In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [74]
No. I hated her. I never again wanted to be that vulnerable, foolish enough to believe in anything or anyone.
The knife was gone. The only weapon I had left was my bitterness, and I took deep breaths, feeling the fist in my chest tighten. It would be a fist, my heart, not an open hand. An open hand took what it was given. An open hand could be burned, branded. A fist took nothing—it kept its secrets.
I was wrong. I can’t survive here, I thought. These people will try to kill my soul and call it salvation.
In God one finds love, absolute and unconditional, but not infinite. We believed that the gates of Heaven could be closed against a hardened heart—a “seared conscience”—and never be opened again, no matter how sincere the penance. Having no context for my sin, I could believe only that I had fired my soul in the worldly kiln to an impenetrable and lacquered armor. Even if I had wanted to regain my Father’s house, I would find no ingress, no welcome.
Here were these lovers of God. I could never again be one of them. In this I found a dark and fitting comfort in place of absolution. I opened my eyes to the gravy bowl and ladled the congealing sauce over white bread, took more salad than I could eat. My first bite of deer steak brought another tremor of memory: sitting on the dark stairs while the women made dinner, taking in Luke’s breath with the smell of hot grease and browning venison. I’d not tasted wild meat since we left the woods, and now it was all coming back and I couldn’t stop it: the church in Cardiff, the late-night games of basketball, the wonderful float of near-sleep as I lay on the couch listening to the stove pop and the men play their music; the night they didn’t find Matthew. My friends in Lewiston hadn’t known me then, but these people had. They’d seen me that way, they knew who I really was. I shoved myself from the table so hard my iced tea rocked and spilled.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
Brother and Sister Lang glanced at each other. Sarah pointed with her fork down the hall.
The room was still moist, the mirror streaked with condensation. My face looked disfigured, melting down the glass. Luke’s clothes lay in a heap near the tub. I gathered them up and held them to my face, breathing in the dusty sweat, believing I could still feel the heat of his body.
I no longer knew what sin felt like. Guilt had been replaced by a simple and practical aversion to consequences. They would never know what I was doing—a thief, stealing this intimacy. They might never know what I wanted from Luke; I wasn’t even sure I did. I knew I wanted his hands to touch me and could not imagine what I wouldn’t let him do.
The boys at school had tried, snaking their fingers between the buttons of my Levi’s, trailing their sharp tongues down my neck. I disliked their urgency, their little moans and pleadings. What I wanted was to feel again that which had possessed me in the church’s dusky sanctuary: seduction, a pure longing so painful I bit my tongue to draw blood penance. It was still in his eyes, it might still happen. And what was that worth, to have him finally take hold of me in a real embrace? We were older, could plan a place, a time. Maybe then I’d leave, make my run for California.
The thought cleared my head. I’d never go back home to my parents, or even my friends. Why would I? I could be as free as I wanted to be. I could choose to go or stay. If I hid out long enough, even the cops would give up. I’d learned my lesson about hiding in small places. No more closets or apartments. I’d go to a big city, where I could run and be swallowed up by thousands of people who would never recognize my face.
I relaxed and flipped on the exhaust fan. The cigarette was nearly crushed, and I carefully reshaped it. The smoke lifted toward the ceiling. The last lungful I blew into the pile of cotton and denim like a good-bye