their curious poking questions. He kept a hymn book opened on his lap, though he never took part in the singing; his face went slack and dead in church. He tried to think of God, but his mind had no skill—it wobbled and shivered, confronted with such an idea. God.
God
. He needed something he could touch, turn over in his hands, get hold of. He needed to use his hands. He could believe only in things that had weight and toughness, that resisted him. When he tried to think of Christ, who had been a real man for a while, his mind leaped immediately to Christmas, to the tinsel and candy, the Santa Claus cutouts, the manger scenes with the Infant Jesus, the crepe-paper bells and candles; and then he thought of nothing at all, his mind going blank like a light that has been turned off.
In the midst of the church’s small congregation, the country men and women and their children, some of them grown-up children, Jesse felt his strangeness. He and his grandfather were both strange. People glanced at them wondering. Curious.
That there is the boy whose father … But old man Vogel was always pretty strange himself. Must run in the family
. Jesse was grateful that his grandfather never lingered to talk with anyone except the minister, that he had no friends and had broken off ties with most of his own kin over the years, one squabble after another, the old man certain that he was right and everyone else wrong, out to cheat him. So there was a space about them, a dry, holy space that no one else entered. Jesse had little to say to the minister, Reverend Wilkinson, who always asked him and his grandfather how they were. Wilkinson was a man born for pitying, with mousy eyes that ran pink at the very sight of Jesse, a victim, someone who might be like Christ—“Christ, too, was a victim,” Wilkinson had said once to Jesse, out of nowhere, as if he had planned saying it for a long time. Jesse had not replied. He held himself apart, quiet, content. Everyone else sang—the old women off-key but loud—and the organ, pumped by foot, was played by a girl Jesse’s own age who labored with the hymns slowlyand shrilly, her shoulders bent over the cold keyboard the way Jesse’s grandfather bent over his plate at meals. Thumping—the organ’s shrieking high notes—the slow rising voices of the people around him—the dusty maroon hymn books with their faded gold letters: Jesse took these things in but did not allow himself to be touched by them. He felt nothing, not the presence of God or of other people; he sensed nothing, no closeness, no intimacy. Confessing for Christ, some members of the congregation burst into tears and came forward to kneel before the Reverend Wilkinson, but Jesse only stared at them through half-closed eyes, fearful of their ecstasy, their coming loose. He was terrified of people, strangers, coming loose in front of him. Better the horses. Yes, the horses and their heavy, massive indifference, their brainless slumber.
But the rest of Sunday belonged to him. He and his grandfather did not work on that day and so Jesse was free to go out, tramping the fields in the misty suspension of Sunday, taking in the silence of the land. In late March the thaw began. Jesse walked for miles, his dog running with him, looking eagerly, alertly about into the fields where rivulets were draining into ditches, feeling a sense of excitement, almost dismay, in the bright sunlight. Everything was coming back to life! If he listened, he could hear the breathing of the damp earth, a soft oozing sound like a human sigh, a sucking. Jesse’s eyes began to water because he could not look closely enough at everything. He had to look closely, severely. It was important. The odor of late winter was hypnotic to him: the smell of timber, of the earth, of sunlight. He came upon the thawing carcasses of small animals that had died in the winter. Their shabby, inert bodies were like cast-off articles of clothing. They were so final, so still;
God
. He needed something he could touch, turn over in his hands, get hold of. He needed to use his hands. He could believe only in things that had weight and toughness, that resisted him. When he tried to think of Christ, who had been a real man for a while, his mind leaped immediately to Christmas, to the tinsel and candy, the Santa Claus cutouts, the manger scenes with the Infant Jesus, the crepe-paper bells and candles; and then he thought of nothing at all, his mind going blank like a light that has been turned off.
In the midst of the church’s small congregation, the country men and women and their children, some of them grown-up children, Jesse felt his strangeness. He and his grandfather were both strange. People glanced at them wondering. Curious.
That there is the boy whose father … But old man Vogel was always pretty strange himself. Must run in the family
. Jesse was grateful that his grandfather never lingered to talk with anyone except the minister, that he had no friends and had broken off ties with most of his own kin over the years, one squabble after another, the old man certain that he was right and everyone else wrong, out to cheat him. So there was a space about them, a dry, holy space that no one else entered. Jesse had little to say to the minister, Reverend Wilkinson, who always asked him and his grandfather how they were. Wilkinson was a man born for pitying, with mousy eyes that ran pink at the very sight of Jesse, a victim, someone who might be like Christ—“Christ, too, was a victim,” Wilkinson had said once to Jesse, out of nowhere, as if he had planned saying it for a long time. Jesse had not replied. He held himself apart, quiet, content. Everyone else sang—the old women off-key but loud—and the organ, pumped by foot, was played by a girl Jesse’s own age who labored with the hymns slowlyand shrilly, her shoulders bent over the cold keyboard the way Jesse’s grandfather bent over his plate at meals. Thumping—the organ’s shrieking high notes—the slow rising voices of the people around him—the dusty maroon hymn books with their faded gold letters: Jesse took these things in but did not allow himself to be touched by them. He felt nothing, not the presence of God or of other people; he sensed nothing, no closeness, no intimacy. Confessing for Christ, some members of the congregation burst into tears and came forward to kneel before the Reverend Wilkinson, but Jesse only stared at them through half-closed eyes, fearful of their ecstasy, their coming loose. He was terrified of people, strangers, coming loose in front of him. Better the horses. Yes, the horses and their heavy, massive indifference, their brainless slumber.
But the rest of Sunday belonged to him. He and his grandfather did not work on that day and so Jesse was free to go out, tramping the fields in the misty suspension of Sunday, taking in the silence of the land. In late March the thaw began. Jesse walked for miles, his dog running with him, looking eagerly, alertly about into the fields where rivulets were draining into ditches, feeling a sense of excitement, almost dismay, in the bright sunlight. Everything was coming back to life! If he listened, he could hear the breathing of the damp earth, a soft oozing sound like a human sigh, a sucking. Jesse’s eyes began to water because he could not look closely enough at everything. He had to look closely, severely. It was important. The odor of late winter was hypnotic to him: the smell of timber, of the earth, of sunlight. He came upon the thawing carcasses of small animals that had died in the winter. Their shabby, inert bodies were like cast-off articles of clothing. They were so final, so still;
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