Meteors in August (16 page)

The room was cramped and sticky with the heat of our bodies. There was too much furniture: a heavy green couch, the overstuffed loveseat, the long table, and a dusty bookshelf that stretched along one wall from floor to ceiling. But Freda Graves kept no books on her huge shelf. I suspected novels were evil in her mind, the work of the devious imagination. History was a lie. There was only one book worth reading.

The bottom shelf was devoted to Christ. She had a dozen crucifixes, variations of suffering. One was a crude wooden carving. Thorns pierced Christ's head and he wept. His twisted body was emaciated. Another was smooth soapstone. This fat Jesus looked blissful as a Buddha, grateful for his pain, as if he had transcended worldly sorrow. In a small painting the Son of God was angry; he had the look of a rabid dog ready to bite the hands of the women who longed to comfort him. I wondered if one image was true, or if Christ had taken all these forms.

We prayed for Elliot to be strong and shun Olivia Jeanne Woodruff, but even as I prayed I thought we might be wrong. What if Olivia was the woman he was meant to love? What if his years with Joanna had been a mistake? Some of the women moaned and sobbed just thinking about the depravity of it all. Eula and Luella Lockwood crooned, arms locked, heads touching. Perhaps they were thinking of Jack Wright; perhaps they tormented their neighbor because they loved him.

Lyla Leona wriggled out of her place—her flesh shook under that flimsy satin; her breasts sagged. She lifted poor Elliot right out of his seat, squished his face into the soft folds of her chest and wailed, “I know, baby, I know how it is. Ain't it awful, baby?”

Elliot's glasses hit the floor, his nose disappeared. That brought Joanna Foot to her senses, and she pulled her husband out of Lyla's grasp. Bo Effinger wiped his palms on his pant legs, but there was no way to slow the sweat.

I was confused. I thought about Aunt Arlen telling us that Joanna Foot wasn't going to let Elliot touch her for a whole year, that he had to prove his devotion, had to be purified by abstinence. Maybe Joanna was long past loving him in any way that would do him any good. For all Elliot knew, he might never be clean enough for her. The year was only a trial period. Now I couldn't be sure Olivia Jeanne loved Elliot either, but she wanted him—that was plain. If she did love him, I thought that might be stronger than law, even God's law. I didn't dare say it. What did I know? It was my first night. God's mind was wide as Moon Lake and twice as deep. But as I prayed for Elliot Foot I could only bring myself to ask God to show him what was right.

16

ONE OF
the high school boys had bought a keg. All day the secret rippled through school in whispers and scribbled notes. At dusk the revelers planned to meet in the gully.

I'd spent three Tuesday nights at Freda Graves's, so I already knew that I had to witness, to take the Word where it had not been heard. Of course I considered alcohol one of the most dangerous temptations, an evil in itself that gave men an excuse to commit other sins. “Jesus walked among the worst of men,” Freda Graves said, “and he asks you to do the same.” The worst I knew were boys who drank themselves into idiocy. I meant to work my way up from there. I was proud of my knowledge, pitiful as it was.

I'd invented a friendship for myself, with Rita Ditella, to explain my evenings away from home. I hoped Mother wouldn't see Rita's mom at the grocery store and just happen to say, “I'm so pleased our girls are getting on.” Mother knew Gwen and I had some kind of rift between us. She felt sorry for me but respected my privacy too much to ask what had happened.

Though I'd never actually spoken with Rita, she came in handy, and I used her again tonight. I told myself the lie was justified: I was off to do good works. But when Mother said, “Have a nice time,” I couldn't quite convince myself I was doing the right thing.

I found the gang near the pond. The woods were shadowy and tempting, full of memories I wished to escape. So I concentrated on my recently acquired wisdom instead. I thought my holiness must be visible, a light around my head. If I unfolded my hands, my palms would glow with the sacred flame protected there. But no one seemed to notice these extraordinary gifts.

Gwen Holler rolled in the grass with Gil Harding. Her blouse was torn open, and Gil clutched at her breast. Jill Silverlake sprawled, facedown in the dirt. Zack Holler turned her over. She groaned. Even Zachary couldn't take advantage of a girl in her condition. She crawled toward the woods on her hands and knees. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist, so everyone saw her underpants, dotted with dozens of red hearts. Jill would be my first convert. I followed her. “Jesus loves you,” I said, kneeling beside her. She swatted at the air as if my voice were a pesky mosquito around her head. “You can be saved tonight, right here, if you give your life up to Jesus.”

“Fuck off,” said Jill.

I stood. Somehow I'd expected my work to be much easier. Perhaps Jill Silverlake wasn't a good choice for a witness as inexperienced as myself. “Come find me if you change your mind,” I said.

I returned to the clearing. Rita Ditella danced around the campfire. She was sixteen, already a woman with a large bosom and full hips. Her pants were unzipped, but no one bothered to tell her. She'd squatted behind a rock to pee and had forgotten this last detail. I was glad she wasn't really my friend.

Drew Grosswilder, Marlene's brother, had bought the keg. Now he sat beside it, filling his cup again and again. Drew's face was smooth and rosy; he was so fat he had little pointed breasts. “Take it off,” he yelled to Rita, his voice surprisingly high. Rita ignored him as she pirouetted in the flickering light.

Drew's lack of success with Rita Ditella rankled him, so he looked around for someone he knew he could bully. He didn't have to go far. Lewis Champeaux sat on the other side of the keg, holding an empty cup. Drew rocked forward on his knees to jab the Indian boy in the arm. “Who invited you?” he said.

“No one,” Lewis whispered.

“Yeah? Well there's a reason for that, boy. This party's for white people.”

Lewis was half as wide as Drew Grosswilder. He inched away from the keg, out of Drew's reach.

Drew filled his cup one more time. “Want a beer?” he said to Lewis. His voice had gone sweet, the closest he could come to making an apology. Lewis leaned closer to take the drink, and Drew laughed, a shrill girlish giggle, then guzzled down the beer himself. “I know what liquor does to Indians,” he said. “Once I made a man roll over and play dead just by promising to buy him a pint. I think it might have been your daddy, Lewis.”

Lewis Champeaux stood up without a word and walked to the other side of the clearing. I wondered why he stayed at all. Perhaps he considered this some test of patience. I wanted to ask him, but I was afraid he wouldn't care to talk to a white girl after what Drew had said.

I moved toward him, a foot at a time, until I sat beside him. The air around Lewis Champeaux was entirely his own; I was no more important to him than a rock or a cloud. Finally I said, “Why are you here?”

“To watch,” he said.

I waited for him to say more. Just watching seemed unkind.

“And you?” he said.

I'd come here to witness, to lead one wayward soul out of the forest. But I'd failed with Jill Silverlake and given up. “The same,” I told him.

“Is it true?” Lewis said.

“What?”

“Does liquor make Indians more foolish than white people?”

I looked at Drew—fat, silly Drew who was mean even before he was drunk. “No,” I said, “of course not.” But I had believed it did all my life.

Slowly, boys and girls paired off and wandered into the forest. Rita Ditella ended up with Zack Holler. I thought they were a good match. Rita was big enough to handle Zack. She wouldn't let him do anything she didn't like. Soon I was the only girl. I sat on a rock, safe in the shadows. I longed to be approached, to be desired so that I could refuse. But the three boys who were left, Drew Grosswilder and his friends Luke Stallard and Albert Cornett, only cared about the keg of beer and the fire that was fading fast. There was a fourth boy. He sat close to me but stayed so still I almost forgot he was there.

Luke and Albert tried to keep the fire torched, but the wood they'd gathered was damp and gave off more smoke than flame. Drew was too drunk to help. He laughed at the other boys. “No more beer for you if you can't get that fire going,” he said.

Lewis Champeaux approached the dismal blaze. He pulled smoldering sticks off with his bare hands and rebuilt the stack, breathing on embers, fanning the first flames with his long fingers. He never took his eyes off those flames, as if turning away would be betrayal, as if the fire would know and flicker out.

Soon the fire roared, and Lewis sat back, satisfied and warm. But Drew's two friends didn't like being shown up by a skinny black-haired boy.

“Just an Indian,” one muttered.

“Only good for one thing.”

“Who asked you here, anyway?”

They poked at his shoulders.

“Speak up, boy.”

“Somebody cut out your tongue?”

A knife flashed, glinting with firelight in Albert Cornett's hand. Albert's face was wide and flat, his eyes unusually small, squinty little pig eyes. He looked like a moron when he grinned, a boy born with half a brain. “Somebody will,” he said.

“Keg's empty,” said Drew.

“Goddamned Indian drank all our beer,” Albert said, slashing the air.

I couldn't move. I should have yelled Albert's name to remind him who he was, but I sat, pretending nothing bad was going to happen. I prayed for faith. I told myself God would protect us all if only I could believe.

“Stand up, boy.”

“You hear me?”

“That's more like it.”

In a minute they'd stop. They'd laugh and slap Lewis on the back. “No harm done,” they'd say. I kept praying. God would save us if my trust in Him was pure enough.

“Give me your belt,” Luke Stallard said. The fire lit his face. His cheeks were pocked with acne scars, and his big nose made him look like a mad wood rat.

“Mind the man,” said Albert.

“Faster, red boy. We don't got all night.”

Drew Grosswilder propped himself against the empty keg. He was smiling, enjoying the show.

“That's a nice boy,” said Albert.

“Now empty your pockets.”

“All of them.”

Lewis turned his pockets inside out. A few small coins and a key fell near the fire. He shook the cloth and seemed bewildered, surprised by his own poverty.

“Shit, he ain't got nothin',” said Luke.

“Unzip your pants.”

“Now.”

“You wanna die?” Albert said, waving the knife under Lewis's nose.

“Unzip them.”

“Good boy.”

Any second now, I said to myself, any second this will all end.

Albert yanked the Indian's pants down and Luke knocked him to the ground. Lewis scrambled in the dirt, his pants bunched around his ankles. I saw his bare ass, his smooth dark skin. The boys pulled him to his feet.

“Now scat,” Luke said.

He was shackled by his own pants.

“You heard the man.”

They knocked him down again. I thought this could go on all night, so I shouted and charged. Surely the noise would bring someone from the woods. But no one came. Luke Stallard grabbed my arm and flung me backward. I stumbled over my own feet and fell on my butt. “Mind your business,” he said. “Only thing worse than an Indian is an Indian lover.” Lewis rolled toward the trees. When he finally got free of his pants, he tried to grab them, but Albert heaved them out of reach. “Get the hell out of here,” he said.

It was too late for me to help Lewis. I stayed on the ground, minding my business, just as Luke said. The boys turned to face the fire, bored by their own game. They rubbed their hands up and down their thighs. Their faces glowed.

Lewis Champeaux stood in front of me, staring down at my head for just an instant. He was the only one to really look at me that night. He knew I'd seen everything. He knew I hadn't done a damn thing to help him, not really. My cheeks burned, like the sticks that burst into flame under his gaze. I looked away and still felt his heat all around me. He darted into the trees. The half-naked boy disappeared and left me alone, not to burn but to shiver.

I inched backward to the edge of the woods, waiting a half hour or more for Drew and his friends to forget about the pants and leave them crumpled in the dirt. I gathered them up, a limp bundle, tucked them under my arm and ran, intent on finding Lewis Champeaux. He would see I was better than the rest. I could still redeem myself.

Stumbling in the dark, I climbed out of the gully and headed toward the edge of town, beyond the shambles of the west side, and then another mile to the foot of the hills where the Indians lived. The streets meandered aimlessly; billows of dust rose up with each footstep. There were no streetlights, only the stark glow of bulbs inside unpainted shacks and old trailers.

I'd have to knock on every door until I found Lewis. I was afraid. Anyone could see I didn't belong here. These two-room huts were crowded with people: old women and babies, men without shirts standing at the windows, and girls taking baths, six or seven in a room.

They were the stragglers who passed through Willis, looking for work at the mill. Indians were lucky to get hired at all. Most times they got jobs sweeping up piles of woodchips at the end of the day, earning half a white man's wages. In a month or two the constant hunger of too many children drove most families back to the reservation.

Once in a while an Indian was lucky enough to be hired to load the trucks. That pay was decent, but there were accidents: a winch left unsecured, a slipped knot, another man who didn't pull his weight. Those Indians left too, crippled in one foot or not quite right in the head.