Chicken (6 page)

Laramie lifts her swollen, snot-splattered face, blinks like she’s seen Jesus, and then flings herself against his chest, nearly bowling him over. Mama has to grab his shoulder to steady him. He furrows his furry brows at Mama. She rolls her eyes.

“She lost her… her sword snake thingie.” Mama shouts over the music, making a lazy gesture that looks suspiciously like a lazy hand job. 

Daddy glares and pushes her hand down before anyone sees. She rolls her eyes at this too, and when they land on me and catch me smirking, she lifts her sculpted eyebrows like You know it’s true! I bite my cheeks so as not to laugh and upset Daddy. These days Mama usually goes along with his new holier-than-thou thing, but every now and then, when she’s bored or pissed at him, she’ll be funny and cool again. 

“Easy now.” Daddy strokes Laramie’s long black hair. “We’ll find you a new one, Buck.”

Buck. That’s his special nickname for her. Not Princess or Sweetheart or Kitten. Buck, short for buckskin, which is a tan horse with a black mane. I asked him once what kind of horse I’d be, and he laughed and said, “Medicine Hat,” which is a stark white horse that appears to be wearing a red cap. Later on, I asked Mama if I could “go Palomino” like her. She thought that was just precious so she took me to the salon and let her squirrely friend Sean bleach me blond. When Daddy got home, he didn’t say a word, just grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me out to the barn. He stood me between the cross-tie posts in the wash bay and ran his clunky horse clippers over my scalp ’til it was bald and razor-burnt. Then he sent me to bed without a bath. I fell asleep itching and squirming and listening to him berate Mama for encouraging me.

I stomp past them up the church steps, needing to get away from Laramie’s exaggerated blubbering. I don’t know, maybe I’m a jerk, but twelve seems a little old for crying over lost toys and a little young for crying over lost dicks. I cross the landing in front of the church’s glass double doors and stand at the top of the left-hand steps facing the vacant lot. Normally, there’s nothing to see but cracked red clay, patchy yellow grass, discarded paper fans made from church bulletins, and a big faded sign in its fifth year of proclaiming this space the future home of the Harvest Mission Youth Complex. But tonight—

Tonight it looks like the sanctified version of a pop-up rave, complete with glow stick crosses clutched in pumping fists and an enormous inflatable globe bouncing off those fists and over three hundred bobbing, banging heads—way more than actually attend Harvest Mission. On the west side of the lot, Brother Hank’s flatbed trailer has been converted into a stage, and behind the keyboard and sparkly blue drum set, a huge projection screen displays a psychedelic music visualizer, its bright colors twisting, looping, cascading, and exploding in time with the thumping beat of “God’s Not Dead”. The adult members of Harvest Mission are clumped at this end of the lot, some in lawn chairs, some on blankets, and some just standing around like the worst kind of prom chaperones, eyeballing the crowd and hoping for a chance to publicly humiliate some girl for twerking.

The music hits a slow spot, and like well-trained dogs, all the Harvest Mission kids instantly stop fist-pumping and stretch their open palms or glow stick crosses toward Heaven. They tilt back their heads and sway slowly from foot to foot. The kids from other churches drop their hands but join in the gentle swaying. The globe crashes to the ground, and all the unchurched kids who were just desperate to hear live music exchange awkward glances like Are we supposed to sixth-grade slow dance with Jesus now? 

Yes. You are.

But the worship break doesn’t last long, and when the chorus explodes, so do the church kids, rocketing up toward Heaven only to come crashing down on the next beat, their faces shining beatifically with sweat. I search for a Lady Gaga Monster Paw—Brant’s signature praise move during this song—but find only fists and palms and glowing crosses, punching and slapping and stabbing at air so moist it pretty much splashes. Someone gets the globe going higher than ever.

Fingers touch my neck, spring back. Mama comes up beside me, wiping her hand on the hem of her blouse. “Honestly, Casper, I’ve never known another boy who could get so sweaty just from standing still.”

I give her the side-eye. “If you’re trying to shame me into droppin’ it like it’s hot for God, it ain’t happening.”

“No, that’s a personal decision.” She leans toward my ear. “But you could do it for your father.”

I jerk my head away. “That’s disgusting.”

She swats my arm. “You know what I mean. It would make him very happy to see you participating.”

I shoot her the you can’t be serious eyebrow. 

She fires back with the double-barreled try me eyebrows. 

The song cuts off just before the last note, and the speakers crackle in the way that says they’re switching over to live sound. My sorta-friend Colton Hicks, the sound guy’s apprentice, hops on the stage, rattling the cymbals as he hurries over to the center mic. He adjusts it so it’s tall enough to reach his own mouth, and my heart presses nervously against my sternum like a dog at its master’s leg—I can almost hear it whimper. 

A mic level with Colton’s lips is a mic level with the top of Brant’s cowboy hat. In other words, not a mic Brant’s going to be singing at. The only way Brant’s parents would let him off the hook like this is if he’s really sick. I kick myself for not walking him back to his truck. What if he had a heat stroke? Or he’s got serious food poisoning? Now my heart’s practically scratching at the door to go look for him. Make it stop. I remind myself that if something were seriously wrong, there wouldn’t have been any dancing. The whole church would have dropped to their knees for an emergency prayer meeting. I take a deep breath and put my heart back on its leash.

Daddy comes shuffling around to the foot of these steps, one hand holding Laramie’s, the other resting on his bad leg. He looks up at me, smiles benignly, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Mama takes one step down. I shake my head. Mama’s next step falters when she sees Daddy’s eyes crinkle. Her head snaps back at me. I set my jaw and shake my head again.

“Casper,” she warns.

“I can see better from up here.”

Daddy cups a hand around his ear, so I cup one around my mouth. “I can see better from up here!  Like Zacchaeus!”

 Daddy’s grin stretches his smile lines up into his bushy sideburns. He doesn’t just give me a thumbs-up, he shakes it at me like he’s pounding an invisible table in delight. I get the obligatory tingle of pride that comes from making one of my parents happy, but it fizzles fast. Everything I do that ought to please a dad—hard work, good grades, cute girlfriend—falls flat on this one. It’s like he came out of the hospital with all his priorities reset, and now all he wants is for me to have a personal relationship with Jesus and a career in fast food. His enthusiasm for the latter makes it a little hard to trust his judgment on the former. 

He lets go of Laramie’s hand as he turns away, and she skips ahead, fully recovered I guess. Mama doesn’t say anything or even look at me, but she makes a big show of slow-clapping as she goes. She stops just before she catches up with Daddy and slips an arm around his waist. He shifts the weight his bad leg can’t handle onto her. It’s become an effortless exchange. No one ever notices her holding him up, least of all him. 

As soon as they’ve faded into the crowd, I plop down on the top step, propping my elbows up on the landing and stretching out my legs like I’m going down a slide. I swivel my aching feet and contemplate removing my heavy boots, but think better of it when I catch sight of the sky beyond the stage. That mean-looking pack of clouds has transformed into a single blue-black monstrosity, lumbering down from the mountains, slow and awkward like some hugely pregnant beast, painfully swollen with rain and electricity. Sane people would already be out of its way, especially considering what happened a few years back—but no, a couple months ago Brother Mackey preached a sermon titled “You Won’t See Jesus Calm Your Storm if You’re Running From It,” and I guess everyone has decided to take it literally. 

The streetlights pop on, their alien hums harmonizing with the speakers crackling on the stage and the cicadas buzzing in every shrub. Within seconds, the white lamps look like fuzzy old TV screens as thousands of little black shapes surround them, and within another few seconds, dozens of slightly larger black shapes descend from the defunct belfry over my head and slice through the swarms, their tiny fanged mouths open and gobbling. Unease prickles my neck, and I get this stupid feeling like something’s watching me through the church’s glass doors. I glance over my shoulder, but all I see is the translucent reflection of the trees across the street and beyond that the deep, black darkness peculiar to empty churches. 

I swish some spit around my dry mouth and lick my lips, suddenly wishing I had pinpointed the whereabouts of Tyler Mathis. Sure, there’s plenty of adults not even twenty feet away, but if he finds me and gives me a hard time, what am I gonna do—scream? So next time he sees me, he can accuse me of being filled with the Unholy Ghost? 

That’s what they call him now. That guy who winked at me four years ago today. That guy who saw everything. They call him that because he’s dead now. Drowned. His body swept away in the Great Flood of ’08—the only recorded instance of water moving through the Ditch in over a hundred years. Adults avoid the subject, but kids don’t need any help with that sort of logic puzzle. Sunday School teacher says God sent a flood to cleanse the earth of sinners 4,500 years ago, and then a freak flash flood comes along and this town’s only out-and-proud gay guy goes missing? It’s not much of a mystery if you believe the premise behind Brother Mackey’s popular sermon “God Don’t Make Mistakes OR Coincidences.”

Up on stage, the idling music visualizer gives way to a badly photoshopped image of three wooden crosses on a grassy knoll under an American flag sky where a majestic bald eagle soars alongside a gentle white dove. If Hannah were here, she’d snort and say, “I’m gonna need to see a Scripture reference on this one.” 

God, I wish she were here. Not the way she’s probably hoping I’m wishing it, but I do wish it, and I wish that I were wishing it in the way she hopes I am. I wish that most of all. I wish I could take her in my arms like a real man and kiss her until all these mixed-up feelings go away, but I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried for months and nothing ever changes. I’m letting her waste her first kisses, and what’s worse is knowing I’d let her waste even more if I thought it would finally fix me. 

God, make it stop.

Brother Dean takes the stage. In another life, were he vexed with more worldly ambitions, he might have been a rock star Tea Party politician. His shiny black acoustic guitar looks like a toy strapped around his broad shoulders and barrel chest. He’s wearing a fitted black vest over a long-sleeved white shirt, and his silver curls have been slicked to the sides of his big, square head. He looks like Johnny Cash might have looked in late middle-age had Johnny Cash never touched drugs, booze, or cigarettes. Brother Dean is Brant Mitchell’s dad.

He walks to the center mic, every footstep shaking the stage. He waves at the crowd and drawls, “Y’all ready to praise the Lord?” 

About half the crowd cheers. Brother Dean drags a second mic over and lowers it level with his guitar. He strums. Smiles at the sound.

“I know y’all were expecting my son—I suspect he’s the reason a lot of y’all even come—but he overdid himself today—I bet a lot of y’all saw that, I bet—and I’ve been called upon to fill in.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “But don’t worry none because if you make it through the sermon, we’ll get that little rascal out here before you go.”

A group of girls who were slinking away suddenly turn around. Brother Dean motions them back into the flock with the same lazy, dimpled grin his son’s been ruining my life with. He begins to play in earnest now, and the other musicians join in. I didn’t even see them come on stage. The Mitchell men have a way of being the center of attention, even this one who claims to be nothing but the Lord’s humble servant. I can hear the jangle of Sister Cindy’s tambourine somewhere  off to the side of the trailer. She’s got the voice of a one-woman heavenly choir, but she rarely joins her husband on stage because the Lord’s humble servant hates being out-sang. 

He’s picked an older song that Brant would never pick called “Let the Fire Fall.” Pentecostals love fire. Hence the revival being called Catch the Fire. To them, fire represents the Holy Ghost, and the purpose of a revival is to create conditions where as many people as possible can catch the Holy Ghost. This wasn’t something anyone ever discussed at our old church. You said the Sinner’s Prayer and that was that. The only time anyone ever mentioned falling fire was when God obliterated Sodom and Gomorrah for having too many weirdos and freaks like me. Seems even the Good Lord can’t resist a dumb double entendre. 

My personal philosophy when it comes to any type of flame plummeting from the sky is simple—hide. Getting hit in the head with a chunk of brimstone is bad, but at least you know what happens next. You’re dead. But getting filled with the Holy Ghost, anything—and I mean anything—can happen. Speaking in tongues. Dancing down the aisles. Running on pews. These folks get buck wild.. I tried going agnostic after Daddy’s accident, but Harvest Mission quickly reversed that decision. I’ve seen too many straight-laced people doing too many crazy things. Which is why I’m staying way over here out of the line of fire. Losing control is a privilege for the normal.  

The church doors burst open with a devilish roar.

I slide halfway down the steps on my butt, scraping up my wrists on the rough concrete. The monster laughs. 

I turn around, and there he is, doubled over same as when he puked. He tumbles forward onto his hands and knees, braying like a donkey. He’s wearing khakis and long-sleeved, button-down, red, white, and blue plaid. I can smell the gel taming the hair above his ears from here. 

I jam my raw hands against the steps and hoist myself back up to where I was. He keeps laughing. I keep my eyes on his dad and the singing congregation with their lifted hands. I hear flesh and khakis scuffling on concrete, and then he’s pushing his wooly head against my shoulder blade. Talk about sending the fire.