When She Flew (19 page)

Once in her own neighborhood, driving along rows of homes with the occasional porch light glowing, Jess saw her small ranch house ahead. It was nearly three a.m. when she pulled into her driveway, and so quiet outside that the closing of her car door echoed like a shot in the night.

19

I
n all the time I’ve been coming to the City of Refuge Church, I never knew Reverend Rosetta had an office. She walked us down the corridor past the Sunday school rooms, past the bathrooms, and then inside a small wood-paneled office. The church caretaker, Michael, was already there, and he offered us something to drink, but I wasn’t thirsty. Pater and I took seats on an old green velvet couch and the reverend sat behind a wood desk that looked like a boat, it was so big. Michael sat in a folding chair tipped back against the wall. His big tattooed hands were clasped over the top of his head, bald and gleaming like he polished it. Michael always let me help him blow out candles after Sunday services. He was gentle and easy to like, even dressed in a black leather vest and spiked wristbands.

Pater told the reverend about everything that had happened, starting with the police coming into our camp and ending with the police car dropping him off at the Y. He never went inside, he said. Instead, he waited until they were gone and then went to a nearby gas station to call Michael at the church. Then he caught the 22 bus across town. Michael had called Reverend Rosetta, and she drove right to the church, still in her purple quilted bathrobe and with her big silver hairdo flatter on one side than the other. She looked like a queen anyway, sitting regally in large gold-rimmed eyeglasses, tapping her long, pretty, dark fingers on the desktop.

“Now, sweet pea,” she said to me, “are you too tired for all of this? Have you gotten any sleep tonight? You could go take a nap in the child-care center if you’d like while we figure this out with your daddy.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I want to be here.” I couldn’t help yawning, but I stretched my eyes wide to feel more awake.

“So, let me get all this straight,” she said, looking at Pater, then me. “You two have been camping out the whole time we’ve known you? Every Sunday when you show up for church, you’ve come straight from those woods?”

We nodded and she shook her head.

“Lord have mercy on you. Bless you, for finding a way to survive.”

“But it’s not—” I started, and Pater shushed me.
It’s not a horrible place,
I wanted to say.
It’s our beautiful forest.

“And God bless that police officer for bringing you here, honey. We may need her help. What was her name again?”

“Officer Villareal,” I said. I had gotten very good at pronouncing it.

Reverend Rosetta took a pen from a blue coffee cup that said “Heaven Sent” on the side, and scrunched her brows together. “Do you know how to spell that, sugar?”

Pater dug in his pocket and pulled out Officer Villareal’s card. “She gave me this, with her cell phone number.”

“Praise the Lord. It’s good to have a friend in the police department,” Reverend Rosetta said. “That will definitely help.”

“Well, she might not be on the force for too long,” Michael said quietly, and brought his chair to the floor, hands together in front of him now.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because she broke the rules,” Pater said. “She didn’t do what she was supposed to.”

“But she was just helping us.” Every time I thought things were going to be all right, something else went wrong. “She took me to the doctor and everything, to prove that everything is . . . is fine.” I was too nervous to say it was to prove that Pater didn’t abuse me. We couldn’t even talk about my periods.

“What?” Pater turned to me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“ ’ Cause I just . . . I am telling you. I was going to tell you.” There was too much going on, too much to say, and I felt out of words. My mind was blank and I felt like bawling. I didn’t want Pater mad at me.

Michael asked, “Do you have a copy of the doctor’s report, Lindy?”

I shook my head. “She gave it to Officer Villareal.”

“Figures,” Pater said, shaking his head.

“I think the officer will do the right thing with it,” Reverend Rosetta said. “And for now, we don’t need it, not where you’re going.”

“Where’s that?” Pater asked, the muscle in his jaw jumping. He didn’t like being told what to do.

“Until we find a host home, you’re bunking with me,” she said, looking straight at Pater. “Okay? Trust me. And why don’t you let me take down the officer’s details so we all know how to get in touch with her if we need to?”

He handed over the card and watched while she copied the numbers. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Thank you for taking us in, Pastor. It’s been a tough day.”

I smiled at him the way he smiles at me when I remember to use my good manners.

The reverend clucked and nodded, and we all stood. She herded us back out of the church and into her minivan for the drive to her house.

I was excited and nervous. If I thought being in her office was something special, what would it be like in her home?

When we arrived, I was surprised that it was so small and ordinary-looking, from the outside anyway. Once we walked through the front door, though, it was like being inside a grandmother’s house in a book, all cozy with quilts and pictures of people on top of the TV, and a rocking chair, and soft white carpeting beneath our feet.

We went into the kitchen and sat at the table while she hummed and scrambled eggs. I’d never imagined that a woman as powerful as Reverend Rosetta did regular things like make eggs and butter toast, but I’d never seen her in pajamas, either, so nothing was exactly normal.

There was so much stuff in this one room; there was no space that didn’t get used, not even the countertops. She had a cookie jar and a blender and a bowl of fruit, a big thing just for holding spoons and spatulas and tools I didn’t recognize, a cof feepot and a toaster, and a teakettle on the stove. The glass-front cupboards and shelf over the sink were crammed full of bowls and plates and drinking glasses, like twenty people lived there instead of one. When she opened the refrigerator, it was filled with things to drink—milk and juice and water and Diet Coke—and more bowls covered with wrap. I imagined the leftovers she must have. Now that I knew she cooked, I imagined her to be the best cook in the world. Pater and I couldn’t store leftovers, so we always made only enough to eat, and that was usually things like rice and noodles, beans and soup. We couldn’t keep meat very well, but sometimes we’d bring home a package of marked-down chicken thighs to grill and eat them all—four for Pater, two for me.

Pater was hungry now, and he shoveled the scrambled eggs into his mouth. We hadn’t eaten anything for dinner but peanut butter sandwiches, and that seemed like forever ago.

The reverend watched him eat, smiling, then turned to me. “Aren’t you hungry, sugar?”

I’d never been hungrier, but I didn’t like scrambled eggs much. We always cooked them in the same oil we used for everything else, so they tasted like onions, my least favorite food except for Jack in the Box. The reverend, though, had melted thick pats of butter in the frying pan and stirred cream into the bowl with the eggs. I lifted a bite to my mouth and heard a noise escape my throat at the smooth velvetiness, the buttery flavor.

Reverend Rosetta smiled and went to make up beds for us to sleep in.

Later, walking down the small, narrow hallway, she stopped at the first door. “This is where my oldest boy, James, used to sleep,” she said. “Mr. Wiggs, you’ll sleep in here.” There was a single bed along one wall and a desk with lots of books on the other.“This is where I write my sermons now,” she said.“James’s spirit seems to help me.” She sighed. “He got in with the gangs, and got killed, but he was a good boy.”

I wondered how Pater would feel, sleeping in a dead boy’s room, but he eyed the bed as hungrily as he had the eggs.

“Lindy and I can share a room. We’re used to it,” he said, and the reverend hooted so loud I jumped.

“Lord, no, you won’t. I have plenty of space, more than I need these days. Miss Lindy will have the guest room, thank you very much.”

We walked down to the other end of the hall to see the guest room, all yellow, soft, and pillowy. I’d never seen so many pillows.

“I just finished redecorating,” she said, proud. “My other boy, Robert, and his wife are expecting, and I have a feeling I’m going to have a granddaughter.”

“I used to have an uncle Robert,” I said without thinking. I was too tired to watch my words anymore. I looked at Pater, but he looked too tired to be sad.

“Died in Iraq,” he said. “My younger brother.” I’d never heard him tell anyone that before.

Her face scrunched down like she might cry, and she shook her head and gave Pater a hug. He didn’t put his arms around her, but he nodded when she said, “I am so, so sorry for your loss. You must be very proud of him, serving his country.”

I wanted to tell her that Pater had served it, too, and that it had done terrible things to him, but I’d made enough mistakes that day.

It had been a long time since I’d slept alone, without Pater a few feet away. I stood there, just outside the room as Pater walked back to his room.

He turned. “You’ll be okay,” he said. His face was ghostly. I’d put him through so much. “See you in the morning, then. Sleep tight.” He went into his room and closed the door.

“The ladies’ room is next door,” the reverend told me. “There’s a night-light on in there for you.”

After she left, I tiptoed into the bathroom and turned on the light. It was yellow, too, with lots of white towels, all clean and neatly folded. I slipped out and back into my room, dug through my backpack for my toothbrush, hairbrush, and hand towel, then went back to use the toilet, wash my face, and brush my teeth, cleaning up every droplet of water I spilled.

Then I looked into the mirror to brush my hair. It was all dusty and stringy around my pale face. My eyes seemed sunken and dark and my mouth was a thin line. Pater told me I was pretty when I asked, but I wasn’t. In the mirror I looked like the homeless kids who beg for money downtown, with that hard, mean look they have. That dirty, tired look they have. I didn’t belong in this nice bathroom.

I hurried to my room and pulled back the bedcovers. The sheets were white, too, so white they scared me. I knew I’d turn them gray if I were to sleep on them.

I pulled the blankets back up, unfurled my sleeping bag, and lay down, pulling the bag on top of me like a giant leaf. I lay there a moment before I realized I had to turn off the light, so I got back up, but the light switch by the door didn’t work. I went back to sit on the bed and study the glass lamp on the bedside table. A gold chain dangled from below the bulb, so I pulled it, but the room didn’t go completely dark. Light from another house lit it to a dull gray. I lay back down beneath the bag, then crawled inside it so I wouldn’t get the nice yellow blanket dirty either. It was hot but it felt better to hide inside its wood smoke-and-cedar smell. I bunched the bag around my face and tried to pretend I was back in my bed in the cool, dark woods.

I was almost asleep when I remembered to say my prayers:

I had more to say, but I wasn’t sure what.
Please,
I kept thinking, but please what?

My eyes got wet.

Please help Pater forgive me, and please, please, help us get back home
.

I rolled over on my side, into a ball, and even though the sounds inside and outside Reverend Rosetta’s house were strange and unfamiliar, I slept.