the person might even be dead, or something."
That put the whole question into Grandmother's realm. Grandmother was High Church.
"Then the person should go to Confession. Making one's Holy Confession to the Lord, and asking forgiveness, is the only thing to do under those circumstances." Grandmother nodded to Tatie, who stood in the doorway with the platter of veal, and Tatie began to move around the table, serving each of us from the left.
"And if you don't do
that,
then you go to Hell and burn forever," said Jessica with satisfaction, lifting a piece of veal with her fork and grinning across the table at me as the steam rose from it.
"I don't believe that," I muttered.
"Shhh," said Mama, warning me. She changed the subject.
That night I went upstairs before Jess and knelt beside my bed, my grass-stained knees firmly on the thick hooked rug. I folded my hands. By now my
father's face was a blur in my memory, but his forgiving hugs were still more comforting to me than those I had never experienced from Father Thorpe's Episcopalian Gawd. So I began, "Our Father," stopped, re-began, "My Father," and made my confession to a deity whom I pictured wearing a major's cap, and who, I remembered vaguely, had once put a dab of shaving cream on the tip of my nose.
"Please forgive me," I whispered, "because I didn't mean to, but it was partly me that killed Noah Hoffman."
"What on
earth
are you doing, Liz?" asked Jess, opening the bedroom door suddenly.
"Looking for a worm. I had it in my pocket and it fell out onto the rug." Hastily I whispered, under my breath, "Amen," and went to bed puzzled, frightened, and absolved.
***
Mama and my grandparents went to Noah's funeral. While they were gone, Charles and I wandered out to the backyard and held a funeral of our own, behind the lilacs. We buried the knife. Neither of us said very much.
Then we went back to the kitchen, into the pantry, and washed our hands.
"You two sick?" asked Tatie suspiciously.
My stomach lurched. In my mind, in my memory,
I could hear Nathaniel's little voice call, "Noah's sick!"
"No," said Charles, "we jest wanna eat ice. It's hot out."
Tatie chipped some ice and gave us each a chunk. "Don't you drip on the floor now, you hear?" she said.
"Come on, Charles, let's take it outside."
We sat beside each other on the back steps and sucked ice. The day was muggy and oppressive and still.
"Charles," I said, finally, "you told me that children don't die."
He stood up and threw his ice angrily into the hollyhocks. "So?" he said defiantly. "It was a lie. Maybe I tole you
lots
of lies, Elizabeth!"
He turned his back on me, ran across the yard, and disappeared behind the garage. I sat alone for a while on the steps, holding the ice against my teeth until they ached. Finally I followed him and found him sitting in the dirt, disconsolately arranging pebbles in patterns.
"I can show you how to make letters if you want," I said.
"Okay."
I made an
A
from the pebbles.
"That's an
A.
It's the first letter of the alphabet."
"Yeah, I know the alphabet all the way through."
I rearranged the pebbles. "That's a
B.
"
"Yeah."
"Charles,
did
you?"
"Did I
what?
"
"Tell me lots of lies."
Charles picked up the pebbles of the
B
and threw them against the side of the garage. Small puffs of dust rose as they fell to the dirt. "No," he said, not looking at me. "Only jest that one, and it wasn't really a lie. It was because I didn't know."
9
"O H , J ESS ," I groaned, " I wish I could be a boy."
Jessica looked over at me quizzically. We were sitting on the shaded side porch, the green slatted blinds pulled partway down against the sun. We each had an embroidery hoop, linen stretched tightly across the circular center. Grandmother had been teaching us both to embroider. It seemed the most boring thing I had ever done.
"What's the matter now?" asked Jess, working her needle neatly through her piece of linen.
"
Look,
" I said glumly, and showed her mine.
Jessica
That put the whole question into Grandmother's realm. Grandmother was High Church.
"Then the person should go to Confession. Making one's Holy Confession to the Lord, and asking forgiveness, is the only thing to do under those circumstances." Grandmother nodded to Tatie, who stood in the doorway with the platter of veal, and Tatie began to move around the table, serving each of us from the left.
"And if you don't do
that,
then you go to Hell and burn forever," said Jessica with satisfaction, lifting a piece of veal with her fork and grinning across the table at me as the steam rose from it.
"I don't believe that," I muttered.
"Shhh," said Mama, warning me. She changed the subject.
That night I went upstairs before Jess and knelt beside my bed, my grass-stained knees firmly on the thick hooked rug. I folded my hands. By now my
father's face was a blur in my memory, but his forgiving hugs were still more comforting to me than those I had never experienced from Father Thorpe's Episcopalian Gawd. So I began, "Our Father," stopped, re-began, "My Father," and made my confession to a deity whom I pictured wearing a major's cap, and who, I remembered vaguely, had once put a dab of shaving cream on the tip of my nose.
"Please forgive me," I whispered, "because I didn't mean to, but it was partly me that killed Noah Hoffman."
"What on
earth
are you doing, Liz?" asked Jess, opening the bedroom door suddenly.
"Looking for a worm. I had it in my pocket and it fell out onto the rug." Hastily I whispered, under my breath, "Amen," and went to bed puzzled, frightened, and absolved.
***
Mama and my grandparents went to Noah's funeral. While they were gone, Charles and I wandered out to the backyard and held a funeral of our own, behind the lilacs. We buried the knife. Neither of us said very much.
Then we went back to the kitchen, into the pantry, and washed our hands.
"You two sick?" asked Tatie suspiciously.
My stomach lurched. In my mind, in my memory,
I could hear Nathaniel's little voice call, "Noah's sick!"
"No," said Charles, "we jest wanna eat ice. It's hot out."
Tatie chipped some ice and gave us each a chunk. "Don't you drip on the floor now, you hear?" she said.
"Come on, Charles, let's take it outside."
We sat beside each other on the back steps and sucked ice. The day was muggy and oppressive and still.
"Charles," I said, finally, "you told me that children don't die."
He stood up and threw his ice angrily into the hollyhocks. "So?" he said defiantly. "It was a lie. Maybe I tole you
lots
of lies, Elizabeth!"
He turned his back on me, ran across the yard, and disappeared behind the garage. I sat alone for a while on the steps, holding the ice against my teeth until they ached. Finally I followed him and found him sitting in the dirt, disconsolately arranging pebbles in patterns.
"I can show you how to make letters if you want," I said.
"Okay."
I made an
A
from the pebbles.
"That's an
A.
It's the first letter of the alphabet."
"Yeah, I know the alphabet all the way through."
I rearranged the pebbles. "That's a
B.
"
"Yeah."
"Charles,
did
you?"
"Did I
what?
"
"Tell me lots of lies."
Charles picked up the pebbles of the
B
and threw them against the side of the garage. Small puffs of dust rose as they fell to the dirt. "No," he said, not looking at me. "Only jest that one, and it wasn't really a lie. It was because I didn't know."
9
"O H , J ESS ," I groaned, " I wish I could be a boy."
Jessica looked over at me quizzically. We were sitting on the shaded side porch, the green slatted blinds pulled partway down against the sun. We each had an embroidery hoop, linen stretched tightly across the circular center. Grandmother had been teaching us both to embroider. It seemed the most boring thing I had ever done.
"What's the matter now?" asked Jess, working her needle neatly through her piece of linen.
"
Look,
" I said glumly, and showed her mine.
Jessica
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