Sufficient Grace (3 page)

And that was the end of our learning about marriage.

2

DRIVE THE BACKWOODS
WAY FROM CHURCH
,
AND WE CAN TELL
plenty from that. It's only fifteen miles direct from town to the homeplace, but a good twenty if the aim is to watch on the way. Even sheep know where they live. Before the snows come, or in a small melt like we're in now, we can see the black paths a hundred hooves wore into the hills, snaking round trees and rocks toward water or shelter.

We are on our way home, and with a little extra driving we can catch up on our neighbours: a new plywood lean-to on the side of a trailer means someone's coming to stay; and an old fridge with gaping doors leaning next to the barn means someone's come into money or wishes they had. Seems nobody has all they need, but we have each other. And we can catch up on ourselves: Daddy's arm is slung across the back of the truck seat, hugging Mom around the shoulders; Mom's fingers trace the pattern of sun and shadow coming through the window onto his leg. Reuben pushes his dirty hair into his eyes then tucks his yellow bangs behind his ear; I sniff the air a bit and start back chewing my hangnails. My thumb is close to bleeding, but I believe it's near to fixed.

Our tyres crunch along the gravel while my parents talk about smeary mimeographed newsletters, too-long wedding sermons, Chicago mission trips, and grape juice and saltine cracker communion. In Mishtogie, lightning near killed an organist: her hand was hovering above the instrument, ready to play, and lightning came through and struck her. She recovered, by the grace of God, and came back and played the piano that night for a wedding. Rain on a wedding day is a blessing, and Mom loves brave-organist stories. I'd like to play organ or sing, but I'm not made for either. Reuben says my voice sounds like a bleating lamb, and I know I haven't the patience to practise piano.

‘I want to do something for God.' I say this while glancing out the window at the corn cut down and patches of snow melting in the fields, and Reuben mocks me with a sneering face and a big breath onto the window. He draws my name, Ruth, in the fog and makes the ‘t' big like a cross.

Before I even say ‘Mom', Daddy is stomping on the brakes. He and Mom cut their eyes at us, and we know that we best get along or get walking. Five miles ain't worth it, so Reuben wipes the glass clear. I chew my lip and then go back to my hangnail.

But I whisper, just loud enough for my brother to hear. ‘Are you a stranger to God?'

When he don't flinch at our Sunday school lesson, I squint my eyes and whisper, ‘You smell bad, like rotten meat or a sore.'

That slices him to the quick, and he pushes against the truck door and away from my body. He stinks like fourteen does, but not that bad, so I am a bit repentant.

Mom's listing ways I could do something, if not for God directly, then for the church or to help Uncle Ingwald. There's the nursing home service, taken in turns amongst the churches of Failing; I could go help sing or read psalms to the old folks. We went once last year and my heart hurt for a white-haired man parked in a wheelchair near the window, squinting at too much sunlight but not having the gumption to move his head. Or I could help visit the sick, whether they were now trapped in the hospital or had stayed strong and remained homebound. I could bring prayer and soup. Mom says there's many ministries for a girl with too much time on her hands, so much time that that girl might be tempted to complain.

Daddy speaks low. ‘Didn't hear no complaining.'

Mom's eyes close and she starts her humming.

‘Ingwald still mowing the Turgeson place?' His asking is apology to Mom.

She nods.

‘Stick with what you know, girl. Come summer, take the ride-on and go mow that big yard for the Turgesons.'

I know where he means. Not a quarter mile from our place live elders from the church. When grass is there, Uncle Ingwald comes and mows their yard, carefully guiding the lawn tractor around a river of orange-red Indian paintbrushes that sections the lawn. Turgeson ain't invalid, so I don't know why he don't mow. I want to know why.

‘Girl, you can mow. You know that coyotes run with straight tails and that bears stink. That's what you need to know.' Daddy knows what I don't need to know.

Over the rickety bridge, past my Uncle Peter's farm, and we are near home. Compared to along the hayfields and the woods, it must be freezing, much worse in the shadows under the low-hanging bridge. It is a secret place, and secret places are cold. There are animals that can't survive in the secret places and there are beings that can live only there. I look at the marshy field and the river as we pass nearby, crusted here and there with muddy ice, and think of all that's waiting there to grow: wild rice, cranberries, rainbow trout and mud suckers. They are all sleeping, lingering, waiting for real winter to start and then to end. They are waiting for the sun to make the water move again.

After morning service on Sundays and midday dinner, my parents rest together. When I go into the bathroom after, I seek Mom's scent in the laundry pile. Her underclothes are more than I should touch, but I do. Against my face, the white smells of late flowers, dying purple roses that have sat on the church organ days too long. But when supper before evening service is short and cold — just eating chipped beef made from leftover venison and a boiled-milk gravy on toast, not even pickles on the table — I can smell they've missed their nap. The orange plastic saltshaker and butter dish pass back and forth without fingers touching. The laundry pile don't need to tell me nothing.

Mornings are for preaching and Bible school, but Sunday nights are more for prayer and praise. Evening services — both Sundays and Wednesdays — are always more relaxed with singing and sharing and such. With my family and friends around me, I can rest and feel covered and protected. But now, I wait in the fellowship hall alone, just peeping out between the coats, while the rest of them is inside the sanctuary praying. Not all of them, of course — Naomi and Aunt Gloria are busy cleaning in the kitchen — but most of them is in there together: Uncle Ingwald and Samuel, Mom and Daddy, and Reuben. As Uncle Ingwald was saying the prayer to send us out into the world and back again safely — ‘without a hair on our heads gone astray' — he asked for prayer requests; not unusual, but Reuben raising a hand was.

Naomi's clanging the coffee cups together in the church kitchen, aiming at snapping off a couple white handles. If she's trying to pretend to be washing dishes and helping out of holiness, she ain't fooling no one. Aunt Gloria don't even look up from the long counter where she is reassembling the communion trays, slotting the small glasses back into their metal dishes; they've been waiting on the drying slat since this morning's service. After passing amongst us to distribute the Body and the Blood, the elders bring the trays back to the church kitchen, where one of the ladies rinses any leftovers away. Gloria just needs to put everything back together: the glasses slide into the round, silver platter without a clink, and she carefully nestles each tray atop the others. Before she slips out of the kitchen to return the stacked platters to their honoured place atop the oak communion table engraved
In Remembrance of Me
, my aunt puckers her lips together and makes a stern, moist sound. It is all that is necessary: without even exchanging glances, Naomi obeys her mother and quiets her work. Naomi is nothing if not well broken.

I'm watching from just outside their view, lingering back amongst the coat racks; I learn a lot this way. Sneaky, maybe, but I see and hear more than most. And I rarely repeat what I find out, so I believe it's something I'm willing to carry. Naomi ain't no saint, anyway; she can pretend holy all she likes, but I know she is being punished. I heard that too.

Aunt Gloria is after Naomi for all her haughtiness and vanity, for her attention-seeking ways. About time too, I suppose, for it isn't a new thing this lip gloss and walking slow down the aisle, straight up the centre of the sanctuary. Even though the girl knew she was late tonight, she comes traipsing up the main aisle — thick black hair hanging down — wanting everyone to turn his head and look. I know Naomi is allowed the gloss — another mistake of her momma's — but she was putting it on during the service while we were singing hymns. Even if I was allowed to wear make-up — and I'm not until I'm sixteen — but even when I'm allowed, I won't be bringing out no purse mirror and smearing myself silly in front of the whole congregation. Naomi seems to think her face is the most important thing on her head, where I more admire my brain. She can be fool's gold, worried more about glinting and shining and less about her true value, but I love her anyway. Naomi is my best friend, and a blessing not a burden to me.

Carrying the communion trays, Gloria shoves open the sanctuary doors with her hip; they swing back and forth. Here in the racks littered with forgotten sweaters, mittens and even some Bibles stacked on the top, it is easy to miss me. I wouldn't forget my coat in winter, but I guess some folks have more than they need. And I wouldn't forget the Word either; my Bible is tucked safe in the purple quilted purse that Grandma made me. Naomi's matches mine exact, but I've stitched my name across the spine to keep it close to me. My family's jackets hang and wait, still damp to the touch, smelling of soap and mould and coffee. I twist in the woollen jackets and crook my neck, leaning as far as I dare toward the sanctuary.

My brother slumps in the last pew, hunched shoulders looking like a mountain, solid and unmoving. Mom, twisting her braid, and a solemn-faced Daddy flank him either side. And Uncle Ingwald is kneeling toward them, his bony knees on the seat of the pew directly ahead of them; our pastor's arms reach across the divide and hold fast to Reuben's shoulders. I'm still surprised about the whole deal. My brother, he who don't budge for nothing, held up his big, callused hand and said ‘unspoken' when the request for prayers was called. Now they're in there trying their hardest to make that need spoken; my parents and my uncle want to wring it out of him, make Reuben speak what's on his heart. They let us say ‘unspoken' and pretend it is between you and the Lord, that they won't ask and you don't have to tell. But they'd rather track your path to salvation, checking for footprints and smudges, than leave you on your lonesome, struggling and bleeding alone.

I can hear snatches of Uncle Ingwald's prayer, but not much. Something about ‘heavy heart' and ‘right and pure direction, perfect will'.

Just now, I feel most sorry for Reuben; we fight, but I don't like to see him troubled and I really hate to see him pressed. He's carrying something, but that gentle push to tell everyone everything — to share your heart and sacrifice deepest desires and secrets — can feel more like a shove sometimes; it is relentless. Mom and Daddy just want to guard our hearts, keep us protected and clean. But now and then a body needs to keep its own secret space, maybe running down the middle of the soul like a candlewick.

Mom don't want any secrets; anything she knows she shares. She believes light always drives the dark away, but praying with Grandma and Gloria and the other ladies of the church shines the light even where it might shouldn't go. Daddy must feel useless, pushed aside, that even while he looks after Reuben's body — feeding, clothing and keeping him in every way — Uncle Ingwald's guiding Reuben's soul is held in higher value. Reuben should have thought twice about raising that hand, but he's got to learn it in his own time, I guess. It takes steady water to shape stone.

I feel a quick pull of my braid, and my head snaps back hard. My cousin Samuel is holding my hair and smirking. This boy should already be a man, but he plays too much and too rough. And he won't be broken. Held up by his own daddy, our pastor, as a man with a call on him, my cousin won't walk straight for nothing. Feigning like the angel his blonde curly halo makes them see, he'll act for the elders and the ladies, taking his turn at passing out communion or praying and laying on hands for the sick. Samuel will sit at the front of the church facing his own father and hold his face just right for them, downcast eyes and serious lips. But he only wants the praise, never the toil: he won't stack aluminum chairs after potluck supper and he won't shovel snow from the sidewalk. Samuel walks in the light of the Lord when it's warm but won't sweat in labour or freeze in the cold. Tonight, he won't even agree in prayer for Reuben. He's held up at church while they push him down at school; none of us kids stand up to none of them — not to our parents, not to the kids at school. Samuel stands crooked: he only lets them think he ain't strong.

‘Why you hiding, Ruth?' Samuel crouches down and his face is below my waist. ‘Reuben telling them something he shouldn't?' He's teasing but asking too.

I didn't even think of that. ‘He don't know nothing to tell.' Now I'm wondering what my brother is saying, and if he does have something to say about me.

‘Maybe he's guilty himself; that's what I think.' Samuel rocks back and forth on his haunches. The coats swing on their hangers. ‘But I do believe, you've got some reason to be hiding here.'

How he knows, I never know. Maybe he can smell it. Whenever I've got something to hide, Samuel always seems to see. Maybe it's because when everyone else is moving and walking, Samuel watches and waits — like me.

I'm caught, so I've got to spread the blame. ‘Eat this.' My stretched-out hand holds half a candy bar, the chocolate melted into my palm. ‘Christmas candy; you can't tell.'