Preparation Day

by Darrel Bird

Preparation Day

  By

  Darrel Bird

  Copyright 2010 by Darrel Bird

  Preparation Day

  The Truth

  Sixteen-year-old Lori Binghamton leaned her head against her locker as the morning sickness washed over her in waves. It was time for her afternoon Math class, and she hadn’t been able to down the greenish-brownish-grayish mass of vegetation they had served in the cafeteria at lunch.

  She knew she was pregnant, and she knew her father would have the baby aborted to save face, but oh how she dreaded telling him. She knew Mom would go along with what her father decided as she always had done.

  She sat in class, staring through the teacher. She was struck through with shame as she remembered that Thursday night when Jimmy McGowan had begged her, his hands everywhere, and she had given in and let him do it in the back of his dad’s Cadillac.

  Jimmy’s father was Dr. James McGowan, who sat near the front row in church. He was a member of the church board, and the McGowans, along with Judy, their daughter, and Jimmy, would march in each week and take their seats. No one would dare to sit in those seats, except a total stranger, who might visit the church. Then Dr. McGowan would quickly let them know that those were his seats, and they would have to move. He was a powerful figure in the Seventh-day church, the church her family had attended all her life. He was also a powerful figure in the Academy.

  Lori thought Jimmy was a good catch; the girls were green with envy when Jimmy had begun asking her out. If they only knew, she thought, as the class came to a finish, and the bell rang. She looked down at her empty notebook and got up to leave.

  She rushed to the bathroom, slammed the door on the stall and hung her head over the toilet. What she hadn’t had for lunch came up as bile, and she stood shaking in an attempt to recover.

  She wiped her mouth on the handkerchief she carried in her purse, and then opened the stall door. There stood Julie Crandall, an unpopular girl in her class. She had buck teeth and zits. She was never asked to go out; she was shy and withdrawn, always standing on the sidelines of every event. “Uh...are you alright, Lori?” she asked hesitantly. Lori could sense the kindness in her voice, so she did not resent the question.

  “I’m ok; it was that awful mess we had for lunch,” she lied.

  “I know what you mean.” Julie giggled, her lips pulled back from her teeth. This girl was so uninhibitedly honest, and she loved all those around her even though some of them treated her cruelly. Secretly, Lori liked her.

 

  Still…She had to maintain her image, because she was among the beautiful and popular girls. She said nothing as she brushed past her on the way to her last one hour class.

  Lori managed to get through English class, and as she walked the six blocks home, she kept her head down, pretending she was in deep thought, so she didn’t have to encounter the neighbors.

  She watched old Mrs. McGruder out of the corner of her eye, who tended her roses. Mrs. McGruder was 75 years old, but still in good health. She sometimes gave Lori bunches of roses for their living room, but Mrs. McGruder was a Sunday keeper, and Lori had been told Sunday keepers would try to kill her when the Sunday laws came. She could not imagine Mrs. McGruder harming a fly, much less killing anybody, but that is what she had been taught, so she avoided her as much as she could, and so did the rest of the family. Mrs. McGruder didn’t seem to mind and was always polite to them all. They would see her walk to her car on Sunday morning, dressed primly, and then return at twelve thirty. Lori knew she belonged to the Baptist church a mile away.

  Lori walked around to the back door and opened the door to the smell of her mom’s cooking and a wave of sickness washed over her again. “Lori, you’re late; you know this is preparation day!” her mom scolded. But the scolding didn’t have any bite to it.

  “Yes Mom, I know.” She walked into her bedroom and dumped her books on the bed, then walked into the living room where her brother and sister were vacuuming the carpet that didn’t need vacuuming. Her Dad looked up from his newspaper and frowned at her.

  “Lori, wash the car and there better not be a spot of dirt on it; be sure and brush around the hub caps. You know today is preparation day; you only have an hour and a half, so get it done!”

  What would have kept you from washing the car? she thought fiercely as she headed back out the back door and around to the driveway where the older Oldsmobile sat with its immaculate paint just beginning to fade. She poured some soap into the wash bucket and began to wash the thing, and with a final rinse she laid down on the ground to squirt the hose at the undersides of the car. She saw a bug crawling feverishly to get away from the cascade of water. She squirted the bug, and he went tumbling to the other side of the car where he landed with all six legs kicking in the air. I feel like that bug; my life is in vain. A wave of sickness washed over her as she lay with her face on the cool ground.

  Suddenly, Lori felt something crawl up her sleeve and felt the sharp sting of a wasp. She thought she had disturbed a nest, turned the hose on herself in a frantic attempt to get it out of her blouse, and went running, terrified, wet, and muddy, through the Jesus door, running directly into her father. Now she stood dripping over the clean carpet, a smear of mud on the Jesus door.

  The Jesus door was the front door of the house. They weren’t allowed to use it on Sabbath; the door had to be wiped clean of all dirt or fingerprints because their father said it was the one through which Jesus entered their home on Sabbath.

  “Lori, come here with me!” He pulled his wide leather belt from the loops on his pants.

  “Turn around!”

  She turned her back to him, cringing. He brought the belt down hard on her tender backside again and again. “That will teach you not to mess with me when I tell you to do something.” He calmly began looping the belt around his waist. “Go to your room, young lady!”

  Lori went. Her mom, as usual, stood gutless in the doorway of the kitchen, looking on with fear in her own eyes, as she always did when her father beat her. Lori stood in her bedroom, wet, dirty, and bedraggled, as she heard the vacuum crank up again. “God, I hate you!” she whispered to herself. “Why did you let this happen?”

  She felt the welts starting to rise on her fanny, and she bit her lip until the blood ran. She knew this was nothing compared to the trouble she was really in, and she hated Jimmy McGowan for what he had done to her. She remained in her room that night. She laid some red Ellen White books out on the bed in case anyone came into her room. She cursed Ellen White, her father, her mother, and God under her breath, even as a wave of fear washed over her. She lay there in deathly fear of her own words to God and Sister White, and of hell. She was convinced that God might strike her dead any minute.

  The next morning Lori wanted to turn on her little radio, but didn’t dare. She managed to get a little cereal down before church time. She winced as she bit down on the place where she had bitten through her lower lip the day before, but she doggedly bit her lips to make them red.

  She looked into the mirror at her image, and she knew she was beautiful, with her long, flowing black hair, and black piercing eyes. She didn’t need make-up, and was forbidden to wear it; but she used it anyway, ever so lightly, and it enhanced her beauty. She tucked the forbidden make-up in her dress pocket and returned to her room. Sometimes her father looked strangely at her, and there was something in his eyes that she could not or would not identify. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye, looking at her as she walked across the room, and she was terrified of what she saw.

  As the time for church approached, she hurriedly slipped on her white shoes and walked into the living room where her parents and siblings were gathered, ready and spotless for chu
rch. Her father looked down at her shoes and said, “Lori, your shoes!”

  Lori looked down in panic at her scuffed shoes; she had forgotten to polish them the day before. “Lori, you just stay home, and I will take care of you when we get home from church, do you understand?” Her father scowled.

  Lori hung her head and walked back into her bedroom; she laid herself across the bed and wept until there were no more tears. She knew she was in for a whipping when her father returned, and she just did not see how her tender backside could take another whipping.

  She got up and walked into the living room, turned on the TV, and started flipping channels. The phone rang and she jumped. She laid down the control and answered the phone; it was a wrong number. She turned back to the TV, but forgot where she had laid the control.

  The station was a secular Sunday church station that played every day, and today there was a replay of last Sunday's service. The cameras panned to the audience and ran a close-up of a beautiful girl about her age. The girl had her hand raised high as she looked up at the ceiling in rapt worship, the tears running down her face, her mascara running unashamedly as she mouthed the words, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Lori listened as the minister preached a message about Jesus’ death, burial and resurrection. As he finished the sermon, he looked right into the camera, and with tears in own eyes, invited all who would, to come to Jesus today. In her desperate plight, Lori longed with all her heart for that Jesus to be real to her. Then something came over her; she felt a warmth course through her body, and her knees went weak as she sank to the spotless carpet and surrendered her life to God.

  Lori went down on her knees that day as a child, but she arose as a full grown woman. She was light headed, mystified, and overjoyed. She raised her hands in praise as the Holy Spirit came on her in wave after wave. She lost all track of time as she stood there a half hour with her hands raised, giving praise to God, the tears flowing freely.

  She was in that position when the Olds pulled into the driveway. She did not hear the car doors. The Jesus door opened and she almost wet her pants in fright, thinking Jesus had come. But it was her father standing there glaring, the TV blaring on a secular station. Her face was wet with tears, and her light mascara she had snuck on that morning was running.

  Lori staggered drunkenly as panic and surprise took hold. She looked franticly for the TV control, so she could turn the TV off. Her vision was blurred; her tear-wet face was being ignored in the maelstrom of emotional upheaval. Suddenly, she stopped in mid-stride. Her heart settled, her mind became rock stable, and her vision cleared.

  Her father began to pull his belt through the loops, but she looked into his eyes and held up her hand, “No dad, you will never lay hands on me again!” He stopped in a mid-pull, hearing the hardness in her voice, which sounded like breaking glass. “Mom, dad, I am pregnant with Jim McGowan’s child.” Her father’s