Sufficient Grace (29 page)

But then, as I open my mouth, nothing; there is nothing but a gentle hush in my head. As I listen to the wind blowing inside, Naomi begins to murmur.

‘
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!
'

There is silence now in the room. Over the tops of the chairs, the women are listening. There is silence in the room, but not in my mind. I swirl in pieces, seeing swallows waiting near the river amid clear air and blowing wind. The birds swoop down to the water, slicing nearby in loops. One flies into the water and one crouches high up in the branches of the low-hanging tree. The water swallow does not drown, and the sitting swallow laughs; she takes joy in the slaughter.

I open my eyes and smile. Looking from wet Naomi and then straight to the harsh woman, I open my mouth to speak these words as the Lord has given them to me to speak.

But before I can bring the word, Mrs Turgeson cuts her eyes cruel at me. It ain't enough for the woman, and she takes my shoulder and shakes me. It ain't enough that the Lord has spoken, that Naomi is broken. It can't be done for her.

‘That won't work. That won't work with me.' Mrs Turgeson pushes those lips together and tries again. ‘I'll know. If you lie, I'll know.'

There is no moving her. Sunlight in the room shifts, and I look at my feet. They are still cold and dripping on the wood. The water beads for a moment and then soaks down, disappearing into the floor. The water would taste sweet.

From her chair, Naomi reaches over to take my hand. We both shake our heads. It is freezing.

And the woman shakes her head too. ‘If you are going to hold this, girls, get set to hold it tight. Don't ever say it, not even to each other, not even in prayer. You're through the worst. You're through the worst, and going back would be harder. Swallow down hard now, and don't make a sound. Swallow it down.'

She pats at her dress, smoothing the patches of damp, rubbing at a small smudge of brown-red at the edge of her sleeve. She folds the white towel with the finger smears, careful that the wiped colour stays on the inside. She breathes deep in and out, sets her face, then Mrs Turgeson leaves us with the chairs.

After pausing with the Turgeson woman and whispering awhile, my mom scuttles behind the stacked chairs with dry clothes. We strip off the wet and hold our matching Christmas angel robes in our arms. I don't think there'll be a potluck today.

‘Her monthly, that's all,' Mom whispers to me while unbraiding my hair and rubbing a towel through the length. ‘That's all it was, all this fuss for nothing.'

Smiling and re-braiding my hair, my momma hums and sways and play-acts for me: that she always dresses me, as I stand trembling and dumb; that she always soothes Naomi with clucks and song so that the girl can still her fingers enough to button. I don't know whether to be relieved or more worried; our secret can't sleep forever.

But we are pretending that all is well. Forgetting about mother's milk, we are pretending it was just blood.

We are pretending so it can be.

33

AT THE ALTAR
,
SAMUEL IS RECOMMITTING HIS LIFE TO JESUS
and praying for the indwelling of the Lord.

When Naomi and I finally emerged from the wings at the front of the church, dressed again and dry, most of the congregation had already left. A few men, holding their feed caps and looking at their boots, lingered at the back of the sanctuary waiting for their women. A scattering of boys and girls ran laughing and bellowing in the fellowship hall, but most everybody was gone.

After our baptism, while the ladies rushed the stage, Uncle Ingwald had begun to pray. And then the ancient organist had begun to play, so the people had begun to sing. Once Samuel started moving, folks set to making their way out, grabbing Bibles and jackets as quiet as they could. Some elders stayed, but the rest left. Samuel had responded to his daddy's call for sinners and walked the aisle all the way from the back of the church. The boy didn't give a reason for coming forward, but he didn't have to. He's forgiven: his sins are as far from him as the east is from the west.

Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me. And that Thou bidst me come to Thee. O Lamb of God, I come! I come! Just as I am, and waiting not, to rid my soul of one dark blot. To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot. O Lamb of God, I come! I come!

And now Samuel's breaking down, trying for baptism in the Holy Spirit. He wants a flame atop his head and he needs a prayer language; he needs the power. With his arms outstretched and a pinched look on his face, he waits at the front of the sanctuary with the elders of the church around him. They have laid their hands upon him and are praying in the Spirit as Samuel pleads with God. Uncle Ingwald stands behind him, eyes raised in prayer and voice lifted to heaven. He is ready to catch his son should the boy be slain in the Spirit and be overcome, just fall out. But Samuel merely sways with the men in time to their gibberish. Some of them spit as they speak. I believe I can see spittle on the tops of Samuel's shoulders and some seeping into his clean white shirt.

Relieving the old lady, Mom is now playing the church organ. Her head is down, but she is singing ‘Just as I Am' like we always sing. Daddy is in the wooden pew with Reuben and me. I am crumpling the bulletin, creasing it back and forth over the requests for prayers and notices of thanksgiving.

Aunt Gloria puts her arm stiff around Naomi in their pew, second from front. Naomi hasn't had barely a minute alone since she coloured the baptism water. Her momma must be afraid that she will leak again if she isn't there to hold her together. Outside of the midwife, no one has said much to me. I don't think they want me to find out where babies come from yet. Truth be told, I don't think they want to know either.

We've waited long enough: Samuel shakes and tears start flowing from his eyes to his cheeks. He's got a ghost in him, alright. He is moving his lips in a mumble, and I can almost hear his new words under the church's celebration.

‘Praise the Lord!'

‘Hallelujah, Father!'

‘Thank you, Jesus!'

It don't matter who says what anymore. It is always the same voices saying the same words.

It is always the same: he has them in the palm of his hand.

My hair is still damp even though Naomi and I came out soaked and dripping probably four hours ago. No one will leave this place.

Our parents are swaying, arms raised in prayer, at the back of the church. Except my daddy keeps his arms low, like a fighter, hiding his head. Facing forward and only stealing glances, we can't see clear as Reuben and me are in the second pew, and Samuel and Naomi sit in the front.

We can't hear much either from this distance, only bits of ‘and sin could not wrestle control of our …' and ‘return them to wholeness for Your …' and the like. When Ingwald is most fervent in prayer, he forgets the ends. He don't finish his sentences, but the Lord must know nonetheless.

Hunkered deep in the pew, Reuben is cutting his nails, paring them down like an apple, with his pocketknife. He's already shaved bits of callus off his palm with the same blade and pulled out slivers with the tweezers. He's sat still for about as long as he is able. Naomi sits motionless and forlorn; her braid trails a dark damp patch down the back of her robe. At the front of the church, Samuel looks straight ahead, trying not to crack his knuckles.

And I listen and I watch. And I know.

Our parents are praying — I can hear them — but I know without hearing.

The sins of the world are many. There is sin in our church. My family is stained by sin. With the travelling of my soul — into the fish and birds and trees — I blaspheme the Holy Spirit: this is the unforgivable sin.
I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.
I don't believe. I hate. These are the sins of my soul.

Samuel stands and stretches. At the sound of his father's voice, he starts to walk to the back of the church and reaches out those arms for Naomi. The boy smells of sweat and piss.

‘Let's get.' He grabs her elbow rough and pulls. There is no change; he still wants to go home.

I don't need him to say nothing to us, and I'm ready to hit him. But others are more ready.

Reuben beats me to it, holding Samuel down. Snarling and spitting, my brother halts his hard fist an inch from that squeezed face and halo hair. ‘Never again, you hear me? Leave her alone!'

Reuben is going to do it, hit Samuel and break him. Cowering, Samuel can't push him off; his arms aren't even pinned down, but he can't break the hold. He can feel scared now, his breath struggling out and the weight on his chest. He can't stop what he's got coming. No one can. Samuel barely fights back, but he doesn't have to.

He speaks soft, just loud enough for Reuben, Naomi and me to hear. ‘You ain't so innocent.'

And it is enough. Reuben can't hit Samuel: my brother's afraid that the boy might split and the truth with spill out. He needs to keep those fires quiet; he traded me for Samuel's silence. Reuben didn't love me at all. Nobody did; nobody does.

Reuben's fist is still frozen in the air. But the men are there before I let my breath out; my daddy tries to pull Reuben away. There is a rush of men and dragging apart and a noise like a tornado in my head. When I open my eyes, my brother's shoulders shake as he is held by our father.

Samuel scrambles upright. There aren't even marks on the floor.

Our family is going home; Daddy has both Reuben and me by the elbow. He steers us down the sanctuary aisle toward Mom, standing wide-eyed and crying at the door.

What Ingwald says don't matter now. Calling to our backs — ‘broken vessels of clay' — he can go hoarse all he likes. He can't make us believe that Samuel is part of God's plan, can't make us forgive the boy and forget what happened. Ingwald's ‘thirst no more and pouring out Christ's side' can't follow us home. There's enough blood — by family and the Lord — to cover the sin, but there ain't enough to make us thankful for it.

Whatever it is, it is done. The blood and water flowed and the sin was forgiven. It is done — again — and we will speak of it no more.

34

SUNDAY LASTED FOREVER
,
WITH THE BAPTISM AND ALL THAT
came
after. We hardly got to sleep last night. And it is dark through the window, but it's morning nonetheless. It is Monday, so it is school and all is well. Mom made us porridge, and we read scripture; she squeezed my hand extra hard at ‘amen', sighed heavy, and passed me my scarf. Reuben and I went out the door and down the driveway. When I turned around, Mom wasn't waving at the window.

Because we are the first ones on the school bus, Reuben and me always get our pick of the seats. Used to be, depending on my morning mood, I either sat at the front to watch the kindergarteners play or sat toward the back to listen to the bad boys curse. This cold morning, I no longer have that choice; there is only one seat for me.

Walking down our long driveway, with Reuben hanging behind cracking frozen mud puddles, I know that he wonders — about Naomi, about me, maybe about her — and that his gentle way won't allow him to ask. There is nothing left to say, anyhow; not much is left in my mind or memory to speak. We must come together now to hold this secret, and keep it forever down deep in our hearts. If we are obliged to no longer sing, or laugh, or pray, we must stop our singing, laughing and praying. If I am obliged to sit on the stain for the rest of my life, I will sit on the stain; that is the least that I owe.

Snow has fallen overnight: white covers up the dirt and broken crops. As we drive by in the bus, the fields are still; sometimes the long, slipping tracks of a rabbit whisper across the flat snow. Snow piles in the corners of the roofs of the turkey barns. The metal looks frosted: cold, dull rectangles packed with murmuring birds; steam pours out the air holes punched high up on each side.

They aren't beauties, the crop turkeys smushed together in the stinking sheds, with their white-yellow feathers dragging in the dust and crap. Nasty, beady eyes, thousands of them, peer out if you get close to their air holes. Their gobbles sound like they're drowning as they stare up at their dim day lights and false moon nights, barely blinking. Workers on the farms must cut back their beaks, so the birds don't pluck themselves to death or start on eating each other. I've heard tell that they'll die from water down their throats if they are allowed outside in the rain; the clouds will catch their attention, and they won't be able to drag away their eyes.