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Authors: Chris Adrian

BOOK: The Great Night
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“The Ballad of the Warm Fuzzies” was the most complicated song her father had ever written. It didn't involve any more than the usual four chords, but it was seven minutes long, and the lyrics told an actual story, which her father had borrowed from a children's book of hippie ethics. Her father didn't like hippies, but had sent a note to California to the author of the children' book, thanking him for the inspiration and encouraging him to put Jesus in his heart instead of Charles Manson. The tale of the Warm Fuzzies and their battle with the Cold Pricklies unfolded in twelve verses, with half the family squaring off against the other in song. Peabo, along with Molly, was among the Pricklies.
All day, Molly had watched him as closely as she dared, given how closely she was being watched by Malinda for evidence of snootiness or lack of charity toward the boy. Her mother had told them that Jesus would help them along to a place where they couldn't even see that he was black, that with perfect love would come perfect color blindness, but every time Molly saw him standing next to one of her brothers or sisters it was all she noticed about him, how different he looked.
Black is beautiful
, the voice kept saying, which made her shake her head.
He talked to her in the same way that he talked to all the girls, politely and never for very long. He joshed and roughhoused with the boys and seemed to settle immediately into
companionship with them in a way that belied the remote gaze he had trained on everyone during the first rehearsal and dinner. She watched him at play with her brothers. It was as if there were two boys, who didn't jibe with each other. There was the boy who had sneaked into her room to offer up the little dance for her interpretation, and then there was the boy who arm-wrestled with Craig and did algebra equations for fun with Colin. She could understand if there were two boys in him, since she had felt like there were two girls in her, one for the regular voice that said regular things about people and one for the other voice that spoke a language made up only of cruel insults. If she stared in the bathroom mirror long enough, she thought she could catch that other girl's features superimposed in brief flashes upon hers: her eyes were small, and her nose turned up like a pig's, and her mouth was a colorless gash in her face. Malinda caught her staring at herself like that once and said, “You think you're so pretty, don't you?”
Molly tripped up on the beat and came late to the chorus. At first, it seemed that no one had noticed that she'd messed up the rhythm—Chris was the only one who usually cared, anyway—until Peabo did the same thing, just one beat off, but didn't look at her. He did it again: another missed beat.
She missed one back, and then threw in an extra one at the end of the next verse, and then for the rest of the song they were trading omissions and additions, having a conversation above and below and around the song that no one else, not even the snarky voice in her, could understand, and it occurred to her, just before the song ended, that they were speaking tambourine.
“Off the charts!” their father said, because they all stopped playing at exactly the same time for once, and everyone had been on key and no one had forgotten any verses; even Melissa's flailing dance had been more graceful than usual. “He is
risen! He is
risen!
Off the
charts!
” he shouted. Peabo was nodding soberly as they all put down their instruments and began to exchange hugs, something they usually did at the end of the rehearsal, though they were only half done now. It was one of those moments that Molly would really have appreciated a couple of months before. Everyone was hugging with breathless abandon, entirely caught up in how much they loved the music, one another, this day, and Jesus, of course.
Jesus
,
Jesus
,
Jesus
, Molly said to herself, but the voice said
Mariah Carey
,
Mariah Carey
,
Mariah Carey
, which lent a new emergent sense of alarm to her effort really to feel what they were feeling, and with her eyes shut tight she tried to feel it by sheer force of will. She strained, and there was a sensation in her like a bubble popping, and clear as day she had a picture in her head all of a sudden: a lizard sunning itself on a rock, staring rapt and remote into the distance.
 
 
They went to church that evening. Molly sat there, looking around without moving her head. It was worse here, surrounded not just by her family but by the whole congregation, hairy Mrs. Louque in the row in front of her and ancient Mr. Landry behind her. The church, which was as big as a warehouse because it had once been a warehouse, was full of good, normal people who put her to shame by their example. Up on the stage, Reverend Duff was a lightning rod for the voice.
There once was a reverend named Fudd
, it sang, and she tried to do the mental equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and singing
la la la
.
It was a different sort of Jesus time than the one they had that day at home, but Molly was failing at it just as badly. Her mother was trembling and ululating and her father was shaking and barking and her brothers were yipping and her sisters
were mewling, and beyond them the whole congregation was similarly taken up, and Molly would have to listen, later, as they all talked about how wonderful it was for them when they spoke the spirit that way. She closed both eyes, then opened one to a slit to watch Peabo, who was standing quietly next to her. The limerick about Reverend Duff faltered and was silenced as she watched him.
He doesn't look stupid like the rest of them
, the voice said, at the same time that she thought,
He doesn't look stupid like me
. Molly looked forward at the back of Mrs. Louque's head. The lady was dancing in place like a little girl.
Their hymnbooks were touching and their elbows were touching and their knees were touching. But Peabo didn't look at her, and he sang the hymns without any extra notes or extra syllables that could be put together into a message. When it came time to exchange the peace, he turned to her mother and hugged Colin and Chris and Clay and her father, and he reached past her to hug Mary, but he didn't even look at Molly. That would have been too obvious, she told herself, and she tried to think of some clever way of communicating with him. All she could think was to tear a piece from one of the hymnals and fold it into the shape of a snake, which would signify something, though she wasn't sure what. Her failure to imagine just what that was made everything feel useless and dumb, and she was sure, all of a sudden, that she had imagined his unique advance. She closed her eyes and shook her head and found herself wanting to scream.
It would have been fine to scream. You were supposed to express the spirit however it came. This usually took the foster children by surprise, even though they were briefed about it before they came to church for the first time. But he seemed to take it all in stride. Molly did her usual thing, swaying back and forth with her eyes on the ceiling and muttering times
tables in pig Latin to herself. She tried to distinguish the voices of her brothers and sisters from the cacophony. She heard Malinda saying something like “Edelweiss!” She heard her father saying “Omalaya!” and her mother saying “Paw-paw!” and then, finally, she heard Peabo, right next to her, saying something that sounded like “I love you I love you I love you I love you.” There was an altered, electric quality to his voice. She did not open her eyes or look at him, but she slipped the words into her times tables: “I-ay ove-lay oooh-yay.” She kept on with the oooh-yays until the very end, when folks were passing out and the last hymn was starting up slowly, rising from various places around the hall from those who had recovered enough to sing. When she opened her eyes, she saw Peabo standing straight and tall next to her, mouth agape with the hymn, shouting it as much as singing it.
She went to his room that night, after she was sure everyone else had fallen asleep. It was the little room they put all the foster kids in, not even really a bedroom, since it didn't have a closet, just a wardrobe. There was a dresser and a small chair, but no space for anything else except the single bed. The drapes were open, and by the light of the streetlamps Molly could see Peabo stretched out in bed, on top of the covers in his pajamas. She stared from the doorway for what felt like five minutes, but she couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or not.
She didn't say anything because he hadn't said anything, and it seemed like it would be cheating to use words. She didn't know what words she would have used anyway, though it was clear what she wanted to say. She did the message: reach, reach, dip, kick, leap, leap, leap, every time a little higher, though not too high, since his room was right above her parents' room. But she went high enough to kick her feet—one, two, three times—and when she landed softly she dropped into a squat and then exploded upward. This was a move from
the video for “Jesus Loves You More.” Her hands were supposed to stretch out and then fall, fingers fluttering, to her sides. But the same not–part of her that spoke with the voice that was not a voice took control of them just as she was stretching, and her hands opened up at the top of her reach into two perfect Fuck You birdies, aimed not at Peabo but at the whole world.
He didn't stir at all the whole time she danced, which wasn't very long. Her dance was shorter than his had been, and she regular-walked, not moonwalked, out the door. Back in her bed, she wondered if he had been awake at all, not sure if it would be disappointing to actually talk to him at length, now that they were communicating at a higher level. She imagined going on forever this way, through his successful fosterhood and eventual adoption, through weddings and family reunions and funerals, proceeding in parallel past family milestone after family milestone. She imagined them at Malinda's funeral, softly jangling their tambourines at each other, communicating shades of irony and grief not contained in the mundane verbal condolences of the others. She had nearly fallen asleep, and was sure she was about to enter a dream in which, knowing it was a dream, she could enjoy Malinda's death, and say things like “No, I don't miss her at all,” when she felt a pressure on her mattress and awoke with a start. He was sitting on her bed. “Do you want to see my Jesus?” he asked her.
 
 
“Darkness,” said Aunt Jean. “And light! Light … and darkness!” She was doing Molly's makeup for the video, painting half of her face black and half of it white for the concept portion of the shoot, which involved the family taking turns presenting their black faces and their white faces to the camera as
they sang in a black-and-white checkered “dreamspace.” (That was a sheet Jean had colored herself with a reeking marker.) Melissa, who had insisted on having her face done first, kept sniffing at it curiously. Jean had paused in front of Peabo, a tub of makeup in either hand, and said, “Why, the dark is built right in, isn't it?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, and gave her a neutral stare. In the end, she painted him just like the rest of them, but his black side was darker and his white side more startling than everyone else's.
“Cold,” Jean said, throwing her head back and raising her hand to make mouthy little singing motions with it as she showed them her black profile. “Warm!” She pivoted sharply on her heel to show them her white face. Molly felt sure that the total effect, with the checkered background and their swiveling Kabuki faces, would make people dizzy or possibly give them a seizure, but she didn't say so. And the voice didn't say so, either. It had been quiet all day. She didn't really care anyway if someone had a seizure. She didn't really care if she was playing well, during the fish-spangled band-shot portions of the video, when Jean roller-skated around the garage with the video camera to her eye. She didn't care if she kept the beat or not, and she didn't care if Peabo did, either. If he was throwing her grace beats, she ignored them.
“Everything will be different, after you see Him,” he had said, and that was true. As Molly had tried unsuccessfully to sleep, with the Jesus swinging languidly in her mind in a fivesecond arc that measured the minutes until dawn, she tried to see how she could not have understood what he actually meant, and she pictured herself on trial before her family, with Malinda seated as judge and everyone else in the jury box, listening with impassive faces as she attempted to explain. “I thought he meant he was going to share his Jesus with me. His own personal Jesus. His
experience
of Jesus.” And it had been
true that part of her thought this was going to be the case, and that same part had wondered what it would be like to show him hers. She could only imagine the obvious thing, opening her chest to show him the very shape of her heart.
Everything looked the same. Her father looked the same, singing with his eyes closed and strumming those same four chords on his guitar. Her mother looked the same, shimmying in place. Chris and Craig and Colin looked the same, and Clay looked the same, thrusting his chin out while he played the bass. Mary was stabbing, as she always did, at the keyboard, and Malinda was managing to open her pinched-up little mouth just enough for her weak voice to slip out. Melissa was dancing around like a fool who didn't have a clue what was in store for her, and Peabo … it didn't even matter what Peabo was doing. They were all hideous, and she knew without a mirror to tell her so that she was uglier than any of them. As soon as the video shoot was done, she found her father in his study and told him.

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