Saint Maybe (19 page)

After Devotions came Sharing Hour. In school they called it Show and Tell. You didn’t have to bring anything to Sharing Hour if you didn’t want to, and most of the boys didn’t. Also what you brought didn’t have to be religious, although of course it was always nice if it was. It could be just some belonging you’d been blessed with that you wanted others to share the joy of. Sister Myra’s daughter Beth, for instance, brought a
beautiful silver whistle that used to be her cousin Rob’s from Boy Scout camp. But when it came time to let others share the joy of it, she refused. She said she didn’t want people blowing it and passing on their germs. “Well, honestly, Beth,” Sister Myra said, looking cross, but Beth said, “I got a right! I don’t have to put up with all and sundry’s summer colds!” She was a skinny stick of a girl who never seemed that healthy anyway. Her nose was always red, and her braids were the pale, pinkish color of transparent eyeglass frames. Sister Myra sighed and said, “Anybody else?”

Daphne stood up so hard that her chair fell over backward. (You were supposed to raise your hand.) “Well, I have this,” she announced, and she held the toy lawn mower over her head. All the girls said, “Aw!” They thought she was cute. Then the boys, Dermott and the nine-year-olds, said, “Awww,” making fun of the girls, but you could tell they didn’t mean any harm. They were smiling, and Daphne smiled back at them. Then she showed how the colored balls popped up when she pushed the lawn mower across the carpet. She
was
cute, Thomas realized. She was darling, with her springy black curls as thick as the wig on a doll and her face very small and lively. He felt suddenly proud of her, and also, for some reason, a little bit sad.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sister Myra said. “Any other sharers?”

Agatha raised her hand. Thomas looked over at her; she hadn’t mentioned she was bringing something. She stood up and rooted through her front pocket, knotting her mouth because she was kind of fat for her shorts and it was hard to get her fist around whatever it was. Finally she pulled out something round and clear. “A mustard seed,” she said.

Sister Myra said, “A what, hon?”

“A mustard seed in a plastic ball, like what Reverend Emmett talked about yesterday at Juice Time.”

“Oh, yes: ‘If ye have faith as a grain of mustard …’ ” Sister Myra said. She held out her hand, and Agatha let the object drop into her palm. “Why, I remember these! We wore them on chains back in high school. We bought them at Woolworth’s jewelry counter.”

“It used to be my mother’s,” Agatha said.

Thomas’s mouth fell open.

“My mother’s dead now, and I don’t know what church she belonged to. But when Reverend Emmett showed us those mustard seeds at Juice Time I thought, ‘
That’s
what that is! That round ball in my mother’s box.’ ”

Their mother’s jewelry box, she meant, the cloth-covered box Agatha kept her barrettes in; and she was evil, evil to show other people something from the mysterious bottom drawer. Hadn’t she made Thomas cross his heart and hope to die if he told anyone their mother’s things were hidden there? She wouldn’t even let him tell Daphne, because Daphne might tell the grownups and then the grownups would go through their mother’s papers and figure out a way to ship Thomas and Agatha off to strangers, keeping Daphne for themselves since Daphne was the only true Bedloe. Agatha had warned him a dozen times, and now look: here she was, speaking of “my” mother, of how “I” don’t know what church she belonged to, while their mother’s private mustard seed traveled from hand to hand like something ordinary. From Sister Myra’s cushiony palm to Beth’s wiry, freckled claw to Dermott Kyle’s not-very-clean fist, and by the time it reached Thomas he believed he caught the smell of sweat. He held it up by its tiny gold ring and studied it at eye level. (He was no more familiar with it than the others were, since Agatha
guarded that box so jealously.) Had the plastic been this scratched and clouded even before the others handled it? If so, then it was because of his mother’s touch; her actual fingers had rubbed off the shine. Her actual eyes had looked upon that white glint of a seed.

He didn’t really remember their mother, to tell the truth. When he tried to picture her, he had the vaguest recollection of following some red high-heeled shoes down a sidewalk and then looking up to discover they belonged to the wrong lady. “Mama!” he had cried in a panic, and there’d been a flurry of footsteps, a low, soft laugh … but he couldn’t put together what she’d looked like. It seemed that whenever he tried he came up with a sort of
general
mother, the kind you imagine when someone reads out the word “mother” in a storybook. He’d asked Agatha once, “Did she used to have a station wagon, maybe? I think I remember a car pool, a lady in the car pool at my nursery school—”

But Agatha said, “What are you talking about? She didn’t even know how to drive!”

“I must’ve mixed her up with someone else,” he said.

But the car-pool lady stayed on in his mind—someone like other children had, waiting for him in a brown station wagon with wood-grained panels on the sides and a rear compartment full of tennis-ball cans and lacrosse sticks.

“The best thing is, Agatha’s brought us something having to do with our faith,” Sister Myra said. “She listened to what Reverend Emmett talked about at Juice Time and then she brought something related to that. Very nice, Agatha.”

Agatha nodded and sat down in her chair. When Thomas passed the mustard seed to Jason, he felt he was parting with a piece of himself, like an arm.

* * *

The Bible verse for the day came from the Forty-second Psalm:
As the hart panteth after the water brooks …
First Sister Myra explained what it meant. “Does everyone know what a hart is? Anyone? Anyone at all?” Then she helped them memorize it, breaking the verse into phrases that they repeated after her. This was all in preparation for the Bible Bee, which was a kind of spelldown that happened every Friday. Sometimes they competed against other camps—last week, Lamb of God from Cockeysville. Lamb of God had won.

After Bible Verse it was time for Morning Swim. The girls changed upstairs in Beth’s room and the boys changed in the workshop off the rec room. They met in the backyard. At first the sun felt wonderful, soaking into Thomas’s chilled skin, and then all at once it felt too hot,
way
too hot, so that he was glad to race the others to the pool and clamber up the three wooden steps and drop into the lukewarm water. Sister Myra was the lifeguard. She stood hip-deep with her swimsuit skirt floating out around her and tried to make the boys stop splashing the girls. Sister Audrey watched the baby pool, which was an inflatable rubber dish nearby. She wore her same tank top and cutoffs and didn’t even remove her flip-flops but sat high and dry in a folding chair she’d dragged out, smiling or else squinting at the little ones as they sailed their toy boats and poured water from their tin buckets.

Jason said the Dumpster had been parked behind the stadium, but Dermott said Mondawmin Mall.

After their swim they sat down for lunch at two redwood picnic tables on the patio. That way they didn’t drip across Sister Myra’s floors; they’d be dry before they’d finished eating. It was Mindy’s turn to ask the blessing (not a chance Dermott Kyle would get another turn, not after last time!), and then they had bologna sandwiches and milk. Dessert was little foil packets of
salted peanuts because Sister Myra’s husband worked for a company that made airplane meals and he got a special discount. By now they’d used up all their energy and they were quieter. Daphne fell asleep with her head on the table halfway through her sandwich. Thomas pumped a mouthful of milk from one cheek to the other to hear the swishing sound. Dermott asked, dreamily, “Does
everybody
see flashes of white light while they’re chewing tinfoil?”

Still in their swimsuits, they were herded downstairs (Daphne sagging over Sister Myra’s shoulder), where they unrolled their blankets from home and stretched out on the floor for their naps. Sister Myra sat in a chair above them and read aloud from the Bible-story book with its queerly lightweight paper and orange drawings: “The Boy Jesus in the Temple,” today. (How rude He was to his parents! But there must be some excuse for it that Thomas was still too young to understand.) The idea was, the little ones would sleep and the older ones would just rest and listen to the story. Thomas always meant to just rest, but Sister Myra’s low voice mingled with the creaks overhead where Sister Audrey was clearing away lunch, and next thing he knew the others were rolling their blankets and Reverend Emmett had arrived for Juice Time.

Reverend Emmett was tall and thin and he never seemed to get hot, not even in his stiff white shirt and black trousers. All the children loved him. Well, all except Agatha. Agatha said his Adam’s apple was too big. But the others loved him because he acted so bashful with them. A grownup, scared of children! He said, “How are our campers today? Enjoying this beautiful weather?” and when somebody (Mindy) finally said, “Yup,” he practically fell apart. “Oh! Wonderful!” he said, all flustered and delighted. Then he sat down on one of the nursery-school chairs so his knees jutted
nearly to his chin, and the others settled on the floor in a circle while Sister Myra and Sister Audrey passed out paper cups of apple juice. Reverend Emmett took a cup himself. (In his long, bony fingers, it looked like a thimble.) He said, “Thank you, Sister Audrey,” and he smiled so happily into her face you would think he’d never heard of the Dempster Dumpster. Sister Audrey blushed and backed away and stepped on one of the Nielsen twins’ hands, but since she was wearing her flip-flops it must not have hurt much. The twin only blinked and went on staring at Reverend Emmett.

Sometimes Reverend Emmett talked about Jesus and sometimes about modern days. Thomas liked modern days best. He liked hearing about the Church of the Second Chance: how it had started out meeting in Reverend Emmett’s garage where the floor was still marked with oil stains from Reverend Emmett’s Volkswagen. Or even before that: how Reverend Emmett, an Episcopal seminarian and the son of an Episcopal minister, had gradually come to question the sham and the idolatry—for what was kneeling before a crucifix but idolatry?—and determined to found a church without symbols, a church without baptism or communion where only the
real
things mattered and where the atonement must be as real as the sin itself, where for instance if you broke a playmate’s toy in anger you must go home immediately and fetch a toy of your own, of as good or better quality, and give it to that playmate for keeps and then announce your error at Public Amending on Sunday. Or how Reverend Emmett’s fiancée had dumped him and his father had called him a crackpot although his mother, the smart one in the family, had seen the light at once and could even now be observed attending Second Chance every Sunday in her superficial Episcopal finery, her white gloves and netted hat. But that was all right, Reverend Emmett said. To
condemn a person for fancy dress was every bit as vain as condemning her for humble dress. It’s only the inside that counts.

Today he talked about how meaningful it was that he should come for these chats of theirs at Juice Time. “This way,” he told them, “it’s a period of spiritual nourishment as well as physical.” Then he put it more simply for the little ones. “You don’t get just apple juice, you get the juice of heavenly knowledge besides.” He said, “How lucky you are, to have both at once! Most children have to choose one at a time—either nourishment for the soul or nourishment for the body.”

“Isn’t there anything else?” Agatha wanted to know.

“Excuse me?”

But she shrugged and picked at a cuticle.

“And even young as you are, you can still bear witness,” Reverend Emmett said. “You can live in such a way that people will ask, ‘Who
are
those children? And what is the secret of their joy?’ That’s what ‘bearing witness’ means, in our faith—not empty words or proselytizing. Those cigarette smokers and coffee addicts and sugar fiends in their big expensive churches, contributing to the Carpet Fund and sipping their communion wine which we all know is an artificial stimulant—‘Why are those children so
blessed?
’ they’ll ask. For you are blessed, my little ones. Someday you’ll appreciate that. You’re luckier than you realize, growing up in a church that cares for you so.”

Then he took a small brown bottle out of his trouser pocket and said it came from Kenny Larson’s doctor. He said all the campers had to have eardrops before they went in Sister Myra’s pool again.

Next came Crafts, where they made framed scripture plaques from drinking straws. And after that, Song
Time, where they sang, “I’ve got the peace-that-passeth-understanding down in my heart, down in my heart …” as fast as possible in hopes that someone’s tongue would get twisted, but nobody’s did. And then Afternoon Swim, the longest single, period of the day. Thomas thought maybe Sister Myra had lost all her zip by then and just let them go on swimming because it was easiest. During their nap she had changed back into her skirt and blouse (probably for Reverend Emmett’s visit, even though clothes were not supposed to matter), and she didn’t bother getting into her swimsuit again but sat on a chair next to the pool with her skirt pulled up above her knees and her face tipped back to catch the sun. Still, you couldn’t put a thing past her. “No dunking allowed, Dermott Kyle!” she called, although Dermott was barely beginning to move in Mindy’s direction and Sister Myra’s eyes were closed. Her face was so freckled that it had a spattered look, as if someone had thrown handfuls of beige spangles at her.

Thomas knew how to swim—Ian had taught him last summer—but he hated getting his head wet. He swam straining out of the water, his arms flailing wildly and splashing too much. Agatha swam a slow, steady breast-stroke like an old person. Her gaze was fixed and her chin stayed just under the surface, so that she looked obstinate. Dermott Kyle, naturally, was wonderful at every stroke there was and also claimed to be able to dive, although he couldn’t prove it because Sister Myra didn’t have a diving board.