The Beautiful-Ugly (The Beautiful-Ugly Trilogy)

by James Snyder

  While Suzy and the twins just looked at her, saying nothing.

  Connelly knew Rebecca didn’t mind at all Mr. Cardswell paying her the most attention now. “That means he’s paying less attention to me,” Rebecca told her with a shrug in the bedroom that same night Mr. Cardswell had made his announcement. “So, how do you feel about it? I mean, being adopted into our family?”

  “It’s all right, I guess,” she said.

  Both of them were lying on the floor, the faint sound of gospel music coming through the radio on Becky’s desk, when Connelly saw her roll onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “Well, I think you can do better,” she said, then looking quickly over at her. “But don’t tell anyone I said so.”

  *

  The very next Sunday, Reverend Billy gave a sermon on The Cost of Jesus’ Love, which she barely heard, thinking about something else. It was something she had been thinking about since Mr. Cardswell made his announcement, and Becky told her what she told her afterward; that same night lying in bed and asking God what was going to happen to her now. Was she really going to be adopted by the Cardswells, like Eric was being adopted by the Kelemans? Was that what He—God—wanted to happen? Because she wasn’t sure herself, she told Him, and it would be nice if He could tell her something, so she could be sure. He didn’t have to do anything, she told Him. She didn’t want anything else from Him, unless, maybe, He could tell her something about how her parents were getting along. That would be nice, to know something, anything at all, about them. But she knew He was busy, so if there was any way He could tell her about this—about what was going to happen to her, or what He wanted to happen to her—that was enough. She hoped she wasn’t asking too much.

  Then Suzy began to snore across the room, and she rolled over on her side and went to sleep.

  Now she sat in the middle of that vast auditorium, while Reverend Billy moved back and forth across the TV screens before her, wondering why God hadn’t told her anything. She had been trying so hard to be perfect for Him—perfect in school, perfect at church and witness, perfect in every thing, in every moment—and it didn’t seem to matter. Or maybe it did matter, but He wasn’t going to say anything until the very end, on Judgment Day, which, according to Mr. Cardswell, was going to happen sooner rather than later. She barely heard Reverend Billy shouting: “‘If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters—yea, and his own life also—he cannot be my disciple!’” Now she saw Reverend Billy stop dead still and stare out at everyone. “Do you understand what Jesus is saying to you? Do you understand what Jesus is saying he wants from you? He wants your sole committed allegiance above all else—that’s what he’s saying to you. He wants your wretched sinful forsaken self stretched out before him, and nothing else—that’s what he’s saying. The question is—are you all listening to him? That’s the question. That’s what he wants to know.”

  After the service, everyone separated, going to their Sunday school classes. She was sitting in hers when Brother Martin bounded into the room, laughing and jumping around and slinging out his Bible above his head, announcing, “Today, little soldiers, we are going to recommit ourselves to Jesus. We are going to make the Pledge of Allegiance to Jesus Christ. Are you ready to do that?”

  And everyone around her clapped and said, “Yes, Brother Martin, we’re ready.”

  Brother Martin laughed and hopped back and forth from one foot to the other. “All right then, I want you each to stand up, one at a time, and say your pledge with me. Timmy, you go first.”

  She watched the boy in front stand up, facing Brother Martin.

  “Raise your hand up, little soldier, and repeat after me.”

  He raised his hand.

  Brother Martin said, “I pledge allegiance to Jesus Christ my savior.”

  Then Timmy said, “I pledge allegiance to Jesus Christ my savior.”

  “Above every person and every thing.”

  “Above every person and every thing.”

  “Including myself, my mother, and my father.”

  “Including myself, my mother, and my father.”

  “I pledge absolute loyalty above all else.”

  “I pledge absolute loyalty above all else.”

  “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  The boy sat back down and Brother Martin called the next little soldier to stand. Meanwhile, she sat there, growing more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment. She was trying to understand what was happening. What was Brother Martin making them say? And what did it mean? Then she remembered Reverend Billy’s sermon and his words about everyone she had to hate, before she could really become Jesus’ disciple, and she swallowed.

  One after the other, she watched the boys and girls stand up and repeat the words, and sit back down. She thought: They’re just words, that’s all. They don’t mean anything—not really. Do they? And she wondered and wondered, and felt her mind turning and changing in a way she had never felt before. Something was happening she didn’t understand. And she didn’t know what to think. Or what to do. Until she finally heard Brother Martin say, “It’s your turn, little soldier. Stand up and say the pledge with me.”

  Connelly looked up at him and everyone else, now all turned around and staring back at her.

  Suddenly she lowered her head, bringing both of her hands against her forehead, hiding her face.

  She heard the gasp erupt from all the other little soldiers.

  “Child, what’s the matter with you?” she heard Brother Martin say. “Can’t you say the pledge to Jesus?”

  She didn’t move. She didn’t know what to say or do now. She didn’t know anything, except that they were telling her she had to hate Eric and her mother and her father who always held her in his arms and did anything, absolutely anything, he could to make her laugh; as if his very own life depended upon her laughter. And she knew she couldn’t do that. Not for Jesus. Not for anyone. And she was scared now, knowing she couldn’t.

  “Ain’t you gonna stand, little soldier?” Brother Martin said. “Ain’t you gonna say the words?”

  Overcome, she huddled herself into a tighter ball, as if she could press and squeeze herself to the point she would just disappear.

  “Oh, Brother Martin, Brother Martin,” came someone’s excited voice.

  “What—Timothy?” came Brother Martin’s frustrated voice.

  “She’s peeing the floor, Brother Martin.”

  “My—damn!” Brother Martin exclaimed. He then quickly apologized to all his little soldiers and sent someone for the church janitor.

  *

  By the time they led her out of the church, and put her in the car, and drove her away from there, she knew that everyone else there knew what had happened. She could see it on their faces as she passed them by, although she mostly kept her head down, sorry and ashamed.

  The ride home was silent, except for the man on the radio, screaming at them all they must prepare, prepare. And perfectly still. Except when Rebecca reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Chapter 14

  Losing the Faith

  At home, Mr. Cardswell told everyone to go to their rooms, except her. He even sent Mrs. Cardswell away to their bedroom, saying: “I’ll handle this, Mother.”

  Connelly sat in the kitchen chair, wishing she could take off her best dress, which her real mother had taken her to buy, and which was almost too small for her now, and change her damp underwear, which burned against her skin.

  Mr. Cardswell sat across the table from her and said, “You’ve done a very bad thing, Connelly. Brother Martin explained to me what happened, and I just don’t understand. Maybe you can explain it so I will, so I’ll understand.”

  Then he sat there, waiting.

  She sniffed and lowered her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll pray to God and ask for forgiveness, and I’ll do better.”

  Mr. Cardswell’s eyes narrowed now, watc
hing her. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I’m sorry is quite what Jesus would expect now, do you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Do you think Jesus can hear your shoulders moving?”

  “No sir.”

  “Listen to me, Connelly,” he said, now starting to sound frustrated like Brother Martin. “I work hard to make a good living for us. Now God came into my heart and my wife’s heart, and He asked us if we didn’t have a little extra we could share with one of His lost souls, and we said yes, we did. But I don’t think this is really what He had in mind, do you?”

  She wasn’t sure what to say. Since God had never talked with her, not even once, she wasn’t sure what He was thinking about. But she knew she should say something and said, “He wants me to do better. I promise I’ll do better.”

  Mr. Cardswell sighed now, in a way, she knew, he still wasn’t satisfied. “You’ve shamed me and you’ve shamed my family, Connelly Pierce. You’ve been with us nearly a year now, accepting the charity we’ve offered, but now in one brief selfish moment you’ve pretty well destroyed everything that’s happened between us during that time. Do you understand that? Do you? You need to answer me—now.”

  She looked up at him then. “I won’t hate them. I’ll never do that.”

  He stared at her, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open a little, but saying nothing.

  Next, he stood up and carried the chair he had been sitting over to the door that led to the garage. He stopped and looked back at her. “You need to follow me.”

  She got up and followed him out into the garage. It was dark there, except for the light coming from the kitchen and from under the garage door. Mr. Cardswell turned on a small glowing florescent light over his workbench and sat the chair before the bench, facing it. Above the bench, hanging in the very center of the pegboard, among Mr. Cardswell’s tools, was a small crucifix of Jesus, with tears of blood streaming down both his plastic cheeks.

  “You sit here,” he said.

  She sat.

  He said, “I want you to sit here and consider what you’ve done and what it means. I want you to understand how you’ve shamed me and this family. And I also want you to ask Jesus to look into your heart and try and forgive you; although, after the way you’ve treated him, I’m not sure if he’ll do that now. And you’re not to leave the chair, for anything, do you understand me?”

  She nodded.

  He stood there looking down at her as if, perhaps, there was something else she should do, or he was thinking of something else to say to her, she wasn’t sure. Then he turned and went back into the house, shutting the door a little hard behind him.

  She sat there, looking at Jesus on the cross, and looking at all the tools. In an hour she knew all the tools by heart, what they looked like, their particular shape and symmetry, even if she didn’t know what they were used for. Her father, she remembered, had never been very good with tools at all; in fact, it was her mother, the scientist, who kept the small green toolbox under the kitchen sink, and who usually made the little repairs necessary. Connelly remembered how she would always become frustrated when her father tried to fix something, and usually made things worse, telling him to put everything down and just leave it alone.

  Once, she was sitting at their dining table and saw her father through the kitchen opening saying, “I can do this, Emily.”

  “No, Michael, you’re just fucking it up more,” her mother said. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “You’re being superior again, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not, dear.”

  “Then you’re being sanctimonious. That’s your worst trait. That New England lineage of yours.”

  “Darling, why don’t you just slowly and carefully lay down the screwdriver and back away.”

  “And why don’t you just bite me,” he said.

  She remembered her mother holding him then (watching them silently through the little pass-through opening), her fingers massaging the side of his head to quiet him, giving him little kisses, which he pretended annoyed him.

  Now she looked back at Jesus, looking back at her. She felt sorry for him there, hanging there like that with his arms stretched out and legs pulled up beneath him. And those nails through his skin. How that must have hurt, and hanging there in the horrible sun, and being thirsty. His eyes seemed to implore her to help him, and she wished she could. But there was no way; and, besides, she couldn’t leave the chair, even if he were really hanging there in front of her, calling for his sup of water. Not even then. And she looked toward the kitchen door and shuddered and looked away, sighing and counting, once again, all the little holes in the pegboard that had nothing in them, whispering, “One, two, three, four…”

  *

  That night, after evening church, something else happened. When they arrived home, Mr. Cardswell again sent everyone, including Mrs. Cardswell, to their rooms; she started to leave with Suzy, when he said, “Not you, Connelly. I want you to sit on the couch and wait.”

  So she sat down and waited. Mr. Cardswell had left the room with the others, and he came back in twenty minutes, carrying a coffee service on a tray. She watched him set it down and fix himself a cup, putting in four spoons of sugar and a little cream, and then sit across from her, smacking his lips as he sipped the hot coffee, while looking at her disappointedly. It wasn’t long before she could faintly hear a car stopping before the house, and after a minute someone knocked at the door.

  Mr. Cardswell opened the door and greeted who was there. It was two dark-suited men from the church, she recognized, but didn’t know their names. Becky had told her there was a council of church elders that were the ones that really ran things, not Reverend Billy who, according to Becky, just had pretty brown hair and liked to talk a lot; and these were two of the elders. They were both old, and one was tall and thin and white-haired, like Brother Martin, except he didn’t hop back and forth from one foot to the other. He stood very still, always looking carefully about himself, and moved very slowly, not because he was old, but because he seemed to be thinking about everything he did, including moving slowly and carefully to his chair and accepting the coffee cup from Mr. Cardswell, nodding.

  The other man was thin too, but shorter, and he was almost entirely bald, and wore gold-rimmed glasses, and looked at her severely like Fifi, Mrs. Bagleresi’s dog, when it wanted to bite her. “Thank-you, Brother Ron,” he said, when Mr. Cardswell handed him his coffee cup.

  “You’re welcome, Brother John,” said Mr. Cardswell. “Here’s the sugar and cream. Would you or Brother Williams care for something to eat?”

  Brother John looked at Brother Williams, who sat there like a statue, until he shook his head. “The coffee’s fine, Brother Ron,” Brother John said.

  “All right then,” said Mr. Cardswell.

  Now the three men sat there before her, as if she was not even there, talking about the church. Brother John asked Mr. Cardswell if he had contacted someone yet about installing the credit card machines in the church.

  “They have us on the schedule to be over next week,” Mr. Cardswell told him.

  Brother John said quietly and confidentially, “I believe tithing by credit card is the best solution, wouldn’t you agree, Brother Williams?”

  Brother Williams sipped his coffee and nodded. “I believe it’s much more effective—that is, I believe it’s more in line with our current fiscal direction.”

  The other two men nodded their heads in agreement.

  Brother John asked Mr. Cardswell, “You’ve got six coming, right?”

  “Yes, and we can get more if we need them.”

  Brother John leaned forward in his chair, patting Mr. Cardswell on the knee, and said, “Why, some of the folks are even joking about using their frequent-flier miles to help them get to heaven.”

  The three men laughed quietly, sipping their coffee.

  Finally they looked over at her.

  Brother John said, “You understand, Conne
lly, when we talk of devotion to Christ, we are only saying everything else must come after. That is the cost of that devotion, and Christ is only saying we should be willing and able to bear it, if we truly believe. You do truly believe, don’t you?”

  She wasn’t sure what she should say. “I just can’t hate them, that’s all.”

  There was a moment of silence, with the men making little glances toward each other.

  “No one is asking you to hate them,” Brother John said.

  “But that’s what Jesus says,” she said.

  “Well—” said Brother John.

  “He was speaking metaphorically, dear,” said Brother Williams. “Doesn’t God tell you to honor your father and mother? Isn’t that the first commandment?”

  She knew it was. But she wasn’t sure how she could hate someone and honor them as well. It seemed confusing to her. It seemed like they couldn’t agree on what they wanted her to do. She looked up at them. “Can’t I just love them both the same—Jesus and my parents?”

  Then Mr. Cardswell said, “Jesus only wants you with him if you’ve got your priorities straight.” He looked at the other two men, shaking his head. “I told you, she came to us like this. We’ve had her for a year now, and, after everything we’ve done, I believe that, deep down, she hasn’t changed that much.”

  He looked back at her, shaking his head discouragingly.

  Brother Williams smiled at him and said, “‘Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.’”

  She knew that by heart—the parable of the lost sheep, and she knew they were talking about her; but she didn’t think she was lost, not really. She said, “If Jesus is really God, then why is He afraid of me loving them as much as Him?”