Part 22 (1/2)

Pain throbs. No, not pain, not even agony. Something there is no word for.

Something I can't fight. Can't fight. Can't.

All I can think to do is say, ”S-sorry.”

My head spins. My legs go numb.

Jerome catches me as I collapse, and my tears soak into his bleached white s.h.i.+rt. Okay, baby, he soothes. Go ahead and cry.

I should jerk away, out of his arms, but his gentle rock cradles my loneliness.

There is nurturing here, and it comes to me, with a whoosh like sudden wind, that there just might be a way out after all. And that way could very well begin and end with Jerome.

So When He Kisses The top of my head, I stay perfectly still against him. And when his hands begin a slow journey over the landscape of my body, I grit my teeth. Do not protest. Will not complain. Forgive me, Andrew. Please understand.

It's my only way back to you. But I won't give him everything.

I go as far as to let him open my blouse, touch beneath my bra. Now he kisses down my neck, to the skin he has just exposed. Drawn tight up against him, I feel him grown hard against my thigh.

Now it's he who shakes. s.h.i.+vers with hunger, and just like that, I am in control. I push him away, but tenderly, like a mother convincing the infant at her breast that he's had enough.

I make my voice light. ”That's all you get for three strawberries.”

He is pliable. Clay. He smiles, clearly into the game this has unmistakably become.

Fair enough. Father would probably miss me now anyway. Just one question ...

He helps himself to a final taste.

What will you give me for ice cream?

I back away, closing b.u.t.tons. Reach down deep for the ”inner wh.o.r.e”

Father claims all women harbor inside.

I smile. ”Haagen-Dazs or store brand?”

The Door Locks Behind Jerome, who promised to see what I can do about Cherry Garcia. Dirtied, I drop to the floor, tuck my back into a corner, as if walls could protect me. Lord, please forgive this sin. What I've done. What I may do, though I'm not exactly sure what that might be. All I know is I have to escape this place, run far, far away. From here.

From home. Toward what, I don't know, except somehow, some way, that ”what”

must bring me closer to Andrew. I'm tired.

Hungry. I glance at the bowl on the table, oatmeal grown granite cold inside it.

I want pancakes. An omelet with sausage.

I want the key to this unbarred cell.

Jerome has perhaps offered it, if I will only reach for it. I close my eyes. Think of Mary Magdalene. What was her prison?

And how far did she go to get the key?

Some Biblical Scholars Believe Magdalene wasn't really a prost.i.tute at all, but the woman most loved by Jesus. A few even think they might have been married.

Papa preaches that she was a wh.o.r.e, reformed by the love of Christ. No s.e.x involved in the reformation. Mama echoes this tale. But Mama thinks I'm a wh.o.r.e too. A laugh bubbles up, bounces off the barren walls. What incredible irony.

Sorry, Mama. Making love with Andrew didn't make me a wh.o.r.e. But sending me here might very well do exactly that.

I have nothing to lose. You've already stolen everything important. Made me an outcast. Tossed me into this wilderness prison. And now the question becomes: How far will I go to get the key?

To Know That I need to find out what Father has in store for me. We meet every afternoon except on Sunday (no work on the Sabbath), for ”prayerful counseling.” So far, it's the only time I'm allowed out of my room, into the sunlight, the sage-tainted air.

There are two long, low buildings, with rows of doors just like mine. I'm not the only one here. Once in a while, I see other kids, working alone in the garden or shoveling manure from the chicken coops. Punishment? My guess is reward.

There are smaller cottages, too-staff residences, I'm sure. A large house looms in the distance. Father's, no doubt. Wonder if there's a Mrs. Father. Probably not.

The chapel is large, with rows of chairs, so I imagine there are Sunday services that I'm still not holy enough to attend.

Don't know if there are cla.s.srooms somewhere, or if any of us juvenile delinquents are allowed schooling other than what's taught in the Bible.

It's the only book I have in my room, and I have to admit with no TV or other distractions, I've read more Old Testament here than ever before. Today as I walk, escorted, to the chapel, the compound looks deserted. How many of us are there, biding our time in solitary, entertaining ourselves with Leviticus? Do those further on their way toward rehabilitation interact?

How many will actually be rehabilitated?

What exactly does that mean, and how is it accomplished? How does someone leave this place? No harm in asking, is there?

A Dozen Questions Fill my head as I enter the chapel.

Father's office is tucked in back of the altar. He is working at his computer but turns and stands as we enter. Welcome, Eden. Brother Stephen, you may leave us. He motions for me to sit before launching into a long-winded entreaty to the Lord to deliver wisdom. To me, obviously.

Father already knows everything.

I keep that to myself, of course.

In fact, I say nothing as he ”counsels”

me on how I might return to the Path Toward Salvation. Finally he finishes and actually gives me the opening I need.

Do you have any questions for me?

I pretend thoughtfulness for a second.

”I've had lots and lots of time to think, and I really believe you've opened my eyes to my sinful ways. I was just wondering what I have to do to prove that to you so I can go back home.”