Grace McCleen - The Land of Decoration

Only two people took a leaflet, even though I held them as Father said to and didn’t obscure them with my hand, and even though we employed thought-provoking questions. On the cover of the leaflet, happy people were walking through a garden. Inside, there were lightning and hailstones, buildings falling, and cars disappearing. People were shaking their fists at the sky. Some had their hands raised to protect themselves. The men wore headbands and tattoos and lots of denim. Some had transistor radios. The women had miniskirts and lots of makeup and high heels. It made me confused to look at the picture because all the Brothers looked like the happy people, and not everyone in the World carried a transistor or wore a miniskirt; Auntie Jo, Father’s sister, for instance, wore jeans and Dr. Martens in the photos she had posted to us, and Mrs. Pierce didn’t wear makeup.

At midday Uncle Stan said: “A good effort.” He didn’t seem to notice we had as many boxes of leaflets as before. We carried them back to his car near the dumpsters behind the Co-op, then Father and I said goodbye to the group and we went into the Station Café for a cup of tea.

We divided an ice slice between us. I licked the icing off my fingers and said: “Do you really think Armageddon’s coming soon?”

“Yes,” said Father.

“D’you think Mike will be saved?”

“Only God knows the answer to that.”

“What about Mrs. Pew?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What about Joe and Mrs. Browning and Sue Lollipop?”

“Judith, it’s useless speculating about these things. Only God can read hearts.”

“What about Auntie Jo?” I said, and I didn’t look at him.

Father brought his hand down on the table. Then he said: “Judith, you’ve asked this before—how do I know? Everyone will have had a fair chance.”

“How do we know?” I said.

“Because God has promised He will save everyone who deserves to be saved.”

“I’m glad I’m not God,” I said, and I smiled at Father to show him I didn’t want to annoy him and wanted to be friends.

“So am I,” said Father.

I laughed. “I wouldn’t know who to save and who not to.”

He smiled, but the smile was watery and tired. I thought it was better not to smile at someone than to smile like that. We finished and went to the Co-op.

We were pushing our cart to the checkout a few minutes later when two men appeared. They looked like they had just stepped out of the picture in the leaflet—it would have been quite funny if I hadn’t been so scared. One had long hair and a headband, though he wasn’t carrying a transistor. The other man was Doug Lewis.

The men’s eyes gleamed like marbles. They reminded me of the eyes of the dog from number 29 when he sees Oscar on a wall. Doug jutted his chin. He seemed to be nodding. He put his hands on the front of the cart and said: “Scabs eat, I see.”

Father’s eyes were black, but when he spoke his voice was steady. He said: “Go and wait for me at the checkout, Judith,” but my feet wouldn’t move.

Father said: “Let me get on with my shopping, Doug. I’m not hurting you.”

But Doug didn’t take his hands off the cart. His face was red. He and Father looked at each other, and they kept on and on looking at each other until I wanted to scream. Then suddenly Doug shoved our cart sideways. It bounced, but Father didn’t let go. Doug’s chest rose and fell. The man with the long hair put his fist into his hand. Then he said to Doug: “Come on.” Doug’s nostrils flared. After a minute he slammed the cart sideways and followed his friend.

We walked to the till. My heart felt as if it had been plunged into hot lead, and my arms and legs were falling away from me. Father didn’t seem to realize what had just happened. He began putting things onto the conveyor belt. Then he looked up and said: “All right, everyone, the show’s over,” and I saw that he did, and that the whole shop was watching us. To me he said: “Go and start packing,” and I was glad, because I couldn’t think what to do. Then he looked at me and smiled, a proper smile, but this time I couldn’t smile back.

WE DIDN’T TALK about what happened for the rest of the day, and for the rest of the day my heart felt sick and my legs and arms didn’t belong to me.

“UNCLE STAN,” I said at the meeting next morning, “have you got Brother Michaels’s address?”

“Oh darn,” said Stan. “Sorry, pet, I forgot. Keep reminding me.”

“OK.”

He said: “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I said. “I just really need to write to him.”

“Look.” Uncle Stan smiled. “I’ll make a note.” He took out a little piece of paper, wrote on it, then folded it up and put it under his wedding ring. “How’s that?”

“Great,” I said.

Uncle Stan frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right, pet? How’s everything at home?”

“Fine,” I said. I couldn’t tell him about what Doug Lewis had done yesterday. Father wouldn’t want me to. In any case, what had happened felt like it was stuck in the middle of my chest and would hurt too much to pull out.

When we got home, I asked Father for a piece of his writing paper. “What for?” he said.

“To write to Brother Michaels.”

“Who?”

“The Brother who came and gave the talk about moving mountains.”

“Why on earth are you writing to him?”

“I liked him.”

Father shook his head and went into the middle room. He took a piece of paper from his desk. “That’s all you’re having,” he said. “So don’t waste it.”

I went upstairs. I thought I may as well begin the letter now, even if I didn’t have an address yet. I wanted to talk to someone a lot. I wrote:

Dear Brother Michaels,

This is Judith McPherson, the girl you talked to after giving your talk about the mustard seed. You gave some to me, do you remember? I hope you are well.

I thought for a minute.

I am writing to thank you for coming to our congregation. Your talk changed my life. When I came home I made a miracle happen, and lots after that, but the first one was that night after you told us about faith. I made it snow by making snow for my model world. There is a world in my room made of rubbish. I made snow for it and then it really did snow, do you remember?

After that I made it snow again and then I made it stop snowing. Then I brought back our neighbor’s cat and then I punished a boy at school. But now he is knocking at our house all the time and yesterday his dad threatened Father in the Co-op and called him a “scab.”

I chewed the end of the pencil.

The police are not helping. Nobody believes I have done any miracles. I should say also that I have heard God’s voice on numerous occasions.

“Cross that out,” said God.

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s dangerous,” said God.

“But I’ve only got one piece of paper.”

“Cross it out!”

I crossed the sentence out.

The thing is, now I don’t know whether to try and make more miracles or not. Having power is not as easy as it looks.

You said that all we needed to do was take the first step, but now I don’t know what to do next, and it doesn’t look like I can go back to where I began.

Then Father shouted: “Dinner!” and I folded the letter up and put it inside my journal, put them both under the floorboard, and went downstairs.

A BIT LATER we were pondering the Fall of Man, which happened six thousand years ago—two thousand years from us to Jesus, Father said, and four thousand years from Jesus to Adam—and I was pondering the reason I had to eat bitter greens again and not saying anything at all. My face must have though, because Father said: “There are thousands of African children who would be only too glad of that dinner.” I was about to say: “Then I wish we could send it to them,” when we heard the sound of smashing in the hall.