Rumble (9 page)

And his crowning achievement—Adam and Eve. Created in his image, so flawless, like him. Except for that little thing called free will, something he owned in spades; therefore, they got it, too. And all that free will led to disobedience, the fall away from enlightenment. Still, God, the wellspring of love, offered them salvation through forgiveness. Not through an offering plate, or because they fell on their knees, repeating Hail Marys. Mary—that Mary, anyway—didn’t come along for quite a few years!

I Almost Quit Reading There

I have read it before, more than

once. But the next few sentences

are underlined. By whose hand,

I haven’t the slightest clue.

Even if you can swallow the idea of God, the concept of Imago Dei defies comprehension. Humans aren’t inherently good—a ludicrous proposition. Instinctively, people are barbarians. Cannibals, even. They eat each other alive, get off on torture, inflicting pain. This is not the image of the Gospel God. If God is love, and God is infinite, love would by definition be infinite. But love, for most, is a means to an end, and even in its purest form, it is fleeting. Not infinite. Therefore, there is no God. Simple logic.

The Mr. Coffee beeps, and I’m

drawn away from the table to

the steaming pot of lush-smelling

hot liquid. As I pour a cup, add

a heaped teaspoon of sugar,

no cream, I think of the words

that come next, the segue to

part three of my essay, the best

part. And, I’m sure, the scariest

to those trying to discern some

subtext I didn’t really intend,

at least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

The bridge from Imago Dei to

my little brother, who did not

have to die, is, and I conjure it

strictly from memory, where

it replays several times every day:

The Imago Dei mythology moves straight into the realm of cruel fantasy when you consider my little brother. If any human ever to walk the face of this earth represented love, it was Luke. So if he, in fact, was God’s image, why would the benevolent creator’s faithful have played such a heavy hand in his demise?

Strong and just sweet enough,

the coffee I gulp can barely

shore me up against the crashing

tide of depression. Maybe two cups.

Two Cups

Plus thinking about spending time

with Hayden today. Hope she’s not

still pissed. Girls sure do get irritated

easily. Trying to keep them happy

is a game. My problem is, I’m not

always sure of the overarching rules.

It seems to be okay that:

She went to a game without me.

She chose her friend’s company over mine.

She drank too much soda, ate junk food.

(Just guessing, but it’s a decent guess.)

She watched other guys be athletic.

But it’s probably not okay that:

I went to a party without her.

I put up with a friend’s company instead of hers.

I drank some beer, smoked a little weed.

(She’d just be guessing, an accurate guess.)

I talked to another girl, drove her home.

Okay, it’s weighted a little unevenly.

Still, overall, I did absolutely nothing

wrong except try to enjoy myself

without my girlfriend coming along.

They Say a Solid Offense

Is the best defense, and I’m going

with that. I wait until a decent hour—

eleven o’clock on a Saturday is decent,

right?—and I go ahead and call my lovely.

One ring. Two, and that’s enough. “You up?”

Of course.
I
was in early last night.

Snippy and inaccurate. “You texted

me at twelve fifty-six. That’s late.

Oh, and just by the way, I was home,

and had been.” Not exactly true either.

But let’s play the game. “Why are you mad?”

Long sigh.
I don’t want to fight.

“Good. I don’t either. In fact, I want

to do whatever the exact opposite of

fighting is. I love you, Hayden. Now

what should we do today?” Outside

it’s still cold and drizzly. Go figure.

I don’t care. Mall walk? Movie?

We Settle on Both

I pick her up just after lunch for the drive

into Eugene. I watch her exit her house,

spin to wave at someone inside before

turning back toward me with a sincere

smile. This day is looking up. She floats

along the walk, ethereal in some gauzy

skirt the color of greening spring, plus

a darker, emerald sweater, which hugs

every perfect curve of her body. Was it just

yesterday I last saw her? Why don’t I

remember her looking this way? Nymph

is the word that comes to mind. Not

the dirty kind, but the kind who consorts

with the gods, lowercase
g
. Stunning,

that’s what she is, and more. Breathtaking.

We will not argue. We will not argue.

It’s a good mantra. Almost as good as:

We will kiss. We will touch. We will

kiss. We will . . . Okay, probably not that.

But the thought makes me grin, and

my smile is the first thing she sees when

she opens the door and ducks her head.

What is it?
she asks, voice all maple

syrup sweet and butter smooth.

“Nothing. I was just watching you

and thinking how you remind me

of spring. Come over here, okay?”

She blushes an incredible shade

of rose, but scoots as close as

the arm between the seats allows,

and that’s plenty close enough

for me to cup her face in my hands,

tilt her chin up just so, and realize

my mantra. Actually, both of them.

Because kissing like this, there is no

way we can argue. She closes her eyes,

but I keep mine open, watching the subtle

movements of her body. Yes, she looks

like spring, and tastes of winter mint.

But her scent is summer—toasted

skin. Hint of apricot. A potpourri

of flowers haloing the silk of her hair.

I’m holding Eden in my hands, and

it makes me glad there is no God

to take this garden away from me.

Except . . .

Except

Her cell phone buzzes inside her bag.

She jerks away, breathless, and reaches

down to check for the text. “What is it?”

Let’s go.
She waits for me to start

the truck, motor away.
It’s from my dad,

who was spying on us out the window.

I try to avoid her father, who does

not approve of his daughter dating

anyone. Especially me. “And . . . ?”

He said he hoped we wouldn’t repeat

that performance in public, and to

consider what Christ would want.

“In my admittedly limited understanding

of the New Testament definition of

Christ, he is the foundation of all love.

Considering how I feel about you, that

would put Christ sitting solidly on the arm-

rest between us. I think you’re safe.”

She reaches over, circles my knee

with gentle fingertips.
If I didn’t believe

I was totally safe, I wouldn’t be here.

“Does your dad ask about the . . . uh,

personal stuff we do? I mean, it’s not

like we’re shacking up in motel rooms.”

Her fingers stop their circular orbit.

Well, that isn’t exactly how I put it.

I said you’re a complete gentleman.

I purposely drop my jaw. “But . . . How

could you say such a preposterous thing?

I mean, everyone knows
that’s
a lie!”

We both crack up, and Hayden’s

left hand relaxes on my leg while her

right turns up the volume on the radio,

which happens to be tuned to Liquid

Metal. A deadly guitar riff screeches

into the space around us.
Ugh! How

can you listen to that?
Like magic,

we’ve got boy band pop.
Good thing

Dad doesn’t know you like that stuff.

“Or what? He’d refuse to let you see me

because I’m obviously in league with Satan?”

I wait for her smile. Instead, she shrugs.

I Should Drop It

Don’t really know why

I feel the need to defend

myself, or my taste

in music. Anyway,

she knows what I listen to.

This is the first time

she’s overtly associated

it—and so, me—with

something as unsavory

as the King of Lies.

“That would just be

your father’s opinion, right?

You don’t believe metal

is the voice of the Devil?”

Does anyone in their right

mind actually buy into that?

My dad is a hard-core

evangelical, but he does

allow me a mind of my own.

I prefer not to listen to death

metal, but not because I think

it’s satanic. More like a lot

of irritating, random noise.

We’ve Been Going Out

For close to a year, more than long

enough to confess music tastes.

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

I don’t know. Guess I didn’t

want to sound like a nag.

Fair enough. But, “So, why

tell me now?” And also, just

by the way, why change the channel

without asking if it was okay?

I mean, if only to be polite.

Another shrug.
Why not?

We should tell each other

what’s bugging us, right?

Uh-oh. Tension grips

my shoulders like giant

hands, squeezes. Quick.

Mantra one. We will not

argue. We will not argue.

“Of course.” I grit my teeth.

“Is there anything else

bugging you besides my music?”

I Half Expect a Tirade

Or at least a short

list of complaints.

I party too much.

I’m kind of a smart-

ass. I drive too fast.

I eat like a hog. I don’t

much like her friends.

But no. She smiles, then

brings those coral gloss

lips against my cheek,

tickling it when she says,

That’s the worst thing

about you, and the rest

doesn’t matter. You’re not

perfect, that’s a fact. But

your imperfections are

part of what makes you

you. And that’s who I fell

in love with.
Surprises.

She’s full of them. Like

now, she dials back to Liquid

Metal.
For you, I can even

handle this. Once in a while.

Loving This Girl

Is a roller-coaster ride.

Protracted climb.

Serious drop.

Loop until your stomach

threatens to lose it,

jerk to the right, spin

left. Coast to a stop.

Disembark.

Get back in line.

Do it again.

And again.

All in the name

of chasing a thrill.

Is the rush worth the effort?

Most of the time, hell yeah.

But then come those moments

when I’m really not sure.

Guess it’s a good thing

those moments

are few

and far

between.

In Addition

To different tastes in music, we have

a similar wide divide in our ideas

about what constitutes a good movie.

I’m all about action. She likes romance.

Usually one or the other of us has to

compromise. Today, we find one that has

both violent revolt and tender love scenes.

That is providential. What’s less fortunate

is some of those love scenes involve

nakedness and sensual discovery, resulting

in downright hot sex. I can’t speak for Hayden.

Don’t even know if girls react in the same

way to such visual stimulation, but I am

completely turned on and sitting next to a girl

who’s every bit as beautiful as the one

on-screen, and I’ve rarely been quite

this uncomfortable, and all I can think

of at this exact moment is Alexa

asking,
Don’t you want to, you know?

My arm is around Hayden’s shoulder,

and I am adrift in the current of her hair,

spilling across my chest. The sudden grip

of desire is so wicked, I can almost believe

there is, in fact, a Satan playing some vile