Donut Days (12 page)

I heard the low rumble of a motorcycle and looked at my cell phone. It was almost eleven-thirty. Jake and I were going to be late to meet the Angelfire gang if we didn’t haul.

“Come on,” I said, breaking into a run. “We need to go catch Bear and his crew before they take off. Once we get back, we can get all the documents to the board.”

“Sure,” Jake said, and within seconds his long, tan legs had carried him yards ahead of me.

“I think I can see them from here,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll hold them and make sure they don’t leave without you.”

“Okay,” I yelled back, hoping Jake wouldn’t hear the wheeze in my voice. I was strong, but jogging wasn’t my thing at
all
. I watched Jake’s muscled back ripple under his shirt until he was a distant dot, and I slowed to a walk. I used my shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat off my face. Bronzer smeared the cotton.
Fabulous.

As I walked, I realized Jake and I were putting ourselves on the line for my parents and the church, but it felt a little weird, considering the fact that my parents had so clearly stopped talking to me about the prophecy. They ’d cut me off. And after the way they had treated me all summer long, should I really be helping them? I mean, sure, my mom had been ballsy by continuing to preach and lead the congregation alongside my dad, but she’d also been cowardly and secretive in other ways. Like how she’d acted before the church’s annual garage sale in June.

 

 

 

It was early on a Friday and Mom had asked me to come to Living Word and help her price and set out sale items in the basement. Since Nat was sneaking time with Carson and I was alone, I’d agreed—maybe a little too eagerly. My mom raised an eyebrow at me when I clapped once and said, “Let’s do this.”

For most of the morning we’d organized all the old toasters, scarves, and plastic toys on tables in the church basement and tried to figure out what to charge for them. It was an okay time, though. It was just the two of us since my dad was talking to the local Kiwanis about integrity and leadership, and Lizzie was at a friend’s for a playdate.

“Can you believe the stuff people bring for us to sell?” Mom had asked, picking up a ratty bra by a corner of one strap and throwing it into the trash. The way her pinkie curved, she could almost be a queen tossing cake to peasants.

“Gross. That’s so wrong.”

“We should have brought gloves,” she said, eyeing the rest of the clothes warily.

“Hey, what’s this?” I reached into a box and pulled out a ceramic figure of a donkey butt—the kind you would put on the wall so it looked like the donkey was halfway through the plaster.

Mom looked up from the clothes. “My goodness!”

“What do you think we should price it?”

Her mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. “You know what? I don’t think we actually have to price it. I can think of three or four people in the church who might take it home as kin.”

For a second, I couldn’t believe my mom had actually slammed somebody in the church. And then I started laughing so hard, I almost dropped the donkey butt. My mom started laughing too, but she didn’t make a sound when she did it—she just opened her mouth, squinted, and shook. Her tongue, which I hardly ever saw in such full view, was like a pink mollusk enjoying a break from the dark shell of her mouth. I don’t know why, but seeing her tongue just made me laugh harder, which made my mom laugh harder, and by the end of it, we were both leaning against the basement tables.

The whole experience helped cut through some of the tangled, rain-forest-thick tension between us since the baptism and the college blowup. Later, when we sat on Living Word Redeemer’s back steps getting some fresh air, it felt like we were closer—like we had shared something and were almost friends. So I decided to start talking.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yes?”

I picked at a fingernail. “So, um, when you said there were people in the church who were like that donkey’s butt—did you mean the O’Connors?”

My mom looked off toward the end of the parking lot without saying anything right away. Her brown hair was shiny and velvety in the afternoon light, and she wasn’t wearing makeup or a suit. It was a nice change, considering she did her hair and makeup almost every day because she always said a church pastor couldn’t go anywhere without expecting to run into someone they knew.

“Well, I guess it’s no secret we’re having some issues with Gary these days.”

“Yeah, but about what? Is it just about women preaching in the church, or is there something else going on?”

My mom sighed. “He just wants something we’re not prepared to give him.”

“Really? What is it?”

She looked straight at me when I asked that, her face so pained that I couldn’t tell if she was mad at me for asking or ready to divulge everything. But after a second, she took a deep breath and sat up really straight, like her spine had just been infused with iron. She pulled a fresh tissue out of her pocket and started wiping her hands with it. “I shouldn’t have made that joke about the donkey,” she said, forcing a smile. “That was inappropriate.” She put the tissue away and looked like she was going to get up.

“Yeah, but the O’Connors, they ’re not being really great to you and Dad right now,” I said quickly, trying to get her to stay sitting, trying to keep the moment from vanishing. “What’s going on? Did that prophecy mean he wants you to step down?”

“God tells us in Matthew not to talk publicly about our disagreements if we can handle them privately,” my mom said, standing up.

I stood up too. “So there
is
a disagreement?”

“If there was, I wouldn’t talk publicly about it.”

“I’m not the public, though. I’m family.”

“I really shouldn’t talk about it, Emma.”

“Can you just tell me if you’re pissed at the O’Connors?”

“I hate that
p
-word, Emma. Please don’t use it. And if you are talking about anger, then you should know that God commands us to love.” She turned away from me, pulled open the church door, and stepped inside.

“Okay, but even Jesus got mad,” I said, remembering something in the Bible where Jesus overturned some tables, Incredible Hulk-style. I grabbed the door and followed her.

My mom stopped so suddenly that I almost smacked into her back. She faced me fully, and even in the church’s dim hallway, I could see the severe look on her face—the kind Mrs. Dutton got just as the Jell-O salad was set out on the potluck table. The kind that said,
There is no negotiating. There is only one way this can end.
Sure enough, my mom uttered only one word in response to me: “Enough.”

But what was it that she didn’t want to tell me? Did she really think I couldn’t see things weren’t right? I knew she didn’t lie on the couch anymore at night and let my dad rub her feet, the way he used to. I knew instead she prayed in the office until her hair was damp and matted and her cheeks were blotchy. Sometimes her eyes would be red and puffy when she was done, and when Lizzie asked her if she was sad, she’d smile and take Lizzie’s hand in her own and say no, she was just tired is all.

Had Mr. O’Connor’s prophecy alone caused this, or was there something more? What was he, and his gobs of money, doing to the church?

Something on my face must have changed because my mom suddenly softened a little and asked, “Emma, are you all right?”

His gobs of money
.

Were my parents not speaking publicly about whatever was happening with Mr. O’Connor because they wanted him to keep tithing? And if that were the case, what if Mr. O’Connor’s demands didn’t end with him saying women shouldn’t preach? I shuddered, thinking about all the women wearing skirts and being forbidden to cut their hair. Was it possible that we could turn into a cult that just worshipped the richest congregant? I swallowed and tried to find the right words to explain all this.

But then, with my mom standing that close to me, I got a good look at her clothes, which, in addition to being dusty from all the work this morning, were also thin and ratty like they’d needed to be thrown out years ago. Her shoes were canvas and had hand-stitched threads around the eyelets and seams to keep all the material together. I could remember her having that same pair since I was little. What would she wear if her best donor were gone from the church? What would we eat? Would she have to stop buying nice clothes for Lizzie just so we could get by? Would God provide, or would we go on food stamps? We were broke enough as it was—we didn’t need to be poorer.

Whatever Mr. O’Connor was up to, it wouldn’t be easy to deal with. How could my parents confront their biggest donor without risking him pulling the plug? Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they ’d just shut up and let him do whatever he wanted.

“I—I’m just worried about you and Dad,” I said to my mom, keeping my eyes down and focusing on her dumpy shoes.

My mom surprised me by putting a hand on my cheek. I looked up and met her eyes, noticing for the first time how the skin around them looked like an elephant’s—dry and cracked and grayish. “Your dad and I appreciate your concern, Emma, we do. But it’s not your affair, and we don’t want to involve you. Do you understand?”

I could have been wrong, but it seemed to me that for the first time, I understood the situation perfectly: my mom was choosing to survive and get by, rather than to be right. I nodded, thinking,
I wish I
didn’t
understand
.

“C’mon then,” my mom said, “let’s finish this work and get home.” She was trying to sound energetic and cheerful, but we both knew that we’d burned up all our conversational fuel. And sure enough, for the rest of the afternoon we tagged all the items in the basement—in silence.

A
ll right, Emma, please ride with me,” said Bear. “Jake, we’ll put you on the back of Anita’s bike.” Bear threw one leg over his motorcycle and I crawled on behind him. He was so wide, my arms barely got around his back. He’d offered me his sidecar, which protruded from the side of his bike like a jelly bean on a stick, but I’d shook my head no. Being on the bike with Bear felt safer.

I am going to write about my adventures on the back of a Harley with a born-again motorcycle gang,
I thought, strapping a motorcycle helmet to my head,
or I can even write about Anita’s waitressing problems.
I pushed the helmet as far down on my head as it would go. “Anything we need to know before we do this?” I yelled above the din of the roaring motorcycles.

“Just hold on,” he said, his black helmet with a yellow smiley face grinning at me from the back.

Bear revved the engine and kicked his bike into gear. We pulled away from the camp in one fluid motion. I never would have thought that such a big man and such a loud machine could move so gracefully, but that’s exactly what it was when we pulled away: graceful.

I suddenly understood why men going through midlife crises got motorcycles. The rushing air practically scrubbed away every concern I had.
Forget midlife crises
, I thought.
These are great for
any
crisis
.

The knots in my muscles harboring all my worries about the prophecy, Nat, my parents, the donut camp, college, and Jake—they all seemed to loosen up and get picked off in the clean September air. I imagined them fluttering behind me as we rode, like leaves behind a speeding car.

A few days before the campout, I’d read an article that talked about how overworked and stressed teens are. How doctors were seeing more teens with ulcers, with high blood pressure, and even with “control” issues, like eating disorders and cutting, so they felt like they could manage
something
—even if it was just their own bodies.

I’d never had any of those problems myself, but there were days where I could relate. Like over the summer when I watched my mom pad around the house restlessly. My mind was on fire, wondering what she was thinking about the church’s all-consuming debate about her. I figured it was probably eating away at her insides, little by little, like swallowing a few drops of Drano day after day. I also assumed she felt bitter—like, she’d given her whole life to serving the congregation and trying to help them, and now some of her own were rising up with a heavy Bible, ready to knock her over the head with it.

Only, because she didn’t talk about it, I had to guess she was feeling what I would feel. I had to imagine ways I thought I could help, which came down to me not really doing much at all. Because what could I do? Only speculate. And wish I had more ways to control something that seemed so out of my hands.

 

 

 

Bear rolled up to a KFC drive-through, and the Harley engine quieted to a purr. My ears nearly popped from the noise relief.

“What would you like, Emma?” he asked as we stared at the menu board.

“Um, how about a couple pieces of chicken and a biscuit? Oh, and a Diet Coke.”

“That sounds much like what I’m having.”

Bear placed our order and the other bikers behind us did the same.

“Here,” I said, shoving twenty dollars at Bear. “Keep the change.”

Bear looked at the bill, then at me. “I appreciate this,” he said, taking it. It was way more than my lunch would cost, but I figured I could at least help with gas. Or something. Bear and his gang didn’t even have tents to sleep in—only mats on the dewy Crispy Dream field.

I held on to the food with one hand and Bear with the other as he drove the bike to Ladyslipper State Park, a couple miles away. When he parked, I got off his Harley slowly, feeling all vibratey from the constant engine noise and wind.

“You feel exhausted, don’t you?” asked Bear, unstrapping his helmet.

“Uh-huh,” I managed to reply.

“It’s an unrivaled sensation, really. Puts everything into perspective.”