Unnatural Read Free Page B

sounds that filled Michael’s head.
    He turned to look at his mother, silent now, eyes closed, trying to sleep, summoning the strength to make it through another sermon perhaps, and heard the words she shouted to his grandpa last night: “He’s perfectly normal!” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard her say that or words just like it; they often argued about him when he wasn’t in the room and he imagined that their arguments were louder and their words more tactless when they knew he wasn’t in the house and there was no chance of his overhearing. Yes, the words bothered him, but worse was the sound of his mother’s voice, hopeful, a bit defiant, but mostly desperate because she knew even as she spoke the words that they weren’t the truth.
    Michael wasn’t perfectly normal. And the older he got, the more of a problem it was becoming. But if only his mother supported him, maybe it wouldn’t have to be such a problem. Maybe he could handle everyone else’s criticisms and unkind comments if he knew she didn’t view him as such an incredible disappointment. Wasn’t his mother supposed to love him unconditionally? Wasn’t she supposed to defend him without letting her own doubts and fears emerge? Time and time again his mother failed him and she only succeeded in making him realize that he was on this earth by himself.He hated the feeling, but lately he was forced to admit that it was liberating. At least he knew where he stood.
    “I’ll try to get that radio fixed this week,” Grandpa said. Now that they were in the openness of the church parking lot and not the confined space of the car, it was easier to speak.
    Walking up the wooden steps of the church, he felt each plank bend and creak with his weight as if the steps were acting as guardians deciding if they should allow him entry or break in half and swallow him whole. He smiled to himself.
How ironic; that’s how I already feel, swallowed up by the earth, silenced.
He watched his mother and grandma smile and nod at the other parishioners. Occasionally his grandma would clasp another old woman’s hand, not out of affection really, but just a desire to connect to someone, anyone, but they too were silent. Only Grandpa made noise.
    Whether welcoming men who looked as tired and weary as he did with a gruff hello or slapping someone on the back vigorously, his grandpa was heard. In the company of his kindred spirits he was simply unable to restrain his innate rowdy behavior even while clad in his iron-pressed Sunday clothes. Michael envied such freedom. To be able to act upon your instinct—now, that would truly be liberating. Unfortunately, his instinct was frowned upon by the church, so when he saw R.J. bound up the steps with some girl, some girl who wasn’t even pretty, he didn’t rush to him and slap him on hisback or shake his soft, firm hand; he resolutely followed his family inside.
    A few minutes later when all the pews were filled with bodies, either eager or resigned to spend the next hour in reflection, Michael looked around at his family, the congregation, at the people who inhabited his world, and he was overcome with a feeling of loneliness. He just didn’t belong. It struck him like a nail through the palm; he knew it in his mind, he felt it in his body, his soul … no, he didn’t want to contemplate his soul, not here, not surrounded by these strangers; he didn’t want to open his soul up to inspection and risk contamination by others.
    Where was R.J.? He scoured the pews in front of him and couldn’t find his face. Bending down as if he needed to scratch his leg, he looked quickly behind him and there he was, next to her. Why was she giggling in church? And why did she look so ugly when she laughed? Michael looked at R.J. and he wasn’t laughing, but he was definitely smiling. And definitely not looking at him.
    He gripped the back of the pew in front of him with both hands until his knuckles were white. In the distance he could