Dog on the Cross (10 page)

“Do you know what?” she finally asked.

“What?”

“Sounds as if the Lord might be speaking to you.”

He did not respond. Only he moved closer, burying his face in the pit of her arm.

I
T HAD BEEN
near the end of revival, and still, said Gabriel, God was pouring out His blessing: salvations and healings and baptisms in the Holy Ghost. Word of Snodgrass had spread, and quite a few had driven in from out of state. The sanctuary was full, and across the back Reverend Hassler had placed folding chairs, some along the walls. Gabriel had sat watching the people shout and sing, his jaw tight and his teeth clenched, choking down the Spirit.

He remembered the evangelist stepping to the pulpit that night, reading a passage from Acts, then having them stand to anoint the Word. His message was Saul on the way to Damascus, how, before an apostle, he'd been a persecutor of the Church. Snodgrass said that there were many sitting in congregations throughout the country who weren't any better, some a good deal worse.

“There are those,” he told them, “who call themselves ‘Christians.' They go through the motions. Many hold office in the Church: deacons, elders, ministers of music. To see them walk down the street you would not know the difference; they look spotless from outside—whitened sepulchers. But, as Jesus said of the Pharisees, inside are the bones of dead men.”

Gabriel had listened to him, thinking about the gift Snodgrass had been given, how it must feel to be free from sin. When he looked over to where Amy
sat beside her parents, he noticed she had her head tilted and her eyes trained, concentrating fully on the preacher's words.

“What's to happen to these half-Christians,” Snodgrass was asking, “to these lukewarm children of God?”

Some in the congregation moaned. Elders shook their heads.

“According to my Bible, there cannot be a
lukewarm
Christian. According to my Bible, Jesus said he'd have us hot or cold, and were we lukewarm he'd spew us from His mouth.”

Some shouted amens. Others began to clap.

For the next half hour he told the horrors of a believer separated from his God, how his tribulation is doubled because he'd at one time seen the truth. He told how each of his moments is spent fearing the justice of the Lord, mourning the loss of His divine company, but his pride will keep him from returning. Finally, he told of the place reserved for this man, alongside the Devil and his angels.

The longer Gabriel sat, the more he'd known his sin was not worth it; there was nothing worth spending an instant in Hell. Sitting there, he'd decided however great the temptation, he would leave his sin behind. He would resist the wiles of the Devil with the very violence of righteous indignation. Even if he had to cut his privates and fling them to the dogs, it
would be better than the pain he had lived through. Or the pain to which he was going.

Still, he did not understand how it was that night that had compelled him and not another. It was not the guilt, for that was always present. It was not exactly fear or longing, nor was it the power of the evangelist's words. It was, it seemed, an assurance that grew inside, letting him know when he left his seat he would be forever released. He felt deliverance hovering, buzzing near the crown of his head, and by the time Snodgrass gave the altar call, so badly did he desire redemption, his hands were shaking, his legs and feet. He was ready to make repentance, and he did not care who looked on.

Snodgrass had them grow quiet, lower their heads in prayer, his voice going out over them like a warm breath.

“Every head is bowed,” he told them. “Every eye is closed. Christians are praying. As I said the first night, I'm not talking to sinners. If there are those of you sitting here who've never known Christ, you're welcome to come and receive Him. But tonight, this call is for the backslider.

“Brother and Sister, you've lost your way. Satan has steered you from the path, stolen your heart from the Shepherd. Where you thought you'd find happiness and satisfaction was only heartache, despair. How long will you wander, with your own
heart in rebellion against you? How long will you resist the pull of the Holy Spirit, the gentle tugging at your heartstrings? You don't need me to say Hell awaits you; you're half in it already.

“I'll ask as Christ did Saul that day, knocked flat of his back and blinded by the light of Heaven: ‘Why do you persecute me? Isn't it hard to kick against the pricks?'”

That's when the evangelist asked if there were any who had once known Christ, who would like to make their way back to Him.

“I want you to raise your hand,” he said. “Do not be ashamed. Jesus said, ‘Whosoever is ashamed of me on Earth, of him shall I be ashamed before my Father in Heaven.'”

He might have said more after that; he might have said nothing. All Gabriel knew was when Snodgrass asked that question, he'd stood from his seat, walked the aisle, and knelt at the altar. Before his palms hit wood, he felt deliverance seize him.

In a few minutes, there were hands all about him, voices. They cried out to God for his salvation, anointed his head with oil, rebuked the powers of Satan. One man whom he'd never seen put out his arm, hugging Gabriel almost beneath him, telling all the devils of Hell that he was God's by the power of the Almighty Spirit.

They prayed for a long time. He wept until no weeping was in him, and when he stood, a fire was
burning in his heart as never before. He walked back to his seat feeling light, as if he might crumble into air.

A
S CHURCH WAS DISMISSED,
Hassler reminded them that the women had brought dishes. They were to meet in the fellowship hall, those who could. Many of the elders came and hugged Gabriel, said he would be in their thoughts.

He went back to the hall, sat with his mother while she talked to friends. There was only tea to drink and he was very thirsty, so after a while he went out to the foyer to get a sip from the fountain. Amy was standing there, the very look of holiness on her face.

They went out the front door, down the steps, around the side of the building. Someone had ran an extension cord into the trees, hung a bug zapper from the limb of a black oak. The lamp sparked and crackled as they walked, blue light tracing Amy's outline against the darkness.

When they reached the propane tank sitting at the edge of the property, Amy turned to face him.

“Gabriel,” she said.

“Yes.”

“What's it like for you?”

An insect hit the lamp, snapped against it. He felt stars blazing high above him.

“What's what like?”

“The Spirit?”

Gabriel thought about her question. “I don't know,” he told her. “It burns.”

“For me it's like something making me calm.”

He didn't know what she meant.

“It's like there's a warm feeling, making it so I'm relaxed.” She placed her hands on her stomach, smiled. “I feel it right here.”

Gabriel saw how her face shone blue in the light of the bug lamp, her hair and eyebrows like blue suede. He wanted very badly to leave, the voice inside telling him so, but he pushed it down, moved closer, and then the voice grew quiet, went dead altogether. The two of them stood breathing the other's breath, and then Amy brushed his cheek with her nose. Her lips came near and his mouth went to hers, tiny fingernails scraping his hands. Straightaway, he felt the glory go out of him, replaced by the death of the world. He wanted to weep, seeing the glory go.

Amy shifted her weight, began to put her arms around his neck. But that, he would tell them, was when his deliverance had risen up. He shut his eyes, pushed her away, and kicked her in the stomach. He did not think about it. He just closed his eyes and kicked.

When he opened them, the girl was on the ground with her legs stretched in front of her, as if ready to play jacks. Her dress was hiked around her knees,
her braid flipped over her shoulder, hanging into her lap.

Gabriel watched her for several minutes. Then he walked and stood over her, looking down in the grass.

“You kicked me,” she said.

“Are you all right?”

“Why did you kick me?”

He squatted, sat on his heels. “Are you okay?”

She mumbled something.

“What's that?”

“I think so.”

He sat there, pulling up grass and twirling the blades between his fingers.

“You can't say anything,” he told her—saying nothing himself through all the years to come.

“About what?”

“This.”

She shook her head.

“It won't help you, Amy. Even though it doesn't make sense, one day it will. This will be one of the best—”

She began to cry. One minute the girl looked as if trying to solve a math problem; the next she was crying. Gabriel reached and put his hand on her shoulder. She moved away.

“Promise me you won't tell, Amy.”

She sat, wiping at her face.

“Amy,” he said, “
promise.
”

She pressed her palms into her eyes, began rocking back and forth.

“Listen,” Gabriel told her, “you're okay. Just promise me you'll not say anything.”

She drew her hands from her face and looked at him for a very long time. He thought that she would then make her promise, but it cost him more coaxing to receive it.

I
LEFT HER
, he told the deacons, lying there, and walked back to the church. The trees were thick, and the light from the front of the building made a path along the grass, glowing out across it like God's sweet breath.

When I came round the corner, Brother Hassler was on the porch with Leslie. I walked up past them and went through the double doors.

Soon I passed the fellowship hall where people laughed and ate. From farther down, I could hear Mama, laughing and eating too.

In the sanctuary, all the lights were dimmed. I went up the center aisle with my dress boots making prints in the carpet. At the front, I squatted and sat cross-legged between the pews and altars. The wood was shining on the pulpit and all along the walls. It was polished, and in its grain there were faces. I sat making faces out of the grain, then turned so I could focus.

I closed my eyes. The smell of the sanctuary was
strong and the sound of it was quiet. Outside, the night was warm and quiet, like being put under water. I sat there, cross-legged and quiet—not to be touched.

She, I thought, could have it. The world and sin and death. And me, if I was let, I'd stay here and live off of what I felt burning inside. I'd take my burning, if God asked, and spread it; I'd let my fire burn evil out of everyone. And God, I knew, would strike them if they tried to take the fire away.

D
AY OF
U
NCLE
Kenneth's funeral. Ceremony in a country church. All around an abundance of wreaths and relatives, people I've felt guilty for avoiding. In their thrift store suits they look like straw men, like figures out of dreams. Charles is here with his autistic son; Thomas with his oxygen mask and Bible. For several minutes I watch Ronnie come down the aisle on his walker, wondering how long he's moved this way, how long he's been reduced to spectacle. Did it happen gradually, I wonder, his steps growing smaller and smaller until he appears, on this morning, to be walking in place? Jesus, my mother continually reminds me, was sent to heal such folk—the lame and the halt, the browbeaten and troubled of spirit. She bases her life on this conviction, believing
her family's misfortune evidence of trial or punishment. To me, it only seems the Bartletts have been overlooked.

It isn't that I think I'm above them. Despite my graduate degree, my editorship at the local newspaper, I feel far from superior. I simply hate to see humans so superstitious, so thoroughly defeated. Ask any of them and they'll tell you, from the first day until now, Satan has administered a beating: not their wretched health-care system or lack of interest in higher ed, not the conservatives they're conned into voting for, the evangelists who cash their checks. It's the Devil they blame—red suit and horns, pitchfork and flames. Over the years, that imaginary threat has become crucial to their sense of doctrine.
Beware of the closet,
it tells them.
Fear sunset and the darkness beneath your bed.

My mother's uncle, my great-uncle Kenneth, was the only one to go against this thinking. He was thrice married and divorced, continued smoking unfiltered cigarettes even after his surgeon confiscated a lung. Naturally, our family despised him for it. Even Mother, who underneath her religiosity is a kind and intelligent woman, even she declined to visit him the fifteen years after he moved back to Perser and lived alone on his ranch. Looking at my watch, seeing service will start in a few minutes, I realize that maybe she's decided not to come. Maybe she's refused to pay this heathen her respects.