the orange ball spin and listens to Sorrow do her work. The sink fills and splashes, then drains away with a sucking sound and Sorrow’s groan. She hears china ping off the sink and chip off the wall tiles, as if it has been thrown, but that could not be. It is far too precious to Sorrow.
The strap goes lax and the door crashes open. The strap comes flying through the hole. Sorrow barges out, the front of her chest soaked and her eyes red. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘But you are the Oracle.’
‘It doesn’t take this long at home.’
‘We’re not at home.’
‘Don’t you think I know that? Dolt.’
Amity knows her sister wants the temple, where she sits at the altar and searches the water, where she tells Father in secret prayer all she sees. It is silent, holy work, and Amity knows that Sorrow probably doesn’t think it should happen where people go to the bathroom. And then she thinks that maybe Sorrow can’t do her work without Father. And if that is so, how can the bowl show her where Father is?
‘Maybe you need a new bowl,’ Amity says.
‘Idiot. This is my bowl.’ Sorrow shakes the shard at her.
‘The bowl isn’t the Oracle. You are the Oracle.’
‘Idiot,’ Sorrow says again. Then she begins to smile.
Sorrow twirls water in the plastic bucket, spinning the piece of china within it. She hunkers down on her knees and elbows, pulling Amity flat, strapped again. She peers at the water across the top of it, with a frog’s-eye view, then she swoops up to stare down with a high bird’s eye, pulling Amity onto clog tip and her strapped arm saluting. She floats her hand on the surface, like the feet of Jesus. She stares at the water to trouble it, tries to fairly bubble it with her glare. She rocks the bucket from side to side, then plunges her head into it, only to rise up, choking and spitting. She dangles her fingers in the bucket of water, stroking the shard, wishing for God.
Amity prays to the spinning ball, which is whirling, as mothers do. ‘Please help Sorrow’ is all she can think of to say. God answers back with the spinning of the ball, bright as a sweet in the lace of His clouds, and the pensive whir of its motor. The sound builds with her praying, grinds with His passion, and she is sure the motor will burn and the ball burst into flames and come crashing down like the heavens falling at the end of time.
‘Can you hear that?’ Sorrow asks her, head cocked.
‘Is it a sign?’
‘Yes, it’s a sign – it’s a car, you dope.’
‘A car?’ And then the sound is unmistakable. It is a car’s engine, growing louder, coming toward them. ‘Thank you, God,’ she tells the ball.
Sorrow shouts and runs from the gas station, waving her arms at the dirt road.
‘Car!’ Amity shrieks. They jump for joy as a car emerges, dirt rising and steam pouring from the hood. They call the car in, toward the gas station, guiding it to a pump in the canopy’s shade. The car slows, hissing and ticking.
‘Thank goodness you all are here,’ a woman says, bright-lipped, a blond thatch of hair ricked high on her head. She fans the back of her neck with a magazine, eyeballs and elbows on every page. ‘We didn’t think anybody was down here, did we, but I said a body’s got to have faith.’
‘Oh, we have faith,’ Amity chirps.
‘You all work here?’ A jowly man scans the forecourt. He looks the girls up and down, their long skirts and caps, and he looks about the station and its little shop. ‘You don’t even look open. This your family’s place?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Amity says, leaning in toward his window. ‘We all pitch in and work it. We all do our share.’ Sorrow shoots her a satisfied grin. In the backseat Amity sees a car seat and a baby in it, jiggling the fat rolls of its legs and arms. She wiggles her fingers at it.
‘All righty,’ he says. ‘What else can I do? You all pump or are you self-serve?’
‘I’ll pump you,’ Amity says, and she leaps to unscrew his
The strap goes lax and the door crashes open. The strap comes flying through the hole. Sorrow barges out, the front of her chest soaked and her eyes red. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘But you are the Oracle.’
‘It doesn’t take this long at home.’
‘We’re not at home.’
‘Don’t you think I know that? Dolt.’
Amity knows her sister wants the temple, where she sits at the altar and searches the water, where she tells Father in secret prayer all she sees. It is silent, holy work, and Amity knows that Sorrow probably doesn’t think it should happen where people go to the bathroom. And then she thinks that maybe Sorrow can’t do her work without Father. And if that is so, how can the bowl show her where Father is?
‘Maybe you need a new bowl,’ Amity says.
‘Idiot. This is my bowl.’ Sorrow shakes the shard at her.
‘The bowl isn’t the Oracle. You are the Oracle.’
‘Idiot,’ Sorrow says again. Then she begins to smile.
Sorrow twirls water in the plastic bucket, spinning the piece of china within it. She hunkers down on her knees and elbows, pulling Amity flat, strapped again. She peers at the water across the top of it, with a frog’s-eye view, then she swoops up to stare down with a high bird’s eye, pulling Amity onto clog tip and her strapped arm saluting. She floats her hand on the surface, like the feet of Jesus. She stares at the water to trouble it, tries to fairly bubble it with her glare. She rocks the bucket from side to side, then plunges her head into it, only to rise up, choking and spitting. She dangles her fingers in the bucket of water, stroking the shard, wishing for God.
Amity prays to the spinning ball, which is whirling, as mothers do. ‘Please help Sorrow’ is all she can think of to say. God answers back with the spinning of the ball, bright as a sweet in the lace of His clouds, and the pensive whir of its motor. The sound builds with her praying, grinds with His passion, and she is sure the motor will burn and the ball burst into flames and come crashing down like the heavens falling at the end of time.
‘Can you hear that?’ Sorrow asks her, head cocked.
‘Is it a sign?’
‘Yes, it’s a sign – it’s a car, you dope.’
‘A car?’ And then the sound is unmistakable. It is a car’s engine, growing louder, coming toward them. ‘Thank you, God,’ she tells the ball.
Sorrow shouts and runs from the gas station, waving her arms at the dirt road.
‘Car!’ Amity shrieks. They jump for joy as a car emerges, dirt rising and steam pouring from the hood. They call the car in, toward the gas station, guiding it to a pump in the canopy’s shade. The car slows, hissing and ticking.
‘Thank goodness you all are here,’ a woman says, bright-lipped, a blond thatch of hair ricked high on her head. She fans the back of her neck with a magazine, eyeballs and elbows on every page. ‘We didn’t think anybody was down here, did we, but I said a body’s got to have faith.’
‘Oh, we have faith,’ Amity chirps.
‘You all work here?’ A jowly man scans the forecourt. He looks the girls up and down, their long skirts and caps, and he looks about the station and its little shop. ‘You don’t even look open. This your family’s place?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Amity says, leaning in toward his window. ‘We all pitch in and work it. We all do our share.’ Sorrow shoots her a satisfied grin. In the backseat Amity sees a car seat and a baby in it, jiggling the fat rolls of its legs and arms. She wiggles her fingers at it.
‘All righty,’ he says. ‘What else can I do? You all pump or are you self-serve?’
‘I’ll pump you,’ Amity says, and she leaps to unscrew his
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