DAN RIVAS

Dan Rivas has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Michigan, where he won three Hopwood Awards. His work can be found in Brick, Oregon Humanities, Jabberwock Review, and other publications. He lives in Portland, Oregon.

JESUS IN YOUR HEART

When I was twelve, I thought I was going to hell. I sure as shit didn’t think I was Jesus. But people see what they want to see and in me they saw a boy-giant, six feet tall with a razor-burned face whom God put on this planet and in this church to glorify his name. The men punched my shoulder and in their mixed-up way called me “Samson.” The women took my hands into theirs and squeezed as if checking the ripeness of oranges. Everyone seemed to want a piece of me.

I knew what was coming that Sunday in January, even before Pastor Schiller caught my eye and cornered my mom and me after church.

“Do you have Jesus in your heart?” he said, looking up at me, my shoulders between his hands. It was a kind of party trick he pulled on all us kids. He knew a young heart could be an inhospitable place. He also knew that we knew there was only one right answer. The more we squirmed, the more we could see of his big square teeth.

“Yes, Sir,” I said, playing my part.

“That’s good,” he said, rocking on his toes and nodding expectantly. My Sunday School teacher, Mark Wortham, stood next to him, chewing the inside of his lip, shifting from foot to foot as if he had to go to the bathroom.

“The Easter pageant is coming up and there’s no Easter miracle without Jesus, amen?”

“Amen,” my mom said, clutching a nearly empty packet of tissues. Mr. Wortham nodded eagerly.

“What do you think, Big Guy? Will you be Jesus in our Easter pageant?”

Pastor Schiller smoothed his slick pewter hair. Mr. Wortham pressed his palms together at his waist. I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t have to say anything.

“He’ll do it,” my mom said, grabbing my elbow. “He’d be thrilled.”

Mr. Wortham let out a chirp of relief. My mom dabbed her eyes.

“Are you thrilled, Son?” Pastor Schiller asked, his furrowed brow somehow double its usual size.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

I went to Hillcrest Assembly of God because it was important to my mom, even though I never understood all the shouting and shaking and tears, or why every Sunday one of a handful of regulars stood up in the middle of the service to make tumbling, trilling sounds that were supposed to be messages from God. “Filled with the spirit,” they called it. “Speaking in tongues.” It was all explained to me many times, and I suppose I got why people would want this geyser of feeling to erupt inside them. Even then I understood how weeping and prostration in front of a crowd could be cathartic. But I didn’t really feel it inside me, that spirit, though I tried for many years to find it, praying hard and asking forgiveness, asking Jesus into my heart. Maybe it didn’t work because I did it for my mom, who sobbed from her pew each week, quietly asking for a forgiveness that never seemed to come. I wanted her to see that I could be good the way she was good.

Good means something different to me now, but back then I thought I was bad. I swore, broke things, was greedy and jealous. At school, I called kids names and tried to get away with small pranks. I guess I can see now that I wasn’t much worse than most kids, but I always felt bad about myself, was worried that I had a wayward nature, especially when I became overwhelmed with lust, which was more often than I want to admit, even now.

In those days, I swelled and ached to see bodies, especially girls’ bodies. Their lips, cheeks, shoulders, legs, feet, butts, thighs, breasts—I wanted to look at and touch every part of them, both girls my age and most women, even if they were decades older. I especially couldn’t take my eyes off Jodie Schiller, the pastor’s daughter. She had long dark hair and naturally pink lips that smiled like she knew something the rest of us didn’t. She was small but mature in ways other girls our age never could be. She didn’t shrink or try to hide. She led with her chin, stood tall with her chest out as if about to take flight, and seemed comfortable in her own skin, despite her father always telling her to be more lady-like. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. She was wholly herself. To someone who didn’t know who he was or wanted to be, she seemed magical.

It didn’t matter to me that the other kids at church thought she was weird because she liked to doodle fairies and mythical creatures in a little notebook. She also could be loud, shouting at kids to get their attention or laughing with her whole body when she found something funny. And she had a temper. She punched Lance Dunbar one Halloween for calling her a witch and once pulled Amanda Tayon’s hair nearly out of her head when Amanda tried to flip through her sketchbook. Somehow, all that made her more attractive to me. She didn’t let them tell her who she was supposed to be. She didn’t give them that power over her.

On the drive home that Sunday, newly crowned the King of kings and the Lord of lords, I imagined myself up there in front of the whole church, Jodie looking at me admiringly, my mom crying happy tears for once, even my dad in the pews smiling proudly.

“It’s a big honor,” my mom said, humming as she drove. “Pastor Schiller himself chose you.”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” I said.

“Cool?” She laughed, looking at me in the mirror, the redness of crying for the last hour of worship service nearly faded from her eyes.

She seemed to want to say more, but went back to humming instead. It took me a minute to recognize the song, but then I heard it. I’m so glad Jesus lifted me. Our car floated through the quiet Sunday streets as if carried by a gentle wind—lifted, as the hymn says.  

Three months later, it was Easter and we were late for church. My mom speed-walked me from our dirty green Chevy Nova to the front doors. My dad limped behind us in his Mexican wedding shirt and lightly stained pants.

“There he is,” Pastor Schiller called out. Mr. Wortham clapped once and said, “Praise the Lord.” They looked like they’d been waiting for a while.

“I try to tell him to get dressed and comb his hair, but he never listens,” my mom said, as if she weren’t the one who was late to everything.

“‘Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.’ Proverbs twenty-two, six,” Pastor Schiller said.

“Yes, Pastor,” my mom said. She stood up a little straighter and smoothed the front of her dress.

Pastor Schiller reached past my mom to shake my dad’s hand. “Mr. Garcia, good to see you.”

My dad was normally a jovial man. Big guys with grease-stained hands liked to tell him jokes and slap him on the back because of how he laughed with his whole body, shaking all over like an astronaut on a rocket ship. People called him “Nacho,” or “Chips,” or “Sharp” and he called them “Boss.” But the two times a year he came to church he was someone else, a Mr. Garcia who said little and wore a somber face.

Pastor Schiller pointed at my dad’s foot. “You hurt yourself?”

“It’s nothing,” he said.

It wasn’t nothing. He’d been limping for weeks. I’d seen the bloody socks in the laundry. But he wouldn’t go to the doctor. He and my mom argued about it a lot.

“I’ll pray for you,” Pastor Schiller said.

“Thank you, Pastor,” my mom said.

With each passing second, Mr. Wortham seemed to grow more anxious, his hands flitting from his elbows to his chin to his curly hair like birds searching for food.

“Settle down, Mark. This isn’t Broadway,” Pastor Schiller growled. Mr. Wortham clasped his hands together and lowered his head.

Three years earlier, Mr. Wortham had spent a thousand dollars of the church’s money on the Easter pageant without Pastor Schiller’s permission. He bought wooden crosses that could hold an adult man and real palm branches from California. After that, Mr. Wortham was asked to take a break from pageants, which broke the guy’s heart. He loved church so much. Now his chance at redemption was here and it was off to a bad start.

Pastor Schiller turned his back to Mr. Wortham and fussed with my collar. “This is the day the Lord hath made,” he said to me. “The day He gave His only begotten son. Don’t forget that.” He paused as if to demonstrate that he could hold us there as long as he wanted, then let go of my collar and nudged me toward the door. “All right,” he said.

A rush of air spilled out of Mr. Wortham’s mouth as he grabbed me by the elbow. “Mrs. Gorley is waiting. Let’s get you in costume.”

“Good boy,” Pastor Schiller said behind us.

“Yes, Pastor,” my mom answered.

The church basement was full of kids wearing someone’s idea of biblical robes. A few of them stood patiently as ladies pinned on headdresses or fitted beards to their soft faces, while the others ran around or whispered their lines to themselves.

Huddled near the stairs was a skulk of fourth-graders plus Randy Breem, a sixth-grader who cultivated a gang of younger boys. Randy had a sharp tongue and won fights because no one knew how to spar with a boy with cerebral palsy. His left arm was curled like the fiddlehead of a fern and he walked with a lurching limp, but he had a strong right cross and was surprisingly agile, especially if he got you off your feet. It didn’t matter that I was twice his size. He hit me in the gut once and I swear I couldn’t breathe for 10 seconds.

I tried to keep my head down hoping Randy and the boys wouldn’t notice me. No chance of that.

“Ooh la la. Is it date night?” Randy said seeing Mr. Wortham holding my arm. The other boys laughed. Mr. Wortham tightened his grip and shook my arm. I pretended not to hear.

Up ahead, Jodie sat in a preschool chair, resting her elbow on a low table and twirling her hair, her white robe cascading around her like a waterfall. She was alone, hunched over her notebook like always. The one good thing about being Jesus was that Jodie was Mary Magdalen and I got to touch her twice during the performance, once on the head to cast out demons and once with my hand in hers as the Dunbar twins carried me to my tomb. Touching her was also my greatest fear. In rehearsals, I often got the words wrong during the demon scene; a buzzing blankness would fill my mind as she stood before me, her head slightly bowed, waiting for the gentle press of my fingers against her forehead.

“Hey,” I said and she looked up, her arm protectively covering her sketches.

“Hey,” she said back, a surprised smile on her lips. She seemed a little happy to see me.

“Come,” Mr. Wortham said quickly, walking faster.

“I like your costume,” I called over my shoulder.

“What?” she asked, but by then I was face-to-face with a frowning Mrs. Gorley.

“You’re late,” Mrs. Gorley growled. “Would Jesus be late?”

“No. Sorry,” I said.

“Save the sorries,” she snapped and turned to retrieve my costume.

Mrs. Gorley was a stout woman, four-foot something with dark eyes, black-dyed hair pulled into a bun, and a mouth turned down into a permanent scowl. She’d been my second-grade Sunday School teacher and was known for twisting the ears of boys who misbehaved. It only happened to me once, but I can still feel the pinch of her fingers and hear the crunch of cartilage as she turned my ear like the dial of an old TV. She also managed the church’s supply of ancient, scratchy costumes.

As I waited, I rolled up my script like a baseball bat and swung at imaginary pitches.

“Did you rehearse your lines last night?” Mr. Wortham asked.

“Yes,” I said, which was a half-truth. The day before, at dress rehearsal, I’d fumbled or blanked on at least a dozen lines. Mr. Wortham made me promise to study the script when I got home and I did read through the parts that gave me trouble. But did the pageant have to include every miracle? Rise and walk! Demons begone! You’re healed! And you’re healed! And you’re healed! I knew the Jesus story. I figured I could ad lib if needed.

“Don’t worry about yesterday,” he said, leaning close as if sharing a secret. “It’s the show that counts.”

Mrs. Gorley returned with a dusty white robe and a blue sash. “Put this on, then come back for the hair.”

I started to duck into my robe, but Mrs. Gorley slapped at my hands.

“You have to take off your clothes! People will see your collar and cuffs!”

“Sorry,” I said.

“What did I tell you? Just do it!” she hollered and waved me away.

In the bathroom, Randy and the boys were throwing wet paper towels against the walls. “Here comes Jesus,” Randy said when he saw me. The boys bowed mockingly.

Randy had been picking on me more since Mr. Wortham had cast him as the “lame man” who Jesus tells to rise and walk. I wanted to tell him I understood how it felt for people to decide who you are based on your looks, but I didn’t because talking about feelings around Randy could get you hurt.

“Are your healing powers warmed up?” Randy asked.

“It’s just a stupid play,” I said.

“A stupid play? Are you calling Jesus stupid?” The minions snickered.

“That’s not what I meant.”

  “You’re going to embarrass yourself out there,” he sneered. “You’re too chumpy to be Jesus.” Now the boys laughed loudly, falling over each other.

“I have to put on my costume,” I said weakly and ducked into a stall.

  Randy stood outside the stall door. “Hide! That’s what Jesus would do!”

The boys went back to throwing pulp grenades and I sat on the toilet listening to the slap of wet paper hitting the tile walls. Randy was right. I wasn’t going to fool anyone.

A moment later, the bathroom door squeaked open and I heard Mr. Wortham screech at the boys to clean up their mess. There was a thud, thud, thud of wet paper landing in the garbage can, then the scuffing of feet hurrying out.

“How’s it going in there?” Mr. Wortham asked, knocking on the stall door.

“Fine,” I said. “Almost ready.”

I quickly shed the clothes my mom bought me for Easter, then ducked into my robe and threw the sash over one shoulder. The tile was cold under my tube-socked feet and I felt almost naked. I put my shoes back on and it helped a little.

“Let me see,” Mr. Wortham said.

I opened the stall door and stepped out.

He frowned. “Take off your shoes and socks.”

I did as I was told, then stood straight in my bare feet.

Mr. Wortham put a hand over his mouth, reached toward me, then stopped himself. I thought I’d done something wrong. I pulled at the sash and smoothed my robe.

“You look… exquisite,” Mr. Wortham said quietly. “Like the son of God.”

The sash fell off my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gorley will pin that,” he said.

I waited for him to lead me back to everyone, but he kept looking at me. I could feel sweat gathering on my forehead and above my ears, heat rushing up from under the collar of my robe.

“I got to be Jesus in a pageant when I was your age,” he said. “That day, I received the Holy Spirit for the first time. It was like a hummingbird in my chest.”

I knew a feeling like that. Sometimes, when I saw Jodie, an energy rushed through me and shook me all over. Was that what he meant? I didn’t know how to read the way he looked at me, the expectation in his eyes, and the pain, too, as if the hummingbird had stabbed him in the heart with its sharp beak.

“We’re late, aren’t we?” I asked, desperate to get out of there. It seemed to wake him from his dream.

“Yes!” he said, and his eyes grew twice their size. He opened the door and pushed me all the way to Mrs. Gorley, who quickly pinned my sash and fitted a wig of long, wavy hair on my head.

“Son of God you ain’t,” she said, chuckling to herself as she ejected me from the racks.

I stumbled into the crowd, plastic hair tickling my face. Mr. Wortham, eyes on me, clapped his hands three times. “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” he said in his high, strained voice. Jordan Blaine and Mandy Delafuente stood next to him smiling like gameshow contestants.

Jordan had been Jesus three years earlier and everyone agreed that he was the perfect son of God—handsome, nice clothes, big smile, intense blue eyes that made you feel chosen. The whole church loved Jordan. He was in a Christian rock band and was the star of the Hillcrest Christian School basketball team. People talked about him becoming pastor someday. Mandy was his girlfriend, the Madonna to his Warren Beatty. Her parents didn’t go to church, so people tended to treat her as if she were a living miracle, like a girl pulled from a well. She had big hair, wore tight dresses, and prayed loudly, saying, “Yes, Jesus!” over and over. Randy said her prayers were “orgasmic.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I knew I liked to watch her pray.

“We’re blessed today to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” Mr. Wortham said.

Randy whooped and barked like an audience member at the Arsenio Hall Show. Jodie rolled her eyes at me and I chuckled, trying to keep my heart from jumping out my throat.

“Today’s a day of redemption. It’s the day the world learned the good news of everlasting life. Do you know what I mean?”

There was an uncomfortable silence as he continued. “I asked Jordan to pray with us. Some of you might remember that Jordan was Jesus a few years ago. It was a beautiful Easter. Folks were born again that day.” He got teary-eyed and his face turned red. He coughed. “Jordan, will you pray?”

Jordan stepped forward, nodded once, then said, “Let us pray.”

We were supposed to keep our eyes closed, but I watched Jordan. He leaned forward, face turned toward the ceiling as if he expected to be carried to heaven at any moment, as if it might already be happening. Jodie watched him too and I don’t know how to describe what I saw in her eyes except that I would have given anything for her to look at me that way. Then I heard my name. “And, Lord, please be with Sam as he shows the power of your love and grace. Amen.”

When everyone opened their eyes, they looked at me as if they expected me to say something. Fortunately, Mr. Wortham rushed over before I had a chance. “Let’s go up,” he called, then put both hands on my back and guided me to the stairs as the disciples, miracle seekers, and Romans, along with a few of their mothers, filed behind us.

In the stairwell, we could hear the congregation singing “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” I sing because I’m hap-py! I sing because I’m free!

Pastor Schiller was at the top of the stairs waiting for us. When I reached him, he thumped me on the chest with the back of his hand, stopping me in my tracks. “Who has Jesus in his heart?” he asked.

“I do,” I said, feeling the heat and clamor of the kids behind me.

“You have his hair now, too!” He giggled, his hands cupped in front of him as if he’d caught a bug.

Mr. Wortham pushed me forward and the procession continued. “Keep these kids in line, Mark,” Pastor Schiller called after us.

“Yes Pastor,” Mr. Wortham said.

I knew Jodie was close behind and turned to look for her. Pastor Schiller had pulled her aside and seemed to be admonishing, which happened often. I found it amazing that she never protested or fought back. She seemed to believe him when he told her she wasn’t good enough.

The push of the crowd carried me forward and we massed against the long windows that looked into the sanctuary. Mr. Wortham and the moms rained a plague of shushes upon us as they arranged us by our roles, disciples up front, beggars and the lame over there, the palm frond wavers and little children and Roman guards each in their places.

I could see my mom in her pew singing through tight lips and staring straight ahead. My dad must have heard us in the hallway because he turned around and our eyes met before she tugged at his shoulder to face forward.

It used to make me happy to see my dad in church because in my mind it meant at least on that one day he might not go to hell. My Sunday School teachers used to talk a lot about hell. On Sunday nights I sometimes had nightmares about my dad burning up in a lake of fire and pulling me down with him. I knew my mom also worried about his soul, so I didn’t tell her about my nightmares. Once, I told him, though.

“Those gabachos really fill your head, don’t they?” he said, laughing and smoothing my hair with his big, rough hand.

“It seemed real,” I said.

“Hijo, think about it. What kind of God wants people to suffer like that? That’s a White people God.”

I hadn’t known that different people could have different gods, but it made sense once he said it. Didn’t Hillcrest host separate Spanish services with people I rarely saw, as if they went to an entirely different church? But then, which God was my God? I wasn’t Mexican. Or White. I was both. I worried and wondered: Was there a God for me? Maybe being mixed was why I was never filled with the holy spirit.

I felt hands squeeze my shoulder and a voice behind me say, “Hey there!”

I turned around and splashed into Jordan’s big blue eyes. Mandy was next to him chewing gum and grinning in her smirky way.

“I just wanted to say God bless. The Lord’s going to use you today to perform miracles,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, my face red hot in the light of Jordan’s eyes.

Mandy squealed and pouted her lips. “You’re so cute,” she said. I breathed in the heady aroma of her hair spray.

“Thanks,” I said again.

“You have Jesus in your heart, Brother. You’ll be all right.” Jordan punched me softly in the chest. Mandy nodded and smiled as if she knew this was all acting. Then they turned and walked away, slipping past the double doors into the sanctuary, shaking hands and grasping elbows like the Clintons on the campaign trail.

I skimmed through my script again, mouthing my lines. I was getting super nervous. There were like 200 people out there. Would anyone believe I was Jesus?

“Don’t worry, you’ll be great,” a voice whispered.

I turned and there was Jodie, smiling crookedly, almost bashful with her chin tucked into her shoulder.

“Thanks. I mean, it’s just a stupid church play, right?” I whispered back, trying to look like I didn’t care.

“What did Jordan say to you?” she asked, looking around to make sure no one else heard.

“He said he saw Jesus in my heart.”

“Wow. That’s amazing.” She seemed to float away for a moment. I wanted to reach out, take her hand and tell her to stay right there with me, but I was afraid to know what she really thought of me.

“You can’t go out there with that!” Mr. Wortham hissed over my shoulder and I watched the script disappear from my hands. Jodie waved silently and backed away.

“Listen, as soon as this song’s over, we’re on,” he said, holding my shoulders and looking me square in the eyes.  I took a deep breath and nodded once. “I’ll be in the front pew. If you forget a line, find me.”

I could tell he wanted to say more, but he let go, smiled queasily, then entered the sanctuary.

A moment later, the singing stopped. I stood behind the double doors and listened to Pastor Schiller say, “Today, Mark Wortham and the kids have something special for you. Mark always does, doesn’t he?”

A chuckle rippled through the congregation.

“The Easter story is about God’s promise. It’s the story of how He sacrificed His only son. And why did He do that? So that you and I could have everlasting life! That’s the truth about Jesus. It’s the truth that will set you free. Salvation’s powerful, isn’t it?”

A chorus of “Amen!” rang through the rafters.

“Let the children show us God’s mercy this morning.”

Pastor Schiller stepped down and took his seat in the front row next to Mr. Wortham. There was quiet in the pews. The disciples crowded and jostled around me, pushing for fun. Suddenly the doors opened. From somewhere offstage, Becky Brandon, the narrator, read: “There was a man from Galilee. Born in a manger to a carpenter and his wife, word spread about his teachings and miracles.”

I led the disciples forward and began to speak, gesturing with my arms the way I imagined a prophet might explain the mysteries of the universe. In front of everyone, I felt more alive than ever. A rush of wind seemed to blow through me, lifting me, transforming me into someone else: wise, sensitive, judicious. I could see everything. I knew everything. That Sunday morning, I preached from a stairstep mountaintop, was baptized by Bryan Hanson, walked on paper water, and multiplied a basket of dinner rolls.

My favorite part of the pageant was when I got to sit with the preschoolers and let them climb all over me. I liked how small and persistent they were, how they had this energy inside them that no one understood or knew how to contain. “Bring the little children unto me,” I said and waved toward Ms. Polly, their teacher, who stared at me, arms out as if she’d been about to pick up a load of laundry. I smiled what I thought was a beatific smile.

Then I saw Jodie standing in the aisle, her face crumpled as if she were about to cry. “Hey!” she said to me in front of the whole church. “What are you doing?”

Randy and the others were behind her waiting for their miracles, too. I’d accidentally skipped them all.

Mr. Wortham fluttered his hands. “Keep going,” he whispered.

Pastor Schiller turned in his pew toward Jodie, “That’s enough, young lady,” he said in his most commanding voice. Behind her the frond wavers began their procession, already moving on to the next scene.

“I can’t believe you skipped me!” she said, turning around and marching out.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Mr. Wortham said, half whispering and half standing.

“Wait!” I called after her, but she didn’t stop. She pushed past Mrs. Gorley and went right out the church’s front doors.

“Keep going,” Mr. Wortham said again. My mom frowned at me, her face red, nostrils flaring. My dad slouched a little, looking tired and uncomfortable. I stood there while the congregation stared dumbfounded. Who could save this? Not me. I didn’t even want to be Jesus.

I ran too, out the side door and around the church to the front where I saw Jodie disappearing into the neighborhood.

“Hey!” I called. She saw me and started running again. I took off after her, bare feet on the pavement, a homemade robe and Jesus hair flying behind me. She ran two blocks before she stopped, spun around and pointed her finger at me.

“You’re a terrible Jesus. You know that?”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“You wouldn’t even be a good Judas. Mr. Wortham would have been stupid to cast you as blind beggar number three!”

She was so close I could touch her. I felt miserable and giddy all at once.

“I know. I was, like, biblically bad,” I said.

“Like plague of locusts bad.”

“Like Job with boils. Like God is testing the faith of our whole church by making me the worst Jesus ever.”

“There were people who stopped being Christian after seeing that pageant,” she said and we both burst out laughing.

We sat on the sidewalk to catch our breath, her shoulder almost touching mine.

“It’s so stupid,” she said, picking up a piece of crumbling concrete and tossing it across the street.

“What is?”

“I thought if I did good in the pageant my dad would relax a little. Like, not lecture me or keep telling me all the ways I’m going to hell. I just wanted to be all right for a little while, you know?”

“Yeah, my mom wanted me to be Jesus. That’s the only reason I’m wearing this wig,” I said.

She winced dramatically. “It’s not a good look.”

“Everyone’s going to be pissed at us,” I said.

“Same as it ever was,” she replied.

We sat in the cool quiet of a Sunday morning, ancient fir trees waving above us. Being out there when we were supposed to be in church made me feel brave, like anything was possible.

“I like you,” I said.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It just does.”

She smiled and shook her head. She didn’t tell me I was an idiot or say “gross,” which I took as a good sign. I leaned into her and savored the particular warmth and pressure of her body. I could have stayed like that for the rest of the day. Maybe my whole life.

“Let’s be centaurs,” she said.

“Like goat people?”

“That’s a satyr. Centaurs are horse people.”

“Okay,” I said. I reached for a pinch of grass, put it in my mouth, and chewed. It tasted bright and bitter and primordial, like when no one knew there was an Earth or had any idea what this place might become.

She laughed and leaned over to nibble the tops of the grass, then jumped up and began galloping in the street. I galloped after her and we chased each other, making authoritative pronouncements that were interrupted by our own neighing.

My mother’s shame kept me from going back to that church. On the following Sunday, we drove to the next town over where there was another Assembly of God with a congregation of its own shouting, weeping believers. That time in the street was the last time I saw Jodie. She’s a middle-aged woman now if she’s even still alive, no doubt wearied by a world inhospitable to a pastor’s daughter filled with strangeness. I try not to let time take her. I still think of her as the girl I saw last, loud and free in that abandoned street, her heart a fantastical creature, my own heart chasing after her, even now.

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