Meteors in August (19 page)

When I couldn't stand it a second longer, when the sweat beaded on my face and trickled into my ears, when the murmurings above me merged with the endless babble of the dead, the flood of words exploded from my chest, the language I had never learned came to me. Sentences drummed through my brain, inchoate but pure. I cried out to God, honoring Him with every utterance.

The Lord looked at me and smiled. His eyes were blue, light as my father's eyes, but they did not disapprove. He did not raise His finger to wipe the lipstick from my mouth; He did not pull at my teased hair. This father listened and forgave. My tongue fluttered with simple joy.

Slowly the fires flickered out as the hands lifted. Someone opened a window. A cool breeze whipped over my body, and I shivered with delight and was silent.

They all praised God, some in words I knew, some in strange tongues. Minnie curled into a ball and rolled on the floor next to me. Bo Effinger pounded the floor, a giant child on his knees. He stayed mute, but his hands knew another language, his hands beat out his story of desire. Elliot Foot was the only one who hadn't loosened his grasp the moment I began to speak. He alone pinned me to the earth and kept my body from floating free to God. His fingers dug into my thigh, and I thought he'd rip my dress. But the memory of the words sang through me, and I was afraid to make him stop, afraid to defile my lips with an ordinary sound.

19

NOW THAT
God was listening, I had to be ready for the devil to test me. I felt him crouched in my heart, about to spring. I thought the gift of tongues would spare me from desire. But instead I longed to touch my own body, to rock myself to sleep. I dreamed of dogs chasing me, nipping at my heels. The only way I could fall asleep was to chant: “In the name of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you, Satan. In the name of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you, Satan.”

Mother worried. She said I was too thin, too pale, too quiet. She said I slumped when I walked, I mumbled when I talked. How could I tell her that I was trying to pray without ceasing, that food and conversation got in my way?

Fortunately she couldn't dwell entirely on me. She had to fuss over Daddy. He forgot to shave. His hair grew over his collar. He owned three pairs of jeans and five plaid shirts, one for each day of the week, but he'd started sleeping in his clothes and sometimes wore the same shirt for days in a row.

I felt responsible in a way for my father's unhappiness, depriving him of whatever pleasure or peace of mind he'd had from giving money to Miriam Deets. But I still didn't regret what I'd done. I figured he'd get over it soon enough and we'd all be better off in the end.

After dinner he'd often sit in his chair, rubbing his own ribs as he read the paper. He seemed to have conversations with himself: his lips moved; smiles and scowls flickered across his face. Mom stared until he looked up. “What?” he'd growl. “What is it?”

“You're doing it again,” Mom said.

“Doing what?”

“Rubbing your side and grimacing.”

“I am not
grimacing
.”

“You're rubbing your side.”

“Can't a man—”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn't hurt.”

“You look like it hurts.”

“Christ, woman, lay off. I've got a little gas, do you mind?”

Mother suspected the pain in his side had something to do with Miriam Deets, though she didn't know what I'd done. I don't think she ever considered the possibility that Daddy's discomfort might be truly physical.

She was sure to ferret out the truth sooner or later, and I knew she'd find me out too: she'd guess where I went Tuesday nights. I was as untrustworthy as my father. We kept our secrets, we told our lies. If Mother left us, we deserved nothing better.

I didn't have to confess. It was a bad night all around and started to go wrong when Myron Evans pissed on Freda Graves's front window. A splatter like rain hit the glass. We knew the night was clear, swirling with stars. Freda pulled the blind and it flapped on its roller. Myron Evans stood in her garden, feet spread and planted, penis aimed at the pane, its stream dwindling.

Mrs. Graves walked to the door, slowly, opened it, slowly, giving Myron plenty of time to dry out. “Come in here, Myron,” she said.

“You can't help me,” he called. His voice cracked like a boy's.

“No one can.”

“Don't talk nonsense.”

“He took my money and God didn't stop him.”

“Myron, come inside.”

“I liked it.”

“What did you like?”

“And God didn't stop that, either. God closed His eyes.”

“God never closes His eyes,” Freda said.

“God has no eyes.”

“God is all eyes.”

Myron looked behind him. “Monster!” he yelled.

“He sees you now, Myron. He sees us all. He wants you to come inside.”

“No, there are flames at the door. He won't let me in.”

Freda waved her arms. “There are no flames,” she said.

But I think she was wrong. Myron tucked himself back in and zipped up his pants. Just before he turned to go, I was sure I saw the reflection of a fire in his eyes. I knew the boy who had taken his money was Zack Holler, and I knew what he'd done to earn Myron's five dollars.

I ran all the way home, talking to God in my private language so I wouldn't have to think about Myron and Zack. But I kept seeing Myron on his knees. I hoped he wouldn't pop out of any bushes tonight. He wanted to piss on us all. I didn't understand, exactly, but I couldn't say I thought he was wrong. I saw Zack Holler grinning, taking the money, zipping up his pants. I wondered what pleasure there was in any of this.

I kept praying, hoping for answers but not knowing enough to ask the right questions. My house was dark. That was a relief. I hoped my parents were asleep. I slipped inside, muttering a final
amen
as I tiptoed toward the stairs.

“Lizzie,” Mom said, “what's that gibberish?”

I had to grab my chest to keep my heart from jumping. It beat so hard I felt I could almost touch it.

“Lizzie? What're you saying?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“I heard you talking crazy.”

“You scared me.”

“Tell me what you were saying.” She kept walking toward me. I edged backward, inch by inch, until I hit the wall.

“It was only a prayer,” I said.

“Where've you been?”

“I told you before I left.”

“Tell me again.”

“I went to a movie with Rita.”

“Don't lie to me.” She grabbed my shirt. “Don't you dare lie to me.” She was too weak to hold me, but she kept me cornered. I had a choice: shove her down or listen. “Never mind,” she said. “I know where you were.”

She'd tricked me. I was no longer a liar—I'd been trapped. I said, “Did you follow me?”

“I didn't have to.”

“Then how?”

“Arlen told me.”

“I might have known.”

“I didn't believe her. I said, ‘Lizzie wouldn't lie to me.' But you showed me to be the fool, didn't you?”

“Mom, that's not why—”

“I wish I could slap some sense into you.”

“Why don't you?”

“You're too old.” She waved her fingers in my face. “
I'm
too damn old if you want to know the truth.” She let her hands drop to her sides. “There,” she said, “I hope you're satisfied.”

She left me that way, jammed up in the corner, too ashamed to move. I wondered where Daddy was. He'd thrash me and be done with it; he'd forbid me to pray with Freda Graves, tie me to a chair if he had to, lock me in my room on Tuesday nights.

Mother sat alone in the dark living room. I stood at the doorway, the light of the hallway at my back, my face in shadow. I said, “I'm trying to be good.”

“Well, that's just it,” Mom said. “I hardly know you these days. It makes me wonder what you're learning from that woman.” She was only a voice in the unlit room.

“Look at yourself,” she whispered. I imagined my silhouette, my scrawny neck, my long arms. “You're almost a woman. How can I keep you from doing whatever it is you want to do? You're my daughter, but you're not
mine
. I know the difference. But I have to speak what's on my mind. I blame myself for what happened to Nina. I blame myself for holding my tongue when I should have been talking. I saw her future, saw her belly swell to bursting in my dreams—this before she was even pregnant, before she even met Billy. Your sister had rocks for brains when it came to boys, like one half of her body shut the other half off. She itched. You could see it plain as a rash rising up on her back. I should have strapped her to her bed, bolted her door, barred her windows till that fever passed. Well, you'd do it for a cat to save its skin. You'd shut a cat in the cellar to keep those Toms away, but my own daughter, I did nothing for her.”

“I'm not like Nina,” I said. I was still hoping that was true.

“You can go as far one direction as the other. What's that woman teaching you?”

I had to think. We spent our nights discussing sin and temptation. I knew the words the devil whispered; I'd heard the story of a child born with her heart unfinished, her ears unformed, but the mysteries of human kindness had not been revealed to me.

“She's teaching us what's in the Bible,” I finally said.

“God didn't write the Bible, Lizzie. God has no hands. Men wrote it. Then more men translated it and even more read it. There's a lot of room for mistakes. You have to trust your own head.”

Whoever would have thought the devil would stoop so low as to use my own mother to put doubt in me? Whoever would have thought someone as crazy as the devil would resort to logic to get his way? He was a sly one, but he couldn't fool me. I wasn't tempted. I didn't want any part of Mother's distant God, who couldn't write in stone, her God with no hands, her God with two clean stumps where his wrists should be. He looked like Lanfear Deets, his face smooth and stupid, blank as worn wood. Instead of one hand, he had none. My God had huge hands, to strike down the wicked and raise up the blessed.

If I followed every one of His laws and didn't falter, I surely would be saved. When I woke from death, the keys to the kingdom would already be in my hand. A girl like me needed to be told how to be good. Deciding for myself was too risky. I could blow it anytime. I could piss it all away like Myron Evans, I could start thinking God had no eyes and no hands—then who would stop me? My mother was the most decent person I knew, but I could see what happened when you didn't pay attention to the rules. The devil had crawled right into her ear and was using her to get to me.

“Why do you think your daddy was so hard on Nina?” she said. She didn't wait for an answer. “Because he believed in certain laws. Because he knew a lot about right and wrong, what the Bible and all those good Lutherans had to say about girls who got themselves in trouble. He forgot to think, Lizzie. He forgot to love, and he forgot to forgive—his own child, and he forgot that.”

I was afraid. I didn't know enough to argue. Mother's words made terrifying sense. I wanted to save her. I didn't want to be alone in Heaven with Freda Graves and Joanna Foot. I didn't want to spend eternity listening to the Lockwood twins talking in rhyme.

This was my first trial. The real measure of my faith began a week later.

20

THE DAYS
of August loomed before me, hot and dead. People seemed to wade down the sidewalks, their bodies waffling at the dizzy height of afternoon. A white sun scorched the grass. In Willis, we gave up on sprinklers, saving our water for the farmers and letting our own lawns go stiff and yellow. The grasshoppers got so mean you couldn't walk through a field barelegged. Their crushed bodies littered the parched streets and stuck in the grille of Daddy's truck. But the dark of evening still pulled a chill down from the mountains, a gust straight off the glaciers.

We sat on the porch one Sunday evening, my mother and father and I, in our after-dinner silence. I hugged myself, thinking I'd have to go inside soon and find a sweatshirt. And when I rose, Mother or Father would say, “Are you cold?” The words would cut between us, and I would have to answer. There would be other words when I returned, polite and ordinary.

A bell clanged. Both my parents stood. Daddy pointed toward the center of town. “There,” he said, “looks like it's right on Main.” I followed the line of his finger until I saw a curl of smoke in the night sky. Mother had already run inside for the keys to the truck.

Everyone else in town had the same idea we did; no one could get within three blocks of the fire. But as we ran along the street a cry passed from group to group, and we knew the Last Chance Bar was burning.

A block away, the smell in the air was sweet, like the first morning fire of autumn crackling in the fireplace. But as we moved closer, the air grew dense with the stink of things that shouldn't burn: hair singed by a candle flame, a tire doused in gasoline, a wet wool sweater set too close to the open door of the oven.

There wasn't much to see yet, just the flickers in the blackened building. The few men who had been at the bar stood on the street, hacking and choking. They'd tried to stamp out the blaze while it was still small, but an ember hidden in a pile of soiled rags burst into flames and sent them scurrying outside.

Huddled together now, deep in speculation, they looked down the street, counting the minutes until the city fire truck rumbled along the potholed pavement.

The truck pulled up in front of the bar, to a hydrant that hadn't been used since the fire of '42. That winter wildfire charred an entire block. As the men in high black boots and long coats struggled with the crusty plug and heavy hoses, I realized something was missing. Olivia Jeanne Woodruff's Winnebago had disappeared from the front of Elliot Foot's bar. She wasn't in the milling flock of the curious, and I couldn't see her house on wheels anywhere down Main. I thought, So this is how Elliot is repaid for spurning her love. I imagined Olivia Jeanne planting a dozen coals, leaving them to smolder.