Watch How We Walk (9 page)

— Oh. Emily thinks that her mom once told her that incense is pagan, and therefore to be avoided. And it's definitely not improving the smell of the trailer anyway.

— Well, it's time to go, kiddo. More work of the Lord to do.

Michael and Jeff laugh as Uncle Tyler straightens his tie and puts his suit jacket back on. They do not get up to walk them to the door.

— Do you still have those
Watchtower
back issues in your bag, Em? I forgot mine in the car, and Michael has read the ones I left him last time, right?

Michael grins.

— Sure, man. Hey, don't forget that Cure tape you wanted to borrow.

Emily gives Jim the magazines and he thanks her and waves goodbye from the couch. Outside, they squint against the sun's glare.

— Are we going to see your other back calls now?

Her uncle checks his watch.

— Well, it's three o'clock, we have time for one or two more, I guess.

They drive for a long time, out into the country, and into the little village near the lake.

They stop at a dingy bungalow with an empty driveway.

— It doesn't look like anyone is home.

— Well, let's see. Uncle Tyler takes his briefcase out of the car.

No one answers the door. They drive the twenty minutes back into town, and her uncle says nothing, just sings along to the songs on Michael's tape.

He pulls up in front of Emily's house.

— So long, Em. He drops her off and doesn't come into the house to see her parents, or stay for dinner. Emily doesn't get a chance to ask him if Michael and Jeff will be coming to any of the meetings with him, but she already knows the answer.

14

AFTER A FEW WEEKS, THE
air warms and the snow turns to grey slush. It's Wednesday, so there is no meeting and Emily tries not to feel so relieved. She trudges up her wet driveway without Lenora, dragging her boots through a set of tire tracks. Both of her feet are cold and tingly and thoroughly soaked.

She tried to wait for her sister; she walked home as slowly as she could, twisting to look behind her every twenty-five paces. Lenora wouldn't have shown up even if she had waited in front of her school for an hour; she rarely does. Who will yell at her more this time — her mother or Lenora? Which one is worse depends on their respective moods. Her mother is unpredictable: she might sigh and shake her head, then mutter at Lenora, saying who does she think she is, ignoring Emily altogether, which she prefers, or she might accuse Emily of covering for her sister and send her to her room until her sister reappears. Lenora will most likely refuse to have anything to do with her.

Emily is tired of the pattern. It's unfair that she gets caught in the middle of their arguments, especially when they have nothing to do with her. From now on, things will be different. Emily will stay out of it. When they do get mad at her, she will do whatever it takes to fight back the tears. She'll be more like Lenora, who never cries, even if they slap her —
spare the rod, spoil the child
— or ground her for weeks. She just clenches her fists, tosses her hair, and forces a laugh. Ha. She tells them they'll regret it, just wait, they'll be sorry.

Lenora will probably accuse her of trying to get her in trouble on purpose. Then she won't speak to Emily for days. That's worse than her mother's temper, which at least passes quickly. When Lenora ignores her, Emily feels like brick walls have risen up from the ground and surrounded her. Imprisoned and desperate, she first jumps up and down, which proves futile, then she pounds her small fists. No one can hear her, and no one but Lenora can let her out. What she's been locked out of she doesn't entirely know, but she's well aware that without her sister, she will miss something important.

Emily stops in her slushy plod up the treed driveway. On the other side of the pine trees, next to the house, someone has parked an unfamiliar red car. Their grey four-door isn't there, so Emily knows her father is still at work. As an electrician, he doesn't work fixed hours. He's always home in time for the meetings at the Hall, but on other nights he may be home at four, or not until nine. It depends on the job.

She stops and looks in the window of the unfamiliar Mustang. The seats are black and clean, and the dashboard is uncluttered, but scattered on the passenger seat is an assortment of cassette cases. The only footprints begin at the driver's side and trail around the house toward the backyard. Solitary footsteps in the snow must be followed, Emily decides. She stretches her legs to match the steps, as she plunks her small boots into each of the larger imprints.

— Fee fi fo fum . . . She lurches from side to side and stomps into the boot marks, which lead to the back porch and disappear into the house. She is a giant. She will crush the worldly people who pick on her, like Tammy, like Josh Hansen from school, like teachers who sigh when she tries to explain that she must miss art class if they are going to draw Santa Claus. Her teacher last year, Miss Robin, was like that — always annoyed when Emily told her what she wasn't allowed to do, what was forbidden for Jehovah's Witnesses. It's hard enough to put up her hand in front of the entire class and say, “I'm supposed to leave the room during Christmas activities; it's against our religion,” and even worse when the teacher throws up her hands and says, like Miss Robin did, “Is there anything that's not against your religion? How about snow? Can you draw a snowman instead? Or is that a sin too?” The other kids' laughter surged like a tidal wave and filled the room with their snickers and stares. Though she fought it as hard as she could, hot red shame flooded her face and everyone could see. She bit her lower lip until she tasted metal and salt, no way would she let out the strangled sobs, and so she choked a little, then drove the white crayon into the black construction paper so hard she snapped the crayon in half.

Bam
, goes her humungous foot on Miss Robin's head, and she grinds in her heel.
Bam
, again, and this one is Josh Hansen and his crooked teeth and ugly mouth calling her
Joho loser
over and over during every recess, and now he is in a million pieces.
Bam
, even harder, she smashes Tammy Bales into a pulp and keeps right on going, naming each of her classmates one by one,
bam bam,
her giant feet do not miss anyone and she crushes them all in a snowy frenzy until she reaches the back porch.

She doesn't even feel her icy feet anymore and nearly forgets that she is following mysterious footprints like a detective.

Tense and alert, Emily opens the back door quietly, and doesn't let it slam shut. There is a stranger in her house, a visitor, someone with a red car. A car she's never seen before in the Kingdom Hall parking lot. The elders discourage two-door cars, because they are awkward for groups of people going door to door. They don't say that they're forbidden, but no one ever gets one. She wants to find out who has the rebellious car, but she can't let her mom notice the absence of Lenora. She'll just have to be silent and hurry past the kitchen. Maybe her mother will just assume that Lenora is with her, already upstairs or in the bathroom, and leave her alone. She decides that she should learn how to make her footsteps sound like two people.

Quickly though, she realizes that none of her methods matter this time. No one could have heard her come in anyway. Loud music blasts from the kitchen — worldly music, along with the sound of her mother singing. Emily's muscles stiffen. No, it's not just her mother's voice; it's a duet. Someone else sings along, and it's definitely not her tuneless father. Even during the songs at the Hall, she can see her father's lips move, but she never hears his voice.

Emily thought that Lenora was the only one in the family who listens to worldly music, though usually just through headphones, so as to avoid their father's objections. As far as Emily knows, her mother owns only a box of music theatre albums like
Oklahoma!
and
West Side Story
, which she never listens to. The only records her father even has are
45
s of moose calls. He listens to them just before hunting season, and practises mimicking the guttural grunts. Lenora says that they sound like someone struggling, unsuccessfully, to go to the bathroom.

Emily can't make out the words, but her mother's powerful vocals surge through the house — loud, louder than any of them are allowed to be at home.

— Stop, stop, stop. Emily's mother gasps, choked with laughter. Something, possibly her mother, thuds against the wall.

— Start that part over again, I love that verse! Come on, play it again!

— Okay Viv, okay, just hold on — I dropped the pick.

Emily takes off her boots, careful to keep them on the rubber mat and not get any snow or mud on the carpet. She hears the refrigerator door open and close, then the clank of bottles.

— Thanks. The other person's voice is muffled, as though he has something in his mouth, but sounds familiar. Before she even begins to guess, the window-rattling guitar screeches up again.

—
So where were the spiders
. . . The pair sing in the kitchen and Emily hangs her coat on the gun rack. She has no choice but to walk by the kitchen doorway to get to the stairs to her room.

Emily hates to sing. Like her father, she moves her lips accordingly, with little or no sound sneaking past them. At school, music is the only subject in which she doesn't get an A. She hopes her mother doesn't force her to sing with them. She doesn't always know what, at any given moment, her mother will do next.

As she runs past the kitchen, the music stops in the middle of a line. The last guitar note hums through the speaker and fades away.

— Hey Emily! How are you, kiddo?

She turns back to see that it's her uncle Tyler.

— Hi. She tries, and fails, to smile as he hides a beer bottle behind his back. She doesn't let on to them that she's seen it. He wears dark blue jeans that look too small and a black sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His strawberry blond hair is longer, shaggier than when she last saw him. He still hasn't gotten it cut.

— Say congratulations to your uncle. He just bought that fancy new car today.

Emily nods at her uncle. He hasn't been at all of the meetings lately, at least not the Sunday morning ones. Missing meetings is always a sign of either defection to the World or serious illness. When she asked her parents last week if Uncle Tyler was sick, her mom and dad both answered at the same time.

— That's one way of putting it. Her dad raised his thick eyebrows and shook his head.

— He's fine. Her mom glared back at him.

Emily hadn't known that her uncle could play the guitar. She didn't know anyone who could play an instrument, for real, other than a couple of kids at school who played the piano during music class. Emily did know that her mom could sing though. Sometimes she wonders if that's the only reason she goes to the meetings at the Kingdom Hall anymore. While she may look angry — likely at her, Emily assumes, or Lenora — during the brothers' talks, when it's time to sing one of the meeting's three songs, she opens her purple and gold songbook, and jubilantly belts out the lyrics, resounding and beautiful. Her voice is clearer, louder, and better than any of the other sisters' in the congregation. Sometimes her parents fight about that.

— You're being immodest, and showing off.

She just rolls her eyes and ignores him.

Her mother's long dark curls bounce in every direction and are splayed across her face. She pulls back her hair and secures it with an elastic band, takes a long sip from her bottle of beer, then starts to gather up the dirty plates and bottles. She walks slowly and deliberately across the green and yellow linoleum and into the laundry room, and doesn't say a word to Emily. No questions about Lenora, no yelling, nothing. She doesn't even look at her.

— I didn't know you could play the guitar. Emily doesn't know why Uncle Tyler has never mentioned it before. Why is everyone keeping secrets from her? Maybe she should start having some secrets of her own.

— Sure, I play a bit of guitar, here and there, nothing much, just for fun. He winks.

— Want to try, Em? Come here! He reaches toward the table to set his drink down while lifting the guitar strap over his head. He misses, and the beer bottle clatters to the floor, splattering the foamy, brown liquid everywhere. Emily squishes her eyes closed as her mom strides back into the kitchen.

— Darn it, Tyler! Her hands grip her hips and she glares.

— That's going to reek for hours!

— No, thank you. I have to do my homework.

Her mom scrubs the floor with a cloth, and her uncle, looking unsure what to do with his hands, puts his guitar back on and strums a few chords.

— Turn the amp off, Ty. Jim's going to be home any minute. Help me clean this place up.

Emily turns away from the doorway and goes upstairs to do her math homework.

In her pale blue room she sits on the edge of her perfectly made bed and picks at her hangnails. She can't concentrate on her fractions. Blood pools on her left index finger and she licks it away absently, listening to her mom and Uncle Tyler downstairs. They aren't singing anymore, but she can't make out what they're saying, amid the sounds of running water, dishes clattering in the sink, and chairs being slid back into place. Emily gets up and hides the candle holder in her top dresser drawer under her tights, though there is still no sign of Lenora. The back door rattles shut, and from her bedroom window, Emily watches her uncle walk toward his car. Before opening the door, he pauses, pats the hood, and grins, then climbs in and drives away.

— Bye. She sighs deeply, her nose pressed up against the glass, fogging it up.