mists above us, immediately invisible in the low clouds.
We stood small in the field, our faces upward, eyes squinted against the filtered sun, silent. Suddenly one of us shouted, and we scattered. The arrow spun downward and embedded itself deeply into the soft earth. Wiping our runny noses, and shivering in our soaking pant legs and shoes, we converged on the arrow like a flock of birds. An older boy pulled the arrow out of the ground, marking the depth it had sunk with his thumb on the shaft. Each older boy took his turn in the contest of whose arrow would drive deeper.
Joyce and I were five years old. I had just had my birthday; Joyce had hers at Christmas. I was completely enthralled with the older kids as they once again displayed a power and privilege beyond ours. We were charged with an element of danger. We knew that for a few brief seconds we had no idea where the arrow was falling, or where it would punch into the ground. The older girls took it on themselves to guide the younger kids out of the path of the descending arrow.
As with most of our games, this one began to shift to increasing risk. I watched the older boys rewarded with cheering and backslapping congratulations for standing under the arrow as it descended, delaying their move to safety as the arrow whispered downward on them. I realized the right to remove the arrow was bestowed on the boy who stood nearest the shaft when it hit the earth. I looked at Joyce, slipped my hand from the hand of the older girl between us, and waited for David to launch the next one.
Another arrow jumped skyward. As it began its climb, an angry adult voice yanked our collective spirit down from the disappearing arrow to the oppression and threat of our parents. The older children looked to the approaching voice. The bow was flung on the grass, the launcher running toward the edge of the woods as his father gained speed and fury behind him. Other hungover adult voices screamed confusing and conflicting directions.
“Stay where you are, Joyce.”
“David, you little son of a bitch, STOP or I’ll. . . .” “Come here. No. NO!! Stay right there.”
My eyes strained for the dot to appear above me. Frozen, heart pounding, face skyward, the arrow falling above me. I could hear a faint, growing whistle and whisper. I felt a feathered breath blow on my face, heard a soft thud and the beautiful arrow stood vertical at my feet, its wet feathers shining at my waist.
I stared. It had just been so high, so invisible, moving so fast, and now it was within my grasp. I reached for the smooth, polished shaft. My fingers brushed the red and yellow feathers. I began to pull. I got down on my knees, put both hands on the shaft and slowly it began to slide out of the earth.
I felt a rough hand push me aside. I heard a crack and saw our bow in two pieces, twisting awkwardly on its string in the air. My friend’s red-faced father jerked the arrow out of the ground and snapped it over his khaki-trousered knee. I heard a boy saying, “David’s gonna get it.” Joyce’s voice was crying, “Run, David!” and “No, Daddy!” in an even tempo.
The meadow was emptying with stern scoldings, an occasional slap, and tears. My friends’ arms were being jerked, little feet were bouncing in the air beside the stamping strides of enraged parents heading back to the trailers. I sat there stunned, with the crying protests of my friends filling the air, feeling the familiar sense of guilt at another thing I couldn’t understand.
One of the oldest girls, who made cupcakes of mud for the little girls’ pretend tea parties and usually let me wear her old doll’s blanket as a cape, took my hand. She was smiling, with her warm hand on the top of my head, saying, “Time to go home.”
A few months later, my mother and I were visiting the Airstream. Joyce was inside watching cartoons. David had brand-new sneakers right out of the box. They smelled great and he was singing to himself under his breath, “Paul Parrot, Paul Parrot, the shoes you ought to buy, they make your feet run faster, as fast as I can fly.” He went outside and sat on the stairs leading to the trailer door. Unsure of myself, I sat on the stair above him. Behind the screen door our mothers sat drinking coffee. Joyce was playing in a chair, watching Bluto make improper advances on Olive Oyl. I watched David and tried to retain as much of his big-boy ways as I could. I watched with envy as he tied his own shoe. I saw him clear his throat like the men and spit a rolling little ball into the dust beside the stairs. I asked where he was going.
“Jake’s.”
I asked, “Could I go?”
He gave the expected answer. “No.”
I asked the obvious question. “Why not?”
He gave the only answer. “Because you’re too little.”
He called into the trailer, “Ma, I’m going to Jake’s.”
He jumped off the stairs and ran out of the yard, imitating to perfection an internal combustion engine of tremendous horsepower, and buzzed down the dusty lane and around the front of the trailer. I followed, watching as little explosions of dirt jumped behind his feet with each stride. It was the first time I was conscious of running. This led to hours of practice running and looking over my shoulder at the tufts of dirt flying behind me.
God and country. Joyce and I took the yellow church bus to Sunday school off base. I enjoyed the clean clothes, Graham crackers, metallic-tasting orange juice, and coloring books. Jesus and sheep, more Jesus and sheep. Lights and bushels. Burning bushes. Little Moses floating in his basket. The teacher looked like Peggy Lee, who was at that time singing “Fever” on the Hit Parade. I thought my teacher was Peggy Lee and I began to associate Sunday school with early stirrings of the erotic.
One early August morning, several parents found themselves sitting under canvas awnings, drinking iced coffee and escaping the oven-like trailers. We’d heard the rumor of a plan to caravan cars to the lake in the afternoon and then to a drive-in movie. The word spread from the woods and yard to yard, until the trailers were streaming with picnic baskets being carried to cars. Suntan lotion was smeared over tiny backs and older kids stood in impatient knots as families prepared for the outing. It was the second time in the summer we were heading toward pine needles, cool shade, hot sun, muddy shores, hot dogs — all to be followed with the miraculous treat of a drive-in. In an hour, six carloads were ready.
There was a delay in getting under way. The problem was Joyce. We sat silently, sweating in the cars as, one by one, someone went to the Airstream, opened and closed the door and soon reemerged, smiling, shrugging, and shaking their heads. First her mother, then her father, then David, then a neighbor. Then calls from drivers and honking horns. Joyce had locked herself in the bathroom. Just as her father was telling the rest that they’d catch up, my mom disappeared into the trailer. Joyce’s embarrassed mother stood by the stairs; her father sat behind the wheel popping a beer with his “church key.” A couple of minutes later, my mother came out holding Joyce’s hand and smiling. Joyce’s chin was quivering and one fist was rubbing an eye.
“She wants to talk to you,” Mom said to me. Joyce walked to our Oldsmobile and faced me. I said, “Joyce, let’s go.” She looked at me and seemed very far away.
I tried again. “Don’t ya wanna go?”
With a shamed look on her face and a hint of anger in her voice, she said, “I don’t love Jesus.”
I was shocked. Of course we loved Jesus. We learned that in Sunday school. And He loved us. But more importantly, Jesus had nothing to do with this trip to the lake. I stared at her. She stared at me. I reached out of the window and she extended her hand.
“C’mon, Joyce.”
She
