thisâthere is no one who can wash your feet but yourself. And thatâs a fact.â
Filing out of the church, you feel inspired. Finally there is a sense of right that you understand, and there is muscle behind it to back you up. The preacher is standing by the doors, shaking hands with the congregants. Itâs bright outdoors. But the sunlight stops at the doorway, not spilling into the nave, where the only light is a sparkle from a stained-glass window, making diamonds on the dark wood. The preacher takes
your great-auntâs hand. âA pleasure to see you, Mrs. Martin,â he says.
She responds, âSuch inspiring words.â
âAnd who do we have here?â
She introduces you. Makes sure to explain that youâre staying with her out of need, just for a short while, only until the mother is healed. And youâre not clear if her emphasis on the temporary is because there is something about you that she finds embarrassing, or if sheâs underscoring her sense of charity. The preacher takes your hand as a welcome. And a blush comes on so warm and fierce you can feel it boring down into your toes. Itâs as though heâs spotted your desire to be naked, and even saw you as such, maybe X-rayed you with the power that he has. All you can do (and remembering what Mrs. Martin said earlier) is look down.
Mrs. Martin smiles at the preacher, and she puts her hand on your shoulder, squeezing in the exact spot where Buddy did earlier in the week. Sheâs talking to you but looking right at the preacher. âDonât you have something you want to say, my dear?â
You flounder for words. Search as though language is something new, while they both wait. She squeezes again, and, like a reflex, the words push out: âThank you.â
âIâll pray for your mother,â he says, âbut Iâll expect you to take the reins of your own life, honestly and truly . . . Remember, the power of God will guide
you as long as you live righteously.â And then he turns to your great-aunt. âAnd bless you, Mrs. Martin. Keep spreading the word, and living by it.â
âAmen,â she says. âAmen.â
The ride home is silent. You look out the window at the orchards going by, rehearsing how youâre going to tell her about Buddy. Youâll do it right when you get home, while Buddy and his mother are still gone, and Mrs. Martin is at her most pious. Your mouth goes a little dry thinking about it. Your head a little foggy. But you have the power of God behind you. And youâre obliged to have clean hands and a clear heart.
Â
First she slaps you across the face. Then she tells you youâre disgusting. And she says she will tolerate no such talk in her house. She says maybe you talk that way with your mother, but not in this house. You stand there in the living room, face tingling and on fire. She paces around you, hands opening and closing, and you can hear her breath as though youâre deep inside her lungs. Then she stomps into the kitchen, but comes right out. Circles you. Three times around. Youâre almost too dizzy to stand, but too light to fall. And you do everything within your power to make yourself invisible (clench your fists, squeeze your eyes, summon all your will), but when you glance down you still see your hand sticking out of the cuff of the dress she put you in. And then she disappears to her bedroom. And youâre alone in the living room (maybe the
first time youâve been alone anywhere in this house other than your room?). For a moment your shoulders drop. Your head clears. And you draw in a breath, inflating some life back into yourself. It will be okay. The shock has passed. You tell yourself that over and over again. But then you hear her footsteps coming out of the bedroom. And theyâre not just squeaking the hardwoods; they sound as though theyâre breaking them. You shoot your eyes to the floor.