Robert's and then Elaine's favorite.
Now Robert never went to church except occasionally he'd come home and go with Mattie at Easter or Christmas. She almost wished he wouldn't because it forced a question the next Sunday in Sunday school or church: "Where did you say Robert was going to church now?" And she'd say: "At the Lutheran church north of Listre." He had been there a few times.
Elaine hardly ever went to church. She was bitter. Maybe a little age would change her. She did go to that Unitarian place once in a while, but that was all.
The last time Mattie had tried to talk to Elaine about religion, Elaine had explained that the existence of the soul was not a given. She said it could all be in the brain: chemicals, nerve endings. But there was a soul, Mattie had protested. We have absolutely no evidence of that, said Elaine. Mattie had stood, walked from the kitchen table to the end table by the couch, and returned with her Bible and handed it to Elaine. Elaine had stood and said, "Mother, it is wonderful literature. There are beautiful stories all through it, and that's a wonderful achievement, a wonderful monument even, a monument to humanity, but Mother that's all it is. There is, in spite of this book, no clear evidence that we are dealing with anything but our imaginations."
Mattie had been horrified. It was as if Elaine had died and someone had returned in her place.
"To think otherwise," said Elaine, "I would have to be untrue to myself and I refuse to do that. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
To have a child think she was being true to herself and untrue to God was a magnificent and terrible problem.
After Elaine had gone home, Mattie thought over and over: why didn't I say you cannot be untrue to God and true to yourself because God is in all of us? Elaine couldn't have had a good answer for that. But Mattie had only stared at Elaine, unable to say anything, feeling tears swell in her eyes, hating that she could only cry rather than say the exact right thing that would clear the blinders from her own daughter's heart—bring her to Jesus, bring Jesus to her. She had done everything she knew to do—sent Elaine to Bible school every summer of her life, to church every Sunday and Sunday night, to ... everywhere she could, and read and told her Bible stories over and over and over.
VII
At midnight on Friday night, Wesley stood on a cinder-block step and knocked on the door of Lamar's mobile home.
He knocked again, louder.
A light came on. The door opened. Lamar stood there in his underwear.
"You got a girl with you?" asked Wesley.
"Wesley! What the hell? No, I ain't."
Wesley tried to open the screen door. It was hooked.
"Wait a minute," said Lamar. "Did you escape?"
"You goddamn right. Open the door."
"Wesley, they'll fry my ass if they find you here."
"I'm leaving for South Carolina tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Myrtle Beach. This guy Blake Bumgartner is getting a car and is going to pick me up at Creek Junction behind the 7-Eleven. It's all set up. I just—"
"Listen, Wesley. I don't want to know about it."
"I just need something to eat and that belt and stuff I sent. Maybe a shirt and a pair of pants. They won't know I'm gone until tomorrow morning. Let me in." Wesley looked left and right. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Let me in, man."
Lamar unhooked the screen, stepped back.
Wesley came in. "Boy I'm glad to get out of that place. No way they'll ever catch me, man. Ever."
"When they find out you're gone they'll come here."
"I'll be gone. They'll find out I'm gone at breakfast. I'll be out of here by then." Wesley looked around. "Listen, if you're so damned scared just loan me thirty dollars and take me down to the Landmark Motel."
"I ain't got thirty dollars." Lamar looked through a window. "Don't they do some kind of midnight check?"
"Hell, no. It ain't prison, it's a goddamned correction center."
"Well, you sure as hell can't just walk out. How'd you
Now Robert never went to church except occasionally he'd come home and go with Mattie at Easter or Christmas. She almost wished he wouldn't because it forced a question the next Sunday in Sunday school or church: "Where did you say Robert was going to church now?" And she'd say: "At the Lutheran church north of Listre." He had been there a few times.
Elaine hardly ever went to church. She was bitter. Maybe a little age would change her. She did go to that Unitarian place once in a while, but that was all.
The last time Mattie had tried to talk to Elaine about religion, Elaine had explained that the existence of the soul was not a given. She said it could all be in the brain: chemicals, nerve endings. But there was a soul, Mattie had protested. We have absolutely no evidence of that, said Elaine. Mattie had stood, walked from the kitchen table to the end table by the couch, and returned with her Bible and handed it to Elaine. Elaine had stood and said, "Mother, it is wonderful literature. There are beautiful stories all through it, and that's a wonderful achievement, a wonderful monument even, a monument to humanity, but Mother that's all it is. There is, in spite of this book, no clear evidence that we are dealing with anything but our imaginations."
Mattie had been horrified. It was as if Elaine had died and someone had returned in her place.
"To think otherwise," said Elaine, "I would have to be untrue to myself and I refuse to do that. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
To have a child think she was being true to herself and untrue to God was a magnificent and terrible problem.
After Elaine had gone home, Mattie thought over and over: why didn't I say you cannot be untrue to God and true to yourself because God is in all of us? Elaine couldn't have had a good answer for that. But Mattie had only stared at Elaine, unable to say anything, feeling tears swell in her eyes, hating that she could only cry rather than say the exact right thing that would clear the blinders from her own daughter's heart—bring her to Jesus, bring Jesus to her. She had done everything she knew to do—sent Elaine to Bible school every summer of her life, to church every Sunday and Sunday night, to ... everywhere she could, and read and told her Bible stories over and over and over.
VII
At midnight on Friday night, Wesley stood on a cinder-block step and knocked on the door of Lamar's mobile home.
He knocked again, louder.
A light came on. The door opened. Lamar stood there in his underwear.
"You got a girl with you?" asked Wesley.
"Wesley! What the hell? No, I ain't."
Wesley tried to open the screen door. It was hooked.
"Wait a minute," said Lamar. "Did you escape?"
"You goddamn right. Open the door."
"Wesley, they'll fry my ass if they find you here."
"I'm leaving for South Carolina tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Myrtle Beach. This guy Blake Bumgartner is getting a car and is going to pick me up at Creek Junction behind the 7-Eleven. It's all set up. I just—"
"Listen, Wesley. I don't want to know about it."
"I just need something to eat and that belt and stuff I sent. Maybe a shirt and a pair of pants. They won't know I'm gone until tomorrow morning. Let me in." Wesley looked left and right. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Let me in, man."
Lamar unhooked the screen, stepped back.
Wesley came in. "Boy I'm glad to get out of that place. No way they'll ever catch me, man. Ever."
"When they find out you're gone they'll come here."
"I'll be gone. They'll find out I'm gone at breakfast. I'll be out of here by then." Wesley looked around. "Listen, if you're so damned scared just loan me thirty dollars and take me down to the Landmark Motel."
"I ain't got thirty dollars." Lamar looked through a window. "Don't they do some kind of midnight check?"
"Hell, no. It ain't prison, it's a goddamned correction center."
"Well, you sure as hell can't just walk out. How'd you
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