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Remy didn’t say anything, but he sat down next to his brother. He watched members of the Lake City Assembly of God file out of the house, slip into cars, or start walking toward their own homes. He and Val shrank back into the darkness to hide themselves a little better, and Remy caught Val reaching for his shirt, in case he needed to hide his pretend tattoos.
The crickets went quiet and then loud again as Pastor Ryan and their parents stood at the front door, speaking in hushed voices. Remy opened his mouth to ask Val what, exactly, he meant about it being Pastor Ryan, when suddenly a car pulled up. It was white, and even in the sunset, they could see the gold and blue stripes along the side. The last rays of sun licked at the reflective lights across the top.
“Why are the police here?” Remy asked, voice quivering. The police were no good. The police came when you were in trouble, when things were about to get dark, when someone was going to jail. “Put your shirt on, Val,” he said to his brother. He knew it was illegal for a kid to get tattoos—did Val’s pretend tattoos count? Were the police here for him?
“Are they here for me?” Val asked, not speaking to Remy in particular. He stood, tattooed chest still uncovered. Remy stared at his brother. Val’s voice hadn’t been fear-stricken, like Remy’s. It had been curious. Perhaps even hopeful.
Their mother wailed. It was a keening, broken sound, not a scream, not a cry, but a sound like air being squeezed from her lungs. Their father was shouting. Pastor Ryan appeared, he yelled, the policeman returned to his car and spoke over a crackling radio. Remy finally convinced Val to slip his shirt back on, and together, they walked toward the house.
“Boys! Get in here!” their father yelled when he saw them emerging from the trees. The policeman’s eyes darted toward them, and for a moment, Remy thought he was going to lunge for them. What then? Run toward their father or toward the tree line? If they got away, they’d be in the woods by themselves after dark. Being caught by the policeman would be worse, Remy guessed.
But the policeman didn’t lunge, and the boys scurried into the house, where their mother paced in the kitchen, clutching the tiny bundle that was baby Mercy to her chest and weeping openly. Her long, pious skirt whipped around her legs like a tangle of sheets, and Pastor Ryan stood nearby, hand lifted to the sky like he was waiting for God to reach down and touch his fingertips.
Val brought three fingers to his mouth, kissed them, then waved goodbye to Mercy’s tiny form.
“Pray with us, boys,” Pastor Ryan said, creaking open an eye when he heard the brothers shuffle in.
“What’s happening?” Val asked.
“It’s the government. They want to take Mercy away. They’ll take her to a hospital. They’ll mock our faith by trusting man to heal what they think God cannot. But he can, boys, and you know that. We just need to pray.”
Val and Remy fell silent beside Pastor Ryan, pretending to pray but stealing glances at each other. Pastor Ryan begged aloud for forgiveness. Their mother wept openly. Baby Mercy tried to cry but didn’t seem to have the energy.
So Remy prayed, because it was the only thing he knew how to do when it felt like everything was breaking. He asked forgiveness for his sins and, in doing so, began to count them: He ate candy at the music teacher’s house. He didn’t avert his eyes from the magazines with ladies on them at the supermarket. He wrote songs with Val that weren’t about God.
Helovedwriting songs with Val that weren’t about God. He loved playing them. He loved slowing them down and speeding them up and recording them on the karaoke machine they had upstairs while their parents were manning the community kitchen. He loved the way music felt alive, vibrating the drumsticks in his hands and rattling his brain around in his head.
So perhaps this was why the government had come for Mercy. Because he loved music, and Val, and playing music with Val—because he loved all the wrong things and none of the right ones.
