Two days after the movie, Cal and I are on the roof of the Bowl-a-Rama. It’s seven o’clock in the evening, but the summer sun hasn’t set. It sits in the sky like a bright juicy orange waiting to drop from a branch. These are the longest days of the year.
“You should know how to get baptized,” Cal says.
“Why me?”
“You’re a Baptist.”
“Well, I’ve never been baptized.”
“I’m a Catholic,” Cal says. “We get baptized when we’re babies, and Zachary’s a long way from being a baby. You’ll have to find out.”
It’s true. Mom and I went to church every week, and at least once a month I watched Reverend Newton dunk someone in the baptistery. I’d seen simpleminded Kirby Waddel go under at least a dozen times.
He thought he needed to be cleansed every time he cussed or sassed his mother.
I haven’t been back to church since Mom left. And Dad doesn’t make me because, except for funerals, he never goes.
Cal looks like he’s waiting for me to say I’ll find out. “What makes you think he wants to be baptized anyway?” I ask.
“Think about it. His mom gave him a Bible for his baptism. He admits he almost got baptized. And his mom is dead. She probably died before it happened. Maybe it was her last wish.”
“Jeez, Cal. You’ve got some imagination.” I want to shrug it off, but the weirdest thing happens. Kate pulls the truck in front of the trailer, gets out with a stack of books, and knocks at the door. Zachary peeks out the window and eventually opens the door. A few moments later Kate leaves with a grocery sack.
“What do you think is in it?” Cal asks.
“Heck if I know.” But I’m dying of curiosity too. The only sacks I’ve seen pass Zachary’s steps are going in, not coming out.
Later Cal calls me on the phone. “Want to see what was in the sack? Meet me in my backyard.”
Out back, Cal stands in front of the clothesline, his
arms spread wide. It takes a second to register, but then I see. A gigantic pair of pants, two shirts, and several of the biggest boxer shorts I’ve ever seen wave like flags from the line.
Friday after mowing the Pruitts’ yard, I ask Miss Myrtie Mae, “How does someone go about being baptized?”
We’re sitting in the gazebo, eating a salad filled with cherries, mandarin oranges, and marshmallows. She also made tiny crustless sandwiches spread with a dab of deviled ham. I’m famished, and it’s all I can do to keep from wolfing down the whole meal in one bite.
Miss Myrtie Mae sets her fork down on her china plate, wipes a pink cloth napkin across her mouth, and says, “Why do you ask, Tobias?”
It’s funny how a person can go from Toby to Tobias when they are asked certain questions. “No reason, really.”
She looks at me, eyebrows hiked, and I realize she thinks I’m talking about me. So I tell her, “Oh, not me. A friend.”
“I see.” Her lips purse, and her voice drops to a deeper serious tone. “Well, one must consider this matter very seriously. It’s not something you, I mean, your friend, should take lightly. The good Lord knows
what state our mind is in when we make such a commitment. But it’s a wonderful commitment, Tobias. The Christian life is not an easy life, but it brings such joy. And of course there is the gift of eternal life.”
“But how does someone go about getting baptized?”
Her face pinches up. “You mean the procedure? First, you should talk to the preacher. I mean, your friend should talk to the preacher.”
I try to picture Zachary walking through town to the church. Impossible. “What if he can’t go see him? Does Reverend Newton make house calls?”
“I’m sure that can be arranged. Yes, I’m sure that would be no problem whatsoever for Reverend Newton.” Miss Myrtie Mae loads the dishes onto the tray, humming “Just As I Am.”
Today I dig up Miss Myrtie Mae’s irises and separate the bulbs because she says they’re too crowded to bloom. I also clear away the dried-up honeysuckle vine, whose sweet scent still lingers. So far, I’ve been lucky. No sign of the Judge anywhere. I wanted to ask Miss Myrtie Mae where he was, but I was afraid she’d call him outside.
Mowing east to west, I watch bees make lazy trails from flower to flower in the beds. I like mowing because it gives me time to think and plan. Not so much about Zachary, but about Scarlett. One thing I
haven’t tried yet is giving her a special gift. Heck, Dad won Mom over with a jelly jar of sunflowers. But what would Scarlett want? I don’t have enough money to fix her gap. As I gather up the bags of grass clippings, I think about what to give her. I try to remember her room for ideas. She probably has every Bobby Sherman album. Maybe another bottle of Wind Song. Or another stuffed Autograph Hound. This time I’d write something really cool on it.
On the way to the garbage Dumpster, something hard hits my back. I swing around, dropping the bag. The Judge squats under the apple tree, plucking apples from a low branch and throwing them at me. Pitching them at me. “Think you can out-bat old Speedy, do ya, T.J.? Well, we didn’t win first place last year for nothing.”
I try to pick up the apples from a safe distance, but the old guy is pretty good. I’m amazed at how far the Judge can throw. He must have really been something on the pitcher’s mound. Again and again he throws apples at me and I dodge them while trying to pick them up. We keep this going until Miss Myrtie Mae comes into the yard. When he sees her, the Judge hides an apple behind his back like a little kid caught stealing a cookie.
“Yoo-hoo!” she calls. “Here you are, Brother. Your Life magazine arrived.”
Before I leave, Miss Myrtie Mae hands me a piece of paper. “Here, this is for your friend.”
I look down at the paper. John 3:16: For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
At home I check the mailbox before going inside. Among the bills is another letter from Mom. My chest tightens. This letter has a new address. I throw it on the dresser, on top of the other unopened one I received a few days ago.
Trying to find something for Scarlett, I wander inside my parents’ room. Mom’s perfume still lingers, and I almost expect her to prance out of her bathroom, saying, “Hey, Critter!” As always, her old guitar leans against the wall by her end table. Almost every night she sat on the bed in her pajamas, barefooted, strumming the guitar. She’d look at the ceiling as if words floated around up there, waiting to be plucked. Then she’d stop and scribble them in a notebook. I wonder why she didn’t take the guitar with her if she knew she wasn’t coming back.
I open the jewelry box on her dresser. The pearls are there, wrapped in a tissue. They feel cool to the touch, and I try to picture them on Scarlett. She’d probably wear them to school next year with her fuzzy blue sweater. I’d sit in back of her in class and watch her twirl the strand around her finger. Other girls would want to borrow them, but she wouldn’t let them because I gave them to her.
After finding a box and wrapping the pearls with leftover Christmas paper, I sign my name on a card and head over to Scarlett’s. Crossing the town square, I imagine her opening the gift and being speechless because she’s never received anything as nice from Juan. She’ll look at me with those baby blues and wonder why she overlooked my obvious good qualities.
But no one is home at Scarlett’s house. Time is running out, and if I don’t act quick, Scarlett will be back together with Juan. Before heading home, I leave the gift between the front and screen doors.
The minute I set foot in our house, I see Mom’s velvet painting of Hank Williams hanging over the sofa and the framed form letter from Tammy Wynette. Guilt fills up in me from head to toe.
It was a stupid idea. Maybe if I race over to Scarlett’s on my bike right now, I might be able to get the
necklace before she returns. But on the way out the front door, I bump into Dad and Reverend Newton. A Bible is tucked under his arm.
“Toby,” Reverend Newton says, “I understand we need to have a little talk.”