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Lumbricus
 
The rotund evangelist gripped the sides of the pulpit the way an old woman grips her walker.
"The only true believer," he boomed in a voice thick as his paunch, "is the one who gives everything, and I mean everything, my friend, to the Lord! Until we learn to give up all things for Him and separate ourselves from this present evil world, we will never be all that He wants us to be."
The preacher released the pulpit and nodded to the thin, moustached song director. As the familiar refrain rang forth from the choir (more energetic now than on any Sunday morning), it affected each parishioner differently: to some it was sweet confirmation that they would be home before nine, to others it became a cry to all unbelievers to repent and believe, to sadder ones it was a condemnation of their many shortcomings, and to Eric it brought a strange discomfort. This feeling had come upon him--slowly, quietly--during the service. It spoke to him abstractly of emptiness, of vague yet pressing need. Eric did not like it, but dared not shoo it away.
Eric didn't realize the song was over and the service dismissed until his father bumped him out into the isle.
"Excuse me, son; you sleepy?"
Eric emerged from the hand-shaking amoeba around the preacher and was immediately accosted by two young men he recognized from his Sunday School class. He sought for their names..."Stuart and Roy," he remembered.
Stuart was short and thin, with watery green eyes and a haircut that confessed the antiquity of his barber. He wore a full Sunday suit, even though such was not required for Baptist revivals, and held under his arm an immense bible, always appropriate.
Roy was bovine.
"Hey Eric," Stuart said in a far too neighborly tone, "did you enjoy the service?" He extended a white hand.
Surprised by the sudden friendliness, Eric clumsily took the offered hand, and, finding it quite limp, released it after a single shake.
"Uh...yeah. The message was pretty good."
"You bet! It was durn good," Roy confirmed, "I tell ya, I love a preacher wut ain't afraid to step on nobody's toes."
"Did you come by yoreself, Eric?"
Eric looked around quickly for his parents. After a moment he saw the tops of their heads at the rear of the amoeba. It'd be a while before they came out this side.
"No, my folks came with me, but they're still inside."
"That's great! The family that prays t'gether, I always say."
"Yeah, I wish my folks'd come ta church with me" having said this, Roy produced a flat and sweaty package of Big League Chew from his back pocket. From it he extracted a fist-sized wad of blinding pink and stuffed it in his cheek.
"I used ta chew Redman," he explained to Eric, "but the Lord done told me straight ain't no way a child a His oughta be dippin' no snuff, so now I jus' chew this. Want some?"
"No thanks."
Eric shuffled his feet and stared down at the smooth white stone of the church porch. He had never talked much to these two before, but they seemed nice enough. He looked up to check on his parents' progress. Still a good way to go.
"Eric," Stuart suddenly began, "do you know where you'd go if you died t'night?"
The question was awkward; it seemed to enter from some distant place, unbeckoned and unannounced.
"Well, I'd go to heaven. I'm saved, if that's what you're askin'."
"Good, good. I figured you was, but better safe than sorry, I always say. Well, now, let me ask you somethin' else then. The preacher talked t'night 'bout how we cain't be really right 'til we give up ev'rything in submission to Christ. You done that, Eric?"
Although this question possessed all the conviction of a form letter, it was constructed in that grand Baptist style designed to unwaveringly induce contrition. It made Eric uneasy. He felt morally disarmed. This straw-limbed boy with plastic eyes had uncapped his secret doubts, his hidden feelings of ineptitude, his fears.
"I don' know...I'm sure I could do better."
"We all could, Eric, we all could. I'm sure you wanna do what's right, an' I'll pray that God'll help you do it. You comin' to the service t'morrow?"
"Uh...yeah, I am. Hey, I just remembered, I was gonna meet my friend Amanda at the mall tonight. D'y'all wanna come with me?"
Roy stopped chewing long enough to say "You bet!"
When Eric and his companions arrived at the mall, half the stores were preparing to close. They passed by Radio Shack, where a tall man in a white shirt and blue tie was dismantling a massive display about a new Tandy model; then by KayBee Toys, where a distraught high school girl was replacing the store's inventory on its shelves; finally they reached MusicLand, and entered.
Public Enemy bounded loudly from every corner. Behind the counter was a short young woman filing her nails. Her long dark hair fell down her back and her short tight skirt reached for Roy's eyes and possessed them.
"What ungodly music," Stuart said, wincing, "what could you want in here, Eric?"
Eric didn't hear Stuart's complaint over the strong voice of Chuck D. He scanned the store for Amanda, but didn't see her. Had she left already? Suddenly her head popped up from behind the import shelves.
"Hey Amanda!"
Upon hearing the familiar voice, Amanda looked up and brushed her hair from her face with her left hand. Eric noticed immediately that she was wearing her gaudy red and pink string bracelet, which she always wore over her scar when going out. It seemed to him that she would try to conceal it with something less obvious.
"Hey Eric! Look! They've got the new Joy Division cd!"
"The what?" he said, walking over to her.
"Well, it's not really new, but it's got all these b-sides on it that I've never heard."
Stuart approached and looked this new girl over coldly. The first thing he noticed was the predominance of black about her. Her hair was jet except for a streak of yellow above one ear, her t-shirt was black with a chaotic face and the words Head on the Door scribbled across it, and her obviously old sweatpants were also noir. Her canvas shoes were white. Her bracelet was the only colorful part of her outfit.
Roy continued to scrutinize the girl at the counter until she turned towards them; at which point he quickly averted his eyes.
"We're closin' in ten minutes" she yelled, and returned to filing. Roy resumed his staring.
"I guess that means we'd better leave" Eric said.
"Okay, let me pay for this, and then we'll go see a movie. Do you guys need to be home early?" Amanda addressed her question to Stuart and Roy.
Stuart said that they did.
"Well, then, Eric, you can meet me at the movie theater after you drop them off."
Eric was shocked that his friend would suggest something so rude.
"That's okay," he said, declining, "Dad wants me to mow the yard tomorrow morning, so I don't really need to be out late, either."
Amanda frowned and narrowed her eyes. "Fine. Go home. Wouldn't want you to be too tired to mow tomorrow."
"Amanda, are you--?"
"Fine. Go ahead. I'll see you later."
"Alright...I'll come by tomorrow afternoon."
"Come after three. I've got to be somewhere before then."
Again, Amanda watched him leave.
Eric drove Stuart and Roy back to church, where Stuart had left his car. En route Eric said little, but worried that he had really offended Amanda. Then he remembered her mood from that afternoon. She's probably still upset about her mom he thought, and decided to accept this explanation as he pulled into the parking lot.
Everyone got out of the car and began to talk. Eric looked around the lot. It was lain out behind the church in a sort of valley, which caused it to hold water three fourths of the year and ice for the last part. Under the dim light of street lamps, he noticed the black oil stains between the yellow lines and the tire marks speeding out into the street. He stared longest at the recently-planted pine saplings, leafless and bough-bent.
"Well, I guess I'll see y'all tomorrow night," he said, and began to climb back into his car.
" 'Fore you go," Stuart said, "I'd like ta talk ta ya 'bout somethin'."
"Alright."
"Well, me an' Roy been talkin' to the preacher, an' he says he'd like ta get a really good youth program goin' here. He asked us ta be his assistants; you know, ta kindly hep him get it started. Now what I want ta ask ya is this; we want you ta be a active member."
"I'd be glad to."
Stuart expressed his appreciation and continued, "Eric, I know you want ta do yer best for the Lord, an' fer that reason I feel I got somethin' that I ought to share with ya: some brotherly Christian advice. You see, a Christian's gotta be real careful just what and who he lets inta his life, 'cos ungodly influences can rurn his life an' his witness. You see what I'm gettin' at, brother?"
"Uhm...I...don't think so. Could we talk about this after church tomorrow night? I really do need to get home."
"Sure, that'll be fine, but let me give ya a little book I think'll help ya understand yore walk with Christ better."
He retrieved from his car a small worn paperback entitled Daily Devotions from the Difficult Sayings of Jesus. He praised the little volume for its extraordinary inspirational qualities and pressed it firmly into Eric's hand.
Eric thanked him, got into his car, and drove home slowly. He was confused, but felt sure that Stuart could explain everything to him the next night.
The mellon-shaped psychiatrist sat behind his expansive desk and vigorously chewed the green eraser of a recycled pencil.
"Alright, Amanda," he said, "let's go over your feelings about Robert one more time."
The patient managed not to roll her eyes in disgust. Again, she thought, but knew that if she humored the weakly-bearded freudian just a little longer, she might convince him that she no longer longed to die. Then he, in turn, would convince her mother and the therapy would finally end.
"Okay, where should I start?"
"The usual place."
"After my parents' divorce, I felt empty. Was it my fault? I used to ask myself. When Robert asked me out, I saw an opportunity to bury my loss. He was my crutch. But he didn't hold up very long. At first I didn't give a crap about him personally, but I guess you can't spend that much time with someone without developing some feelings for them. After a while he started pushing me to go farther than I wanted to. He said if I didn't want to "love" him, he would find someone who would, so I broke up with him."
"But it wasn't that easy, was it? He hurt you a lot, didn't he? All the pain from your parent's divorce came back stronger than ever and added itself on to this new pain."
Amanda nodded.
"And how did you deal with this pain?"
"I attempted suicide. I tried to escape my pain by ending my life. I realize now it was a huge mistake." She shook her head for emphasis. "I should have sought help then."
The psychiatrist smiled slightly and nodded. He began to speak again, but Amanda couldn't hear him. Her consciousness shot to her wrist and nested in the scar. She could feel again the tiny colossal weight of the shaking razor, see the flesh turn white as it pressed, smell the stale air freshener on the sink beside her, taste the salty broth of tears running over her cheeks, her lips, her chin, onto the linoleum. "All over in a second" she kept shakily saying, for strength. Then the first deep red drop rose the edge of the razor. She laughed a little. The drop became a stream. Choking, she managed to say the words she'd composed long ago, "Mom, dad...Robby...life--fuck off." As consciousness trickled away, the door opened, and she heard her mother stumbling into the room, surrounded by an aura of liquor. The scream came next, then the heaving, then...out.
"...and from the progress you've made, I am happy to conclude that you no longer require regular therapy. Congratulations, Amanda."
The patient sighed relief and sat up. A convincing smile crossed her face.
"Thank you, doctor, for all your help."
Amanda walked out of the office, out of the Park Street Plaza Medical Services building, and spat in the flowers just outside the big double glass doors.
Eric didn't go to Amanda's that afternoon as he had promised. Instead he read a week's worth of Daily Devotions and watched a church service in North Carolina on the religious cable channel. At church, the preacher announced that on the following night, members would meet at various homes for small group bible studies before congregating at church for songs and a short message. After the service, Eric asked Stuart if he thought it would be a good idea to invite Amanda to the bible study. Stuart cautiously gave his blessing. They continued to talk for an hour, then Eric went straight home.
As he was preparing for bed, Amanda called.
"Eric, are you sick or something?"
"What? No, I'm not sick. What would make you think I was?"
" 'Cos you didn't come over today. I figured that meant something was terribly wrong with you."
"There's less wrong with me ev'ryday now."
"What's that mean?"
"Nothin' you'd prob'ly understand.
Amanda was silent for a full minute.
"Well," she began again, "I finished my painting today. I'm pretty proud of it. It's horribly sad, of course, but aren't they always? My mother says I should paint flowers; I guess she wants me to go corporate. Anyway, Van Gogh did all there is to do with flowers. Monet did them to death."
"Hey, listen. Tomorrow night we're havin' a bible study at Stuart's house before church. You wanna come?"
"What? You mean you don't get enough from the preacher?"
"Come on, don't be mean, just try it. I think it'll be fun. There won't be too many people there, an' they'll all be our age."
"Hmm...well, okay..."
"Great! I'll pick you up at six."
"No, I'll drive. Your stereo doesn't work. Besides, you've been sick."
"Nice house," Amanda said as she piloted her little grey Toyota into the drive of Stuart's house, "real antebellum."
"Yeah, Stuart's dad owns like three big hardware stores all over town. 'Armin's Hardware.' They all bring in good money. He's a mason, too."
"Oh! A hardware tycoon and a brick-layer! I'm impressed."
Eric moaned and got out of the car. Then he walked up to the door with Amanda and rang the doorbell.
Immediately the door flew back and Mrs. Armin stood before them. She was tall and looked young. A glistening smile bisected her face, and she smelled distinctly like a warm kitchen.
"Hel-lo! Why don't y'all come right on in and make yourselves at home? I've got some homemade choc'lat chip cookies I just whipped up this afternoon so y'all better get some 'fore the other kids eat 'em all I swear I never seen no boy eat as much as that Roy God bless 'im I reckon I better introduce myself I'm Stuart's mother a course an' you must be the Eric he's talked so much about here lately an'--"
She stopped abruptly and scrutinized Amanda's attire, which was: a flannel, black-on-red-plaid men's shirt, the sleeves of which obscured her hands; a pair of baggy black shorts reaching her knees; tattered red socks; and huge, floppy, untied generic white hi-tops. She stared for an especially long time at the shoes.
Eric could think of nothing to say, but Amanda quickly did.
"I'm Amanda McKennor," she said, twangy and overdrawn to mock Mrs. Armin's speech,"y'all like my shoes? These here're whut I calls my Robert Smith shoes. My ma says theys look plumb awful, but I thinks they's down downright purty."
Mrs. Armin stepped back apprehensively.
"Oh. Yes. Well; Robby Smith, he must be a basketball player. There's so many pop'lar athletes these days a body cain't keep up with 'em all. Anyway y'all come on in an' have some cookies; the bible study's at the end of the hall in the livin' room."
The guests entered and Mrs. Armin produced a plate of hot gooey cookies. Eric took several, but Amanda declined. Their hostess disappeared into another room.
When they were about half way down the hall, Amanda suddenly jerked a cookie out of Eric's hand and threw it into a large plastic flower pot by the wall, where it made a butter/chocolaty smack.
"Don't eat that damn woman's cookies" she said under her breath, yet with frightening passion.
"What'd you do that for?" Eric whined, looking remorsefully at the flower pot.
"You should know--"
She sighed and made a gesture of frustration.
"Just don't eat her cookies...or anything else she deigns to offer us."
They now reached the living room. Stuart approached dressed in that same Sunday suit and carrying his big black bible with the red ribbon dangling from its gold-trimmed pages. He also took dire note of Amanda's apparel, but didn't stare so long as his mother, having seen her dressed in an even more worldly fashion at the worldly record store.
"Come on in, folks, we saved y'all some seats."
He motioned to a fragile-looking love seat beneath a large painting of four beagles scattering quail from tall grass, with a hunter in the background taking aim with a double-barrel shot gun.
Amanda sat down quickly and looked around the room. Roy sat at one end of a long couch, a pile of cookies in his lap and a pack of Big League Chew protruding from his shirt pocket. The two other young men sat beside him, but both seemed unnotable next to him. Across the room in a recliner (unreclined) sat a sandy haired girl who seemed somewhat uncomfortable. She sat on the very edge of the chair, back ramrod straight, and both hands resting on the bible in her lap. She wore a light blue dress with a huge white lace collar.
"Hello," she said suddenly, causing Amanda to start as if addressed by a tree, "I'm glad I won't be the only girl here tonight. I'm Nancy. What's yore name?"
"Amanda. Pleased to meet you."
"Well"--Stuart said it like a yawn as he mounted a large wooden chair before the fireplace--"let's get started. Why don't I open us up with a word of prayer?"
Amanda watched all the heads around her promptly bow, and, after a moment, followed suit. She was surprised to hear Stuart's drawl disappear and be replaced by a deeper, ecclesiastical speech in which y'all became thou and contractions regained their full length.
After a few minutes, she became bored with counting his sixteenth century pronouns and looked up, hoping to find something interesting in the room. Nancy was praying earnestly, her hands now clenched over her bible. Looking closely, Amanda saw her lips moving silently. The two extras on the couch were doubled over with their hands clasped in front of them and their legs splayed apart. They looked like linemen on fourth down.
Roy appeared to be doing the same, and Amanda began to laugh at him a little, thinking "He's smashed all those cookies into his shirt," until she noticed that he was staring at her from behind his folded hands. He was looking at her not with the disgust of Stuart and his mother, but with desire; the same way he had looked at the nail-filing girl in Musicland.
Amanda had hardly raised her head to look around, so Roy hadn't noticed. He wasn't too interested in her eyes. As his stare continued, Amanda's anger boiled. His look reminded her of Robert's that night he put his balmy hand into her pants.
In one bold, casual movement, she slowly brushed her hair behind her left ear and flew a spiteful and obscene gesture at him.
Roy bolted out of his petitioning stance and turned deep red with equal amounts of embarrassment and malice just as Stuart theatrically pronounced "Amen."
"Eric, I'm going home."
The flabbergasted addressee opened his mouth but formed no words.
"Fine! Stay!" she shouted, and stood up violently.
Nancy's solemn face showed genuine concern as asked if anything were wrong, but Amanda didn't hear her.
On the threshold of the hallway she turned around and glared at Eric.
"Enjoy your damn cookies!"
The entire party sat in uneasy silence for some minutes after the squealing tires had faded away.
"You see, Eric, this is jus' the kinda thang I was worried 'bout," Stuart said pacing up and down on the back patio of his house; Eric stood next to the bug zapper, looking down at the cream colored concrete, "this girl jus' ain't the kinda folks a Christian is s'posed ta hang around with. D'ya understand?"
The zapper spat and Eric flinched, but said nothing.
"Well, let me put it this way. If I was ta start hangin' out with dope-heads an' alcoholics an' all sorts a other immoral an' foul-mouthed people, what d'you think folks'd think a me?"
"They'd think you was immoral?" Eric offered, still looking down.
The zapper spat again, and Eric flinched.
"Eggs-zackly! An' the same applies ta you, brother," he paused dramatically, "Now you jus' gotta get this sinner outta yore life, Eric. Ain't no two ways about it. She ain't never gonna be nothin' but a millstone 'round yore neck, you believe it. Sometimes we jus' gotta make sacrifices. Sometimes that's what the Lord asks of us."
Abruptly Stuart stopped in front his student. His face became grim and mocking in the zapper light.
"Remember what Jesus himself said: 'If any man hates not his father and his mother and his brother, he can not be my disciple.' Now what does that say you gotta do yore 'friendship' with this girl?"
"End it" he whispered.
The zapper spat.
The next night as Eric was putting on his Sunday suit for the revival service, his phone rang.
"Eric?" Amanda asked timidly.
"Yes, it's me" he said coldly.
"Well, I'm...I'm sorry about last night. I guess I just lost it, you see--"
"I really don't need to hear your explanation."
"...Okay. Um, do you think maybe you could come over tonight, after your church thing, of course, and look at my painting. Or watch tv or something."
"No, I can't. I can't hang around you anymore."
"Why not?" she asked, and laughed nervously.
"Reasons you wouldn't understand. Now if you don't have anything more to tell me, I have to get ready for the revival tonight."
When Amanda responded some seconds later, her voice was barely audible and wet.
"Just...just one more thing...Eric...fuck off."
A few blocks away in the McKennor's kitchen, Amanda's mother heard the phone slammed in the living room. She turned away from the sink as her daughter's footsteps pounded up the stairs. When the door to Amanda's room slammed shut, she dropped a dish onto the floor and ran upstairs to find the door locked.
Eric stood in the church parking lot talking to Stuart and Roy. Some water had collected in the sunken middle, and the saplings drooped unusually low. As they stood there laughing, a car pulled in.
The lights were on bright and they hurt the boys' eyes. When they blinked off, Eric's father stepped out of the car.
"Son, you need to get up to the hospital. Amanda's hurt herself pretty bad. You want me to drive?"
Eric was silent for several minutes.
"Son?"
"Uh...no, dad, I can drive myself."
"Alright. I'll be up."
The door was impossibly heavy as Eric shouldered it aside and stepped softly into Amanda's room. He stood just inside, and dared not look up, lest he see her.
"Eric?"
Cold lightning bolted through him and he involuntarily backed up against the door.
"It's okay," the weak voice said, now clearly that of Mrs. McKennor, "I'll step out for a second if you want to see her. I understand. I thought she was better."
As she passed out of the room, Eric saw how thin she was, thinner than she was three days ago. She smelled like dishwater.
He took a few slow steps and was within arm length of the bed. With difficulty he looked up.
The linens were harshly white, the unconscious face their equal. Her hair, each strand individually combed by her mother's fingers, contrasted and enhanced it all.
Eric didn't realize that he was crying until the falling drops began to make large dark spots on the sheets. He wiped his eyes and looked at the wrist that had been decorated with the gaudy bracelet. Now it was wrapped in a thick bandage, the palm up.
He looked away quickly and walked to the window. The stars were all obscured by invisible black clouds. Something caught his eye. Up and to his left, spotlighted on the hospital roof, was a sculpture of the Great Physician, arms spread in welcome and forgiveness. Eric studied those arms. So big. Able to embrace it all. Love it all.
Delicately he turned his blurry gaze from the figure on the roof to the face on the bed and whispered "I'm sorry" to them both.
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Work © 1997 Lumbricus. All rights reserved. Page design and code © 1997 The Farm. All rights reserved. See Legal Notice for details. Do you have something to Share? Mail The Farm at thefarm@dead.mailbox |