Pew(3)

Slowly, I stood to join them, was handed an open book, a hymnal. A finger pointed to a line of words, traced them along the page. I did not sing. Of most things I felt uncertain, but I was at least certain I would not sing.
Everyone sat again so I did as well. The larger bodies—the mother, the father (The father? The father)—did not look at me, acted as if I had always and would always be sitting and standing in this church, this pew. I was one of the things here: a hymnal, a Bible, an offering envelope, a tiny pencil. A person draped in heavy cloth stood at the front of the church and said things in such a way to make those words seem obvious and true, how simple the world was, how no one need worry about anything, how everything was here, all the answers were here and we could all just accept them, roll over and accept them like a sleeping body accepts air.
A gold plate was passed up and down the aisles, hand to hand to hand. People dropped in coins, bills, and envelopes, then passed the plates back to people who carried them to the altar like a casket toward its hole.
All the while an organ played. Someone stood near the organ, swaying and singing. Another someone carried a baby up to the altar and the person in the robes put water on the baby’s head and the baby cried and the person in robes carried the baby around the room just as the money had been carried around the room.
The baby, wet and held out for all to see, wailed. The people in the pews smiled and the organ drowned out the baby’s crying. An organ is a machine that can always cry louder than a human will.
At some point the father put a hand on my shoulder, looked down at me. The room of bodies stood again to sing, then sat again, listened to the person in robes speak, then stood to read words plainly from a page, then sat. Every time the bodies lowered themselves back into their pews there was a wooden ache, then a gust of silence.
Later, everyone left the church, flooding the aisles toward the church’s many doors. I saw someone was carrying that wet baby, carrying it away, a limp human that belonged to whoever could carry it.



THE SIX OF US—the father, the mother, the boys, and I—sat around a table draped with a white cloth. Plates of gravied meat and bread and stewed-soft vegetables were passed around, consumed in silence. People in white dresses carried dishes to and from the tables. Across the room I saw one of the people in the white dresses whisper to another, glancing at me, then away. No one at the tables looked at the people who brought the food to them, or if they did look, they looked without looking.
I ate as quickly as I could, as much as I could. The smallest boy stared at me while he was chewing. He opened his mouth, showing me the mashed contents, sticking out his tongue.
Hilda and I have something we would like to say, the father said.
Yes, Hilda said, putting her folded hands on the table. Hilda looked at the father until he nodded his head. Steven and I decided that you can stay with us as long as it takes.
As long as it takes, Steven said. We’ll move Jack down to the boys’ room and you can have the attic.
As long as you need, Hilda said. Her attention was turned inward and outward like a tightrope walker. I could hardly look at her. Everyone at the table was looking at me except for the smallest child, who stared at the ceiling, mesmerized, face smeared with food. I looked at my hands, at the empty plate, at the soiled napkin in my lap.
And what do you think of that? Steven asked, his voice raised and hard, a ceiling.
I leaned back in the chair and nodded. It was all I could manage.
Steven and Hilda spoke to each other, to the boys. Several times Steven made long statements, then asked the boys, Do you understand? The boys replied by not replying but that seemed to be enough. When Steven eventually rose from his chair, the rest of them did the same. He joined a line of men beside a cash register and Hilda disappeared behind a pink door.
Boys, Steven said, go on outside, go ahead and wait by the car and take our new friend with you. You’re in charge, Jack. Be nice.
Jack picked up the smallest boy and held him under an arm. The middle-size boy trailed behind them. I followed last. In the parking lot Jack dropped the smallest boy to the ground, then leaned against the family car, a big wide thing with huge wheels. The littlest boy moaned but stayed still at Jack’s feet. Jack stared off, squinting, fists in pockets.
What is it? the middle boy asked, pointing at me.
He oughta be in the back in there, one of them that picks up the dishes, Jack said, spit shining a smashed bug from the car’s windshield. Everybody’s got a place. Dad told me so.
It ain’t no boy, the middle boy said. Ain’t no boy I ever seen.
Shut up, Jack said.
You shut up, then—she ain’t even black neither. Don’t know what she is, but—
Jack brought a hand down and threw his brother to the gravel.
You better—you better say you’re sorry, the boy said from the ground. You better tell Jesus or I’ll tell him myself.
It don’t work like that, Jack said.
The boy stayed on the ground awhile, crying quietly and licking his skinned arms, catlike, attentive. He watched me as he did this, his eyes intent and still, as if this were a lesson he’d been taught and was now teaching me.
When Steven and Hilda came outside, Hilda took short, quick steps, her lips painted red, her cheeks pinker and eyes more pronounced. Nothing was on Steven’s face. Nothing was on the boys’ faces but dirt smeared with sweat. Steven opened the front passenger door for me. I got in. The boys packed themselves across the back seat. Just before we drove away, Hilda closed herself into the trunk.



THIS IS YOUR ROOM NOW, Hilda said as we stood still in the attic, the sloped ceiling nearly touching our heads. I had Jack clear out some space for you.