This is a work
of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.
Chapter Two
∞
Johanna had learned early on in life, if you have a conversation with God, for Heaven’s sake, keep it to yourself! Now it wasn’t as if Mommy didn’t believe in God. She did. She took Johanna to church all the time. And at home, she’d kneel before her statue of the Virgin thumbing the pink beads on her rosary. But it wasn’t at all like Johanna’s conversations with the Almighty.
Martha Jacobson was Johanna’s mother, a wispy, nervous sort of lady, never meant to be responsible for a girl like Johanna. “Johanna’s such a clever girl,” she’d tell her friends in a falsetto voice. “And, oh my, what an imagination! She surprises me every day with something new.” But although she put up a brave front, Martha was terribly ashamed of her daughter. Why did Johanna have to be that way? Was this some kind of punishment for… well, for something her husband Stephen had done? Martha certainly hadn’t committed any sin bad enough to deserve a child like this? Martha would sometimes watch Johanna from behind a corner, and nervously curl a lock of black-gray hair around her finger.
Pascagoula in the sixties was a quiet city in Mississippi, and Martha had carved out a comfortable niche for herself there. She had a circle of acquaintances, and she’d figured out the rules of conduct required of its members. There were expectations, and people kept them. Martha kept them. You didn’t raise your voice at the super market. You brought a casserole when a friend was sick. You didn’t wear stripes with plaid, and you never wore white shoes after Labor Day.
And you knew which topics to discuss and which ones to avoid. If a young girl were to go live with her aunt in Utah for a year, for example, you didn’t ask about her. If there was shouting at a neighbor’s house, you pretended not to hear it. The system worked. People got along. Friendships were not jeopardized. No one was made to feel uncomfortable.
But Martha worried that Johanna was different from the other children. Even before she began her strange conversations with God, Johanna would ask odd questions. “Does God have a belly button?” “What if cats are smarter than people? Maybe they talk meow language and it’s smarter than people talk.” And Martha was at a loss for answers. Martha was comfortable steering and guiding her family by tight rein, but Johanna’s imagination was beyond Martha’s control.
In Martha’s opinion Stephen was no help either. If anything, he encouraged Johanna in her fantasies. It was all well and good to spend time with your children, but the activities Stephen would pick! Soapy “bumpus prints” on the bathtub walls, and snail races, and pirate adventures on the lawn in a cardboard-box boat within plain sight of the neighbors.
One night, as Martha listened from the other room, Stephen began to read a bedtime story to Johanna:
“The town of Hamelin sat nestled amid snow-capped Alps. Twilight shimmered through the leaves of the trees and the world shifted from blue, and green, and yellow to gray and white and then to darker gray. Cupboard doors popped open, and a scratching “shut-shut” sound was heard throughout the village as thousands of rats came out to search for ham, cabbage, cheese, or any kinds of crumbs their benefactors, the humans, left unattended.”
Ugh, thought Martha. She couldn’t help hearing the story. Rats! I wish he’d find something else to read to her. Martha remembered a time when a mouse had run across the kitchen floor. She had screamed and climbed up onto the table, while Stephen had just stood by laughing at her. Well, eventually he had chased the mouse away, and then he’d taken her out to dinner, and he’d set traps. But he hadn’t really understood the misery that the mouse had caused her.
Stephen continued. “More and more rats joined the nocturnal parties until some of the kitchens in the village looked like wriggling carpets of dark gray. Tails and whiskers twitched to and fro.”
“Rats are cute, Daddy,”
“Yes, Puppyface, they are.”
“Could we get a rat sometime?”
Stephen chuckled. “Well, maybe sometime.”
Meanwhile in the other room, Martha drummed her fingers against the wall. Why couldn’t Stephen just tell the child, “no?” He was the one who got to read the stories and tell the jokes. Martha was the one who washed the dishes, cleaned the toilet, and scolded, and punished. And she would be the one telling Johanna that, no, they weren’t getting a rat. Stephen’s answers were always frivolous. Martha was the one who had to teach reality to Johanna. Those conversations had a way of ending up in an exasperating litany of Johanna’s questions—“But why?” “How come?” “But why not?” Usually both mother and daughter would be whining before the conversations were over.
Stephen’s reading broke in on her thoughts. “…‘We have to get rid of the rats!’ The villagers were panicked.”
“But why, Daddy? Didn’t they like the rats?”
“Because there were too many of them. One or two rats are cute. Thousands of rats are a big mess. Just think of all the rat poop!”
Johanna and Stephen laughed. “Maybe they could wear diapers,” Johanna giggled.
“…The Pied Piper was dressed in a shirt of forest green, and a matching green hat sat jauntily on his head. And when he played his flute, it was as if fairies were laughing.”
Mesmerized, Johanna was now in another world. She saw herself dressed like a forest elf, with a small wooden flute in her hands. In her imagination, she put the flute to her lips. Eyes closed, her lips quivered, and she wiggled her fingers over imaginary holes.
I’ll save the rats, she thought snuggling against her Daddy’s chest as he read on.
“…And all the children followed the Pied Piper out of the village and on into the woods. The end.”
I’ll save the children, too, thought Johanna. Daddy and me, together, we’ll save them all.
For two weeks after that, Johanna had nightmares, and, during the day, Martha heard the same thing over and over: “But Mommy what if there were too many people and we got squished off of the world?”
“That’s not going to happen, Johanna. Now go and play with your Teddy.”
“But, Mommy, in the story there were too many rats. What if there were too many people.”
“That’s just a story, Johanna.”
“But what if there were too many people in real life?”
“God won’t let that happen, Johanna. Now go play with Teddy.”
“But how, Mommy, how will God not let that happen?”
“I don’t know. But He’ll take care of it. Now please go play.”
Trouble really began when Johanna was a week shy of turning four. Stephen had to fly to London on business. Before reading Johanna’s bedtime story, Stephen told Johanna about the trip. “I’ll be gone four days. Can you hold up four fingers for me? That’s right. Good girl! I’ll call you every night on the telephone and you can tell me about anything important at home,” he said.
Outside, an early storm made whistling, howling sounds, and Johanna jumped, startled, as a branch snapped off of a maple tree, hitting the house with a “thunk”. “Each night, when you and Mommy say prayers, make a mark on this calendar. When you have four marks, you’ll know that I’ll be home the next morning, just like I never left.” Then Stephen brought out four envelopes. “And each night before you say your prayers open up one of these envelopes and see if there’s a surprise inside. After you open the last one, I’ll be coming home.”
“But what if Mommy forgets my bedtime hug? Or what if she messes up with my bedtime story? Maybe you should stay here with us instead.”
“Mommy will do just fine. In fact, she can give you an extra hug at bedtime—one from her and one from me. But I’ll need you to be extra good while I’m gone. Can you promise?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“I can’t promise to be good because something bad could happen on accident. But I’ll try very hard.”
“That’s my girl!”
So Johanna tried to be good. She tried her very best. Really she did. It was just that Daddy was away, and Johanna was nervous, and Mommy didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of it all.
“But, Mommy, what if Daddy needs a sandwich or something?”
“Hush, Dear. He’ll just go to a restaurant and order one.”
“But what if they make a peanut butter and orange marmalade sandwich?” Johanna wrinkled her face—the “prune look” Daddy called it. “Mrs. Wyatt made one for me once and it was very yucky.”
“Your Daddy’s a grown man. He can eat a peanut butter sandwich with orange marmalade.” Martha’s voice was mechanical. Although she loved her daughter, Martha had never learned how to talk to her. In Martha’s mind, Johanna’s ramblings weren’t, well, they just weren’t acceptable; they were errors, embarrassments, irritations, and it was Martha’s job to make Johanna stop behaving like this—to make Johanna more acceptable, more like an adult, a very quiet adult.
“But what if he wants to watch TV?”
“They have TV’s in the hotel rooms. He can watch all the TV he wants.”
“But do they get Mr. Rogers? That’s important.”
“They get Mr. Rogers.” Martha rubbed her forehead. Something about the questions made Martha’s head hurt.
“I don’t think Daddy should have gone away without us. Do worms have teeth?”
“What?”
“Do worms have teeth? They don’t have arms or legs. Do they have teeth?”
“I don’t know.” Martha shook her head. Stop asking so many questions, she thought. One more word, just one more, and I’m going to lose my mind. Please, Lord, please make her stop. Why can’t she stop asking questions!
“If Daddy were here, he’d look it up in the fat books.”
If only Stephen were here! But he wasn’t, and Martha had to deal with Johanna’s questions by herself. “Johanna, I don’t have time for all this nonsense. Go talk to your Teddy.”
“He’s sleeping.”
Well, go talk to God then. He’ll listen.” The words were out before Martha was aware of them. She couldn’t believe that she’d actually said them. Martha was pious, properly pious. Had she sinned, telling Johanna to talk to God about worms’ teeth? For one guilty minute, Martha considered taking it back, telling Johanna that she should be more reverent, more serious about her prayers. But then Johanna would ask, “but why did you say that Mommy?” And Martha would answer, “don’t be disrespectful, young lady.” And Johanna would say, “but why…” No, best to leave it alone.
“Okay, Mommy.” And as Johanna left the room to consult the Almighty about worms’ teeth, a blissful peace and quiet replaced the whining voice.
Martha felt relief. No more difficult conversations for a while. Answering Johanna’s questions was like juggling knives. Martha never knew what was coming next. She’d say three, no five, “Hail, Mary”s next Sunday in church, just in case.
Johanna climbed up on her bed and sat cross-legged with her teddy bear resting in her lap. “God, Mommy’s tired. Can I talk to you for a while? If you’re not too busy. See, I’m kind of worried about Daddy. I don’t really care about the worm teeth, but Mommy was starting to get upset, so I figured I’d better not talk about Daddy anymore.”
The last line on the calendar had been drawn. The last envelope was opened. It contained a Hershey’s kiss (We should have opened it before brushing teeth, thought Martha.) and a note from Daddy: “I’m flying home tonight, Puppyface. Not like a bird, but in a big airplane. Sleep tight. I’ll be home when you wake up in the morning. I love you, Daddy.”
Johanna ate her chocolate. Martha dropped the wrapper into the trash container. She read a bedtime story, and Johanna knelt for prayers.
“Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
God bless Mommy and Daddy…” Johanna stopped and stared at the wall. Waves of sadness and longing washed over her and tears streamed down her cheeks, but she made no noise. In the midst of the sadness, two arms reached out to her. I’ll always be with you. It wasn’t really a voice that she heard—more like a feeling, a feeling of stillness and peace. Like all was right with the world.
Martha put a tentative arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asked. But Johanna didn’t answer. She just kept on crying. Johanna was too confused to match words to the feelings. She just knelt and cried in silence, and felt sadness and peace and strength and sorrow all at the same time.
“Does something hurt you? What’s the matter, Darling? Tell Mommy what’s wrong.” But Martha was hopelessly the outsider, frustrated and powerless to understand or give comfort.
Through the tears Johanna was smiling now—a funny half smile. Martha didn’t like this at all. “Tell, me what’s wrong, Johanna. Tell Mommy what’s wrong.” Johanna looked at Martha, and tried to find words, and couldn’t say anything.
“Daddy will be home tomorrow, Sweetheart,” said Martha. “Remember, he promised, and Daddy wouldn’t break a promise. You know that, don’t you?”
“But what if…he... What…if….”
Martha’s voice tightened. She didn’t like this conversation, not at all. “Hurry up and finish the prayer. God bless Grandma and Grandpa and make Johanna a good girl. Amen.” Martha said the words for her.
“But… God… has… lots of time…” Johanna’s tongue stumbled over the words like feet trudging over large boulders.
“Maybe God does, Sweetheart, but I don’t.” Martha kissed her daughter and hugged her tightly. Thank goodness that Stephen would be home in a few hours.
Johanna snuggled down under the covers and started crying again. For a long time she sniffled and sobbed, and the comforter rose and fell with her sobbing. After the tears, she put both arms around Teddy, clinging to him as if he were a life preserver. “Please, God…” She wasn’t sure what she was asking Him for. “Please, God…” Somewhere in between the gulps and sobs, Johanna fell asleep.
In her dreams, she was falling down a dark shaft calling for her Daddy. And as she fell, two arms cradled her, slowing down the fall. She was looking for something. What was it? A white puppy with a brown face. She had lost a puppy. “Where are you?” She ran faster and faster. She tried to whistle, but couldn’t.
There was a hole in the ground, a cold, dark hole about the size of a rain puddle, but deeper, and with jagged outcroppings of fang-like rocks. Probably the puppy had fallen down into it. She bent over and tried to see into the darkness, but couldn’t. The hole was too dark. She put her hand inside and reached down and felt around for the puppy. Nothing. There was a second hole. And another. The ground was covered with holes. Ugly, scary, nasty holes. Too many holes. She’d never be able to look into all of them. But she had to try. She had to try.
That night, while Martha tidied up and prepared herself for bed, she could hear sounds coming from Johanna’s room—whimpers and squeaks and the sounds of a small child thrashing. When Martha came up for a peek, she found Johanna’s blanket on the floor and the top sheet twisted into a fat ribbon around Johanna’s chest and legs. A nightmare, thought Martha. Johanna didn’t wake up, and Martha didn’t wake her either. Thank goodness Stephen would be home before long. She covered Johanna with the blanket, kissed her gently, and went to bed.
The next morning Johanna woke remembering what day it was. She remembered the bad dream, and the bad feelings of the night before. But Daddy was coming home today. That would make everything all right. Daddy had promised, and he’d never break a promise to Johanna. That’s what Mommy had told her. She jumped on her bed because there was too much happiness inside for Johanna to just sit still. Daddy was coming home. Maybe he was home already. Probably he was home already. Johanna scampered down from the bed and started calling, impatient to see him after four very long days. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” she called. “Where’s my Daddy, my Daddy, my Daddy?” She ran off to her parents’ bedroom. “Daddy,” her voice was loud, but no one answered. “Are you in the bathroom, Daddy?” She knocked tentatively. You had to be polite and patient if someone was in the bathroom. She listened for sounds—the shower, the toilet flushing—but there was nothing. The room was quiet. “Where’s my Daddy?” she called running down the stairs. Daddy wouldn’t go to work without hugging her. He just wouldn’t.
Martha was in the kitchen. Ashen-faced, she clutched the phone tightly against her cheek, sometimes stroking it as if it were alive. Her breath was jagged, coming in fits and starts, and she was fighting to get her words out in between gasps.
Johanna stared for a minute. She put two thumbs into her mouth and sucked noisily. Then she tried to put her arms around Martha’s knees, but Martha pushed her back, preoccupied with the voice on the phone. “Over the Atlantic Ocean...slim probability of survival....” Martha heard the words, but she didn’t really believe them.
Johanna let out a scream. “Where’s my Daddy? Where’s my Daddy? Where’s my Daddy?” She chanted the words over and over like a mantra, and the words took on a power of their own.
Like an automaton, Martha finished the call. She cradled the receiver, rocking back and forth. Now that the bond between them was broken, Martha understood how well she and Stephen had fit together. She was the keel; he was the sail; and, together, they had navigated their personal ocean. Dating, marriage, parenting, they had completed each other, each gifted with qualities that the other lacked. Why hadn’t she seen it until now—when it was too late to tell Stephen that she understood his uniqueness! Too late to thank him! If only he were here to comfort her now—to see her through this stretch of turbulence. But looking for comfort, she found only a terrified little girl, and, in a haze of shock, she finally set down the phone.
Johanna’s temper tantrum was filling the kitchen. Her fists beat against the floor, against the walls, and she shrieked till her throat was too sore to shriek any more. The words came out crackling like wrinkled paper. “He promised. Daddy promised. Where’s my Daddy?”
How do you explain death to a child? Martha stared at her daughter. She tried to put an arm around her, but Johanna fended off all overtures of comfort. Can she understand what death means, Martha wondered. She’s not even four years old. And so Martha tried. “Johanna, I have to tell you something—something very sad. Do you know what it means when someone dies?”
Johanna remembered the prayer. She remembered the arms and the feeling. The screams subsided to whimpers as Martha talked about Stephen being with God in Heaven. Johanna watched Martha in silence, half-hearing the words and understanding even less.
Now listen to me, God. You give me my Daddy back, she thought while Martha spoke to her. Right now, God! You’re a Meany. Give me my Daddy back right now. You shouldn’t have done it, God. You shouldn’t have taken my Daddy, even to be in Heaven. You just shouldn’t have done it. Daddy shouldn’t have let you. He should have stayed with me. He never should have gone away.
I must have said the right thing, thought Martha as the shouting and sobbing died down. Johanna stared silently as Martha filled the air with words she thought would comfort her daughter. Johanna said nothing. Finally Martha asked, “Would you like to play with Teddy now?”
Johanna gave a half nod and walked to her bedroom to deal with her grief as best she could.
For eight days Johanna hardly spoke. Mostly she stared into space and sucked on her two thumbs. On the ninth night, Johanna looked out her window at the stars. The window was open just a crack, and the air was almost still, and crisp with the chill that follows a hard rain. “You shouldn’t have taken him, God. He needs me. He needs to read me stories and to tuck me in at night. He needs to call me Puppyface, and to make me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches the right way. Mommy never puts enough jelly in the sandwich. He needs me to hug his neck and to tell him how much I love him. He talks to me like I’m a grown up. He understands. No one else ever understands.”
The leaves outside rustled gently in the wind. Johanna pushed and tugged at the window until it opened all the way and put her face out into the cool moonlit night. A breeze whispering by her cheek reminded her of her father’s hand, the way he used to stroke her face. Like a living presence it kissed her aching spirit. “I understand. I’ll always be with you.”
“Is that You, God? Are you really talking to me? And will you always be there? Daddy said he’d always be there, but then you took him to Heaven, and I love him so much, and he’s gone.”
Johanna brushed her teeth without being told, put on her jammies, and tucked herself into bed. When Martha came into Johanna’s room to start the bedtime ritual, she was pleased to find her daughter already asleep.
After that Johanna dreamed about her Daddy—a different dream every night. She dreamed about him roaming the earth on a giant pumpkin, looking for her. “Try not to be sad, Puppyface, God will always be with you, and I’ll be watching you from Heaven.”
She dreamed of her Daddy fighting tigers, many tigers. And the tigers turned to butter, just like in the book “Little Black Sambo.” She saw her father soaring through the clouds, swooping over mountaintops. “You’re going too fast. Look out you’re going to crash!” But it was too late. He crashed into the side of a mountain, and a whiskery old man grabbed him by his collar and pulled him up into the clouds. Johanna woke up with a jolt. She cried, and couldn’t go back to sleep that night.
She dreamed of mice and rats, and her father dressed like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. The villagers were screaming, “We have to get rid of the rats!” They chased the rats and the mice and they chased her Daddy, and they made them all fall into a hole—the rats, and the mice and her Daddy.
For forty nights, she dreamed fantastic stories about her Daddy. Sometimes she was with him sailing on a pirate ship in a stormy ocean, with waves as high as skyscrapers crashing around them. Sometimes they’d be running through fire trying to save rats. And sometimes her Daddy was alone, fighting a hairy giant, and Johanna was trying to save him, but couldn’t get out of her bed.
On the fortieth night, she saw her father’s image shimmering like wispy currents of hot air on a July afternoon. His eyes shone with love and his face was peaceful. “Puppyface, I’ll always be with you. I’ll be watching you from Heaven. You’re in God’s hands now. You’ll be fine. You are loved.” And her father’s image shimmered more. “You’re in God’s hands now. You’ll be fine. You are loved. You’re in God’s hands now. You’ll be fine. You are loved.” The image gradually faded as Johanna woke to a pale morning sun lighting her room through the bedroom window.
After that, whenever Johanna was sad, or happy or lonely, or had found a pretty leaf in the yard, or didn’t understand something, she talked to God. And sometimes Johanna would hear God’s voice answering her. Or maybe it was her conscience or her imagination or a hallucination or something. Martha could never tell, and Johanna didn’t know enough to care.
Johanna liked to sit and rock back and forth. She’d take out the middle cushion of the living room sofa, and sit in the empty space, her arms resting across the cushions on either side. She was the queen and the couch was her throne. And she’d sit there smiling and rocking back and forth.
“What are you doing, dearest?” Martha always tried to keep her voice casual and steady.
“Nothing Mommy, just talking to God.”
At first Martha kept it light. “Why don’t you play outside, Sweetheart? God has to take care of the Chinese missionaries for a while.” Maybe Johanna would outgrow it. After all she was only four years old. Lots of children had imaginary playmates. Why couldn’t one of them be God? But this all seemed so sacrilegious! Was it a sacrilege? Was it a sin? Maybe she could ask a priest from a different parish, someone who didn’t know her and Johanna. But then she’d have to explain about Johanna and tell him... No, she’d just wait. Surely Johanna would outgrow this in time. Martha worried. But then Martha worried about a lot of things. It was what she did best.
Chapter Three
∞
The following year Johanna started kindergarten, and Martha couldn’t have strangers finding out that her child held conversations with God. “Stop this nonsense right now, young lady. What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy or something?” Martha’s voice was angry. She had to be very hard on Johanna, very stern. Otherwise, who knows what the child would say in school! “You say your prayers at night, and you say grace at meals, and on Sunday at church you pray. And that’s all. Do you understand me? Look at me while I talk to you.”
Johanna was one of the youngest children in her class and one of the smallest. Her eyes gleamed jet black—with Gypsy coloring. Her dark brown hair hung thick and curly, framing her face like cocker spaniel ears. And when Johanna’s mind went off to other worlds, her eyes glazed over and her mouth took on a Mona Lisa smile, like she knew secrets that no one else did.
Johanna’s favorite place in the recess yard was a small patch of earth nestled in the far corner behind a playhouse. They’d planted carrots there earlier in the year. Each child had been given a handful of seeds and a paper cup with clean soil. They’d poked their fingers into the earth to make a depression and then carefully laid their prizes, the tiny seeds, into the soft soil. Every other day they’d poured a little water into the cups, and Johanna thrilled at the smell of the wet earth, a comforting you’re-coming-home sort of smell. A few days later, like magic, the seeds began to sprout, small green babies with delicate leaves reaching up toward God. Johanna was like that—a baby—just like the sprouts. Later they’d transferred the sprouts to the tiny garden, really only a plot of dirt about three feet by five feet sheltered behind the playhouse. Johanna liked to go over to the garden and talk to her baby plants. She’d pet the feathery greens on the carrots that came from her seeds and sometimes she’d sing them a song or two.
When the morning recess bell rang, Johanna ran to the vegetable garden and touched the carrot greens. It was mid October. A gentle breeze brushed by Johanna’s face with the first hint of autumn’s chill. Pearly dewdrops were still clinging to the tiny plants. Johanna sat down and closed her eyes.
“Hey, Kid, how come you’re smiling like that?”
Alex Lidecker was a full head taller than Johanna and husky. A spray of freckles peppered his nose.
“I was pretending that I was hugging God,” said Johanna. She knew enough to use the word pretending.
“That’s stupid. No one hugs God.”
“You can if you know how.”
God’s not even real.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, do you see Him? Do you hear him? Do you smell Him?”
“Well maybe I do.” Johanna knew better. Really she did. But there was something about Alex that made Johanna angry, almost furious. She was too mad to be careful.
“Well, maybe God farted and that’s what you smelled.” Alex thought this was really funny. He jumped around Johanna laughing and pointing his butt at her. “My brother’s fifteen, and he says that there’s no God and no Santa Clause and no Easter bunny. And that anyone who’s got any sense knows that.”
Johanna didn’t know what to say to that. She started crying. Eyes burning, her breath came funny as the words caught weakly in her throat. “You’re…just…mean.” She wanted to say the right thing, something to really show Alex how dumb he was, but no clever words popped into her head. “You’re just mean,” she said one more time.
Alex became more confident. What a stupid answer—You’re just mean. Only a nerd would say something like that. Alex knew all about nerds. His older brother had taught him.
“And you’re a big baby.” Alex liked teasing the nerds—even at five years old, he was very good at it, and Johanna, sitting there smiling to herself and talking to God, was a nerd for sure. Making Johanna cry was more fun than squashing caterpillars. “A big baby and a pooh-pooh head. That’s what you are.”
“You’re mean.”
“Take that back, Kid,” he said. He grabbed Johanna’s thick hair and yanked hard. “You take that back. God is not real, and Johanna’s a pooh-pooh head. You say it, right now. ‘God is not real and Johanna is a pooh-pooh head.’ You say it.”
Johanna cried harder.
“You say it or I’ll make you eat dirt. Say it. Say it.”
Johanna just cried.
Then he knocked her to the ground in the carrot patch. Sitting on her stomach on top of the baby plants, he pulled up a fist full of carrot sprouts and dirt. Johanna squeezed her lips together and tried to keep them closed but Alex was able to stuff a giant hand-full of dirt and greens into her mouth anyway. She felt his breath on her face. She tasted the dirt and gagged and felt his hand pushing more dirt against her teeth. Like a cornered wild animal, she snarled and snapped. She bit Alex’s finger and held her teeth locked onto it for as long as she could, then spit the mess up all over him. He jumped off of her. Johanna came up enraged, swinging and punching, with green leaves and dirt dribbling down the sides of her mouth and down her chin. And that’s when the yard monitor noticed the two of them. Alex was backing up fending off her blows.
“She just went all crazy all of a sudden.” He explained in a surprised, whining voice. “And I didn’t know what to do. She was eating dirt. And I told her not to, and she hit me and she bit me.”
Johanna couldn’t say anything. And it wasn’t just because of the dirt still stuffed into her mouth. She just didn’t understand the game of cruelty, didn’t know its rules.
“Hi, God. Did you know that I bit Alex Lidecker during recess and had to go to the principal’s office? Oh yeah, you know everything. Well, it wasn’t fair. Alex is a pooh-pooh head and someone needed to punch him and make him eat dirt… Well it’s true, even if it’s not nice. He deserves to get into big trouble for something he didn’t do. Then we’d be even—almost even.
“And it better be a whole lot of trouble. He was the one who started it. And the teacher was on his side. He lied, and he didn’t get in trouble for lying. Besides, I’m pretty tough. I could have beaten him up if that stupid teacher hadn’t of come along.”
So Martha was called in for a parent-teacher conference to discuss Johanna’s problems, and that was the last time that Johanna was caught talking to God. “I was remembering a song on the radio.” “I was trying to sing to my headache.” “I’m just kinda tired.” Johanna had plenty of acceptable excuses for her ways. Martha almost relaxed. “I knew she’d outgrow it eventually,” she said to herself.
Chapter Four
∞
In spring when Johanna was six years old, everyone in her class had roller skates and Johanna wanted them too. The winter rains had come and gone, and the air smelled of apple blossoms and newly-cut grass. Sometimes on Saturdays, Martha would take Johanna down to the park. “Children need plenty of fresh air,” she’d say. There in the park, while Johanna was swinging on one of the swings, she could see the other children gliding around on their skates. The parents had gotten permission from the park’s groundskeepers, and they’d cordoned off a large circle of smooth asphalt into a roller skating rink. This was the place where everyone went to skate.
It wasn’t even that Johanna wanted to skate all that much. Mostly she wanted to be like the other children. They twirled, they giggled, they told each other jokes, and then they laughed some more. Johanna, swinging by herself, wanted to be one of them. She figured that if she only had roller skates, then, magically, she’d know how to talk to the other kids—what to say, how to laugh, how to be like them.
Martha had some misgivings about the skating. “You’re too young. You’ll fall down and break something, and we’ll have to go to the hospital.”
But along with her fears about scratched knees and broken bones, she was keenly aware that all of the other children were playing in the skating rink, while her daughter sat alone on a swing singing to herself. Maybe, if Johanna had skates, she wouldn’t be so odd.
So, in her Easter basket, along with jellybeans, marshmallow peeps, and a chocolate Easter bunny, Johanna found a pair of brand new roller skates nestled in the bottom of the basket, half hidden by the Easter grass.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Look what the Easter bunny brought me. Oh, Mommy, Can I try them out now?”
As Johanna hugged her with a six-year-old’s unabashed excitement, Martha felt all warm inside. These moments were so rare, such a gift! Martha wished that Johanna could know to thank her for the skates, but, even with the Easter bunny taking credit for the gift, it was a happy moment.
Johanna wiggled through Easter Sunday service. At home she raced to change into some old jeans and then to try out the skates. In front of their house, Martha used a small metal key to fit the skates to Johanna’s sneakers. Then she helped Johanna to stand up, and watched with pride as her daughter took her first steps on the skates.
Skating was even better than Johanna had thought it would be. With her arms outstretched like wings, she held her balance, correcting with the bobble in her knees and the wobble in her ankles. Her waist bent back and forth. Johanna thrilled to the shushing sound of wheels on the sidewalk, and she felt the vibrations coming up through her feet—a rumbling, rushing feeling that stayed with her even after she’d taken the skates off.
Johanna skated just about every day after school and on weekends usually in front of her house. But sometimes on Saturdays after Martha had finished her chores, she would pack an Agatha Christie novel for herself and drive Johanna down to the park. Feeling very grown up, Johanna would glide into the rink with the other kids.
Spring became summer, and along with summer came summer vacation and plenty of free time for skating. Johanna got quite good at it. She learned how to skate backwards, and how to glide on one leg, and make tight circles and figure eights. Mostly, she liked to skate fast—so fast that the air she passed blew cool and strong into her face.
But all too quickly Labor Day came around—the last hoorah before school started up again. It was a glorious, balmy day—seventy-five degrees outside. Johanna managed to pester Martha into taking her skating in the park.
Johanna strapped on her skates and entered the rink, one of the shortest children there. She swirled into a glide for twenty feet, then twirled around in a perfect circle. Meanwhile, more and more kids were showing up, like Johanna, wanting to end the summer vacation with an afternoon of skating. The rink had never been so packed. Elbows, backs, and legs—they were everywhere. On one side of the rink, older kids—teenagers—were playing crack the whip and talking loudly and laughing. Someone had brought a portable radio and they sang along and stomped in rhythm to the music. One of the boys had been eating raw onions, and, each time he passed by her, Johanna could smell his breath.
Johanna wished that some of the children would go home, especially the ones playing crack the whip. They were a lot larger than she was, and they didn’t always watch where they were going. Then the boy with the onions, skated into her backside, and she fell onto the ground. She looked and found herself surrounded by legs and skates. Suddenly the skating wasn’t fun anymore. Johanna felt like she couldn’t breathe. Children were everywhere, zipping beside her, in front of her, behind her. Johanna sat up. The music was overpowering, a disorienting, crashing percussion along with a vibrating thrum of base.
Hurting and fearful, she looked around for her mother, but only whirling, skating children, and the tops of trees were visible from where she sat. Bodies bumped and jostled her as she got herself up and began edging her way to the side. She wouldn’t cry. She was too big for tears now. She’d just make her way out of the rink and take off her skates. She could tell her mother that she had a headache and wanted to go home.
Then someone’s foot hit her skate and she fell to the ground again. The rough cement scratched her knees and skinned the palms of her hands. She wasn’t going to cry. No one noticed. No one offered a hand. They were just a twirling mass of people. Johanna skated to the rope that surrounded the skating circle. She looked for Martha along the benches where the parents sat waiting while their children skated.
“I’m done, Mommy. Can we go home now?” It was best not to get Mommy upset.
“Are you all right, Sweetheart?” Martha had been reading and, although she had seen Johanna tumble, she hadn’t realized how badly the falls had affected her. And Johanna had told Martha over and over that she was a big girl and that she could skate in the rink with the other kids. Martha clucked, and fretted some, and wanted to take a look at Johanna’s knees, but Johanna just wanted to get away.
Johanna knew, climbing into her bed that night, that she would dream. In the night when she couldn’t hold back the tears or stop the freight train of her fright, that’s when the scary stuff always came back.
In her dream, Johanna found herself wandering alone inside of an old house, her footsteps muffled on a rotten wooden floor. But in the living room, a boy in a mouse costume was playing Christmas carols on a large piano while a crowd of children gathered around him. Johanna stood with them but had to hum and sing la la la because she didn't know the words. She picked up a flute and put it to her mouth. It echoed the melody, with runs and trills like water rushing over stones. Another spirit, another soul was born in the pulsing rhythm of the piano chords, the children’s voices, and the warbling of the flute.
And as they sang and played, the children’s bodies swayed, trance-like, in a stylized dance, each body so fragile, so perfect, a piece of art created by the Supreme Artist. Still more children came. The flute laughed in syncopation.
In her sleep Johanna rolled over, eyes twitching, her mouth making blowing and sucking motions.
Still more children came. Where to put them all?“We need more room; we'll be squished off the world!” they shouted in panic. “We'll be squished off the world!” And they looked to Johanna to save them. She picked up the flute but it was full of dirt. “More room! We’ll be squished off the world!” Bodies were everywhere, and the music became garish, discordant. She looked for more space, but there was none. And still more children came. Johanna wasn't sure who swung the first punch. One by one, children began hitting and kicking. Still more children came until there were so many bodies that their arms were pinned and no one could move. Johanna found it hard to breathe.
"Remember this lesson, Johanna, remember it well." A voice like God’s boomed inside of her head—low, rumbling, all-powerful. And the words crackled like fire—sharp, like the blow of a hammer. God was not comforting or loving now. He evoked fear—demanded obedience. This was the God who had drowned Pharaoh’s army in the Red Sea, who had told Jonah to preach at Nineveh.
She woke with a start, drenched in sweat, and her eyes felt sore as if rubbed by sand. “What lesson? God, is that you? What lesson are you talking about? Don’t forget that I’m only six years old.”
That evening as they did the dishes—Martha washing and Johanna drying—Johanna decided that it was the right time of day to ask Mommy something important. “Could children really be squished off the world? I mean, what if there were so many people that they couldn’t all fit?”
But all Martha said was “don’t be ridiculous,” and passed her the salad bowl to dry.
