Sullivan burned down the world, and then you lived in the places that withstood it, the ones that were strong to begin with. You loved this. You discovered that you could think too.
“Let me see those pictures,” said Rusty. Across the aisle, Joey O’Connor was listening. We were on Highway 80 now, crossing the bridge over the Worthington River. The ground dropped away and became water, then rose up to meet us on the other side after an interval of shrimp boats.
The rest of the kids were in clumps of Go Fish, or flicking paper footballs, or singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” The teachers were being tolerant. The book had made us too quiet. Mrs. Barnes was turned towards us. Wedges of sky covered her eyes. She said, “Bring me whatever that is, Mr. Scalisi.”
Rusty passed the book, the guilt, to Tim. Tim stared at him. Rusty shrugged. Tim swayed up to the front and presented the book to Mrs. Barnes as if it was a museum piece. Mr. Thomas watched in the big square mirror.
“Blake,” Mrs. Barnes said, turning her eye mirrors on Tim. “A little advanced, I think, even for you.”
“It’s written simply enough for a six-year-old.”
“So are the instructions for handguns.” She flipped the pages and they cascaded in her lenses.
Sister Rosaria wagged her head at Tim, disappointed again. “You can pick this up after school,” she said in her fluted nasal voice. “We’ll have a literary discussion.”
Tim sulked back, mouthing something. He sat behind Rusty and said, “Thanks, buddy.”
The book was a cult relic now. Rusty had memorized a proverb and was repeating it like mantra: “The nakedness of woman is the work of God, the nakedness of woman …”
Tim said, “William Blake saw angels when he was a boy. He was really small, even after he grew up, but he once stood trial for beating up a soldier and throwing him out of his garden. Blake and his wife liked to sit naked in that garden and read from Genesis.”
From across the aisle, Joey O’Connor said, “Jim Morrison named his band The Doors after something Blake wrote about cleansing the doors of perception.” Joey collected records.
“Is that right?” Tim said. “Hey, I told you all Joey wasn’t a moron.” Tim’s hangover dissolved in the enthusiasm for his hero. “Blake wrote the poetry, drew all the pictures, and even printed it himself. If he was alive now, I figure he’d be working for the comic books. That’s what I’m going to do. Imagine a comic that would completely change the world, save it, like a new Bible.”
“I thought y’all were supposed to be atheists or cubists or whatever.” Joey twitched behind his glasses. His kinship to Sister Ascension, our principal, horrified him into occasional blasphemies of his own. “I mean, do you believe in God or what?”
“Not the name-brand God they serve here,” Tim said. “That old guy with the beard, granting wishes out of the clouds to whoever says the most rosaries. That’s bullshit. I believe in everything.” Tim crossed his arms and sat back, a small king happy among eager faces. Even some of our ordinary classmates,the ones he labeled lemmings, were listening. “For me, the dog that pissed on the altar Sunday was as holy as anything else in this world. Holier.”
The guys snickered.
“God
is
dog
spelled backwards,” Tim said, and his eyes flicked at me.
“Duh,” Rusty said. “
Wow
spelled backwards is
wow
.”
When Tim first appeared at Blessed Heart he had a strange accent and alien ideas. He read important books and had a chemistry set and knew the names of famous artists. I didn’t know I was Southern until I saw what the North had done to him. He said he’d trade me what he knew and teach me how to draw if I’d teach him about the Georgia outdoors. I didn’t know what the hell he meant. I was a generic residential kid, not backwoodsy, not even suburban.
He wanted me to guide him into the woods for some adventure. So, about three months
“Let me see those pictures,” said Rusty. Across the aisle, Joey O’Connor was listening. We were on Highway 80 now, crossing the bridge over the Worthington River. The ground dropped away and became water, then rose up to meet us on the other side after an interval of shrimp boats.
The rest of the kids were in clumps of Go Fish, or flicking paper footballs, or singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” The teachers were being tolerant. The book had made us too quiet. Mrs. Barnes was turned towards us. Wedges of sky covered her eyes. She said, “Bring me whatever that is, Mr. Scalisi.”
Rusty passed the book, the guilt, to Tim. Tim stared at him. Rusty shrugged. Tim swayed up to the front and presented the book to Mrs. Barnes as if it was a museum piece. Mr. Thomas watched in the big square mirror.
“Blake,” Mrs. Barnes said, turning her eye mirrors on Tim. “A little advanced, I think, even for you.”
“It’s written simply enough for a six-year-old.”
“So are the instructions for handguns.” She flipped the pages and they cascaded in her lenses.
Sister Rosaria wagged her head at Tim, disappointed again. “You can pick this up after school,” she said in her fluted nasal voice. “We’ll have a literary discussion.”
Tim sulked back, mouthing something. He sat behind Rusty and said, “Thanks, buddy.”
The book was a cult relic now. Rusty had memorized a proverb and was repeating it like mantra: “The nakedness of woman is the work of God, the nakedness of woman …”
Tim said, “William Blake saw angels when he was a boy. He was really small, even after he grew up, but he once stood trial for beating up a soldier and throwing him out of his garden. Blake and his wife liked to sit naked in that garden and read from Genesis.”
From across the aisle, Joey O’Connor said, “Jim Morrison named his band The Doors after something Blake wrote about cleansing the doors of perception.” Joey collected records.
“Is that right?” Tim said. “Hey, I told you all Joey wasn’t a moron.” Tim’s hangover dissolved in the enthusiasm for his hero. “Blake wrote the poetry, drew all the pictures, and even printed it himself. If he was alive now, I figure he’d be working for the comic books. That’s what I’m going to do. Imagine a comic that would completely change the world, save it, like a new Bible.”
“I thought y’all were supposed to be atheists or cubists or whatever.” Joey twitched behind his glasses. His kinship to Sister Ascension, our principal, horrified him into occasional blasphemies of his own. “I mean, do you believe in God or what?”
“Not the name-brand God they serve here,” Tim said. “That old guy with the beard, granting wishes out of the clouds to whoever says the most rosaries. That’s bullshit. I believe in everything.” Tim crossed his arms and sat back, a small king happy among eager faces. Even some of our ordinary classmates,the ones he labeled lemmings, were listening. “For me, the dog that pissed on the altar Sunday was as holy as anything else in this world. Holier.”
The guys snickered.
“God
is
dog
spelled backwards,” Tim said, and his eyes flicked at me.
“Duh,” Rusty said. “
Wow
spelled backwards is
wow
.”
When Tim first appeared at Blessed Heart he had a strange accent and alien ideas. He read important books and had a chemistry set and knew the names of famous artists. I didn’t know I was Southern until I saw what the North had done to him. He said he’d trade me what he knew and teach me how to draw if I’d teach him about the Georgia outdoors. I didn’t know what the hell he meant. I was a generic residential kid, not backwoodsy, not even suburban.
He wanted me to guide him into the woods for some adventure. So, about three months
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