The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel (18 page)

Sarah pushed away, catching her breath between sniffles. “Oh, shit—the eggs.”

We both stared down at the mess of clear goo, yellow yolk, and cracked shells oozing down the front of her dress. But I wasn’t about to let that interrupt my hug. I pulled Sarah back into a salty, snotty, squashed-egg embrace, and kissed the top of her head.

E
VERY
morning for the rest of the week, I woke up early to help Sarah with her chores—not that she needed the help. We didn’t talk about what had happened on Sunday. We didn’t talk about much of anything. But I felt a connection with her, and I thought she felt it, too. Maybe it was that neither of us had any brothers or sisters; it gets lonely being an only child.

I didn’t breathe a word about her to anyone, but it didn’t take long for Craw to get curious. I always met him at his shed with a plate of Millie’s ham and eggs before heading out to work, but on Tuesday and Wednesday, I was a few minutes later than usual. Thursday, I missed him altogether. When I arrived at the work site an hour late, Craw was sitting on his usual stump hacking away at a post. He tipped his cowboy hat and grinned. “Must be something awful important keeping you these days.”

I brushed past him, post-hole digger in hand. “Nope—just slept in.”

“Now that’s funny,” Craw said. “Wilburn said you left the house at six.”

I kept my back to him. “I had to feed the chickens, too.”

“I’ll bet it ain’t just chickens you’re spending time with.”

“You’re right,” I said, jamming the digger into the ground. “It’s the goats, too. You know—I’ve developed a new fondness for goats.”

He chuckled. “Son, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You may be inexperienced, but you’ll learn quick.”

I kept quiet, frustrated that I couldn’t keep a secret for one damn week. Besides—I liked being around Sarah, but that didn’t mean that I was in love with her. She intrigued me, but she scared the hell out of me sometimes, too. You can never feel entirely at ease around a girl once you’ve seen her fire a shotgun, especially if it was aimed between your legs.

“Ask me anything,” Craw said. “There’s nothing worth knowing about women that old Craw don’t know.”

I leaned on the digger handle. “All right—why do they cry so much?”

“Damned if I know.”

“And what’s a man supposed to do when a woman cries?”

“Go out and get a beer.”

I shook my head and took another stab at the ground. “Maybe we should stick to making fences.”

“Nah—too damn complicated.”

+ + +

Every time I talked to Sarah, I looked for a chance to slip in the question—“Do you know of any dry wells around here?”—but it never seemed to fit. I knew what would happen: she’d ask why I wanted to know, and it wouldn’t take a minute for her to squeeze the whole truth out of me.

Time was short—my parents would be evicted in only three weeks. But as the days wore on, I thought less and less about the money. After work, instead of searching for the well during the two free hours before dinner, I started visiting Sarah’s home on the far edge of the farm. It was a three-room, tin-roofed house painted bright canary yellow. “That was Mama’s idea,” Sarah said.

Sarah’s mother, Rosalind Hawthorn, had long, deep red hair streaked with silver, which she kept braided and coiled on top of her head like a snake. The first time I met her, Rosalind was at the kitchen table rolling dough with an empty Doctor Pepper bottle. “Sarah’s always had a special way with animals,” she said. “She gets along better with critters than people. Land’s sakes, the things she’s brought home for pets—lizards, horned toads, snapping turtles, even scorpions. Once, when she was just a baby, I found her playing in the dirt with a black widow spider. She had it on a stick, hanging by a thread. She said, ‘Look Mama, doesn’t this spider have the prettiest red spot on her bottom?’ I about died.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “But you didn’t. And neither did I.”

“Only because of the spirit watching over you,” Rosalind said.

Sarah frowned. “That’s enough, Mama.”

Rosalind took the lid from a Mason jar and started cutting circles out of the dough. “I hope you can stay for biscuits, Toby.”

As much as I hated being called Toby, I could
always
stay for biscuits. While they baked, I asked how it was that Sarah had black hair when Rosalind had red.

“I’m Irish,” Rosalind said. “But John—Sarah’s father—was part Spanish and a quarter Indian. His grandmother was a full-blooded Commanche princess. She was the most amazing lady I’ve ever met, and she lived to be a hundred and one. The day Sarah was born, she—”

Sarah grabbed her mother’s arm. “Not that story, Mama.
Please
.”

Rosalind got up to check the biscuits in the oven. “Folks in Glen Rose gave us a hard time when we first moved here,” she said when she sat back down. “Some of the old men fought the Commanches fifty years ago, and they weren’t ready to give up just yet. Thank God, most of them have died off now.”

The only decoration on the wall was a cardboard print of a girl dressed all in black, holding a bundle of roses. When Rosalind went outside to draw some water, I asked Sarah who it was.

“That’s Mama’s favorite saint. Therese—the Little Flower.”

“She’s young,” I said.

“Yeah. She coughed up a bunch of blood and died when she was twenty.”

“How … saintly.”

Saint Therese smiled out from her frame, but Sarah gazed back with sad eyes. “Sometimes, I think it would be nice to go that way,” she said. “Maybe they’d paint pictures of me, too.”

I glanced at the rosary beads around Sarah’s neck. My father would have been horrified. According to him, Catholics were hell-bound idolaters. Even worse, they were cannibals. When they took communion, they actually believed they were gnawing on Jesus—every wafer was supposed to be a chunk of his thigh or forearm.

It didn’t make any difference to me, but I asked just to be sure. “So you’re Catholic?”

Sarah hesitated. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

I laughed. “You’re not sure?”

“Mama goes to mass a couple times a year. I used to go with her, but not lately. We don’t have a car, and the nearest parish—San Juan Baptist’s—is half an hour’s walk.”

San Juan Baptist
. Why did that sound familiar? “Wait a minute,” I said. “Does that mean John the Baptist?”

“Sure—Saint John the Baptist.”

I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“John the Baptist wasn’t Catholic. He was the very first Baptist—everybody knows that.”

Sarah shook her head. “They called him ‘the Baptist’ because he
baptized
people, silly.”

I tapped my fingers on the table. “He swore off women, refused decent food and clothing, and was always yelling at people to repent. If that isn’t Baptist, I don’t know what is.”

“He lived in the desert because he was a monk,” Sarah said, putting her hand on top of mine. “Baptists don’t even have monks.”

The moment she touched me, I lost my train of thought. All I could do was smile and say, “Maybe you’re right.”

Baptist Catholics in Texas—who knew? Maybe my father would have approved after all.

T
HAT
Sunday
,
June 7th, was the Henry Family Reunion. Uncle Will described it as the highlight of the whole year—“There’ll be music, square dancing, a hog roast, and buckets of beer”— and he and Millie spent the whole week getting ready. This was my chance to meet a slew of relatives I hadn’t seen since I was a baby—including my grandmother.

Granny left the farm after Grandpa died; now she lived in Dallas with Aunt Ellabelle. “Ma likes to be close to the action,” Uncle Will said. “She loves the shows, the taverns, the salons. She’s practically bald, but Lord knows, every hair she’s got left gets dyed and curled every week.”

The day before the reunion, Old Squeal the hog met his demise. Saturday morning, Craw and I carried buckets of water to fill a huge cast-iron pot, and Millie lit a fire underneath. Once the water was boiling, Wilburn led Old Squeal to the oak tree, lassoed him to a sturdy branch, shot him twice, and hoisted up his body. Then he cut the hog’s belly from top to bottom, spilling all the entrails onto the ground. I was glad Sarah wasn’t there—as much as she disliked Old Squeal, she wouldn’t have wanted to see what was left after his spirit flew up to hog heaven.

I glanced at Craw. “You going to salvage any of that? You know, for medicinal purposes?”

He looked as pale as a black man can get. “Don’t make me lose my lunch.”

“Why’s it any different from catfish guts?”

“A fish is a clean animal. It doesn’t wallow in its own shit all day, eating slop and getting fat. There’s a reason why God told the Jews to lay off pork.”

Uncle Will called us over to help scoot the pot of boiling water underneath the carcass. I tried not to smell the thick, musty air. Then Wilburn dipped Old Squeal in and out of the scalding water. “That’s to loosen up the hairs so we can clean the hide.” He picked up a long butcher’s knife. “You ever had hog cracklins? Millie takes the skin scraps, rolls ’em in batter, and fries it all up in lard. Delicious.”

Craw keeled forward. “I’ve got to lay down. That’s as much farm livin’ as I can take.”

+ + +

That night at dinner, I barely touched my food. It wasn’t for Old Squeal’s sake that I lost my appetite, though; I was worried about tomorrow. The reunion was supposed to be a great and happy day—food, dancing, talk. But to me, none of those things sounded fun at all without Sarah.

Finally, after rearranging my utensils seven times, I screwed up the courage to ask. “Do you think Sarah could come to the reunion? I mean, she’s not a Henry, but—”

“Why, sure,” Wilburn said. “I don’t see any problem with that. You go ahead and invite her as your guest.”

Aunt Millie’s fork clanged on the table. “The Hawthorn girl?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Is something wrong?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I—I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

I didn’t know what to say, but Uncle Will spoke up for me. “Why the hell not?”

“The things they say about that girl—”

Wilburn held up his coffee cup. “Oh, don’t tell me you believe all those rumors. She’s a fine girl—just got a bad reputation, that’s all.”

I was confused. “What rumors?” I’d never heard a hint of anything before now.

Aunt Millie frowned at her plate. “I don’t want to gossip. She’s bad news, though—I’ll tell you that much.”

Uncle Will rocked back in his chair and sighed at Millie. “No use hiding it now.” He leaned in towards me. “A couple boys that used to come around to see her, they died. Just accidents, that’s all. But the way people talk around town—”

“There were three of them,” Millie said. “Three boys. Dead.”

I felt numb. “Three boyfriends?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Wilburn said. “They were just boys that dropped by on Saturdays to see her, maybe take her to the movies.” He took a sip of coffee. “First, there was Ronny. Poor kid stepped in a cottonmouth den. Then there was Delbert. Damn fool dove off the trestle and drowned in the Brazos. The last one—I don’t recall his name—”