How Best to Avoid Dying Page 4

  The first session was lame. Two hundred or so kids and twenty counselors. We prayed so hard. I remember praying until my head ached, but only one of my kids stood up on the last day to say he had opened his heart to Jesus. Overall only eleven kids stood up. Eleven kids! That sucked. Rich still got weepy and smiley and told the whole camp that the angels were celebrating, so we played “Celebrate” by Kool & the Gang and dropped balloons, but all us counselors were pretty bummed.

  Session two was feeling a lot like session one. The kids loved the four-wheelers, the theme parties, the hot tub, the rappelling lessons, but didn’t give a spit about the Lord and Savior. They were too busy making out behind the dining hall to care about God bearing the burden of their sin. I had this one kid from Denver in my cabin who said that his hobbies were “pounding beer and pounding babes.” I caught him having sex with a girl in the hot tub after hours. I told him that every time he puts his penis in a girl who’s not his wife he’s putting a nail into Christ. But he still didn’t give a squat.

  Then on the last day of the session, Will died. Will was a counselor who also took care of the horses and he was practicing a stunt for the Farewell BBQ and Hoedown when he got thrown. It was horrible. Like someone punched the whole camp in the stomach. We went ahead with the BBQ and Hoedown, but it was no fun.

  That night, standing in front of all the kids, Rich looked tired and sadder than I’ve ever seen him. “You know what, I don’t feel much like talking tonight. But you know what? Will would want me to tell you about Jesus.” Rich didn’t move on the stage or crouch or whisper or spread his arms at all that night. Just stood in the center and talked. “That’s what he’d want. Because, yeah, we’ve got some fun stuff up here, we sing some fun songs and the ribs tonight were pretty excellent, but the only reason, the only, only reason, is so we can tell you about Jesus. And Will would gladly die if it meant that just one of you would have a chance to meet Jesus.”

  I mean, kids were falling over themselves to give their lives to Christ. One hundred and ninety-seven kids stood up and told everyone how they now love Jesus. And the ones who didn’t stand up felt pretty stupid and probably came to Christ on the bus ride home. Even my hot tub kid from Denver stood up, all crying. He told me he was never going to pound a girl again.

  “Except your wife,” I said, and we laughed. I gave him his own Adventure Life New Testament and hugged him goodbye. That was the best.

  After the kids left and before the next group rolled in, we counselors started talking. Rich was right. It was worth dying to see kids loving Jesus. We stayed up real late in the Coffee House, just the counselors, praying and singing and reading Acts aloud. And it was like the Spirit was leading us. There were four more sessions in the summer so we drew lots like the disciples did to replace Judas. I got session six, the last session of the summer. All the counselors were crying and smiling. They laid hands on the five of us and prayed. Pricilla Brone had her hands on me. They were warm. I was so happy, so filled with the spirit, so ready. I could hardly wait till my session. It was like promising to die made God more real. I could touch God. I was scared, sure. But Jesus was scared. He cried in the garden. I was scared like he was. At dawn we all climbed to Christ’s Point and sang hymns.

  After that we never spoke of the agreement, not letting our left hand know about the right hand. In fact, by the middle of session three, I was beginning to think nothing would actually happen, but then Crick Peppers “accidentally” locked herself in the kitchen freezer. In session four David Blankins “forgot” to open any of the garage windows while doing repairs on an idling four-wheeler. Becky Towt choked on a doughnut in session five. I have no idea how she managed that. My plan had been to “forget” to strap in on the ropes course on day ten of session six, but Kent had to go and slip out of the waterslide and fall off a cliff.

  The kids I counsel are all somber as we walk back to the cabin.

  “He must have been going damn fast to fly out like that,” one of the kids says.

  “I heard he shaved his legs to make him slicker,” another says.

  “Man, he was brave.”

  I pray for these kids a lot. Every morning I wake up before Morning Bell and pray God will crack their hearts open like walnuts. I love them. How can you not love someone you’re planning to die for? I used to imagine them all crying after I died on the ropes course, sorry they hadn’t listened or gotten to know me. I pictured them standing up on that last day and telling everyone they love Jesus and then coming back to Mountain Peak years later with their kids or grandkids and pointing out the spot I died at and holding hands with their grandkids and everybody praying and thanking God for me.

  I tell them to head back to the cabin and I’ll be there in a minute. I don’t have to worry about them sneaking out. Nobody sneaks out after a death.

  I go walking toward the ropes course.

  The stars are amazing up here. The camp is dark. They turn off a bunch of lights when things are sad so the kids can see the stars, especially the shooting stars. So many stars, and Jesus made them all. He knows them all by heart. He knows every single hair on my head. He knows I’m walking now, he is right here with me. But I can’t think of anything to say, cause I’m kind of mad. God knew about that low panel. He knew about the baby oil. He knew it was my turn, but he let Kent put on those Speedos and shave his legs and fall out.

  At the Buenas Vista View I stop and look out over the valley. It’s windy, a little chilly, but I don’t care. It was at this spot I opened up my heart to Jesus five years ago. I didn’t need a dead counselor. I just heard all about the Father’s love and my sin and how they whipped Jesus with this nasty whip with glass in it and then Rich said that if we wanted to have some time alone we could go off and I walked out here and I prayed for a sign and God sent a shooting star right over Camp Mountain Peak. It was wild. Like God ripping the sky just for me. It turns out that you can see like three or four shooting stars every five minutes, but still. I’ve come back every summer since then. I was a camper twice and a junior counselor twice, then last year Rich made me a full counselor. This place is more home than home. It’s my favorite place in the universe.

  I walk on to the ropes course. It’s spooky at night, all the trees and ropes making shadows. It’s real dark too. Smells like pine needles and bark. I think I’m alone but then I see Pricilla sitting on the observation deck, dangling her legs. I go and sit by her and for a while neither of us says anything. Finally she says, real quiet, “So I guess you won’t be dying then, huh?”

  “I guess not,” I say. Her hand kind of touches mine, just the fingers. A wind comes by and a few leaves float down.

  “So, you want to pray?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say. We bow our heads and our faces kind of get close, real close, touching and…I don’t know. We just start making out. Like totally making out, tongues going all over the place and hands under clothes and yeah, Jesus sees, but I’m like, yeah, look at this Jesus, this is a tit, Jesus, and my hand is on it. And she’s touching my hair and my arms and my legs and between my legs and it’s like praying but faster and more heat and she’s touching my zipper and I’m touching her zipper and there might be a billion shooting stars but I don’t care. Then Rich shows up with his flashlight and catches us. Pricilla starts buttoning up real fast and I’m trying to hide the bulge in my jeans.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Rich says.

  I’m staring at the wall in Rich’s office. He has a picture of every summer staff since 1970 and above them a wooden plaque that says, “The harvest is rich but the workers are few.”

  Rich isn’t saying anything yet. He’s just rubbing his eyes. He already talked to Pricilla. I waited outside. I heard her crying. Rich looks real tired.

  “You know the rules, I know you do.”

  I nod. My throat feels full, like it’s packed with wet sand.

  “You left your kids unattended. They were worried, you know. They came and found me. I was worried. Then I find you and Pr
icilla. On a day like this, too.”

  I try and say something but I can’t talk.

  “I’m sending you home, okay. I’m sending you home tomorrow and I don’t think you should come back next summer.”

  I think I’m going to bawl, I mean just wail. But I don’t. I get cold.

  I walk back to the cabin. A couple of kids are sitting on the porch. They don’t look me in the face when I tell them to hit the sack. They just mumble and stay where they are. I walk inside and lie down on my bunk.

  I can still hear them talking on the porch, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. I lay awake for an hour or two till everyone is sleeping and breathing heavy. The cabin smells like cedar and sweaty laundry. I’ve always loved the smell. It smells safe. But now the smell makes me feel ashamed. Everything does. Shame like a real hard blush, like a blush that’s going to stain my skin. Then I think about Pricilla and her hands and I immediately pop a woody, then a lot more shame. So to stop the woody I think about my mother. Then I think about Kent’s mother. She sent that care package with the Rice Krispies treats. When I close my eyes I see Kent. He’s at the bottom of the cliff all bent up and in his Speedos and there’s no blood, but his skin looks funny and you can tell he’s dead. Bastard. So I imagine myself down there instead. I imagine the falling and the landing and the cracking. Then the woody starts to come back, which is weird, so I get up and go out on the porch.

  I look out on the dining hall, the volleyball/basketball court, the crafts store, saying little goodbyes to everything. I see a few kids sitting in the cigarette pit. It’s way past curfew, almost morning, so I head over there to tell them to go back to their cabins, and they all look a little green, a little fuzzy, even their cigarette smoke is green and fuzzy. I recognize Will first. Then David and Crick, and Becky and last of all, Kent, still in his Speedos, still smelling like chlorine and baby oil. All just standing around, smoking. Sitting behind them, lighting one cigarette from the end of another is Jesus. He looks totally different than in the movies, shorter, kind of dirty, but you can tell it’s him. You just know.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, and I’m breathing fast. They don’t look at me. Just sit and smoke.

  Kent says, without looking up, “Turns out we’re wrong about the whole Jesus thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus doesn’t save,” Becky says, still sounding like she’s got a doughnut in her throat.

  “He doesn’t?” I look over at Jesus, who just shrugs.

  “Maybe Buddha does,” Crick says. “Or Shiva.”

  “My money’s on Zoroaster,” Becky says.

  “I’ve never even heard of Zoroaster.”

  “Narrow is the way,” Jesus says with a shake of his head and a chuckle. “Want a smoke?”

  Oh God, Jesus is talking to me. Looking at me. Jesus is asking if I want a cigarette. This is everything. Jesus is hanging out with all these guys, awarding their devotion, like he hung out with Peter and John and James, making them fish for breakfast.

  “Can I stay here?” I ask. “Can I stay with you guys?”

  “You got to be fucking kidding me,” Kent says.

  “You…” I point at Kent. Sitting there all smug and bruised, just a few feet from Jesus. “You stole my place, Kent. That’s my place.”

  “You want it? Come and take it.”

  I run at him. He doesn’t move, just takes another drag on his cigarette. I slam into him, only it’s more slamming through him and for a second my stomach drops and knots, like I’m standing on the edge of a canyon. Below me are miles of nothing. Then I’m past him and I smack into a pole.

  When I open my eyes I see Jesus. He’s looking down at me, and he looks sad. Disappointed, I guess. Me trying to fight Kent’s ghost, me and Pricilla. All these thoughts I’m not supposed to have. He died for me and this is how I thank him?

  “Jesus,” I say, “I’m sorry.”

  He looks so sad.

  “Jesus, please forgive me.”

  He smiles. His teeth are black. “No,” he says.

  “I have to ride that fucking waterslide a hundred times a day,” Kent mumbles. “Ungrateful bastard. A hundred times a day.”

  As he’s speaking the clouds begin to go pink and their green bodies start fading.

  “Jesus?” I say, getting to my feet. But Jesus is making eyes at Becky. “Jesus!” They fade away as he scoots over to light her cigarette. The green flame is the last I see of them.

  I’m still standing there when Rich comes out of his office, same clothes as the night before and his eyes red like he hasn’t slept a wink.

  “Grab your stuff. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

  Pricilla and I sit in the back of the camp van as Rich maneuvers the windy road with the mountain slanting up on one side and cutting down on the other. As we pass the sign that says GO WITH GOD, Pricilla starts to weep a little. I take her hand.

  “I had a dream about Kent,” she whispers. “He was smiling and flying. He had this white robe and was so happy.” She smiles. “And we were singing, him and me. We were singing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”

  I think of telling her about green Jesus and the smoking and the canyon feeling inside Kent. But why? It won’t make her happier. Doesn’t make me happier. And maybe it never happened. Maybe I dreamt it all. And Jesus is just as he has always been. Loving me. Watching over me. Maybe this is real faith, believing when you know it’s not true.

  Rich’s head bobs to the side just a little as she and I start softly singing.

  “Jesus loves us, this we know…”

  I see Rich’s head bow and I think he’s praying. Then the van drifts and hits some small pines on the side of the road. Rich jerks up and pulls on the wheel and we’re skidding. Pricilla squeezes my hand. A wheel catches the edge and the van tilts so hard I hit the ceiling. Through the windshield I can the see the valley and the trees and some sky, and we’re falling and turning and we’re floating inside the van, like the inside of Kent. Just before we hit, I swear I hear Pricilla whimper, “Save us Zoroaster.”

  TONIGHT AT NOON

  Mingus is no good for hangovers. You want something softer. Bill Evans or Chet Baker. But I like Mingus, even if he hurts my head, so I flip on the stereo and let him play.

  It’s noon. Already hot, sunlight sneering through the blinds. Jenny’s not in bed. She’s always up before me. On the speaker by the door, there’s a roach bouncing to the music. I’ve got to get more roach bait, though Jenny hates the stuff. She hates roaches too but thinks the bait boxes are cruel tricks, unfair fighting.

  There’s a smell in the hallway. A bad smell. Like the toilet’s backed up.

  I find her in the kitchen. She’s naked and on the floor. Eyes open. I fall down beside her and say her name. I shake her. I check her pulse, but I know. Her skin feels like damp rubber. Not quite cold, but not alive. My knees are wet. I gag. I don’t yell. She has a piece of paper taped to her belly.

  Don’t tell anyone what I did. Tell them I went to Mexico. Love Jenny

  I look around the kitchen for the cordless phone. I don’t see it. I run into the living room.

  I find the phone on the receiver. There’s a note taped to it as well.

  Please

  I put the phone down and walk back to Jenny.

  Don’t tell anyone what I did. Tell them I went to Mexico. Love Jenny

  Jenny left the comma out after Love, so it’s not so much a signing off as a command. Love Jenny. I laugh. Then I feel sick.

  She’s small. Long fair hair that she’d forget to wash. The note is taped to the pooch under her belly.

  No blood. Maybe there’s a mouthful of bleach missing from under the sink. Maybe there’s an empty bottle of sleeping pills in the trash. Maybe something else happened. Was she alive when I went to sleep?

  I sit on the floor and look at her. My hand hurts because I’m biting it.

  I get up, close the blinds, pull the curtains, and make sure the doors are locked. Then I sit and wa
tch her some more. Mingus is still playing.

  She looks wrong on the kitchen floor.

  I towel her dry and sit her on the couch. She’s stiff and smells. Not like rot. It’s a different smell. It’s the smell under the bleachy smell in hospitals. She looks better on the couch. More comfortable. I try to cross her legs. Her legs used to be so ticklish. Just a touch and she’d start kicking and squealing.

  “I’m going to peeeeeee,” she’d say.

  She’s wearing that leather wristband I got her on South Congress. Just a leather strap, like a belt for her wrist. Seventy dollars. Seventy dollars, but she just had to have it. That was Jenny. Just HAD to have it. Just HAD to do it. As if nothing was a choice, all things were inescapable. Just HAD to die.

  I should cry and yell. I don’t feel like crying. Her corpse is on the couch looking at me. Mingus is still playing. It’s Mingus Ah Um. Maybe his best. Most people say The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady is his best, and it’s good. But Ah Um is going for more. It hurts more. Lives more. Jenny is dead.

  I need coffee. That will help me think. A slow cup. I make enough for two out of habit. Jenny likes hers Miles Davis black. I add milk to mine until it passes Coltrane. Then some honey to get the color of Mingus. Almost yellow. Name a race and Mingus had the blood. Black, white, Indian, Chinese. A Klan man’s treasure chest. Kill half a dozen races with one rope.

  I place the cups down on the coffee table and sit across from her.

  Jenny had been with me for three months. Ninety-two days. She moved in a week after I met her. She came over one night and never left. I liked watching nature documentaries with her, liked the way she made the sheets smell, liked drinking Lone Star on the porch with her, liked how she rubbed my neck with her chin, liked how she bit my nipples at odd times like breakfast. I loved taking care of her.