* * *
Dad carries Lauren on his shoulders as we walk out of Crawford Woods. She’s ten years old and “too big,” but he does it anyway. She carries the unopened star charts and every once in a while looks back at me. The jump rope is draped over her shoulders. “Dummy,” she says with a smile.
“Dummy,” I smile back.
The night air is thick and stuffy. Humid, Mom calls it.
The woods are throwing us out. They’ve had enough, they want us to go. We embarrass them with our clumsy, weirdo, pill-popping, gambling stuff. When Dad says, “I’ll bet each one of you a Hostess Cupcake it’s after two a.m.,” Mom throws a dirt clod at him. He pushes a button on his wristwatch and announces, “It’s two thirty.”
That’s one hundred and fifty minutes past midnight.
Back home, drawers stick out and closet doors stand open.
We should hurry. Things get out if you’re not careful, things get in.
* * *
What I wish had happened next:
“Let’s all sleep in,” Mom suggests. Then, “Waffles with whipped cream and strawberries at ten!”
Mom talks a lot when she’s tired. Or scared. Or excited. She talks a lot on our way out of Crawford Woods that night. Mom talks about being nearly trampled by a pack of dogs. She calls me her “hero” for rescuing Lauren, and sings, “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo . . .” I blush, but I like her singing. She talks about school starting in three weeks, and how Lauren and I need new coats.
“Let’s go shopping tomorrow,” she says.
“Yippee!” Lauren yells. She loves to shop.
I hate shopping, but maybe I’ll go this time.
Minutes later, with Mom in the lead, we sing “Kumbaya” as loudly as we can. She balances the picnic basket on her head, like one of the African women in her paintings, while comets fly through the trees.
We talk about Maxwell Smart’s old phone-in-the-shoe trick, and The Man from U.N.C.L.E, and Mom asks Dad to say something with a Russian gangster accent. “Oh, Pablo,” she swoons, and everyone laughs.
* * *
What really happened:
After a while, Lauren yawns and leans against Dad, half asleep.
“The Perseids are beautiful,” I say to no one in particular.
Mom’s still mad. Dad whistles the first few bars of The Andy Griffith Show song, then stops.
I see something in the bushes and fall behind.
“Lily?” Mom calls over her shoulder.
“Got to pee. Just a minute.”
“Good job, kiddo,” says the voice in the dark. I can’t see His face but I know it’s Jesus; His voice is quiet and deep like in Bible movies, and stars light the shoulders of His robe.
I don’t answer. Maybe if I ignore Him, He’ll go away.
“Saving Lauren,” Jesus repeats. “Good job.”
If I talk to Him they’ll put jumper cables on my head, stick me in pajamas and diapers, and I’ll never go home. Never eat waffles again or get a new school coat.
“Lily?” Mom calls again.
“Coming!”
If Jesus were really here right now, I’d ask Him why He didn’t help me save Lauren; the Bible is full of bigger miracles than that. I’d ask Him what’s wrong with me; why even my skin feels weird these days. If Jesus were standing in front of me in the woods at three o’clock in the morning, congratulating me on saving my little sister, like He is, I’d ask Him why He’s bugging me.
Does He want me to wear jumper cables?
Doesn’t He love me like the Bible says?
“Now, young lady,” Mom calls.
I turn and start up the path.
“Sure, go ahead,” Jesus says behind me. “I’ll catch up with you later. Say hello to Mrs. Wiggins for me.” I hear a twig snap as He heads off into the brush. Why doesn’t He fly? He walks on water, doesn’t He?
I rush to Mom and fall in step behind her.
Chapter 2
The Swimming Ribbon
Three things have happened since Jamie last came to Sunday dinner:
1. The pit.
2. I saw Jesus riding on the back of the garbage truck.
3. I lied about the swim contest at Peace Lake. No one knows I lied, and my lie didn’t hurt anyone, but it still bugs me. I want to be a good person, and Aunt Jamie says, “Lies make your guts hurt.”
My guts have been hurting for days.
“It’s lush and lanky Lily Lou!” Jamie cries as I open the door. She likes words too. When she sees our old dog standing beside me, she kneels down to face her. “And the wonderful Wanda Wiggins,” she says quietly. “Can’t leave you out, can we, girl?” When Mrs. Wiggins whines and wags her tail, her hips tip to one side and she stumbles a little. “Poor thing.”
“How do you know what her first name is?” Lauren asks.
“She told me.” Jamie winks. “Nice pink umbrella. New?”
The umbrella over her head, Lauren twirls in place on her tiptoes, humming “Waltz of the Flowers.” She wants to be a dancer. Or a dentist. Or a Southern belle; she’s just seen Gone with the Wind.
“Why, yes it is,” she says in her best Scarlett O’Hara. “Mother took me to the 99-cent store and said I could have anything I want. I just love the 99-cent store.”
“Me too. Especially the bins of cheap imported toys.”
When something bad happens, Mom goes shopping. She took Lauren the day after the pit.
“I heard about what happened at the quarry,” Jamie says. “Everybody cool?”
In the kitchen Mom winds the oven clock, then takes down the Sunday china and stacks it on the counter.
“We’re cool,” Lauren smiles. “Hey, are you a beatnik, Aunt Jamie?”
“A beatnik?” Dad calls out. “Not our Jamie! Maybe a hippie—”
“More like a bohemian, I guess. A nonconformist.” Jamie smiles at me. “How’s my favorite mermaid?”
“Fine,” I lie. My stomach is wringing out towels.
“The big family day at Peace Lake is tomorrow, right? It’s smart of your family to go on a Monday; you’ll probably have it all to yourselves. You can bring your pink umbrella, it’ll keep you from burning,” she says to my fair-skinned redheaded sister, “and you,” she beams at me again, “can swim out as far as you want. Excited?”
“Yep,” Lauren says. “Want to see me jump rope? I did thirty-six hot peppers without messing up.”
“Thirty-seven,” I correct her.
“Later, maybe,” Jamie says to both of us. “Excited about school?”
“Yep.”
Jamie sniffs the air. “Chicken and dumplings?”
“Yep.”
“Yep is not a word, Lauren,” Mom lectures from the kitchen. “Do I hear