The Lonely Polygamist Part 26

And that was how he felt now: weightless, hollowed out, like an apple skinned and cored, but more than anything else lucky to be going home, his body and soul compromised but still intact. He had escaped not only Ted Leo's righteous anger, but the punishments, both earthly and eternal, if he'd made love to Huila. He s.h.i.+vered to think who he'd be if that had happened: not just a liar and a coward and a sneak, but an adulterer, someone unworthy of the sacred Principle, no longer fit to hold the sacred offices of husband and father. He would have had no future in the church or with his family, and none with Huila, that was for sure. For so long he had been dreaming of a release such as that, and now all he felt was relief that it hadn't happened. He would have lost everything and returned to where he had started: lonely, lost, with no one to love and nowhere to go.

He would have liked to believe it was G.o.d who had rescued him. He wondered: Could G.o.d have been responsible, somehow, for arranging the gum to end up in his pubic hair, which had prompted him to shave himself, the embarra.s.sment of which had kept him from having intercourse with Huila? G.o.d was supposed to move in mysterious ways, but this seemed a little much. Still, it was comforting to think that, after everything, G.o.d might be looking out for him.

Something stung at the backs of his eyes and he began shaking his head and then he said it out loud, "No, no." No, it wasn't G.o.d-he was fooling himself even considering such a notion. It wasn't G.o.d or some divinely placed gum that had saved him. It was Glory, and nothing else. Since the day of her death, he had wanted to give up or let loose, to get drunk or throw some kind of existential tantrum as a way of showing what he thought of a G.o.d who allowed innocent children to come into the world to suffer and then die early and horrible deaths, but the possibility that all things might be restored to him, that the tragedies of this existence might be made right somehow, that Glory might be waiting on the other side, had kept him, as they said so often in church, holding fast to the iron rod. His faith in G.o.d and heaven had always been weak, but he believed in them now, if for no other reason than belief in them offered the possibility to be with his daughter again; he believed because to do otherwise would be to consign her to oblivion.

Last night, in the hot springs with Huila, when he was just about to throw away everything for a few minutes of bliss, something had stopped him, a chilly presence at the back of his mind, and he understood now that it was Glory who had come back to him for the briefest moment, it was Glory who had saved him.

The gospel taught that in the resurrection the diseased and broken would be made whole, but he didn't want to see her again in a perfect, glorified state, he wanted her as she was in his memory, her left arm folded up like the wing of a bird and her mouth full of small, crooked teeth, her lopsided face alive with sudden grins and sly glances. He wanted to smell the sour-milk tang of her breath and to hear her bright, shrieking squawks as he called to her from the front door. He wanted to hold her again and feel in the way she pressed her cheek against his chest her forgiveness, her sweet and uncomplicated love.

Here, alone in the cab of his truck, there was no reason to hold it all in, this grief which had become indistinguishable from every other part of his life, which had subsumed the stress and antic.i.p.ation and terror of the last twelve hours, and he let go a few coughing sobs that came out in spasms. He sniffed and gave the steering wheel a hard shake. In his blubbering he must have taken his foot off the gas because he heard honking and looked in his rearview to see a line of cars backed up behind him. He was doing thirty-five in a no-pa.s.sing zone on an interstate highway. He pressed down on the accelerator, but he was on an uphill grade and the engine seemed to gulp and then surrender when it engaged the extra weight of the trailer. The first to pa.s.s him was a woman in sungla.s.ses driving a Mustang convertible. She bared her teeth and gave him the finger as she went by, but she must have gotten a look at his wet, ruined face because she turned her eyes away and sped by with the blinkered expression of someone who has just witnessed something intimate and shameful.

For no reason he could think of the story of Jonah and the Whale came into his head. He had first heard it one sticky fall morning at the Holiness Church of G.o.d in Jesus' Name, sitting in the rough cypress pew next to his mother. The Reverend Marvin J. Peete had been cycling through his weekly routine, which involved warbling snippets of gospel standards into the microphone with the husky whisper of a nightclub crooner and then suddenly barking out terrifying declamations of Repentance! Repentance! and and Apocalypse! Apocalypse! and and Blood of the Lamb! Blood of the Lamb! But on that day his voice lowered and he began to tell a story about Jonah, the man who had disobeyed G.o.d and as a result had been swallowed by a "great and terrible fish." Golden, his copper hair slicked back and his necktie arranged at the base of his Adam's apple in some overcomplicated sailor's knot, sat up and listened. According to the Bible the Lord had "prepared a large fish to swallow up Jonah"-the word "prepared" indicating the whale was not a But on that day his voice lowered and he began to tell a story about Jonah, the man who had disobeyed G.o.d and as a result had been swallowed by a "great and terrible fish." Golden, his copper hair slicked back and his necktie arranged at the base of his Adam's apple in some overcomplicated sailor's knot, sat up and listened. According to the Bible the Lord had "prepared a large fish to swallow up Jonah"-the word "prepared" indicating the whale was not a punishment punishment from G.o.d, but a gift, an from G.o.d, but a gift, an opportunity opportunity. While Golden liked this idea, he liked even better the description of Jonah's time inside the whale, which was spent, according to the reverend, praying and singing canticles while perched on a giant kidney under festoons of intestines and trembling stalact.i.tes of whale mucus. Reverend Peete might not have had a solid grasp of marine mammal anatomy, but he made up for it with his descriptions of the glistening liver upon which Jonah made his bed at night and the wash of spiky and tentacled sea creatures, dead and alive, foaming around the prophet's legs while he implored the Almighty for mercy. It took three days, apparently, for the great fish to tire of having his kidney used as a bean bag, and when Jonah was vomited up on the beach, Reverend Peete nearly gave himself in to an apoplectic fit with the glory of this moment. He cried, "Oh Jonah! G.o.d's reluctant servant! Look at him there, washed up on that foreign sh.o.r.e! Half blind and tangled up in seaweed and whatnot. And that horrible smell? It's Jonah, people, covered with fish parts and digestive juices and so forth. It's pathetic old Jonah, pale and wrinkled like he's spent the weekend in a pickle barrel, blinking and looking around at the sand and the water and the tropical greenery and all that dazzling light after so much darkness. Imagine it, people! The ocean breeze in the nostrils, the sound of the surf and the wind in the palms. Imagine the wonder wonder. The humble grat.i.tude grat.i.tude. Oh praise be my king on high Oh praise be my king on high, can you hear Jonah say it? Imagine the grace, the sweetness of that second chance."

Golden had felt it then, the beauty of that moment, and he felt it now, thirty-some years later, driving out of the deep river gorge and onto the wide face of a plateau shadowed by a field of brilliantly lit clouds. He had escaped the belly of the whale. He was bruised and battered, covered in dust and blood and infested with fleas, but he was returning home, where he allowed himself to imagine a bountiful and untroubled future, back in the bosom of his family.

For another thirty miles he did nothing but steer and look out into the glare of the day. At one point he reached up idly to investigate the goose egg on the back of his head and instead of his own fingers on the tender skin he felt Huila's-for a dislocating moment he sensed her next to him, felt the heat of her touch and got a whiff of her, a strong but pleasant smell like a new leather belt. As if it had been burned he pulled his hand away quickly, giving his head a hard shake to dislodge the very thought of her, realizing that he would be shaking off such thoughts for a long time to come.

By the time he made it to St. George, the fleas had begun to stir. They'd been laying low, like immigrants getting used to the neighborhood, but now that they'd acclimated, picked up on the local language and customs, they were on the move and causing trouble. Anywhere there was hair, they congregated: in the vast prairies of his chest and belly and the forests that covered his scalp. In particular they seemed to be making themselves comfortable in the crack of his a.s.s.

His crotch, he noted with bitter satisfaction, was entirely flea-free.

They weren't biting him, thankfully, but they were, almost literally, making his skin crawl, but then, yes, no doubt about it, they were biting him. At some point he had himself going in a full body flex, craning his neck as he desperately ground his b.u.t.t against the seat, digging into his belly with his fingers or attacking the soft spot behind his ear like a dog, but it was like trying to scratch a thousand small itches at once. For the last few miles he held on by sheer force of will, going a good twenty miles over the speed limit, and when he pulled up into the gravel drive, he skidded to a hard stop, ratcheted down the emergency brake and jumped out of the truck, scratching at himself in a spasm of delicious violence. When this didn't do the trick, he skipped around the side of the trailer facing the Spooners' pasture, away from the prying eyes of Old House, and yanked off his s.h.i.+rt, rubbing at the bare skin of his ribs with his fists and forearms and elbows. He had his pants unb.u.t.toned, and was just sliding them down to have a go at his thighs and b.u.t.tocks when he heard a soft thudding noise, like a turnip rolling in a bucket. The Airstream s.h.i.+fted slightly and he watched, mesmerized, as the trailer's doork.n.o.b, not three feet from his face, began to turn. He froze, and then-very slowly, very carefully-pulled up his pants. The latch clicked and the door creaked open. And there was Huila, in her pineapple dress with a bag slung over her shoulder, terrified and smiling.

30.

TAMPON MAN

AT NIGHT, HE WAITED FOR THE HOUSE TO SLEEP. BY NINE-THIRTY Nephi and Parley were already making wheezy snuzzling noises, bushed after another long and exhausting day of being a-holes, and then the Big Girls in the room below would finally quit their dumb conversations about such fascinating topics as, Nephi and Parley were already making wheezy snuzzling noises, bushed after another long and exhausting day of being a-holes, and then the Big Girls in the room below would finally quit their dumb conversations about such fascinating topics as, What are eyebrows for, exactly? What are eyebrows for, exactly? or or Which is the world's best shampoo and conditioner combination? Which is the world's best shampoo and conditioner combination? and then somewhere deep in the house Aunt Beverly would conclude her dastardly work for the day and the whole place would be quiet, except for Parley's all-night farting routine. and then somewhere deep in the house Aunt Beverly would conclude her dastardly work for the day and the whole place would be quiet, except for Parley's all-night farting routine.

Since his mother had gone away to the hospital, Rusty couldn't sleep-not at night, anyway. At school, sitting in his desk, you can believe he slept just great. He slept so great he snored and drooled a big wet spot on the front of his s.h.i.+rt. And even though he heard the whole cla.s.s laughing all at once like a bomb going off in his head, making him jerk awake and nearly fall out of his seat, he somehow did the exact same thing the next day, with the huge drool spot and everything, which made Mr. Van De Berg ask why did he always have to be such a distraction? as he hauled him by the arm toward the princ.i.p.al's office. Which was why they called Big House to see if there was trouble there, which was how they found out that his mother had had a nervous breakdown and was in the nervous breakdown hospital, which was why he had to talk to the counselor, a chubbo with green eye shadow.

Okay, then, Rusty. In your own words, why don't you tell me a little about life at home.

It's nice.

Nice?

Yeah.

And how do you feel about your mother being sick?

Fine.

Fine, Rusty?

Yeah. Do you want me to talk louder?

You're not worried about her? Your mother?

No.

And who takes care of you while your father is at work, Rusty?

My aunt.

Your mother's sister, or your father's?

I don't know. She's just my aunt. She's not my mother.

No. I see. Are you happy at home, Rusty? Do you feel comfortable there?

Yeah.

And how have you been sleeping?

On my back.

Okay. I feel like you're having a hard time opening up to me, Rusty. That you're not telling me everything on your mind. Can you tell me why that is, Rusty? I feel like you're having a hard time opening up to me, Rusty. That you're not telling me everything on your mind. Can you tell me why that is, Rusty?

Yeah.

Well?

Because you keep saying my name like a thousand times and your breath smells like Lysol.

That shut her up for a few seconds. He could feel, from the way she looked at him, how much she wanted him to tell her everything. She wanted him to tell her that his father was a law-breaking polygamist wingnut with a Moses beard who never took a bath, who committed terrible actions against his wife and his children and didn't make enough money for all of them so they were forced to make their clothing out of gunnysacks and eat dog food for breakfast. She wanted to hear every little thing about their criminal lifestyle, so she could send the police out to their house to haul Sasquatch off to prison and break up their family forever. "You be careful careful when you talk to people like that," Aunt Nola had told him. "They think they're doing the right thing, but all they really want to do is destroy our happy little dog-and-pony show, to tear it apart. It's because we're special." when you talk to people like that," Aunt Nola had told him. "They think they're doing the right thing, but all they really want to do is destroy our happy little dog-and-pony show, to tear it apart. It's because we're special."

Rusty had thought about telling the counselor everything she wanted to hear so she could do exactly what Aunt Nola said she would. But he decided he didn't need a chubbo who smelled like cough drops to help him. He could do it all by himself.

And that was why he couldn't sleep at night. He had some serious things to think about. He had some serious planning to do.

Of course, Aunt Beverly would do anything to stop him. She made him come home right home after school and let him outside only to do ch.o.r.es. And her spies were all over him, following him wherever he went, watching, waiting for him to slip up or make a break for it so they could sound the Rusty Alert. So he had started sneaking out after dinner, when n.o.body expected anything, when everyone else was downstairs doing their music lessons and homeschool projects. He was supposed to be upstairs in the Tower doing his homework-like it was some kind of terrible punishment not to be able to hang out with the jack-holes downstairs!-but all he had to do was crawl out his window and climb expertly all the way down to the garage roof and he was free to ride around for an hour or so, thinking his thoughts, figuring out how he was going to free himself of Old House once and for all.

When Aunt Beverly discovered he was sneaking out again, she ordered Nephi to nail the Tower's windows shut, which was turning out to be a punishment for everybody up here because of the lack of ventilation and Parley's night-farting. But it didn't matter. You could nail shut all the windows you wanted: Old House could not contain Rusty McCready Richards. Aunt Beverly and her spies and her witchy-woman intentions were helpless against him.

Instead of walking down the Tower stairs, which would have made a creaking racket all the way, he sat down on the top step, let himself go limp, and slithered down like a bag of jelly, the back of his head making a soft b.u.mp-b.u.mp-b.u.mp b.u.mp-b.u.mp-b.u.mp the whole way. the whole way.

He was unstoppable. He could not be stopped.

At the bottom he did his silent-walking technique-heel...toe...breath...heel...toe...breath-all the way down the hall to the window without a screen. The night-light was on in the Black Hole of Calcutta and he could see his reflection in the hall mirror: a black form with a white rectangle on its head.

Here was the weird thing: the rectangle was, if you could believe it, a tampon. He'd gotten it on his birthday, when he had locked everyone out of Big House and Nephi and Parley had tackled him so hard his head smacked the edge of the windowsill. Because doctors cost too much and were not to be trusted, most people in the church went to Sister Sleigh. Sister Sleigh had once been a nurse in the army and everyone said she knew more about medical science than half the fancypants doctors in Europe and New York City put together. Rusty's head was bleeding everywhere, which was a good thing, because after he'd locked everyone out of the house and ruined the big party, wouldn't it be kind of like overkill to punish a kid who already had a major head wound and blood running down his face? Parley and Nephi had brought him out of the house with the little ones screaming, "Look! Blood! Ahh! Ahh!" and Aunt Nola hollering, "Clear the way, let's get him to Sister Sleigh's, Sister Sleigh will take care of him!"

How did Sister Sleigh take care of him? By shaving a big patch out of his hair, st.i.tching up his wound and taping an enormous tampon to his head. This, to Rusty, didn't seem like very good medical science. He didn't know there was a problem until he came home and some of the big girls started to whisper and giggle and Aunt Beverly said, "It's just a sanitary napkin sanitary napkin, and it's serving a perfectly good purpose."

Did anyone ask him how he was doing? Did anyone wish him a happy birthday? Did anyone even give him a look like, Boy, we're sure sorry you have suffered a major head wound on your birthday and are forced to wear a sanitary napkin Boy, we're sure sorry you have suffered a major head wound on your birthday and are forced to wear a sanitary napkin? No. They all just stared at him. The only thing he could hope for now was that he would end up with a killer scar.

Within thirty seconds word had gotten around that Rusty was wearing a tampon on his head. Even the little kids, who had no idea what a tampon might be, stared at him and backed away if he got too close as if he had some kind of contagious tampon disease. Except for his father, who had already gone back to Nevada without waiting around to see if Rusty would survive the night, most of the family was still at Big House. It was getting dark, and they had finished off the birthday cake and torn Dwight Eisenhower limb from limb without him, and were all gathered around getting a load of the tampon on his head. Maybe it was the way he'd locked them all out of the house earlier, or how he'd come out with his face covered in blood, or maybe it was how the front of his new sweater was so bloodstained it looked like he'd had his throat slit by a homicidal murderer, but they appeared scared of him now, especially the little ones. He liked the way they backed away, their eyes wide. He made a little grunt and they cringed. He took a step at them and they flinched. Then he hunched his shoulders and tilted his neck with one eye scrunched up like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and yelled, "Uhhh-wah-hah-hah-haaaaaaaah!"

The girls shrieked and everybody jumped back and the Three Stooges knocked into each other trying to get away. He leapt forward like a cougar after a herd of frightened zebras, and of course he singled out the weak one, who in this case was Jame-o, who would not abandon his Hoover for anything and was trying to drag it like a wounded soldier toward the safety of the kitchen. At the last second Rusty changed directions and lunged at Naomi and Teague, who were trying to make it up the stairs, and he grabbed at their feet and they kicked and twisted, screaming till he let them go. His father was usually the one who came home from work and played the monster, Bob the Zombie, the Blind Octopus, the Man Without a Head, but his father was too busy to play with the kids these days or to pay attention to anyone at all, which made Rusty's face hot just thinking about what a gyp it all was, so when he growled and jabbered he did it extra loud, the kids scattering like tadpoles in a puddle, hiding behind furniture, screeching and tripping over each other while he ran around swinging his arms and showing his teeth and s.n.a.t.c.hing at anyone who came too close. He had the Second Twins cornered at the back of the family room now and they looked up at him, covering their heads with their hands, and he howled, Uhhh-hoooooooooo! Uhhh-hoooooooooo! and they shrieked so long and high and with such fear that it sent a weird tingle of satisfaction down the back of his neck. He was Crazy Ape-Guy! He was Tampon Man! and they shrieked so long and high and with such fear that it sent a weird tingle of satisfaction down the back of his neck. He was Crazy Ape-Guy! He was Tampon Man! Ah-huuuaaa-haaah-haaaaaaah! Ah-huuuaaa-haaah-haaaaaaah!

The little ones were shrieking too now, some of them crying and trying to roll themselves up in the curtains and begging for mercy, saying, Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Even Helaman, who wasn't scared of anything, looked like he was ready to make a break for it at any second. Rusty kept it up, monkey-legging though the kitchen, going, Even Helaman, who wasn't scared of anything, looked like he was ready to make a break for it at any second. Rusty kept it up, monkey-legging though the kitchen, going, Uh-hungh, uh-hungh Uh-hungh, uh-hungh, until Aunt Beverly grabbed him from behind, and hugged him close, and said into his ear, "Stop this now, please stop, this can't go on, you can't do this anymore," and he looked up into her face and saw even she was scared of him, even the terrible Aunt Beverly, and he made a sort of laughing sob and let her hug him because it felt so good.

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS So why was he, Rusty Richards, riding down the middle of the road on a Big Wheel at midnight? Because he wanted to. Because he was the Tampon Man and n.o.body could stop him, because he was feeling g-g-goooood! Super-good, in fact, which was weird because for so long everything had been bad. And then, two days ago, they went to visit his mother at the hospital. The hospital was not a white place with white walls and white nurses wearing white dresses and white hats, as he thought it would be, but a brown building with green floors and greasy-haired creeps in pajamas wandering the halls talking to themselves or hunched in wheelchairs staring at their knees.

"This place smells like p.o.o.p p.o.o.p!" Ferris said, and Aunt Nola said, "I think what you're smelling is the cafeteria."

His mother was waiting for them in a room with orange plastic chairs. She wore a blue bathrobe he had never seen before, and then he realized he'd never seen her wearing a bathrobe, not once, which bothered him. At home she would never come out of her room unless she was all-the-way dressed, shoes on her feet, but here she was sitting around right out in the open in a bathrobe and paper slippers surrounded by maniacs with yellow toenails.

Her hair looked grayer than he remembered and she was wearing a paper bracelet with words typed on it. They walked up to her slowly. "Kids," she said, "oh kids," and opened her arms.

"Remember the rules," Aunt Nola said. "Line up. Single file and wait your turn."

On the drive over Aunt Nola had given them instructions, one of which was they were supposed to wait in line and approach her one at a time. "One of the reasons she's in the hospital is she can't take all the stimulation that you little darlings provide, what with everybody coming at her all the time. Believe me, I know how she feels. So you'll line up and go one at a time and whisper whisper. You start yelling or acting up and it's outside you go."

Pauline asked why they all had to go at once, couldn't they go see their mother one or two at a time? This was the question every plyg kid was always asking: Can't we ever do anything anything alone? And Aunt Nola said what the mothers always said. "You think I don't have anything else to do? You think you're the center of the universe? You think your life is hard? Well, boo-hoo. Try thinking about somebody other than yourself for once." alone? And Aunt Nola said what the mothers always said. "You think I don't have anything else to do? You think you're the center of the universe? You think your life is hard? Well, boo-hoo. Try thinking about somebody other than yourself for once."

If there's anything you learned as a plyg kid, it was that you were not the center of the universe. Rusty knew it better than any of them. The monkey net was big and tangled and had no trouble holding them all at once. And the worst thing? The monkey net would never go away, it was forever. That was what they taught you in church. Because they were a special people, because they were living G.o.d's Principle, their families would live together in heaven for all time and eternity, which everybody seemed to think was a wonderfully fantastic idea. Was it wonderfully fantastic, Rusty wondered, to be stuck forever with a bunch of a-holes you didn't even like? Was it wonderfully fantastic to have to stand in line to talk to your own mother?

Because they went youngest to oldest, Rusty was fifth in line. Ferris gave their mother a pebble that was almost perfectly round and Fig Newton brought her report card which showed all S's, which meant Fig Newton was fantastically satisfactory. Wayne, who was mad at their mother for having a nervous breakdown and ending up in the loony bin, brought nothing and after giving her a fake hug stood out in the hall with a sour look on his face. Herschel the b.u.t.t-kisser brought her favorite pillow, and her mug that she liked for drinking lemon tea, and Rusty quietly shook his fist, because why hadn't he thought of that? All he had was the picture of his birthday, with him sitting there cross-eyed next to his birthday cake and putting on the biggest, dumbest smile you have ever seen.

When it was his turn he didn't hug her because she looked like she was not at all interested in being hugged. He gave her the picture and she looked at it. "Yes," she said. "Yes."

"I'm wearing the sweater you made me," he whispered, very carefully. A lot of the blood hadn't come out of it in the wash, so he'd poured some bleach on it, which hadn't really helped. If you went to the cemetery in the middle of the night and dug up a grave and opened the coffin and the rotting skeleton inside was wearing a sweater, it would probably look a little better than the one he had on. If his mother noticed there was anything wrong with it, she wasn't saying. She smiled and patted his hand. He was glad she didn't ask about the tampon.

He sat down next to her, trying to think of something to talk about, hoping Aunt Nola wouldn't say, Time's up! Time's up! and move him along. He let his shoulder touch hers. He said, really low so no one else could hear, "I'm starting to behave a lot better, I'm not going to get into trouble anymore." Which was a lie. Rusty understood that when you were talking to somebody in a place like this it was a good idea to lie to them as much as possible. and move him along. He let his shoulder touch hers. He said, really low so no one else could hear, "I'm starting to behave a lot better, I'm not going to get into trouble anymore." Which was a lie. Rusty understood that when you were talking to somebody in a place like this it was a good idea to lie to them as much as possible.

From down the hall came the kind of scream you hear in a horror movie where someone is being tortured with red-hot pliers in a dungeon. Fig Newton and Ferris looked around for someone to tell them that everything was all right, but no one did.

Before they left, Aunt Nola got them together and they sang their mother a song.

When upon life's billows you are tempest tossed,When you are discouraged thinking all is lost,Count your many blessings, name them one by one,Count your many blessings, see what G.o.d has done.

It had to be the dumbest song in the world, if you wanted Rusty's opinion, but their mother, along with a crazy-eyed coot who'd b.u.t.ted in on the proceedings, smiled and politely clapped, and for about ten seconds they all pretended to be happy.

But when Rusty went home that night he was not happy. Up in the Tower by himself he tried to count his blessings, which was the easiest math problem ever, because the answer was a BIG FAT ZERO. And n.o.body cared, n.o.body would help him. He'd started to think he should just kill himself, stick a sharp pencil through his earhole or walk all the way to Iceland and float away on an iceberg. But last night, because his plans were ruined and he didn't know what to do, he decided to pray. He didn't like praying, because it never did any good. When they told him to say grace at supper or give the opening prayer in Sunday School, he just mumbled something that sounded like a prayer: HeavenlyFatherthankeethisday thefoodthehandsprepared itinnameaJesaChristamen HeavenlyFatherthankeethisday thefoodthehandsprepared itinnameaJesaChristamen. But what else was there to do? He couldn't sleep at night, he was having bad thoughts in his head, so he might as well say a prayer.

When the prophet Joseph Smith was just a kid, not much older than Rusty, he'd given the most famous prayer ever. Joseph Smith was confused, he didn't know which church to join, so he went out into the forest to pray. Why he didn't just pray in the kitchen, or on his bed or somewhere comfortable like that, Rusty had no idea. He went out into the forest to pray and Jesus and G.o.d came to him in a bright ball of light and told him none of the churches were true, that Joseph Smith, even though he was just a kid, would be the new prophet and start his own church and become the most powerful person in the history of the universe.

Which was just great for Joseph Smith, but what about Rusty? There wasn't a forest nearby, not even two or three trees close together, so Rusty decided the bushes by the river would have to do. After everyone had gone to sleep he snuck out of the Tower and went down to the river. You were supposed to kneel down when you prayed, so G.o.d would know you were serious, but when Rusty knelt in the muddy gra.s.s the knees of his pajamas got covered with wet brown stains. What a gyp! He bowed his head and made a steeple with his hands, which looked kind of gay, but n.o.body was out here to see.

"Dearest Lord above," Rusty said, which was how he once heard a s.e.xy nun pray in a movie, "hear Thee the desires of my heart."

He wanted to approach this the right way. That was a good start and the night was kind of beautiful, with a big moon, and the bushes looked sort of like a forest and he was in perfect prayer position, with his head down and doing the steeple-thing with his hands, and he started off by telling G.o.d that he was going to do his best to be a good person who wasn't such a pain in the behind, he was so sorry for all of his sins, and just as he was starting to get this nice holy feeling, everything started going wrong. He was asking G.o.d to bless his mother, to make her better, but he could feel an ant crawling up his leg. Effing ant! Effing ant! he thought. he thought. Get the heck out of here! Get the heck out of here! which was probably not the holiest thing to be thinking during a prayer. Not to mention his underwear was riding up on him. And then who showed up but Raymond the Ostrich, watching from across the river with his glowing eyes, and Rusty couldn't concentrate, not with an ostrich staring at him and an ant crawling toward his privates. So he picked up a stick to throw at Raymond, to scare him off so he could have his privacy back and start feeling holy again, but the stick slipped and ended up hitting an old piece of tin on this side of the river and the which was probably not the holiest thing to be thinking during a prayer. Not to mention his underwear was riding up on him. And then who showed up but Raymond the Ostrich, watching from across the river with his glowing eyes, and Rusty couldn't concentrate, not with an ostrich staring at him and an ant crawling toward his privates. So he picked up a stick to throw at Raymond, to scare him off so he could have his privacy back and start feeling holy again, but the stick slipped and ended up hitting an old piece of tin on this side of the river and the clang! clang! was so loud Rusty had to run like the wind to get back into the house before he was discovered. was so loud Rusty had to run like the wind to get back into the house before he was discovered.

Lying on his pad with a sweaty head and muddy knees, he was asking himself why he was such a b.u.t.tfudge, what was wrong with him that he couldn't even say a prayer?-when something weird happened. He fell asleep for a little while. And then, even weirder, he had a dream. Normally his dreams were about friendly werewolves or giant chicks in bikinis who breathed molten fire, but this one was different. His mother came to him in a big ball of yellow light, just like G.o.d and Jesus came to Joseph Smith. She didn't say anything, but she was smiling and surrounded by bright sparks and little meteors that circled around her head and there was some kind of choir singing something holy-sounding in the background.

When he woke up this morning, he knew: his mother would be coming home. Rusty had prayed, and even though the prayer had gotten a little messed up, G.o.d had answered it. Take that, Joseph Smith! G.o.d would bless his mother, because Rusty had gone to a lot of trouble to kneel down in some muddy gra.s.s to pray for her and because she was a nice person who was never mean to anyone, and now that she would be getting stronger and thinking clearly she would say, I am Rusty's true mother, let him come home I am Rusty's true mother, let him come home.

Which was why he was feeling so good riding down the middle of the road on a Big Wheel at midnight. He felt a cool air sensation and looked down and noticed he had forgotten to put on his pants. Oh well! He was silent as the wind, invisible as the Holy Ghost, and he could not be stopped.

Not that Aunt Beverly didn't try. After he'd crawled out the window at the end of the hall without a screen, he found she had locked up the garage with all the bikes inside. You should have seen it, he didn't even get mad. He just shook his head and said, Nicely done, nicely done Nicely done, nicely done. He looked around and sure enough, there was the Big Wheel at the side of the house, the one with the brake on the back wheel so if you felt like it you could do a cool spin-out when you pulled on the handle. He was too big for it and his knees kept hitting the handlebars, but anything was better than walking.

By the time he made it to Big House his knees felt like somebody had been banging on them with hammers and his feet were raw from the jagged pedals, but he hadn't seen a single car on the way and the night air was cool on his sweaty neck.

The doors of Big House were never locked. He crept upstairs and stood next to his mother's door, listening. Any day now Any day now, the grown-ups kept saying, she'll be home any day now she'll be home any day now, and Rusty was sure that if his mother did come home Aunt Beverly would keep that information to herself. He pictured her in her bed, without her earm.u.f.fs, sleeping peacefully in the dark with sparkles of light around her head.

He stepped inside the room and could hear breathing, definite breathing. His heart did a little flip and he snuck closer to the bed. What he found was somebody somebody, but it was not his mother. It was Novella, and a second imposter, Gale, mumbling in her sleep. He looked around and could see they had brought in some of their things, clothes and books and a Lil' Strawberry Patch Girl lamp. Rusty's chest filled up with something hot and sour and he wanted to drag them out of the bed by the hair and take the Lord's name in vain right to their faces, because, what, did they think they could just move into his mother's room as if she was gone forever and not coming back? As if she'd never even been there at all? What did they think? And what did G.o.d think, sending him a dream and playing a trick on him like that?

He stood by the bed, breathing hard, grabbing his hair with both hands and giving it a good yank, telling himself to calm down, calm down calm down, calm down.

He gave one big, shuddering snork, and then suddenly all his anger was gone and he was so tired. His knees and his feet and his head hurt and all he wanted to do was lie down in his mother's bed and smell her pillow. He crawled in next to his sister and she was soft and warm and didn't push him away.

When he woke up it was just getting light outside and the birds were singing like maniacs.

He got out of the bed and stood over Novella, putting his hand out over her face, and thought about pressing his palm down onto her mouth. Instead, he c.o.c.ked his middle finger with his thumb, and flicked her across the tip of the nose, hard. Quick as lightning he did the same to Gale and then ducked down below the bed and crawled out the door before they could see anything.

Gale howled and Novella was screeching, "Who did that? Who's there there?" By the time he'd sprinted down the stairs, out the side door, and was on his Big Wheel pedaling down the road, half the house was up and shouting, thras.h.i.+ng around like monkeys caught in a net.

31.

A MINOR PLAGUE

FOR SOME, THE PLAGUE CAME AS NO SURPRISE. SINCE THE CREATION of the world G.o.d has visited plagues upon His children for many reasons: to test, to chastise, to invite them to repentance, but mostly to remind them, in a way that leaves little room for confusion, of the error of their ways. And there was no doubt, in the minds of some of the Richards clan, that they were in need of correction. As a family they were adrift, lacking in obedience and low on faith: their father and patriarch was absent in body and spirit and for too long had been of little use to anyone; their mothers feuded and couldn't properly control their children, who in turn bickered and misbehaved and drove their mothers (and in one recent case almost literally) crazy. of the world G.o.d has visited plagues upon His children for many reasons: to test, to chastise, to invite them to repentance, but mostly to remind them, in a way that leaves little room for confusion, of the error of their ways. And there was no doubt, in the minds of some of the Richards clan, that they were in need of correction. As a family they were adrift, lacking in obedience and low on faith: their father and patriarch was absent in body and spirit and for too long had been of little use to anyone; their mothers feuded and couldn't properly control their children, who in turn bickered and misbehaved and drove their mothers (and in one recent case almost literally) crazy.

Unlike most plagues, which tend to kick off melodramatically with rivers turning to blood or clouds of locusts boiling over distant mountains to blot out the sun, this one started with...a mild itching. Aunt Beverly, as always, was the first to note something amiss. Alvin, idly digging at the skin of his hips and back, and a few minutes later Martin pausing between bites of a sandwich to scratch at his ankles. When Louise came into the kitchen and displayed the bites on her belly-three tiny inflamed spots like the points of a triangle-Beverly made the instant transition from guarded concern to no-holds-barred crisis control. She shouted the alarm, ushered all of the kids out of the house onto the front porch, counted heads and called Nola to inform her there had been an outbreak of some kind, lice or bedbugs or mites. Nola, of course, found this deliciously hilarious and figured this new development could keep her in a good mood for at least a week. But only a few hours later, after a quick late afternoon nap, she began to itch deep within the rolls of fat under her arms, locations difficult if not impossible to reach, and in a few minutes she was hopping on one foot in a throe of futile scratching, squirming, and swearing in high Aunt Nola fas.h.i.+on, "Dang potlickers! Ack! Little suck-egg sons-of-beekeepers!"

She pulled the sheets back on her bed, and sure enough, two black dots zinged in different directions, one landing in the carpet of the floor, the other on her pillow. Nola had grown up on a farm and was familiar with every cla.s.s of vermin and pest in this part of the world. No doubt about it: the Richards family had fleas.

"Oh you little so and so's," she said. "Just you wait."

A strategy was formulated, debated, and implemented: everyone would be sent to Big House while Old House was washed, vacuumed, fumigated. At Big House the kids would be defleaed using Nola's tried and true home remedy, and then moved en ma.s.se to Old House so that Big House could be thoroughly cleansed.