that other tent, when Mary had opened her mouth to say those words, words she would take back now and swallow, hold down with all the bile, words that had changed the world and made her mother hard.
She went.
There was almost applause. It seemed there should be; the same rustle, small intake of breath, whispers of recognition, as at any talk show or lecture. She thought that if there ever really was applause, she would flee, away from her mother and God, away from everything. That would be the end of it; she would live up in the mountains, in a cave or an abandoned cabin. When winter came, she would cover herself with leaves and tree bark, deep and warm, and she would hibernate and think of nothing, and no one would find her.
The lights were hot; they were always too hot. There were June bugs out tonight, and mosquitoes as big as thumbnails. She looked up; at the top of the center pole, where it was dark green from the shadows made by the artificial light and canvas, a lone wasp circled. He landed on the pole, took off, alighted again.
Already they were starting up from the back aisles, beginning to move out into the long line that would be endless, the line of sunken faces, eyes that begged, hopeless hungry stares, rasping breath, clutching fingers, the words, "Please, please . . ."
"Brothers and sisters," Uncle Henry said. His long gray-panted leg was tall as a smokestack as he stood next to her. She refused to look up at him.
She closed her eyes.
Oh, God. What is it you want me to do?
She saw that face again; that first face. How old was she then? Five years old. The same sawdust, the same smell of tent and summer sweat, the same anticipation. She had been out in one of the folding chairs with her mother, next to the aisle. She remembered her feet swinging because they didn't reach the floor. She remembered someone in the back singing "Precious Lord" in a low voice, almost under the breath, ashamed or unwilling to share it. She remembered a fat man across the aisle from her, slapping at mosquitoes on his neck, the brown spot on his huge, almost bald head looking purple under the lights. She remembered the endless line filing past her, the cripples, the legless in wheelchairs, the bone-thin, the wheezing, the coughing, the weeping fat women with older women on their arms. They passed her like frames in a movie film, one frame for each broken human being.
And then one of them, a man with long matted hair, and a beard and sores on his face, and spittle on his lips, collapsed in the aisle next to her. He moaned and held his arms out blindly. And without thinking she held out her hand over him. And then she cried out the one word that changed her life. "Light!" she cried. For there was a great light where the man had been, a great mass of luminescence, near perfect in its fullness but for a spot, a blemish in the perfection, and she cried, "His leg! His leg!"
And then they carried him off, and the doctors looked at his leg and found what was wrong there, and then their eyes were always on her. They called her a reader, and the hardness came to her mother's eyes, the hard light of a calling, and the lines of people came to her, and there were tents all summer long, the same tents and smells, and the churches and school auditoriums and halls in the winter, Uncle Henry driving them through the freeze to see the people, see their light and tell them where to look, reading them, the mouths and eyes that begged, "Read! Tell me what it is!"
God, please tell me . . .
The mosquitoes were frenzied now. The heat of the lights, the closeness of the human bodies, the smell of hot blood, drove them around the tent in slapping clouds. The wasp, Mary saw, had settled on the pole and clung still as death, watching in the near shadows what happened below. Was that God? she thought. Was that Him up there, watching to see that she did His will, waiting to sting her with the poison of death if she did not do as He commanded?
She tugged
She went.
There was almost applause. It seemed there should be; the same rustle, small intake of breath, whispers of recognition, as at any talk show or lecture. She thought that if there ever really was applause, she would flee, away from her mother and God, away from everything. That would be the end of it; she would live up in the mountains, in a cave or an abandoned cabin. When winter came, she would cover herself with leaves and tree bark, deep and warm, and she would hibernate and think of nothing, and no one would find her.
The lights were hot; they were always too hot. There were June bugs out tonight, and mosquitoes as big as thumbnails. She looked up; at the top of the center pole, where it was dark green from the shadows made by the artificial light and canvas, a lone wasp circled. He landed on the pole, took off, alighted again.
Already they were starting up from the back aisles, beginning to move out into the long line that would be endless, the line of sunken faces, eyes that begged, hopeless hungry stares, rasping breath, clutching fingers, the words, "Please, please . . ."
"Brothers and sisters," Uncle Henry said. His long gray-panted leg was tall as a smokestack as he stood next to her. She refused to look up at him.
She closed her eyes.
Oh, God. What is it you want me to do?
She saw that face again; that first face. How old was she then? Five years old. The same sawdust, the same smell of tent and summer sweat, the same anticipation. She had been out in one of the folding chairs with her mother, next to the aisle. She remembered her feet swinging because they didn't reach the floor. She remembered someone in the back singing "Precious Lord" in a low voice, almost under the breath, ashamed or unwilling to share it. She remembered a fat man across the aisle from her, slapping at mosquitoes on his neck, the brown spot on his huge, almost bald head looking purple under the lights. She remembered the endless line filing past her, the cripples, the legless in wheelchairs, the bone-thin, the wheezing, the coughing, the weeping fat women with older women on their arms. They passed her like frames in a movie film, one frame for each broken human being.
And then one of them, a man with long matted hair, and a beard and sores on his face, and spittle on his lips, collapsed in the aisle next to her. He moaned and held his arms out blindly. And without thinking she held out her hand over him. And then she cried out the one word that changed her life. "Light!" she cried. For there was a great light where the man had been, a great mass of luminescence, near perfect in its fullness but for a spot, a blemish in the perfection, and she cried, "His leg! His leg!"
And then they carried him off, and the doctors looked at his leg and found what was wrong there, and then their eyes were always on her. They called her a reader, and the hardness came to her mother's eyes, the hard light of a calling, and the lines of people came to her, and there were tents all summer long, the same tents and smells, and the churches and school auditoriums and halls in the winter, Uncle Henry driving them through the freeze to see the people, see their light and tell them where to look, reading them, the mouths and eyes that begged, "Read! Tell me what it is!"
God, please tell me . . .
The mosquitoes were frenzied now. The heat of the lights, the closeness of the human bodies, the smell of hot blood, drove them around the tent in slapping clouds. The wasp, Mary saw, had settled on the pole and clung still as death, watching in the near shadows what happened below. Was that God? she thought. Was that Him up there, watching to see that she did His will, waiting to sting her with the poison of death if she did not do as He commanded?
She tugged
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