The Names They Gave Us(57)

I should feel like I’m intruding here, a kid with two grown-ups. But I don’t. Under duress and ancient trees, I feel older—no, ageless. Three women in waters that have baptized and held so many, including me at all previous ages of my life. In water, I can almost feel cradled by the universe, in the palm of God’s own hand. And we float.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When I get to the rec room after lights-out, Jones is already there. His trumpet is disassembled across the coffee table, and he’s dutifully snaking some kind of cloth into the valves.

“Hey,” I say, plopping onto the couch beside him. “Is your trumpet okay?”

“Yep. Just routine maintenance.”

“Impressive. I couldn’t tune a piano to save my life.”

“That,” he says, picking up the mouthpiece, “would be a weird murder attempt. ‘TUNE THIS PIANO OR DIE. DO IT NOW!’?”

When I recover from laughing, I watch his careful hands wiping each delicate bend of metal. It’s methodical, and a little hypnotic to watch. He glances up, a quick smile at my undivided attention. When he smiles, the apples of his cheeks carve two little lines above his mouth. It’s like they’re framing that semicircle grin of his.

He looks up again, and I realize I’ve just been sitting here, staring at his face.

“I like your glasses,” I announce. Which is true, of course, but I say it mostly because I’ve been gawking for a solid thirty seconds longer than is socially appropriate.

“Yeah? Thanks.” He adjusts them a little on the bridge of his nose. “My grandpa calls them my Malcolm X glasses.”

“Are you close with him?”

“Malcolm X?”

I stick my tongue out. “Your grandpa.”

“Yeah. See him every Sunday, for church and then brunch after. He’s a trip.”

“So, your family goes to church?” I try to say this as if it is any old topic and not fundamental to who I am as a person.

He does this thing—a quick glance-away—when he’s trying to deflect his amusement. Apparently I’m not as casual as I thought. “Every Sunday. And we do a kind of church here at Daybreak, you know.”

“Really?” I mean, of course I wouldn’t know that. I’m always gone at sunup and with my mom until after lunchtime.

“Yeah. In the meeting hall. We do some songs, talk about feelings. Sometimes kids share their traditions. But Bryan also takes some of the kids into town Sunday morning for church.”

“Huh.”

“You thought I was a heathen,” he says happily. “You thought we were all heathens.”

“I don’t think of people as heathens.” If I did, I might be one at this point. It’s a sobering thought, and Henry notices my fallen expression.

“Luce? I was just kidding.”

“Oh, no. I know.” I figure I have nothing to lose in asking him a question. He’s all about honesty, so he’d probably tell me if he didn’t want to answer. “Can I ask you something? Kind of . . . personal?”

“Sure.” I like how easily he jokes. And I like that he knows not to right now. In fact, he gets up to sit on the edge of the coffee table so we’re at eye level.

“Um, after everything with your sister, did that mess with your faith?”

I think of it as this complicated, barbed question, but he seems to be waiting for more than that. When I say nothing, he nods. “Oh. Yeah. Absolutely. Is that it?”

“That’s it.” Now I feel silly for making it out to be a huge deal. But . . . it is for me.

“One hundred percent.” He says this with utter clarity, in voice and in assurance. “You know, all these grown-ups were in my face, telling me Nessa was with the angels and that I’d see her again in heaven. Even at ten years old, I wanted to say: The fuck do you know? The more certain they were, the more I doubted them. Then, you know, a few real assholes mentioned that suicide would keep my sister from heaven. So, yeah. I was pissed at God and Jesus and probably also Mary and Joseph just because.”

I almost laugh, which seems to please him. “But you got it back? Believing in things?”

He presses his lips together. They’re kind of distractingly nice, his lips.

That’s another tick in the Heathen column.

“Yes,” he decides. “Just not in the same way.”

I can’t bring myself to pry anymore, but he rests his elbows on his knees anyway, settling in. “All that church stuff seemed black and white when I was little—easy. And now it’s gray, but I . . . choose it anyway, I guess. And I try to really get the point of it.”

And doesn’t he, though? I watch him with these kids, being a total servant. Giving over his summers to these campers because he understands them. He’s not perfect; I don’t even know him that well, and I know that. But he’s good. He’s deeply good, even without an unquestioned, flawless faith. And so maybe I can be good too. Maybe I can pick faith, even though it doesn’t feel effortless anymore. Before I even feel it forming, a tear drops from my eye.

“Oh, Luce. Hey.”

I brush it from my cheek. “Sorry. Gosh. Dramatic. Thank you for telling me that. It’s what I needed to hear.”

“Well, good,” he says, hesitant. “And if you need to talk . . .”