh falling into sin, who and what’s under the blood, and their prayer life and spiritual walk. All that is more about women and men, than God. But women and men is where God is.
Sunday means church, so we get up early in the dark. Daddy has warmed the pick-up truck; it’s humming in the garage. My brother Reuben is yawning, and Mom’s still braiding her hair as we pile into the truck and drive to town.
Before Uncle Ingwald’s preaching starts, the worship service goes on for a half an hour, starting with the regular, old-timey hymns and usually finishing with a couple praise songs or choruses. Aunt Gloria, with her wavery, opera-lady voice and baby hands, is leading the singing. Sometimes, when the Spirit lays heavy in the air over the heads of the congregation, he will descend. It seems he descends quite regularly onto Grandma Esther.
My daddy’s momma has the gift of tongues. Not that that is much unusual, as most folks in my church have been filled with the Holy Spirit and use heavenly languages to worship and pray in church most Sundays. But Grandma Esther’s gift is more than a prayer language: she prophesies. Right when she was filled with the Holy Ghost, my grandma got some of her spiritual gifts, and she got some more as she grew stronger in her walk with the Lord. She grows more powerful daily with Jesus. We don’t take up snakes like some churches we hear of in the South, but I bet Grandma could.
Grandma is stronger than a snake, and through Jesus she is stronger than death. Grandma is a discerner of spirits: she can tell the living from the dead, more like good from evil if I understand right. When the Spirit comes upon her and gives her a message for the church, she feels it in her bones whether it is the Lord or the Enemy speaking, trying to lead us astray. How she tells the voices apart, I don’t know. But she knows, and the Lord knows, and that is enough.
Everybody is rocking slowly in the pews, standing or sitting as the Spirit leads them, singing their own song of love and joy or weeping out repentance to the Lord. Suddenly, it seems as if the air has been sucked out of the sanctuary, and my skin feels hot and tight. There is a stillness and a quiet like the middle of the woods. Grandma in her pale church dress bolts straight up in her pew. It’s time.
‘Hebesheba nonna. Hebesheba nonna. Op it littlemoftastompka, hebesheba nonna. Keptilitforngorna keshnor link gup nonna fortuntintin. Jujkilop my organa rotyu. Jujkilop gorthu jus. Horphush young, most upostable ruk danke!’
Grandma speaks out the words that the Holy Spirit puts in her heart; the Spirit of God indwells her body and gives the entire congregation a message. She speaks soft and slow, and she speaks harsh and fast. She always speaks the Word of the Lord. Her rhythm matches the ancient drumming that plays on the reservation radio station, and her voice matches the tribe’s low rumbling and pitched cries.
Aunt Gloria waits up at the podium on the stage. Keeping her head still and her eyes open, she waits silently with the congregation. She looks out on us; I see her eyes rest on her children, my cousin Samuel sitting next to his sister Naomi in the front pew. During this time, I’m meant to be praying to the Lord and waiting on one of his servants to bring forth a translation; instead, I’m holding my breath and looking round the room for tongues of fire to be resting on people’s heads like the day of Pentecost. I haven’t seen any fire yet, but maybe my eyes haven’t yet been gifted for the seeing. I close my eyes and pretend I’m just not there, not alive in the Spirit, maybe closer to dead.
But my spirit leaps within me and I hear: It is hard to tell the living from the dead.
Then, I see.
In my mind’s eye I can see what Grandma speaks: an opossum lies stock still, foam caking in the corners of its mouth and stank coming up from the hindquarters. The thing is laying on a dirt road, feigning death, telling a lie. Its fangy teeth glare up from the ground, daring me to move it, but even if I grab that bait by the tail and drag it off the road, the liar won’t start. Possums blur the line between the quick and the dead.
Nasty pinched face with stinky white fur, that ain’t attractive
to me. Once, Grandma told me that she’d used an opossum fur sponge in the bathtub as a girl, and that nothing she’d used since had even come close to the clean she got with a possum. She also said that spring brides would sometimes eat possum tail before their wedding to attract a New Year baby. The only redeeming feature I can see in the opossum is that she carries her babies in a pouch or on her back; running or climbing, she keeps them close to her. And no snake can kill her; she is stronger than his bite.
The church waits. I play possum and hold my breath; I do not speak the vision. God’s revelation to our church will have to be interpreted by someone else. I’m no prophet; I’m scared that Grandma’s blood in my veins will call out to God and tell him that I’m ready. Then again, most everybody in our church is related already, so there is lots of Grandma’s blood calling out. Besides my aunt and uncle, I’ve got cousins and second cousins and third cousins filling up the pews. Our whole family — except the dead and my prodigal Uncle Peter — sits inside this very sanctuary.
Usually, after waiting to give others an opportunity to walk in the gifts of faith, Aunt Gloria still ends up bringing forth the message anyway.
And Aunt Gloria speaks, clipping her words, almost quacking, ‘The Lord sayeth unto us — do not be afraid of what is happening all around you. Do not look to the left and fear what tragedy is befalling your neighbour; do not look to the right and covet what joy is uplifting your enemy. For it is my will, sayeth the Lord, my will which shall determine the tragedy and joys, sorrow and smiles of my people. I will guide you. I will protect you. You are mine, I am yours, and you are safe in my arms!’
She did not see what I saw.
Everyone thanks God for the message of safety and love. Quickly, all the air comes back in the room and swells up folks into joy and thanksgiving. Most everybody starts calling out happy prayers to God, and little patches of singing erupt in different rows throughout the church. The breeze wafting through the church smells like grass right after the rain.
