Melanie Thon - Meteors in August

Freda said, “Close your eyes, Elizabeth.” She pulled on the s ’s; a buzz hissed through my skull. “These hands on you are not human hands; these hands are the pathways of God’s love. Let yourself open wide to Him. Speak to Him in the voice He longs to hear.”

She was wrong. The hands on me were human, terrible and human. A dozen pairs rose and fell with the motion of my own breath until I believed my breath depended on those human hands. I thought: If they press too hard, I’ll choke and smother; if they lift their hands too high, I’ll take in air until I burst . My mother leaned against the thick-necked trucker; he laid his hands on her so gently she wept. Father moaned when Miriam pulled her hand away from his palm, the loss of that pressure too painful to bear. Sweat pooled at the backs of my knees and the base of my spine. I wanted to fling their searing hands from my body. Their palms branded my skin. I wanted to buck free and run through the cool night, like Nina running barefoot across the dewy lawn, like Nina running into the cool arms of the Indian boy, the cool arms of the devil. Let them have their fiery God. Let me be mute. I didn’t want Him this way.

But I had no will. My body was stiff, muscles clenched so tight I shook. I told myself I had to wrench free before I shattered, but their hands kept me bound. Their hands, gentle now, light as breath itself, barely touched me but held me fast as chains and shackles.

When I couldn’t stand it a second longer, when the sweat beaded on my face and trickled into my ears, when the murmurings above me merged with the endless babble of the dead, the flood of words exploded from my chest, the language I had never learned came to me. Sentences drummed through my brain, inchoate but pure. I cried out to God, honoring Him with every utterance.

The Lord looked at me and smiled. His eyes were blue, light as my father’s eyes, but they did not disapprove. He did not raise His finger to wipe the lipstick from my mouth; He did not pull at my teased hair. This father listened and forgave. My tongue fluttered with simple joy.

Slowly the fires flickered out as the hands lifted. Someone opened a window. A cool breeze whipped over my body, and I shivered with delight and was silent.

They all praised God, some in words I knew, some in strange tongues. Minnie curled into a ball and rolled on the floor next to me. Bo Effinger pounded the floor, a giant child on his knees. He stayed mute, but his hands knew another language, his hands beat out his story of desire. Elliot Foot was the only one who hadn’t loosened his grasp the moment I began to speak. He alone pinned me to the earth and kept my body from floating free to God. His fingers dug into my thigh, and I thought he’d rip my dress. But the memory of the words sang through me, and I was afraid to make him stop, afraid to defile my lips with an ordinary sound.

NOW THAT God was listening, I had to be ready for the devil to test me. I felt him crouched in my heart, about to spring. I thought the gift of tongues would spare me from desire. But instead I longed to touch my own body, to rock myself to sleep. I dreamed of dogs chasing me, nipping at my heels. The only way I could fall asleep was to chant: “In the name of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you, Satan. In the name of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you, Satan.”

Mother worried. She said I was too thin, too pale, too quiet. She said I slumped when I walked, I mumbled when I talked. How could I tell her that I was trying to pray without ceasing, that food and conversation got in my way?

Fortunately she couldn’t dwell entirely on me. She had to fuss over Daddy. He forgot to shave. His hair grew over his collar. He owned three pairs of jeans and five plaid shirts, one for each day of the week, but he’d started sleeping in his clothes and sometimes wore the same shirt for days in a row.

I felt responsible in a way for my father’s unhappiness, depriving him of whatever pleasure or peace of mind he’d had from giving money to Miriam Deets. But I still didn’t regret what I’d done. I figured he’d get over it soon enough and we’d all be better off in the end.

After dinner he’d often sit in his chair, rubbing his own ribs as he read the paper. He seemed to have conversations with himself: his lips moved; smiles and scowls flickered across his face. Mom stared until he looked up. “What?” he’d growl. “What is it?”

“You’re doing it again,” Mom said.

“Doing what?”

“Rubbing your side and grimacing.”

“I am not grimacing .”

“You’re rubbing your side.”

“Can’t a man—”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt.”

“You look like it hurts.”

“Christ, woman, lay off. I’ve got a little gas, do you mind?”

Mother suspected the pain in his side had something to do with Miriam Deets, though she didn’t know what I’d done. I don’t think she ever considered the possibility that Daddy’s discomfort might be truly physical.

She was sure to ferret out the truth sooner or later, and I knew she’d find me out too: she’d guess where I went Tuesday nights. I was as untrustworthy as my father. We kept our secrets, we told our lies. If Mother left us, we deserved nothing better.

I didn’t have to confess. It was a bad night all around and started to go wrong when Myron Evans pissed on Freda Graves’s front window. A splatter like rain hit the glass. We knew the night was clear, swirling with stars. Freda pulled the blind and it flapped on its roller. Myron Evans stood in her garden, feet spread and planted, penis aimed at the pane, its stream dwindling.

Mrs. Graves walked to the door, slowly, opened it, slowly, giving Myron plenty of time to dry out. “Come in here, Myron,” she said.

“You can’t help me,” he called. His voice cracked like a boy’s.

“No one can.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“He took my money and God didn’t stop him.”

“Myron, come inside.”

“I liked it.”

“What did you like?”

“And God didn’t stop that, either. God closed His eyes.”

“God never closes His eyes,” Freda said.

“God has no eyes.”

“God is all eyes.”

Myron looked behind him. “Monster!” he yelled.

“He sees you now, Myron. He sees us all. He wants you to come inside.”

“No, there are flames at the door. He won’t let me in.”

Freda waved her arms. “There are no flames,” she said.

But I think she was wrong. Myron tucked himself back in and zipped up his pants. Just before he turned to go, I was sure I saw the reflection of a fire in his eyes. I knew the boy who had taken his money was Zack Holler, and I knew what he’d done to earn Myron’s five dollars.

I ran all the way home, talking to God in my private language so I wouldn’t have to think about Myron and Zack. But I kept seeing Myron on his knees. I hoped he wouldn’t pop out of any bushes tonight. He wanted to piss on us all. I didn’t understand, exactly, but I couldn’t say I thought he was wrong. I saw Zack Holler grinning, taking the money, zipping up his pants. I wondered what pleasure there was in any of this.

I kept praying, hoping for answers but not knowing enough to ask the right questions. My house was dark. That was a relief. I hoped my parents were asleep. I slipped inside, muttering a final amen as I tiptoed toward the stairs.

“Lizzie,” Mom said, “what’s that gibberish?”

I had to grab my chest to keep my heart from jumping. It beat so hard I felt I could almost touch it.

“Lizzie? What’re you saying?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“I heard you talking crazy.”

“You scared me.”