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

Melanie Jennings
I had stayed over with Jerry, as I did every other Saturday, and
according to our ritual, we had walked the property with the dogs at
midnight and stroked the standing, sleeping horses in the dim light.
We could hear the far off music of our uncles and the other farmhands
echoing through the dry hills of the small valley and sometimes we
sang along to the tunes as we roamed. Finally, real late, in the TV-blue
shadows of the cramped living room, amongst Nippy’s gold-velveted
organs and two rickety pianos, we talked until we had nothing left to
say. Side by side in our sleeping bags, we fell asleep.
“Well, Baby? Did you say your prayers? Speak up,” Pastor said,
nodding at me as if his bowing head might bring forth my answer.
“Yes,” I said, lying.
“Liar,” Jerry snorted next to me, just under his breath.
My eyes twitched and I thought I might see God like Judgment
Day. Trumpets rang out behind my head as I turned to Jerry and
blurted, “Prayers’re in my head and only God can hear them.” I knew
instantly that later he’d call me a whiner-baby and I turned red from
the thought.
“That’s exactly right,” Pastor said, smiling calmly. But it was Jerry
who made me feel guilty. He had this strange way of drawing me to
him like sugar and then spitting me back out like a sour grape.
In the middle of our circle of river, Jerry stood dripping and
shaking like his mother. We gathered around him and began laying
our hands on him, and amongst the fingers and skin, my hand found
an open space at the base of his neck. I could feel the sharp bone of
his spine nudging between his boy shoulders. New hair began where
my fingers touched and I realized he was really more like a grownup
now and not on-the-verge anymore like me. Shouting, shaking,
our mass moved the river around us under the morning sun. Bible
stories flashed in my brain until I finally settled on my own saving
story and my Aunt Vena’s peach-cobbler-fat face looking into mine as
she brought me into the family of the Lord.
I was much younger then. Eight. “But eight’s old enough to know
right from wrong,” Vena had said. And so, old enough to be saved in
case you get bucked off a horse and killed, you can still go to Heaven. I
don’t remember what started it all exactly. I know it was early Sunday
morning before we left for church. It had been Vena’s turn to take
Jerry and me since the aunts rotated because our fathers arrived early
to practice with the band. It was scary, no doubt about that. Worse
than lying to Pastor any day. Judgment Day’s got nothing on Vena and
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 99