Читать книгу Escape To Anywhere Else - Robert Rippberger - Страница 13

chapter five

Our faded green John Deere tractor sat idling in the driveway as I crawled onto the back next to Louie.

Dad honked, “We’re gonna be late.”

Mom jogged across the lawn carrying a plate of cookies in one hand, and in the other, a bag of bingo supplies consisting of four small daubers, two large daubers, a glue stick, scotch tape, and a thin bar of hand chalk. There was everything in the bag she and Dad needed to win, except luck.

Mom climbed onto the tractor and handed the cookies to Dad.

“Don’t steal any,” she snapped, “I made extra for the ride back so you don’t need to put your fat mitts on ’em.”

Mom took a seat on the hood, acknowledging my presence with a cold glare as if I were less than the mud she tracked through on the way from the house. With a stick, she scraped it from her soles.

The green giant launched into gear and crawled up the driveway at an alarming speed of eight miles an hour. Eighty-two miles slower than I had traveled with Chuck. It was seven o’clock and still bright, but it would be dark by the time we arrived in town. Louie slid close and placed his hand on my back. I cowered, expecting it to feel like ice, but as usual he was gentle and proceeded to run his fingers up, down and across my shoulders with feather-like fingertips until I felt like cooing.

Whenever it happened, it was odd to have Louie be so nurturing. It was as if he had a switch to turn on and off. One day he was a bratty little brother, and the next he was a benevolent caregiver. It was times like these when I knew I had it in me to run away, but only if he came with. He was what made home, home.

An hour and a half later we arrived and parked behind the church in our unofficial, extra-wide spot. I slid from the tractor’s hood, careful not to aggravate any of my scabs.

“When we go in, it’s straight to the confessional with you, missy.”

I looked to Dad hoping he might help protest, but he said nothing. The four of us walked up the front steps and as she always did, Mom stopped just shy of the doors. Her body became languid and swayed with the evening breeze. She closed her eyes, her shoulders arched backwards, and her forehead cocked upward as if the sun had come out and was shining only on her. Dad pulled at the large wooden handles, and we filed past her. She joined shortly after, entering like she had been touched in the parking lot by the hand of God. I too got this sensation every once in a while, but my reaction was hardly the same.

As we walked through the doors, a flock of finicky old women clamored across the room to greet us. Mrs. Tyler, the loudest of the bunch, made quite a scene.

“Ivey! How are you my dear?” she said with a laugh, wiggling a honeycomb of red hair atop a pale and heavily done-up face.

“Good,” I replied, glancing around to see if she was here with her stallion of a son.

“Are you excited for school to start up? I know Isaac’s excited to be a senior.”

“I’m very excited, Mrs. Tyler,” I said, fluffing my hair and discreetly wiping the dirt from my fingernails. “And by the way...How is Isaac?”

I tried to keep the question subtle but was grinning like an idiot. Even Louie gave me the eye, mid-sentence with another hag.

“He’s great. I told him to come tonight, but ever since the church became a new denomination he’s been reluctant.”

A loving laugh erupted from her lips.

“Since he was young he’s been standoffish to new things. He’ll come around though. He always does. First spinach and corn bread, now this. He’ll realize it’s good for him.”

“He’s probably frightened because people have been calling the denomination a cult, and...well, you know how bad that word is nowadays.”

Mrs. Tyler’s demeanor changed radically. She tightened up, snapped back, withdrew as if I were a rabid dog.

“A cult?”

“Well that’s what people have been saying.”

“A cult,” she repeated, “You think this is a cult? Look up at that cross. Does that look like a cult to you?”

“No, I wasn’t calling it a cult...” I tried to explain, but Mrs. Tyler’s tirade was not to be interrupted.

The listening thing again, it seemed to be a common ailment in these circles.

“We’ve been passive for the last couple hundred years, but now the world is going to hell. We’re taking a stand as God’s disciples.”

She was passionate, full of vitriolic fervor, the kind I always found so frightening in the religious sermons I was forced to memorize and study as a kid.

“We’re not pagans. By no means are we a...” Shaking with anger she could barely get out the word, “...a cult!”

By this time every head in the church had turned. Mom mouthed something to the women around her. I could only imagine what it was as they glowered across the room at me. Dad dipped a carrot from the food tray into some dressing. He was the only person not watching. Even our new minister leaned out the confessional with his forehead furrowed, eyes narrowed. I waited it out until people resumed their conversations—or were polite enough to watch in their peripheral.

“Mrs. Tyler,” I said calmly, “I don’t think our new ministry is a cult—that is just what is being said by other people.”

“Well, it’s blasphemy!” she said, spitting on the floor as if we were in the Wild West. “This whole place is a spoiled world, rotten to its core. They’ve taken the apple, the tree, and now they want the whole orchard. They keep forgettin’ there’s a price to pay. But they’ll remember when we come a-knocking. Oh, they’ll remember.”

She crossed her arms dramatically and stomped off.

“Well...let Isaac know I’m looking forward to seeing him when school starts,” I babbled, knowing full well it was not only the wrong thing to say but that I’d already ruined all possibility of getting a date, at least if his mother had anything to say about it.

Out the side of his mouth, Louie shrieked my name. I looked over and saw him pushed up against the wall by a hag wielding a saliva-drenched napkin. I ran over, took his arm, and convinced the woman he was needed elsewhere. So instead, she started up a conversation with me. We ended up having to dart off when she wasn’t looking, leaving skid marks on the floor behind us. The two of us made our way to the food table. We were hoping to find delicacies like ham, chicken, steak, hamburger, or hot dogs, but we were utterly disappointed. There were not even bacon shreds in the green peas. (See, when you have to buy, raise, and kill your own livestock, it makes eating meat much more difficult. People don’t appreciate the fact that they can buy pre-packaged dinner. It’s as if they think there’s a place where cows are being born already dead, quartered, and ready for their consumption.)

Louie groaned, no longer seeing the benefit in having come. All there was to eat were Mom’s cookies, piles of celery, corn, mounds of carrots, the green peas, and a bowl of cabbage. Only a rabbit would have been satisfied.

At our rear, Mom peered over the crowd and yelled for us to go to the confessional. I nodded to let her know I heard and then forced my legs in its direction. Louie followed. We waited in line as Earl, a senile old thing, stood in front of us mumbling his usual gibberish. Like everyone in town, Earl was a regular at the church, and each week he would climb into the confessional and confess another incomprehensible sin.

I knew this because when Louie was nine and I was eleven, we snuck into the booth and assumed the job of priest and priestess for the day. It was one of the most shocking experiences of my life. I can only imagine the warped sense of humanity preachers have after hearing about women who have sex with their farm animals, men who spy on their mothers changing, and eighty-year-old grandmothers with arthritis that dream of masturbating. Some of the stuff was so obscene I had to translate for Louie—although many times I too didn’t understand what was going on.

After it all, I came to the conclusion that in large cities priests probably get confessions of violent crimes, but in small communities (where the thing to do is play church bingo), you get people confessing the strangest of perversions. It was another reason I couldn’t wait to escape. One never knew when they might be attacked in the town square, only to discover that the man fondling them was their own father. Boredom does scary things to people.

The door to the confessional opened as Betty, one of the aforementioned bestiality enthusiasts, stepped out. She went over to a bowl of holy water, dipped her fingers in, and proceeded to say Hail Mary until her voice was hoarse (excuse the pun).

I watched in disbelief. I always found it baffling that a person could sin repeatedly, admit to doing the act, feel remorse, say some words, and then be absolved completely. But I guess that was how the new denomination was hoping to get through to people, by making the punishment for their wrongdoings more severe. They hadn’t executed their doctrine yet, but with many more members getting impassioned by the idea—Mom being one of them—it wouldn’t be long.

Earl stepped forward, took a seat on the bench, and closed the door. In unison Louie and I pressed our ears to the confessional’s wall. Our hands in front of our mouths, ready to mute giggles and laughs.

The gibberish began: “Ma, Pang’in jeer, jeer, jeer me mad. I hust him, ‘til no more come down upon. Seek wrath, I says. For the hoppities...”

Earl sighed as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. I started to laugh, and my hand smothered it immediately.

On the other side of the door, the preacher made a hmmm noise. I could almost see him scratching his head, trying to formulate a coherent response where one was so obviously not needed.

“I take Luke Lake. To steer ajar at the saddle. Fall to never get up. I let lie. No breath. No coughin’. Silence only.”

And then just like that, the confessional swung open, nearly breaking my nose in the process. Apparently Earl had said all he wanted and couldn’t care less about splashing around in holy water to atone. Stepping out, he eyed me and winked.

“Good day, Ms. Iva,” the seventy-year-old man said, tipping his ten-gallon hat as if he were a young John Wayne.

My cheeks ran red as I slipped past him. I took a seat inside and inhaled, tasting the musk of aged oak at the back of my tongue. Through the small slits in the gate I could see parts of the priest’s large nose and stout face. His hands were folded underneath his chin, his eyes drooped, and I could tell he was bored, that he too wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

The silvery voice behind the screen mumbled some words, “Well, my child, what is it you have to confess this evening?”

I started to reply but didn’t know what it was I did wrong.

“I actually don’t have anything, I guess. Sorry.”

The priest re-situated himself and eyed me through the checkered pattern.

“Surely there is something...but, if not, maybe you have a question?”

“Well...”

I did in fact have a question. It was a big question and had been gnawing at me ever since the church changed ownership. I had been scared to ask, but with my developing attitude toward my parents and authority in general I decided to employ a what-the-fuck mentality.

The words sprang from my mouth: “I was thinking the other day that if our religion was a person, he or she would definitely be a pessimist. I think God would be, too. I mean, it’s true that there is good and bad in people, but I think one majorly outweighs the other. And I think it’s way more complicated than saying there’s a war between Satan and God and that our souls are the currency...”

On the other side of the screen the priest crossed one leg over the other. I stopped—not knowing if it was okay to question such things and then wondering why it wouldn’t be.

So I continued, “I feel like this new sect is wanting to scare people into a certain way of living. I don’t know why they would do this. For money maybe, power. I don’t know. Or maybe the intentions are good—that’s what I hope. But whatever they are, don’t you think there is a better way of getting through to people? Rather than telling them that they’re inherently evil and if they don’t take the compassionate hand then their afterlife will be controlled by the boogeyman?”

There was a hint of a smile. So slight I am not certain if it was real or in my imagination.

“I’m sorry Ivey, but I must know,” the priest slid the gate to the side, “from whom have you been getting these ideas?”

“No one,” I assured him, somewhat perplexed that he would think such a thing.

It was true I was a voracious reader, always loved to disappear into books, but the thoughts really did come to me on my own during the many hours of restlessness counting ants, watching clouds pass, and don’t forget the lemonade.

“It’s just something I’ve been lying awake wondering.”

He frowned, skeptical, trying to cut through me with his eyes. I didn’t waver, made a point not to.

“You’re an interesting girl. I only hope that brain of yours doesn’t go to your head.”

He chuckled and then slid the screen back in place. I stood up from the bench and stepped out. Louie moved by me, took a seat, and closed the door. Glancing around, I made sure no one was looking and then placed my ear against the wall, wondering why Louie went in at all.

I heard him fidgeting in his seat.

“How can I help you, my child?” The priest asked.

There was a pregnant pause.

“Is something bothering you?” he asked again.

Louie replied in a whisper, incomprehensible to both the priest and me.

“What was that? You’ll have to speak up.”

“I...” he murmured. “I...I just can’t. I just can’t anymore.”

The confessional’s hinges squealed, I jumped to the side, and Louie ran from the booth.