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At first I was afraid to tell Jack or my mother that I wanted to go to a Catholic church. There’s still a large amount of prejudice in the South when it comes to Catholicism. The word “Catholic” is often said in the same tone of voice one uses when issuing an insult. I once heard someone comment that a St. Christopher medal was “satanic.” These days the South is the land of the Baptist Church, and it can be a cruel place for anyone not of that persuasion.

I knew Jack was the one that would have to agree to it, and I knew I had to tell him in a language he’d understand. So, one day I informed him that I felt I had a

“calling” from God, and that I needed to find the place I was supposed to be. In the type of churches he attended, to say one had a “calling” meant that you were directly hearing God’s voice or feeling his presence, and that it was compelling you to do something. What they refer to as a “calling” could be looked at by the rest of the world as anything from intuition to a psychotic episode. Still, he understood, and if I felt God was telling me to do something, then Jack Echols would be the last to interfere. He may not have respected me, but he would respect what he perceived to be “God’s will.”

When he asked where I wanted to go I knew I couldn’t just blurt out, “The Catholic Church,” because he would have looked at that suspiciously. Instead, I told him I thought it best if I went to different places, and that I’d know the right one when I found it. He nodded his head, and that was the end of the conversation.

Sunday arrived to find my family following its usual routine of preparing for church. Everyone got dressed and ate breakfast, then crammed into the truck for the joyless ride. The only exception this week is that I was dropped off at an Episcopalian church, while they continued on their way. I went inside, sat down, and actually paid attention to what was going on instead of shuffling my feet, playing with paper, or looking around at other people. It was nice in its own way—very pleasant and mellow—but it just didn’t have the same aristocratic beauty I’d encountered when reading about the Catholic Church. I left when it was over and never returned.

The next week the process was repeated, only this time I was dropped off at a Methodist church. I wasn’t as fond of it as I was the Episcopalian church, but I admit it was light years ahead of the places Jack usually went. I spent most of the time anticipating the next week, so I don’t really recall much of what anyone said.

I was focused on the fact that the next week I would finally be where I wanted to be, the waiting would be over.

There’s only one Catholic church in West Memphis, and it’s called St.

Michael’s. It was a small place when compared to the huge cathedral-like build-Damien Echols

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ings used by the local Baptist churches, but it was well taken care of and in pristine condition. There were stone benches to sit on outside, and a small statue of St. Francis. The lawn was raked and there was no debris or even a stray leaf to be found on the grounds. The word I kept coming back to over and over was dignity. The place had dignity, and it encouraged all who entered to have the same.

The entire atmosphere announced that this was not a place in which you will find people rolling on the floor and screaming.

I was dropped off and went inside to take a seat. I followed the lead of people around me, and kneeled on a padded bench to say a little “Hi, I’m here” to whatever power in the universe was listening. The place was completely silent—no screaming children or men in cheap suits bellowing obnoxious greetings to one another. Everyone quietly took their seats and waited. It was not an uncomfortable silence, on the contrary—it was very relaxing and peaceful, I could sit engaged in my own contemplations without fear of being disturbed. I felt very welcome there.

The organ began playing softly and everyone stood as the procession of the priest and altar boys made their way down the central aisle and to the front of the church. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the small parade—the robes, the candles, the book held aloft—I was witnessing pure magick. I enjoyed every moment, and savored the experience. After the opening ceremony the priest spoke for about thirty minutes in a calm, quiet voice about what he’d just read. There was no shouting, he didn’t beat his fist on the podium, and there was not one single word about the end of the world being at hand. I regretted having to leave once it was over, and would rather have spent the day there examining the scenes on the stained glass windows, admiring the statues that stood in the corners, or even watching the flickering of the votive candles.

That evening when Jack asked how it was, I told him that I’d found my place.

When he asked how I knew, I said because it felt like home. He didn’t say another word, and dropped me off again next week.

This week I waited around afterwards, until everyone had trailed out into the parking lot. I approached the priest, who was a small, balding man with wire-framed glasses. I introduced myself and with no preamble asked, “How do I become a Catholic?” We sat and talked for a while, and he explained how I had to attend classes, as there was a lot to learn. He himself taught the classes every Monday night. After getting all the information I needed I walked outside where the truck was waiting to take me home.

I attended every single class, never missing one. The priest arranged for me to ride with another woman, who also attended the classes. There were less than ten
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of us in all. Week after week, we learned everything from the teachings of the church on different points of dogma to how to pray the rosary. I enjoyed the classes almost as much as mass itself.

You needed a sponsor—someone who was already Catholic and could help you with anything you needed to know. Being that I had no Catholic friends or relatives, the priest introduced me to an eighty-nine-year-old man named Ben who agreed to be my sponsor. He took me to and from Mass every Sunday, and never drove over thirty-five miles an hour. He wore the same plaid suit coat every week. He never had a bad thing to say about anyone or to anyone. After mass we’d sometimes go into the cafeteria for coffee and donuts, and he proudly introduced me to other members of the church.

When the day finally arrived that I was to receive the sacrament of baptism and first communion, he gave me two gifts. One was the rosary his wife had used up until the day she died. The other was a suit to wear for the occasion. I was very touched by both.

The only time my mother or Jack ever stepped inside the church was on the night of my baptism and first communion. They sat in the very back row looking uneasy and out of place throughout the ceremony. When it was over they stood and clapped along with everyone else. I was happy that they came, because I felt a sense of accomplishment and wanted someone to witness it.

Ben and I showed up early every week in order to pray the rosary before mass, and even Jason often went with us. I told him he wasn’t supposed to stand in the communion line, but he went anyway. The priest never gave him the Eucharist, but he still managed to get a gulp of wine each time.

I didn’t stop attending mass until my life went straight to hell a couple of years later. I’ve long since outgrown any belief in mainstream Christian theology, and I even have some degree of animosity towards Christianity in general because of what has been done to me by people declaring themselves Christian, but I still love the ritual and ceremony of the Catholic church. A little old priest comes here once a month, and I’ll watch as he gives the sacraments to the Catholic inmates on death row. I comforts me just the watch it, and I often find myself remember-ing the pleasure I used to take in it. I always promise myself that one day I’ll return to West Memphis, perhaps when I’m as old as Ben and no one remembers my name, and I’ll go to mass at St. Michael’s, just to remember what it was like.

XVII

Going back to school the next year was like starting from scratch. I was going to high school, while Jason stayed behind in Junior High. After spending three years there, I had developed a sense of security or stability, and now it was gone. Even though the high school was only about ten feet away from the junior high, cross-ing those ten feet brought me into a whole different world.

Marion high school draws ninety-five percent of its student body from middle and upper middle class neighborhoods. This was a place where kids drove brand new cars to school, wore Gucci clothing, and had enough jewelry to spark the envy of rap stars. This was a place where I definitely didn’t fit in. Everyone who used to skateboard seemed to have given it up and moved on to other things, which meant that my circle of acquaintances had grown much smaller. In truth, I wasn’t even skating all that much anymore. In my new environment my behavior became even more outrageous, and I was viewed as a freak.

A freak was a definite group of people, but it’s sometimes hard to explain what caused a certain person to fall into the category. Freaks weren’t really popular, but everyone knew who they were on sight. One boy had huge mutton chop side-burns, wore short pants, and had stuffed animal heads on his shoes. Another guy rarely took a bath and had a tendency to show up every now and then wearing a skirt. He wasn’t gay, he just liked skirts. A girl named Tammy (who I had a crush on) was harder to define. She was gorgeous and a gymnast, but wore nose rings, thermal underwear under her shorts, and white socks with black sandals. We had an odd relationship because she insulted me and created a whole new genre of derogatory names to call me, but jumped down the throat of anyone else who even looked at me funny. She verbally assaulted more than one young man who thought it safe to besmirch me, only to catch me alone the next day and call me a particularly foul name she’d dreamed up the night before.

I began an intense and unlikely friendship with a guy named Brian that year.

He sat next to me in a couple of classes and was always very quiet, but in an arro-gant fashion. He dressed as if he had a business meeting to attend every day, had immaculately groomed blond hair, and wore tiny, round, gold-rimmed spectacles. When he finished whatever work had been assigned to us, he’d pull out a 54

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novel and quietly read until the end of class. When he acknowledged anyone’s presence, it was with contempt. I couldn’t resist bothering him. When I demanded to see the book he was reading, he refused, stating that it was a birthday gift and I looked like the sort who would damage it. When I declared that I wished to try on his spectacles he once again refused and said he had no desire to clean my greasy fingerprints from the lenses. He seemed to think me an ill-mannered barbarian. These exchanged continued on a daily basis while class went on around us. He once hissed at me furiously, “Why can you not whisper? Even when you’re being quiet you’re still screaming.” This came after several warnings from the teacher. He had never been thrown out of a class in his life, and had no intention of this being his first.

One day I noticed he had a cassette sitting on top of his books. I leaned over to get a look at the title, and it was no one that I had ever heard of. “What’s that?” I asked. Handing me the cover so I could read the lyrics, he said it was a Christian rock band, and that it was the only kind of music he listened to.

I was appalled and outraged that such a thing existed—how dare they defile the sanctity of rock ‘n roll! He claimed to have quite the extensive collection, was active in many fundamentalist youth programs, and never missed church. He even had the nerve to invite me to come with him. My first instinct was to make a nasty gesture, but suddenly stopped. Why not? It could be very interesting.

The function we attended was some sort of youth gathering. The church had a gym, and that’s where we went. There were teenagers playing basketball, ping-pong, and even a few board games. I took part in none of the above. Instead, Brian and I took a seat in metal folding chairs at the back, so that we could watch everyone else. While we were talking a group of about five girls approached us, obviously friends of his, judging by the way they greeted him.

Despite what I had been expecting, I soon found that I was enjoying myself. I struck up a friendship with one of the girls that lasted for a couple of years—we talked two or three times a week on the phone, for hours at a time. Contrary to what my past experience lead me to expect, no one preached, tried to convert me, or seemed to be even thinking about religion. We sat and talked while everyone went about their business all around us.

It also seemed to be quite the hot spot for teenage romance. Just like any other place in which young people tend to congregate, you often saw boys and girls looking at one another as if they were about ready to eat each other up. We went back to this place several times during the year and there was only one awkward moment the whole time.

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My appearance had been changing gradually. I allowed my hair to grow long and tangled until it looked like the character Johnny Depp played in the movie
Edward Scissorhands
. I no longer dressed like a skater—in fact, I now never wore anything but black. Any time I replaced an article of clothing it was with something black. I never again wore any color until after I was arrested. The awkward moment came when I showed up one night dressed as usual—long black coat, black pants, black shirt, and shiny, knee-high black boots that looked like they’d been stolen from a dead Nazi. This was my everyday garb. I noticed Brian was talking to an older man who I later discovered to be the “youth pastor.” When he came back and sat next to me, he said the youth pastor didn’t like the way I was dressed, as it appeared “satanic.” Brian suggested that I should at least take off the black duster, so I did as he requested. His eyes grew large as he urgently said, “Put it back on!” Evidently my shirt, which was emblazoned with the Iron Maiden slo-gan, “No prayer for the dying,” was a church “don’t.” I hadn’t even thought about it before that moment, but it drew a great deal of attention from everyone else. That moment became one of the nails hammered into the coffin that sealed my fate.