upset their stomachs so much that they can’t eat their meals.”
“I don’t believe you. What students have complained, sir?”
“Don’t press me, boy.”
I had him where I wanted him. I opened my book bag and pulled out five sheets of paper. “I have a petition here signed by over a hundred students and staff who feel that we should be allowed to form a Jesus Club at this school—”
He snatched the papers from my grasp. “I don’t see my signature,” he said. He tore the petition in half two times and dropped it in the wastepaper basket.
“I have a photocopy.”
“Who cares? The real issue is not your prayer meeting but your grades. This is a school, not a church!” Mr. Byrd roared.
We stood toe-to-toe now, and he proved to be about an inch shorter than I (and I was no giant), but I was suddenly afraid of him. I shrank at the sound of his angry growl.
“I know Christians, but you’re not one, Elwyn. You’re weak. And you use your religion to shield your weakness. You can’t make it on the football team, so you lure the best players away to your Bible studies.”
“I’m not an athlete. They come freely.”
“You can’t get a girl, so you preach about adultery and fornication.”
“Fornication is ruining our women.”
“Not my woman. And I got a woman.” He pointed to the photograph behind his desk. “A big, happy, sexy woman. Look at her smile.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“You should try passing your classes instead of passing out Bibles.”
“I can pass if I want to. I’m an honors student.”
“You were an honors student.”
“I’m smart.”
“Smart enough for Bible College at any rate. What SAT scores does Bible College require?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I was on the verge of tears, and I didn’t know why. “You’re persecuting me.”
He grabbed me by the shoulders. “Don’t use God as an excuse for failure and unhappiness, Elwyn. Don’t think that your misery on earth is a free ticket to heaven. Have fun. Be young. Pass your classes.”
“No!” I could not prevent the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Satan was winning. Then Mr. Byrd slapped me three times hard in the face.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
It stung like a revelation. I tested my lip, which had begun to swell, and I stared without anger at Mr. Byrd.
“Now you’ll probably sue me for assault,” he said as he ushered me out of his office, with the hand that had smote me holding the door open against its strong spring.
I did not drive directly home after getting slapped by my principal. I visited Sister Morrisohn. A Christian must be valiant, brave. A Christian who has sinned must confess.
“I am saved.”
“By the Grace of God.”
“How, then, did I let go of His unfailing hand?” She forced my palms together. “Pray, Elwyn.”
I bowed my head and closed my eyes. A sobering thought prevented me from praying, and I opened my eyes. “You never told anyone what I did that day.”
“There was no point in ruining your reputation.”
“I would have lost my position in the church, like Peachie.”
“You didn’t really sin,” Sister Morrisohn said. “Peachie sinned.”
“I did sin.”
“But you prayed for forgiveness.”
“So did Peachie. And she confessed openly. I didn’t so much as do that. Open confession is good for the soul.”
“God knows the heart. That’s enough, don’t you think? Let your little transgression be a secret between me, you, and God.”
“But the secret is driving me crazy.” I was at a crossroads of faith. I had to either do what the Bible said was right, or not do what was right at all. It was now 4:15. Sister Morrisohn wore a red sundress. A half hour ago she had removed her shoes. I had been there almost an hour.
I had told her the devil had got ahold of me and made me love her. She had raised her eyebrows and then removed her shoes. Another revelation. She had beautiful feet.
“There are many secrets in the church. Those who confess are no worse than the rest, but they suffer for their forthrightness.”
“The Bible says open confession is good for the soul.”
“Everyone will treat you like a backslider. You don’t want that.” She closed her eyes. “Some will even laugh at you.”
“Laugh?”
“You’re so much younger than me. They would find that amusing.”
“Did they find it amusing,” I asked, “when you married Brother Morrisohn?”
This seemed to catch her off guard. Her face underwent a series of quiet transformations, from disbelief to anger to resignation, before she spoke again: “How old are you, Elwyn? Sixteen?”
“Almost seventeen.”
“I’m twenty-six years older than you.” She rose from the couch where she had been sitting for the last half hour and walked in her stockinged feet to the other side of the room and stood beneath the portrait in oil of her and Brother Morrisohn on their wedding day. It was a painting in broad strokes and drab colors: black, gray, a rusty brown, a pasty yellow where there should have been white. “I was married for nearly twenty years to a man close to forty years my senior, and I loved him every second of that marriage.”
“You’re saying it doesn’t really matter, then, the age difference.”
“It matters a little. Oh, there are times when it matters.” She laughed suddenly into her hands. “I’m so flattered. I just can’t believe that at your age—well, just look at me.” Sister Morrisohn lifted her arms like wings and spun in gay circles, revealing herself from all sides.
I gazed unabashedly. She had dancer’s calves, a slender waist, arms that were thin as a young girl’s.
“I see nothing wrong with you.”
“Look at me again.” Now she grabbed her hem with both hands and raised it above her dimpled knees. “All of these imperfections that come with age.” She spun. Her sundress spread out like an umbrella, exposing thigh-high garters and the black silk panties of mourning.
I
