Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

98 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Melanie Jennings
touching legs, where no one could see. The feel of Jerry’s hands against
my legs made my skin flush and I’d get so sweaty behind my knees
and thighs that I’d have to lift up my legs every now and then from the
vinyl pew cushions to get some relief, while my eyes darted around
making sure no one watched us. Jerry wound his pinkie finger in mine
or sometimes dug his nail into my flesh during Pastor’s bad, bad sinner
sermons. The waves of nerves in my stomach made me think about the
time I was the flower girl in my cousin Arlyn’s wedding, and all the
other weddings with my cousins walking up the aisle in their white
gowns and shiny new graduation rings. I’d think to when it would be
me, and Daddy giving me away, and how my mother Ruth was once
given away, and then taken away by a cancer in her neck, leaving just
one memory of her silence in a hospital room with bandages choking
her throat, and how I was Baby Ruth, like the candy bar.
The adults had their own Bible study groups in one of the smaller
cubicle rooms where my father said they studied the more confusing
lines of Scripture. He once asked me, “Baby, you think the words of
Jesus are symbolic or literal?”
I had known the difference between those words since before
I could remember because those were the kinds of things Pastor or
his wife taught us in Sunday school. And I was known for my large
vocabulary, which gave me the occasional privilege of telling the
toddlers Bible stories during quiet time, which was during Pastor’s
sermons. I really couldn’t say for sure about symbolic or literal
interpretations, although I’d certainly given it a lot of thought, but I
always tried making things up that sounded good for Daddy, to make
him think I was smart.
“I think they’re both,” I said.
That seemed to amuse him since we knew for sure Pastor James
said the Bible was absolutely literal, no doubt about it. But I thought
what my aunts thought—that Jesus would take my hand someday and
lead me straight to my mother, standing under the Tree of Life, and
maybe eating a Baby Ruth bar.
Jerry’s and my group was mixed with the four-year-olds and up.
So we were stuck in there discussing our spirituality with kids who,
in our minds, were still learning to walk. Once Pastor James asked
me if I’d said my prayers the night before. “And then why don’t you
give us a brief description of the things you thanked Him for,” Pastor
said, calmly clasping his hands together on the table we all sat huddled
around.