The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel (17 page)

She ducked under the seat, then surfaced with a shotgun. Craw threw up his hands. “Whatever this game is, I give up.” Agile as a cat, Sarah jumped onto the back of the truck and hopped over the crates.

Below, the great snake coiled and lifted its head to strike. Above, Sarah steadied the rifle on her shoulder. It seemed to be pointed directly between my legs. I saw her rosary glinting in the sun, Jesus swinging back and forth between her breasts—then I pinched my eyes shut and braced myself for God’s judgment on my sex-obsessed mind. The only question was whether my manhood would be destroyed by snakebite or gunshot. One moment more, and I’d never have to think about that part of me again.

My eardrums burst and a shower of gravel peppered my face. A second shot exploded at my feet, then a third. I couldn’t see anything for the dust. Sarah jumped off the truck, ran to edge of the road, and fired two more times into the grass. “Damn it all—he got away!”

My whole body was numb and trembling at the same time. I grabbed my crotch to make sure everything was still there. Yes, thank God, she’d missed.

I
F
Craw was right
about old houses being haunted, the Henry farmhouse was especially so. It was built in the 1860s, and several generations of Henrys had left their footprints and fingerprints on the wooden floors and plaster walls. Walking down the hall to my room, I passed under the watchful eyes of my ancestors—rugged, stern men and women staring out from gilded frames. Many nights, I lay awake with the sense that I wasn’t alone; but that didn’t frighten me as long as I didn’t see any dead people walking around.

The day after the market, though, I was jolted awake by the sound of a screaming baby. I sat up in bed shaking and sweating, waiting to hear it again, but the only sound was the creaking windmill. Must have been a dream, I thought—probably brought on by seeing that snake. I relaxed against the headboard and waited for my heart to calm down.

Then
—“Mama! MaaMaaa!”

That, sure as hell, was not a dream. I jumped out of bed, threw on my pants, and ran down the stairs.

When I threw open the back door, there was Sarah wrestling in the dirt with a little white goat. She gave a startled gasp and the goat broke away. “Dammit—you spooked me!”

I rested on my knees, panting. “Your goat spooked
me
. It sounded like a baby screaming out here.”

Sarah laughed. “They do sound like babies—I guess that’s why they’re called kids. But thanks to you, I’ve got to catch him again.” She spun around, stamped her foot, and called out, “Hoppy! Hoppy, you come over here this instant!” Then she looked back at me. “Well, don’t just stand there, Toby.”

And so the two of us ran across the yard chasing the escaped goat. Finally, I cornered him against the cellar. “Give it up, Hoppy—you can’t run forever.” I crouched down. “We won’t rest till you’re back in the pen. You think you can make a break for Mexico? Our guards will gun you down.”

Sarah ran up from behind. “Trying to reason with a goat?”

“Shhh,” I said. “It’s just a stall tactic. Get the lasso ready.” As we kept perfectly still, Hoppy bent down to chomp a tuft of grass. “Now!”

Sarah tossed her rope and pulled it snug around his neck. The goat leapt and kicked but it was no use—we had him. In our moment of celebration, I hoped for a hug. “We make a good team.” I glanced at her.

Sarah reached out and slapped my shoulder. “Sure do—you and Hoppy.”

+ + +

I followed Sarah to the animal pens. “So you’re here every morning? What all do you do?”

She yanked the wayward goat back in line. “Come along. I’ll show you.”

After Hoppy was safely behind bars, Sarah tossed some fresh hay to the goats. I grabbed some straw and fed a couple kids out of my hand. “Do you have names for all the animals?” I asked.

“No—just Hoppy. I call him that cause he’s always hopping over the fence.” She pitched another armful of hay over the fence. “Then there’s Old Squeal, the hog. But I don’t have to deal with him, thank God. Mister Henry feeds him all the scraps and leftovers.”

Next, we walked to the chicken pen and Sarah gave me some corn to feed them. As soon as the kernels hit the ground, a large, redheaded chicken pushed all the others out of the way and snatched them up. “Wow—I’ll bet you get some big eggs out of that one,” I said.

Sarah laughed. “Don’t you know the difference between a hen and a rooster?” My cheeks flushed—I didn’t even know about sex in the animal world.

She pointed to a smaller, black chicken in the corner. “He’s the only other male. All the rest are girls.”

“What happened to his tail?”

“The big one pecked all his feathers off, just to show him who’s boss.” She sighed. “Boys—they’re all alike.”

Sarah ducked inside the hen house for a minute and collected a basketful of eggs. Then we headed back to the goat pen. “Milking time,” she said.

“Don’t ask me to help—I can’t tell the girls from the boys.”

Sarah led a mama goat with a heavy, swinging udder out of the pen and over to the milking bench. “Sure you don’t want to try? It’s easy—just watch.” She grabbed two nipples and pulled them back and forth; soon, her pail was half-filled with frothing milk.

She stood up and pointed to the bench. “Your turn.” When it became clear that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, I squatted down on the bench and gingerly wrapped my fingers around warm goat flesh. I couldn’t help but wonder: if she kicked me in the head, would I see Jesus like my father had?

I didn’t want to tell Sarah, but it was the first time I’d ever touched anyone’s nipples. They were soft as suede leather and stretchy as rubber. Did girls’ nipples feel like that, too?

I gave a tug, but nothing came out. “I think this one’s empty.”

“There’s plenty left,” Sarah said. “You’ve just got to pull harder.”

So I tugged again. And again. Finally, the goat bleated
—“Maaaa!”—
reared back, and gave a mighty kick. The pail went flying and I tumbled over backwards.

I didn’t see Jesus, but I did get a good soaking. Milk streamed down my shirt and pants, and I knew there was no way was I going to get a hug from Sarah now. When I turned to face her, she was bent over laughing. Her collar hung low enough that I could glimpse her breasts jiggling like two apples on a wind-tossed branch—and that lovely sight made all my humiliation worthwhile.

I got out of the way while Sarah finished the job. I couldn’t blame the goat for not wanting me to pull her nipples—even an animal could tell that I didn’t understand the first thing about breasts.

I was obsessed with breasts, but I had no idea why. I still am, and still don’t. What are they, anyway? Built-in baby bottles. So why are they so attractive? Is it their roundness and softness? If women had only one breast and several nipples, like a goat, would breasts lose their charm? If women had udders on their bellies that swayed as they walked, would men still watch and whistle?

All I know is that a woman’s breasts are the centerpiece of all that’s beautiful, intriguing, and delightful about her. It’s true even of small-chested girls like Sarah.

+ + +

After Sarah filled two pails (or, rather, the goat filled them), we carried the milk and eggs back to the cooling shed. Wilburn and Millie didn’t have an electric freezer, so they kept a small shed packed with ice blocks buried in straw to make them last. Sarah put one pail of milk and most of the eggs inside, but kept the rest out. “I have to take these back to Mama,” she said.

It was a long walk down to the houses where the hired help live, but I volunteered to go along. Being Sunday, there wasn’t any work that I needed to be doing; and besides, there wasn’t anything else on the farm as interesting as Sarah.

As she gathered up the eggs in the front of her dress, I picked up the pail. “I’ll carry the milk.”

“All right,” she said. “Just see that you don’t spill it again.”

“
I’m
not the one who kicked over the bucket—your goat did.”

“But you provoked her.”

It was no use trying to get the last word in.

As we started towards Sarah’s house, the sun was low in the sky and the orchards shrouded in fog. This was about the time of morning I was usually just rolling out of bed; no wonder Craw and I hadn’t run into her before.

“What sort of work does your father do on the farm?” I asked.

Sarah kept walking, staring straight ahead into the mist. I thought she hadn’t heard. Then she looked down at the path. “My daddy died when I was ten.”

“I’m sorry.” We were both quiet for a while, but my mind was racing. Was that why Wilburn and Millie hadn’t mentioned her family? Had she worn black every day since then?

“I don’t remember much about Daddy,” Sarah said, “Just the way he looked in the field that last summer, bent over hoeing cotton. And how tired he was.”

“Was—was it an accident?”

Sarah shook her head. “One day, he just collapsed. His heart gave out on him.”

I felt sick. “Did my uncle work him too hard?”

“No—Mister Henry was the only fair employer Daddy ever had. But by the time we got here, it was too late. After he was gone, Mister Henry let my mama and me stay on and do odd jobs. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where we’d be. ”

I wished I could give her a hug. “Where did you live before here?”

Sarah gave a short laugh. “Where
didn’t
we live? Daddy went wherever there was work, and Mama and I went with him. Georgia, Arizona, California. We lived in tents, boxcars, labor camps. Never had a home, really.”

“I’ve lived in the same place my whole life—Remus, Michigan.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Obviously you haven’t been to Remus.” I looked over at Sarah, but she didn’t smile.

“There’s nothing glamorous about life on the road,” she said. “Daddy saw things that drained all the joy out of life.”

“Like what?”

“Men killing each other over a watch or a key chain. Babies starving cause their mothers’ milk went dry. He once saw a man selling his wife—a penny for ten minutes. He kept her in a boxcar, and men were lined up around the trainyard waiting their turn.”

“That’s awful.” I thought about the things I’d seen in just a week on the road: the girl in St. Louis, Red’s empty eye socket, the boxcar fire.

“Sometimes,” Sarah said, “life on the farm isn’t any easier. I’ve seen some things, too. That’s the problem with life—no matter where you go, you can’t escape death.”

For the first time since we’d started walking, she looked at me. Her eyes seemed even larger than usual, and I saw my silhouette reflected on their watery sheen. Looking at those eyes was like glimpsing the surface of a dark pool—I had no idea how deep it ran, or what lurked inside. And I knew that if I fell in, I might never come back up.

“Watch it,” she said. “You’re spilling.”

“Hold on.” I set down the pail and brushed off my pant leg. “It was only a drop. You just worry about your eggs.”

Her fingers gripped the front of her dress, cradling the eggs inside. A single, clear drop fell onto her wrist and trickled down her hand. Then another tear melted into her dress. I reached out and put my trembling hand on her shoulder. Sarah fell against me and nestled her head under my chin. Her tears fell hot against my neck and soaked into my shirt. She sobbed until her whole body was shaking—the same way I’d seen her cry at the river—and I had no idea what to do about it. Was I supposed to cheer her up? Or try to help somehow?

The next thing I knew, my own eyes started watering. I wrapped my arms around Sarah’s back, pressed my face into her hair, and tried to choke back the tears. But everything I’d been holding inside for the past month came bursting out.

Or, at least, half of me cried. The other half floated above, taking note of the sensations—blurry vision, burning nose, the taste of saltwater—and thinking,
So this is what it feels like. How strange—and girls do this all the time?

Then I felt something wet against my crotch.
Dear God, did I wet my pants, too?