Inherited
Brother Amos said last Sunday that the heat during the summer is God’s reminder of what sinners feel in H-E-Double-L. He’s the type to think up catchy sayings — stuff adults want to write, words people can live by.
And he’s right. Outside is miserable, even in the mornings, and it gets worse throughout the day. Despite the constricting air, there’s a palpable energy. Green is everywhere, covering the lattices around the church, scraping up towards the sky. Crops in the outer parts of town thrive, waving to you on your walks.
Imagine the sensation of growing towards the sun. Imagine the greed.
Your normal routine stays the same — walking Gibson, taking care of the garden with Mom, pretending to go to sleep every night at 7:30 like you’re supposed to, even though it’s still light out.
Mom says you’re getting bigger, about to be a teenager, so you have to wear even more. With each change in your body, there’s an extra layer. A training bra for your chest, an added wrap for your shoulders. Even in the dead of July, you wear a cardigan when you step out of the house. She still tries to pull your neckline up to the top of your throat, as if you should be ashamed of its shape and line.
Schools in the county are out. In the town next door, teenagers swarm the Walmart, the Piggly Wiggly, the McDonald’s until they are bored. With nowhere else to go, groups of them drive into Pine Grove and wheel around, taking their sweet time on the easy road towards the lake, curved to what you imagine is perfection by the town’s founders.
You watch them sometimes, when you can, as they trot in and out of the corner gas station, wearing their shorts and tank tops, tanned skin, and lake water hair. The gasoline tank in your hands threatens to tip onto your skirt, and you hug it to your chest. They’re laughing, one holding a bottle of juice that could dye fabric, and the sight sends spit to the back of your mouth. The drink is what rubies taste like, maybe.
They don’t look twice at you.
To study them, their mannerisms and their language is to experience something close to envy. Wanting what they have, what they enjoy but don’t care to share, and knowing it’ll get you set on fire, eternally. It aches though, iron knitting into your stomach.
“Is being jealous a deadly sin?” you ask Dad, swinging your feet at the kitchen table. A sheet of too-easy math drills lies neglected in front of you. Though county schools are out, your school never stops, ticking on and on throughout the year.
Dad puts his steaming coffee on the table. He scooches his foggy glasses up his nose to rest on his hairline. You watch him and get the strange sensation of seeing him eye to eye. His squint gives him a rodent look, his features small. You don’t lock into his stare, fear bubbling inside your head.
“Well,” he starts the lecture. “Evie, the Bible condemns envy as a deadly sin. And jealousy is another word for it. So what do you think?”
You hate it when he makes you parse things out like this, everything a teachable moment. Placing your hands in your lap, you parrot the last Sunday School lesson. “When we do a deadly sin we have to repent.”
“That’s right. Have you been jealous?”
Your chest expands, contracts. Past whoopings dance in your head, visions more than memories, all hateful. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? If there’s a chance you could sin, darling, you need to confess it,” Dad says. He moves his glasses to his nose, crosses his arms and pulls his chair back. The distance is like a mile.
To confess would mean absolving yourself of it, of making idols of the secular life, the teenagers and their clothes and their privileges. God would forgive you if you confessed.
But it means that you’d get bent over your bed again, and you’ve never taken to the belt before, so you won’t start now. It always just made you angrier, greedier, uglier inside.
Maybe that’s you. Maybe you were always an ugly thing, this emotional mess. You can’t tell one from another, mixing sadness with sloth and curiosity with lust. At the last youth meeting, Brother Amos said that most people start to sin in their teens and keep going until they die.
Decide now. Tell Dad whatever you can get out of your mouth. Confession or not, it’s not gonna change a thing.
“I haven’t,” you say. Confidence comes out of you as Dad nods to the words. He’s looking at you through his eyebrows now. “I’m just worried about Josie from Sunday School. She said she was jealous of the boys.”
He hums. “Why is that?”
“They went outside and played football,” you say, hopeful that he won’t slap your wrist for stammering. “And we stayed for another lesson.”
“You shouldn’t be around that Josie,” Dad says. “Envy is the root of many evils.”
As he lifts his coffee back in the air, you sit, numb. In one sentence, you’ve disobeyed Dad and the laws of God, like plucking a blade of grass between two fingers: curious, probing. He couldn’t tell you were lying.
Does that make you a liar? Is this what Brother Amos means when he talks about little add-ups in your life?
You go back to your math drills, jotting down numbers, your brain half-on and your attention set everywhere but the kitchen table. In the corner window, a fly buzzes, knocking itself against the glass. If you stare real hard, you can hear each individual wing flap.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………End
M. Anne Avera is an author, poet, and teacher from Auburn, Alabama. Her debut collection of poetry, “Complete and Total Honesty” is available now through Neon Origami Books. You can find out more about her at writeranneavera.carrd.co
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