Chicken (19 page)

There’s another reason, closely related, but more scientific. Among the many things rivers carry away are snakes. Lakes, however, are like big, dirty bowls full of evil spaghetti, every noodle possessing sharp teeth and the ability to make you die very painfully. Harvest Mission is firmly against the old Pentecostal practice of snake-handling, but still I’ve got to wonder if setting foot in these muddy, swollen waters is also a test of faith, like do I trust God to keep me alive while my spirit gets washed clean?

Brant stands beside me, hand on my shoulder, foamy frog eggs lapping at the sand and gravel under our bare feet. We’re in our swim trunks and youth group T-shirts. Seems my father was serious about doing this together, so while Brother Mackey gives my father his spiritual bath, Brant Mitchell will be giving me mine. 

“It’s just water once you’re in it. The surface is the nasty part.”

“Oh, you mean the part my face will go right through on my way out?”

“They’ll give you a towel.”

“Oh, you mean towels prevent meningitis and dysentery?”

He shakes my shoulder. “Man up. It’ll just take a minute.”

“Oh, you mean the minute it takes for a snake to mistake my calf for a chubby white fish?”

Brant drops to his hands and knees, bends over the water like an animal taking a drink, so much so that I start to grab his shoulder and tell him don’t you dare. But instead he begins to hiss in a British accent that barely disguises the fact that he’s saying, “Ass ass ass ass asssssssss.”

He sits up on one knee and grins. “Okay. I told ’em you’re with me.”

I want to bury my fingers in his curls and say, Yes, of course I’ll marry you, but instead I keep my hands in my pockets and say, “I had no idea you could speak Par—”

Brother Mackey comes charging through the brush, arms outstretched in his perpetual, pastoral bear hug. I clamp my mouth shut. Somehow I don’t think Mackey needs to know that Brant just poisoned the waters of my baptism with a Harry Potter reference. Even as we speak, an underwater portal is probably opening, leading down to a chamber of demons.

“Boys! Come on!” Mackey beckons us toward his bosom. “It’s time!”

Brant stands up, gritty sand caked on his fuzzy knees. He puts his arm around me and pushes me toward Brother Mackey, who puts his hands on our shoulders and tilts his head, making the exact same face my mother made right before she took mine and Hannah’s junior prom pictures.

“I am so proud of you for making this decision, Casper.”

I shrug and look off over his shoulder through the trees at the congregation gathered on the rocky beach, at the concrete boat ramp I’ll soon be descending. I wonder if Daddy lied to the preacher about whose idea this was, or if Brother Mackey just doesn’t understand the difference between submission and decision.

Brother Mackey leads his little lost sheep back to the flock and positions me in the line of dirty sinners between my father and Lauren. Daddy has been waiting to get baptized until he was sure his leg could hold him up in the current. Lauren, like myself, is doing this under duress so she doesn’t lose her venue for singing. She’s wearing a white robe over her clothes same as all the other women, but the ampleness of her curves is stretching it thin, keeping it from hanging as low as it ought to.

She curtsies for me and whispers, “Mandatory wet T-shirt contest. Every fat girl’s favorite.”

Brother Dean has his guitar out, leading everyone in a rousing rendition of “Nothing But the Blood.” Because when you’re being baptized, the water ain’t just water, it’s the blood of Christ. The deeper you get into all this, the creepier the double entendres. Water is blood. Wine is blood—well, grape juice is blood at Harvest Mission. And then there’s bread, which can mean all kinds of things, up to and including Jesus’ flesh.

Daddy gives me a side-hug. “We’re going to remember this day for a long time to come.”

I force a smile, suitably beatific I hope. On the other side of the road leading down to the boat ramp, Mama looks like she’s having an embarrassing flashback to her own long-ago baptism in this lake. Laramie looks like she is watching iCarly on the screen behind her eyes. Hannah is with them, wearing a white sundress and a tiny headband dotted with tiny white flowers, which is adorable but makes me feel like a baby at his christening.

Brother Mackey walks down the boat ramp and wades into the lake, his enormous swim trunks floating around his thighs like Hawaiian-print lily pads. He says a prayer, and I guess the water isn’t that scary because it is a very long prayer followed by a very long explanation of what baptism means, none of which I understand any better when he’s done speaking. But I don’t have to understand, I just have to make my father happy.

Brother Mackey calls the first person forward, some girl I don’t know who will probably disappear as soon as school starts again. I pay close attention so I know exactly what to do when Brant takes me in his arms and bends me backward into a deeper relationship with God. The line moves quickly, each newly baptized believer emerging from the lake with slicked-back hair and victorious upstretched arms. 

Another nameless revival kid rushes past us, and Brother Mackey’s waddling wife greets him with a towel around his shivering shoulders and directs him into the receiving line to be communally hugged when we’re all done. Mackey beckons, and Brant wades out ahead of us. The late morning sun reflects off the lake and shimmers up through his curls. The water tugs his swim trunks tight against his butt.

 “Sweet Jesus,” whispers Lauren, and I accidentally nod.

She snickers, and I’m grateful the sun’s already baked my skin red. I follow Daddy down the boat ramp, avoiding the rusty fish hooks no one bothered to sweep up. I make an undignified noise when the frigid brown water laps over my feet. The concrete beneath the surface is ribbed and uneven, so Daddy puts a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. 

The lake swallows my thighs, and I wonder if Hannah is checking out my butt, wonder more if maybe just maybe Brant is checking out my front. The ramp gives way to thick, sucking mud, and I brace my shoulder under Daddy’s hand so he doesn’t stumble. The water swirls with plant matter and red dust, but I can still the crawdads and minnows darting away from my feet. 

Brother Mackey sees Daddy struggling and moves forward, takes him off my hands. Three more steps and the water surges up to my belly button. I grit my teeth and squirm in my shirt, try to keep it from clinging to my stomach. Ahead of me, Brant is stoic, a solid rock unmoved by the cold water licking his ribs.

I figured he’d have a hard time keeping a straight face through this, but his lips don’t so much as twitch when I finally reach him. He turns me sideways and cups his hand around the nape of my neck, rough fingers pressing the soft spot between my ear and my skull. There’s no way he can’t feel my pulse pounding there. He wraps his other hand around my wrist bone and guides my hand to my face. My shoulder is up against his hard chest, my hip just below his. I can’t catch the breath I’m supposed to take before I go under. 

Make it stop, God, make it stop.

I look over at Brother Mackey holding my father like Brant is holding me, but their chests are not touching, nor their hips. Mackey is not caressing my father’s neck like he’s trying to calm a frightened cat, and I am sure Mackey’s fingers are not trembling against Daddy’s wrist. 

“Brother Russ, is Jesus Christ your Lord and Savior?”

“Boy, is He!” Daddy shouts, and the folks on shore erupt with laughter.

Mackey looks back at me. “Casper, is Jesus Christ your Lord and Savior?”

Brant’s knee brushes mine as he braces his feet in the mud, and my answer comes out squeaky but good enough for Brother Mackey.

“Then based upon your profession of faith, I now baptize you, my brothers, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Buried with Him in the likeness of His death, raised with Him in the likeness of His resurrection to walk in the newness of life.”

I remember to pinch my nose just before Brant plunges me under. Lake water swirls into my ears, seeps past the corners of my lips. Something swishes past my elbow. My heels gouge the mud, slipping, and I sink, flail, panic, but Brant’s hands are strong and already they are pulling me back. 

My face breaks the surface. Water pours out and sound rushes in—sloshing, dripping, clapping, cheering, gasping. I let go of my nose. When I open my eyes to blue sky and Brant’s smile, I know what it means to be found, and I know what it means to see.

After the hug line, during which I contracted no less than seven different flesh-eating diseases, and the potluck picnic, during which I declined no less than seven different egg salad sandwiches made from seven different top-secret family recipes, I ride home with the Mitchells so I can coax Shetan into their stock trailer. The “Pitcher Place Panther” was the talk of the potluck and Mama and Sister Bonnie got all spooked about me being in the woods alone, so Brother Dean offered to play chauffeur. 

“So how does it feel to be baptized, Casper?” Sister Cindy asks from the passenger seat of their massive four-door truck. 

I rub the back of my neck, feeling tiny pieces of sand rolling under my fingers. “I guess it’s sort of like having a birthday. You know it’s a big deal, but it takes a while to feel any different.”

Sister Cindy smiles into the rearview mirror. “Well, you certainly look different.”

I touch my hair, which still feels thick and gritty after drying for two hours in the sun. “Like how?”

She shrugs, a simple gesture made impressive by the large, puffy sleeves of her homemade floral dress. “You’ve just got that glow.”

Brant’s hand lands gently on my stomach. “Shhh, Mama. He don’t like for people to mention the baby.”

Brother Dean bangs his fist on the armrest, jangling all the pens and loose change inside.  “Son, would it kill you to be reverent for one sorry second of your life?”

Brant puts both hands in his lap, shrinks into the corner. “Sorry, sir.”

Sister Cindy puts a hand on her husband’s arm. She twists around to face us. “Today was a big day for both of you. Casper took the second big step in his spiritual walk, and Brother Mackey honored you by asking you to participate, Brant David. He could have asked one of the deacons, but he wanted to give you the chance to practice and to share in your friend’s joy. We all know you love making people laugh, but what does the Bible tell us about seasons and times?”

Brant dutifully recites Ecclesiastes 3 in its entirety, and if his parents notice the rhythm of his recitation sounds suspiciously like the tune of “Turn, Turn, Turn” they let it be. Afterwards, his parents ask me kind, interested questions about Texas and horses and rodeos while Brant sulks and watches the trees flash by. I want to brush the hair off his temple and tell him it was a pretty lame joke but he can put his hand on me again any time he likes. 

Brother Dean parks the truck behind all the other non-functioning trucks and tells us to go walk the horse so he’s not all wound up. He’ll come down and hook up the trailer after he takes a crap. He doesn’t say that, of course, but I can infer the hidden meaning behind “take care of some business” because I had to sit behind his silent-but-deadlies for the last ten minutes of the ride.

I hop out of the truck, careful not to slam any of the poking, prodding beagle noses in the door behind me. From the other side of the truck, one yelps and Brant shouts, “Arrrgh!!!!”

When I get around there, he’s holding one of the flop-eared pups and inspecting its paw. He thrusts it into my arms. Then he leans down and grabs another and thrusts it into my other arm. Then he leans down and grabs a third and drapes it over the other two’s necks. It tilts its head all the way back and licks under my chin. 

When he tries to add a fourth, I say, “What the heck are you doing?”

“Baptism gifts. One for you, one for your daddy, and one each for your mom and sister in advance. That enough? You need more?”

I bend over and let the puppies tumble out of my arms. “Nice try.”

He sighs and watches the puppies get absorbed back into the hive-minded mass of dogs. “Maybe Sister Bonnie—”

“Too many cats.”

Brant nods. “She’s a smart lady. For a Democrat.”

His mama hugs me and tells me how proud she is two more times before she lets us leave. I start toward the gravel road we ran up the other day, but Brant shakes his head and leads me around to the back of the house and the thin trail the beagles have trampled through the underbrush on the side of the ridge.

“For real?” I ask, peering down the rocky, thorny, almost vertical incline.

 "Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. Matthew 7:13.”

I groan and clamp my hands over my ears. “Please never do that when your parents aren’t around.”

“You’re one of us now, Casper. You’ve got to learn to talk the talk and—” He leaps downward, touching one foot against an outcropping of rock and bouncing off, landing nimbly three feet away on another jutting stone. “—walk the walk.”

He’s wearing the dorky church clothes he changed into after the baptism. Khaki pants and a plain blue button-down. I’m partial to him in T-shirts and jeans, but there’s something about the way the thin blue cotton stretches across his back that makes his shoulders look even more broad. His hair tumbles over his collar, and I am determined now to tangle my fingers in it, someway, somehow, even if it’s just giving in to one of his impromptu wrestling matches. I follow him down the hill.

“Hey, Brant?”

“Uh-huh?”

“What’d your mom mean when she said I took the second step in my spiritual walk? What’s the third step?”

A lasso of thorns closes around my ankle, pulling my foot out from under me. I stumble and catch hold of a young tree that bends under my weight. I hit my knees. 

Brant laughs ’til he wheezes, “Well, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t it.”

By the time I’ve untangled the briars from my jeans, Brant is halfway to the bottom, still giggling. I plunge after him, one foot stuck out way in front of the other to lower my center of gravity. I slide from pine to pine, digging wet furrows through piles of rotten leaves that still haven’t dried.