Iron Balloons (21 page)

In the car on the way to Uncle Ed’s house for lunch, Pastor Riley said, “What’s wrong, Justin? Who trouble you?”

“Did you have to tell that story?” Justin asked. “Everyone knew who it was!”

“Cho, man, I didn’t tell the story to embarrass you. You’re too big to be worrying about those things. I was trying to make a point. Jesus used examples from his life all the time.”

“From his life, but not from other people’s lives.”

“We know that it was a little embarrassing for you,” Mrs. Riley said. “But it shows that you had faith. That’s a good thing.”

“Well, Jesus isn’t around to be teased by His friends,” Justin answered. “He’s dead. I’m alive.”

“Don’t look now,” Barb said, “but Jesus isn’t dead. He’s alive!”

“Didn’t He die on the cross, Barb? Has anyone seen Him lately?”

“Haven’t you heard of the resurrection, stupid?”

“Now if you can’t say anything nice,” Mrs. Riley said, “don’t say anything at all.” The older children mockingly mouthed the last phrase together, one of their mother’s mantras.

“You can’t use other people’s stories without permission,” Barb continued. “That’s a copyright violation. Justin, you should sue him!”

“Enough, Miss Lawyer,” Pastor Riley said.

“If you win,” Barb said, “don’t forget to pay your tithe.”

Justin couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Here he was, trying to enjoy a good sulk, and Barb was making jokes. Even Mrs. Riley smiled.

Pastor Riley didn’t get it, or maybe he didn’t want to.

“That’s enough. You’re too force-ripe. I used the story as an example, not to embarrass you. But you’re in good company. Our Lord suffered far more than a little embarrassment on the cross.”

“I’m not anybody’s blasted example,” he muttered. It was only after he’d said it that he knew he’d said it aloud.

“But wait,” Pastor Riley said, and shot a look at the rearview mirror to catch Justin’s eye. “What did you say?”

Justin didn’t answer.

“Boy … what … did … you … say?”

Justin kept quiet as he thought of what to do. If he did as he was told and repeated what he’d said, then he’d be “rude and bright ’pon top of it,” and if he didn’t answer, he’d be “acting like somebody tell him him is
man
.”

Justin mumbled something that his father couldn’t hear. It was nothing. A kind of baby talk. So he didn’t repeat it and he wasn’t silent. Two birds. One stone.

“I heard you,” Pastor Riley said. “Where did you learn that sort of language?”

“You called Pastor Gordon a blasted fool a few weeks ago,” said Justin. His parents had been talking on the porch when he’d overheard it and had quickly changed the subject when Justin came into view.

Mrs. Riley left it all up to her husband now and kept staring at the road ahead.

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it,” Pastor Riley said, to break the crust of silence that had quickly built up. “And besides, you had no right to be listening to big people’s conversation. You’re out of order.”

By this time they’d arrived at Uncle Ed’s.

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” Pastor Riley continued. “And I don’t want to see that donkey face anymore today. Keep this up, and when you get home I’ll give you something to have a long face about.”

Barb began to slap away imaginary insects from her legs and arms, teasing Justin in the secret spanking code.

“Sing your way out of this one,” she whispered. Justin did his best to tune her out.

Uncle Ed lived on a hill in Reading, just outside of town, in a large white two-story house. As they turned off the main road, Justin noticed the driveway lined with coconut trees and stones, the bottom of the trees and the stones painted white. The lawn was huge, and flat—to Justin, perfect for a football game. When they got out of the car, he could see the ocean in the distance and the city in the foothills down below.

“Does Uncle Ed have children?” Justin asked his mother, as they walked toward the house.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“So who lives in all these rooms?” He pointed to the trees around them. “Do they eat all this fruit by themselves?”

They went inside and mingled with a few other ministers and their families, some of whom they hadn’t seen in a while. Justin could almost predict the comments: Barb had her father’s facial features and complexion, Justin had his mother’s smile and quiet personality, Pauline was a mixture of her parents, and Freddy had his own look—at which point Pastor Riley would say he looked just like his grandmother. Justin said nothing but the minimum. Just enough to be polite.

They saw Pastor Pointer, who had just returned from England, where he’d been working on a doctorate for many years.

“Riley,” he said, “it’s been over ten years.” He turned to the children. “Your father and I go back a long, long way. Since we were colporteurs selling books to make our way through college in the States.” To Pastor Riley now, he said, “Last time I saw you, you were a single man throwing your net into the Sea of Galilee. How many children do you have now? These are all of them?”

“Yes, yes,” Pastor Riley said. “Just these four. The Lord has blessed. Seems like every time I even look at my wife, there’s another one.”

He introduced the kids by name and they all shook Pastor Pointer’s hand. When they were finished, Justin asked his mother, “But what about Sheila?” He tried to make eye contact with his mother. “She’s our sister.”

Mrs. Riley smiled and looked at Pastor Pointer as she laid her hands on Justin’s head.

“Mommy,” Justin pressed, “Daddy is forgetting about—”

Mrs. Riley pinched him.

“What is the little man saying?” Pastor Pointer asked.

Justin hesitated. His parents glared. “We have a sister named Sheila.”

Pastor Riley reached for Justin, pulled him to his side, and said, “I … ahh … had a daughter years ago, before I was a Christian … and ahh … she lives abroad with her mother.”

“Oh, I see.”

“So,” said Pastor Riley. Justin felt a tremble rushing through his father’s arm, “how was … ahh … England?”

They left Montego Bay after dark, and the ride home was quiet. All of the children were asleep except Justin.

Pastor Riley drove fast, as he always did. Justin waited tensely for the moment he knew would have to come. They made their way through the narrow roads, the darkness sometimes broken up by lights—electric in the towns and kerosene in the districts where the farmers lived.

Justin tried to take his mind away from the inevitable by taking pleasure in the way his father changed the gears, how he made the engine of the Morris Oxford hum with music, how he dove into the corners with flair, passing overloaded trucks on small roads, the car’s roof line just a little lower than the giant wheels.

But it was hard to keep his mind at rest. His parents were discussing all that had happened that day, including the chance that Pastor Riley might be sent to lead another church. They were doing it indirectly, but Justin understood a little of their code. It was mostly “my man” this and “our friend” that, but sometimes they’d use a Bible name like Joshua or Moses or Zaccheus, which he knew referred to little Pastor Daniels, the conference secretary.

Except for the code, they spoke as if no one else was in the car, as if the children in the back did not exist. Justin began to hope as time went on, began to consider the possibility that his father might let things slide because the ordination—he made sure to get it right—had gone well. So what if afterward there’d been an awkward moment? The moment that mattered had gone extremely well, except for the little foolishness with Freddie.

When they got home, Mrs. Riley went into the kitchen to fix supper and Pastor Riley called Justin into his room.

Justin felt prepared because he knew the routine—before the spanking his father would say, “Do you know why we have to do this?” He would nod yes, then his father would say, “Tell me, so I know you know.” At this point Justin would say “It’s wrong to tell a lie or take something that isn’t mine,” or something of the sort, then, depending on his father’s mood and the nature of the deed, he’d either hold out his hand to receive the blows in his palms, or try not to resist when his father took his wrists and held them with a single grip above his head and rained down on his bottom with the brown suede belt.

This time, though, nothing was said. Routine was shoved away. Pastor Riley reached for Justin and began to rain down on his bottom with the belt.

And Justin refused to cry. He didn’t know what stopped him. It wasn’t like he was trying. Or that the beating didn’t hurt. It was as if something had hardened up and blocked his throat at the point where the tunnels from his mouth and nose went their separate ways, so neither sound nor snot could come. And without these two, it seemed the tears just wouldn’t come. Just wouldn’t come, which just made things worse, because his father needed tears as proof of contrition.

Mrs. Riley entered the room without knocking, crossed her arms, and said, “Enough, dear. Enough. He’s got enough now. You’re going to damage the child.”

“He’s too facety. Too own-way. I need to beat it out of him. If he can’t hear, he must feel.”

“Mummy,” called Justin. “Mummy.” He began to squirm now, as he watched his mother standing only feet away. “Mummy. Mummy.”

He got away, but Pastor Riley stretched and caught him and began to rain on him again.

“I hate you!” Justin shouted, as he twisted with his face pressed up tightly on his father’s heaving chest. “I hate you. I hate you. I wish you weren’t my father.”

Mrs. Riley grabbed him from her husband. Pastor Riley continued to swing the belt as she did so, and it almost caught her in the face.

Justin and his mother lay huddled in his bedroom for a very long time, then she sat up on the side of the bed with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, and he curled up with his face against the wall.

She lay beside him once again and began to rub his head and neck, then got up to open a window to allow a cooling breeze to come in.

“Why is Daddy so mad?” said Justin when he’d stopped shaking.

“You were rude to him.”

“I’ve been rude before …”

“You tried to embarrass him. That wasn’t very nice.”

“He did the same thing to me.”

“Yes. But not on purpose.”

Justin thought about that for a few moments. It was true. “Mummy, what’s the problem with Sheila?”

Mrs. Riley paused for a few moments, as if to collect her thoughts. “It’s not that she’s a problem, but it reminds him of a time in his life that wasn’t very good for him, before he became a Christian. Have you ever done something that you wish you could forget?”

“So he should see what I mean about telling my stories to the church.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I’m sure if he did something bad Jesus will forgive him.”

“I’m sure He has.” She paused, seeming to debate whether to go any further. “Don’t repeat this to anyone, but some of the men in the conference didn’t want him to be ordained, even though it happened years before he was a minister. Your father is very sensitive about it.”

“Was Pastor Gordon one of them?”

“I’m not sure who all of them were,” she said, “but that’s not important.”

Justin thought about things for a minute. Then he had a bright idea. “Mommy, can Daddy get another job?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to be a preacher’s kid. I just want to be normal.”

“You are normal. Your father loves his job, it makes him very happy. It would be bad for him to change that.” She paused. “And you can’t change your parents. You’re the son of a pastor.”

“But I’m more than that.”

“Of course you are.”

“So why do we have to be an example?”

“The people in the church believe your father represents God. If he leads his family well, they think he will be a good leader of the church.”

“But that’s not fair to us.”

“No, it isn’t.” She paused. “Puss and dog don’t have the same luck.”

“Can’t Daddy understand that we don’t want to be examples?”

Mrs. Riley retreated into another of her silences. To Justin, they all had meanings. Sometimes he felt that his mother could see inside his mind, read his thoughts at the same time as he was thinking them.

“You may not fully understand this now,” she said, “but serving God and the church is the most important thing in your father’s life. Anything he thinks will help his ministry is good. Anything he thinks will interfere with it is bad. Like it or not, you have to understand that.”

She paused and took a deep breath.

“Today you were in the unfortunate position where your father felt he had to choose between you and his ministry.” She looked away from Justin and glanced out the window for a moment. “But always remember that your Daddy loves you very much, and he doesn’t mean to hurt you.”

Yes, Justin thought to himself, but he loves the church even more.

She hugged him for a long time, and he wanted her never to let go. Finally, she said, “It’s time for bed, your brother needs to go to sleep,” and she left the room.

The night was quiet except for the chirping of crickets and frogs, a strangely soothing sound that Justin used to think came from the power lines. Through the window he could see the sky pinpointed with stars.

Years later, when he had occasion to think about this time, Justin would remember it as the first time that he got an inkling that there were ways in which he and his father would never connect. But on that night, he understood that he hated this part of being a child—having to live by confusing adult rules, not being able to do what he wished. In that moment, childhood felt like a prison.

Before he closed his eyes, he remembered that he hadn’t prayed. He was too tired to get up to kneel and so he just lay there, eyes half-closed, and asked God to help him be a good boy who would listen to his father. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. He looked up at the stars and wondered where God was, and if He had really heard.

SUGAR
by Sharon Leach

T
he girl in the leopard bikini walking along the beach, past the sunbathing tourists, is swinging her hips. As she walks, her bare feet kick up tiny puffs of white sand. Her legs are strong, and brown like mine. Her braids—real braids that have been done at some fancy foreign boutique, perhaps, rather than by one of the local girls here—hang down her back, cascading like a waterfall at midnight, swishing from side to side against her bottom as she walks toward the calling waves. She knows the greasy sunburned white men, eyes hidden behind their smoky sunglasses and thick novels tented atop their huge red bellies that surge over their swim trunks, are watching her. So she sticks out her small chest, like a fashion model walking down a catwalk, her hips swinging in time:
swish, swish, swish.