Blew’s Challenge

“Them dang old nuns lied to us again. There ain’t no magic in this scapular, and I ain’t never gonna wear the dang thing again.” Blew flips the scapular from around his neck and twirls it around his finger. I’m horrified. “You can’t do that,” I say. “You’ll go to hell for sure.” Blew laughs and continues to twirl as I try to catch Our Lady of Mount Carmel as she spins round and round Blew’s head.
“You sure are stupid to believe them dang old nuns. Do you really think this scrawny piece of string will get me into heaven? I might as well wear a rubber band around my neck or a collar like Utah.” Blew laughs again.
“If you’re going to talk like this, I’m going home. I don’t care about your hotdogs or even Aunt Rene’s strawberry shortcake.” We finished patching the barn roof a little while ago and Blew and I are sitting under Uncle Johnny’s white pine tree. It’s over a hundred years old, and it’s taller than the house. We’re waiting for Uncle Johnny to get the campfire going. He’s doing something in the barn where he spends most of his time. I think he’s praying because we hear the droning noise he makes when he’s praying to God. He doesn’t pray like normal people.
“Just a minute. I got a question for you,” Blew says. He’s chewing on a piece of long grass and green slim trickles down his chin. His legs are stretched out in front of him, and his big toe is sticking through the hole in his right tennis shoe. He leans on one elbow and looks at the sky through the pine’s branches. “How do nuns know a scapular will get you into heaven seven days after you’re dead? Answer that if you can.” He leans against the tree trunk and clasps his hands behind his head.
“Why didn’t you ask Sister Mary John when she gave it to us this morning?” I ask. “If you’re so smart and if you’re not afraid of her, why didn’t you ask her instead of me? How am I supposed to know?” Blew doesn’t answer my question. He asks another one.
“Were Adam and Eve gorillas?”
“Are you crazy? You’ll go to hell for asking such a crazy question.”
“Wait a minute, Katie. I’m serious. Remember the nuns told us about Adam and Eve and how God put them in the Garden of Eden? Well, he didn’t give them any clothes and everybody knows you got to wear clothes so they must have been monkeys, probably gorillas, right?”
“You’re going to hell and I’m going home,” I say. I put on my sunglasses and reach for my straw hat.
“Wait a minute. Use your common sense. Somewhere along the line gorillas became people. In the beginning I’ll bet God was part person and part ape.”
“If Uncle Johnny hears you talk like that, he’ll whip you for sure, so shut up, and I’ll stay a little longer.” Utah walks over and flops down beside me.
“I ain’t done yet,” Blew says. “It was the priest that got me thinkin’. When I was confessin’ my sins, I told him lots of lies—nutty stuff like the holy pictures in my room come to life and threaten me—and he believed me. When I told him the picture of Mary with the dagger going through her heart scares me, he told me not to look at it. I think that old priest is as stupid as them old nuns. They pretend to know all about God, but I don’t think they know any more than we do.” Blew spits out the piece of grass and starts wrestling with Utah.
“Are you really afraid of Mary?” I ask. Blew’s not afraid of anything as far as I know.
“No, course not. Nothin’ scares me. You know that.”
“Then why’d you mention that picture. I bet it does scare you.”
“You callin’ me a sissy? You wanna fight?” Blew makes his hands into fists and punches the air between us.
“’Fraidy cat,” I say. “You’re afraid of a picture. What’d you think—that Mary will come to life and run the dagger through your back as you’re walking out the door one day?”
“You makin’ fun of me? Ain’t that a sin? How’re you gonna get communion tomorrow with a big, fat sin on your soul? Ain’t makin’ fun of people worse than askin’ questions? You got to ask questions to find out anythin’, don’t you?”
“Oh, shut up,” I say. “Let’s play with Utah.” I pick up a stick and throw it. Utah runs, picks it up, brings it back, and drops it at my feet. I throw it again, farther this time. I’m practicing my pitch. Blew’s eyes are closed, and he pretends to snore. I play fetch with Utah until my arm gets tired. Uncle Johnny’s still droning on and on in the barn so Aunt Rene started the fire. I walk over and ask if I can help.
“You can bring a few more sticks from the woodpile,” she says. “Bring the green ones laying beside the birch.” I gather as many as I can carry in the crook of my arm. The fire’s starting to catch, and I watch orange flames lick each other as they reach for the sky.
“What’s Blew up to?” Aunt Rene asks.
“He’s pretending to sleep underneath the pine. Do you want to know what he asked me?” She hands me a small stick, and I throw it on the fire.
“Sure. What did that silly boy say?”
I tell her but instead of getting angry, she laughs. “You know, Katie, I’ve had some of those thoughts myself. Sometimes when I lie in bed and look at myself in the mirror, I wonder if it’s really me lying there or if it’s only a log that looks like me. A log with a face and hair and all the things human beings are supposed to have, but if you look at trees long enough, you’ll find faces and hair and limbs going in every direction, just like humans. Blew’s heard me say a hundred times being human is about the hardest thing a human can be. He’s probably just repeating what I’ve said but saying it in his own words. Don’t worry. He’ll be in heaven right alongside the rest of us just you wait and see.”
“But you don’t think we come from apes, do you?” I ask. I’m horrified at the thought. If we come from apes, we don’t have real souls.
“Honey, you’ve got to stop worrying about everything,” she says. “Adam and Eve weren’t apes. They were people just like you and me, and we’ll meet them when we get to heaven. Now go tell Blew to get over here and help if he wants to eat. I’ll tell your uncle it’s time to quit praying and bring in the cows. By the time he’s done milking Dolly and Daisy the coals will be perfect for roasting hot dogs.”
I watch Aunt Rene disappear into the barn. I hear her yell at Uncle Johnny, telling him to get off his knees and get to work. She always yells at him so that’s nothing new, and it doesn’t bother me because I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, and Uncle Johnny doesn’t pay any attention to her anyway. Blew walks over.
“I told Aunt Rene you’d probably go to hell if you kept saying God was an ape.”
“What’d she say?”
“Nothing.”
“I told you we came from apes.”
“Be quiet.”
“Look at all the hair on your arms and legs. Apes have hairy arms and legs.”
“You’re going to hell, and I’m going home.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t have that much hair on your arms, and it’s okay to have hairy legs and yours ain’t as bad as mine.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you, too.”
“Tell me the story about Old Joe.”
This is Blew’s way of saying he’s sorry for teasing me. I’ll give him another chance.
“Well, it was like this. One night when I reached for a Kleenex, I knocked Old Joe into my wastepaper basket, but I didn’t know it. The next morning I was enjoying bacon and eggs and cinnamon rolls hot from the oven and I smelled something awful coming from the stove. I thought it was one of Granny’s old rags and didn’t think any more about it until that night when I knelt by my bed to say my prayers. I always pick up the statutes of Mary, Jesus, and Joseph and hold them while I pray, but Joseph was missing. I looked and looked for him, but he never turned up. The next day when I asked Mama if she had seen him, she said he was in the wastepaper basket. She said she thought I had put him there on purpose, so she dumped him in the kitchen stove along with the tissues and other junk in my basket. He burned as good as anything. I still feel bad about burning him, but I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“You might go to hell for that, on purpose or not,” Blew says.
“The only place I’m going is home. You’re an awful cousin.” I grab my bike. I hear a cowbell and know the cows are almost at the barn. Aunt Rene’s shrill voice calls them in. They come at a slow pace until they near the barn door, then they pick up speed because they know there’s something good in their chop boxes. Our cows are the same way. I love cows. If Blew said I was made in the image of a cow, I wouldn’t mind at all, but I don’t believe for one minute I’ve come from an ape.
“You leavin’ already?”
“I was supposed to be home an hour ago. I’ve got my own chores to do.” I run to the barn and say goodbye to my aunt and uncle. The cows are in their stalls and seem happy. So does Uncle Johnny. Blew says he preaches to all the animals, but they don’t pay any more attention to him than anybody else does. Uncle Johnny loves the Bible. He got saved, whatever that means, so he don’t go to our church anymore. He goes to the holy roller one on M-28.
I tell Utah to stay home. He likes to follow me down the lane and visit with Lard, but then he won’t go home until Blew comes for him. As I turn around to scold him again, I notice the sky behind the barn. The colors are beautiful, just like a box of new crayons. I know God couldn’t be a monkey and make something as pretty as the late afternoon sun shining through the trees. And I know Old Joe forgave me a long time ago for burning him. I like to call him by the pet name I gave him because he’s my favorite saint. I think he got a bum rap. I’m not sure what that means, but Papa says when something bad happens to good people they got a bum rap so that’s what I say about Old Joe. Nobody talks much about him in our church, except to say he couldn’t get a room at the inn. Maybe if he had a telephone, he could have made a reservation like people who stay at the Holiday Inn.
I’m half-way down the lane which means I’m almost home. I pedal fast. And I’m happy. Tomorrow I make my First Communion. I can’t wait.