emotional Natalie and Little Blondie both felt after the last group witnessing they attended, what a wonderful sermon Natalie had missed the day before. Sherry definitely connected with Pastor Jim’s words, and I suspected the reason had something to do with growing up in Heaven, where people must have some sort of handbook to understand all the different customs.
While I listened to Sherry bubble with excitement, I counted the signs for Baby Grace sprouting from the lawns of the houses we passed—fourteen in a half-mile stretch. Kids stood alongside their mailboxes, waiting for Ernie to stop, and the spaces inside the bus filled one after another. I read the graffiti someone had written—“Fighting Soybeans Rock” and “Mr. Gruberis a fag!!!!!”—on the seat in front of me. The multiple exclamation points implied Mr. Gruber—whoever he was—was gay in the extreme.
A lot of people work out their fear and suspicion by writing on public spaces. I looked to see if anything had been written about Natalie.
The bus picked up speed. We traveled along County Road 14, passing farms on either side of the road and combines finishing the harvest. I thought of Katy heading to first period, fortified by a grande mocha latte, her only worry not farting in math class. Meanwhile, the elementary school contingent in the back of the bus began singing “The Ants Go Marching.” City children walking to school don’t burst into musical numbers so spontaneously, and so at first the little wigglers confused me into thinking a tarantula was crawling around in the back seats, but after a minute I made sense of their voices.
The bus crested a hill. The singing stopped and kids shifted sides to look out the window at two metal buildings that I wouldn’t have paid attention to because they were so much like the other farm buildings I had seen on the trip between Des Moines and Heaven. I wiped fog off the bus window. The sheds were near a slue. Their metal sides glinted in the sun. A dirt road led in their direction.
“The police,” I heard the Amish girl say to one of the farm boys.
She pointed to a white pickup with red and blue lights mounted on the top, parked near one of the buildings.
“Maybe they discovered another baby,” one of the boys remarked.
I looked out the window.
All of rural Iowa is more or less the same. Objects just don’t stand out. No one glanced at Natalie after we rolled beyond the drive with the white truck. Ernie punched the gas, and the children started to sing again. I wondered what the etiquette was for getting them to tone it down. Singing children, though potentially uplifting, can be very hard on the ears.
8
ERNIE MAY HAVE CHOSEN HIS ROUTE TO COLLECT the largest number of passengers, or he wanted to hear “The Ants Go Marching” for thirty more minutes—either way, the length of the trip burned the song into my consciousness in a way that would surely have lasting consequences. The extra time, though, gave me a chance to overhear that not only were the huts in the field the place Baby Grace had been abandoned, they were also the local Big Bash hangout, home of many a megalocal superparty, always the last one, because the city council kept threatening to knock them down.
When Ernie finally turned in the drive of the high school, I felt on better footing with Heaven’s geography and more at ease with Natalie’s ability to keep her secret. No one had handcuffed her anddragged her to a police station. No one pointed a finger in her direction and said she was “the one.” A line formed in the aisle as the bus stopped. I hitched the elephant-knee look out of my tights and joined it. My future classmates gathered in groups near the doors of the school. Some of them were hot. It felt good to see hot boys. It reminded me of places in the world where Baby Grace’s ghost didn’t hover and cause me to feel guilty for a crime I didn’t commit.
Before I could learn names, introduce myself, make a
While I listened to Sherry bubble with excitement, I counted the signs for Baby Grace sprouting from the lawns of the houses we passed—fourteen in a half-mile stretch. Kids stood alongside their mailboxes, waiting for Ernie to stop, and the spaces inside the bus filled one after another. I read the graffiti someone had written—“Fighting Soybeans Rock” and “Mr. Gruberis a fag!!!!!”—on the seat in front of me. The multiple exclamation points implied Mr. Gruber—whoever he was—was gay in the extreme.
A lot of people work out their fear and suspicion by writing on public spaces. I looked to see if anything had been written about Natalie.
The bus picked up speed. We traveled along County Road 14, passing farms on either side of the road and combines finishing the harvest. I thought of Katy heading to first period, fortified by a grande mocha latte, her only worry not farting in math class. Meanwhile, the elementary school contingent in the back of the bus began singing “The Ants Go Marching.” City children walking to school don’t burst into musical numbers so spontaneously, and so at first the little wigglers confused me into thinking a tarantula was crawling around in the back seats, but after a minute I made sense of their voices.
The bus crested a hill. The singing stopped and kids shifted sides to look out the window at two metal buildings that I wouldn’t have paid attention to because they were so much like the other farm buildings I had seen on the trip between Des Moines and Heaven. I wiped fog off the bus window. The sheds were near a slue. Their metal sides glinted in the sun. A dirt road led in their direction.
“The police,” I heard the Amish girl say to one of the farm boys.
She pointed to a white pickup with red and blue lights mounted on the top, parked near one of the buildings.
“Maybe they discovered another baby,” one of the boys remarked.
I looked out the window.
All of rural Iowa is more or less the same. Objects just don’t stand out. No one glanced at Natalie after we rolled beyond the drive with the white truck. Ernie punched the gas, and the children started to sing again. I wondered what the etiquette was for getting them to tone it down. Singing children, though potentially uplifting, can be very hard on the ears.
8
ERNIE MAY HAVE CHOSEN HIS ROUTE TO COLLECT the largest number of passengers, or he wanted to hear “The Ants Go Marching” for thirty more minutes—either way, the length of the trip burned the song into my consciousness in a way that would surely have lasting consequences. The extra time, though, gave me a chance to overhear that not only were the huts in the field the place Baby Grace had been abandoned, they were also the local Big Bash hangout, home of many a megalocal superparty, always the last one, because the city council kept threatening to knock them down.
When Ernie finally turned in the drive of the high school, I felt on better footing with Heaven’s geography and more at ease with Natalie’s ability to keep her secret. No one had handcuffed her anddragged her to a police station. No one pointed a finger in her direction and said she was “the one.” A line formed in the aisle as the bus stopped. I hitched the elephant-knee look out of my tights and joined it. My future classmates gathered in groups near the doors of the school. Some of them were hot. It felt good to see hot boys. It reminded me of places in the world where Baby Grace’s ghost didn’t hover and cause me to feel guilty for a crime I didn’t commit.
Before I could learn names, introduce myself, make a
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