Chapter 1
To have an assignment, Pastor Vern said, you had to be a woman of blood. You had to be a man of deep voice and Adam’s apple. And you should never reveal your assignment to another soul, for assignments were a holy bargaining between you and your pastor and God Himself. To speak of them directly would be to mar God’s voice, turn the supernatural human, and ruin it. So not even my own mother could tell me what her assignment was that unseasonably warm winter, wouldn’t tell me months into it when spring lifted up more dry heat around us, and everything twisted and changed forever.
I longed to know where she went when she left our apartment each morning, returning in the evening flushed, a bit more peeled back each time. I imagined her proselytizing to the vagrants sleeping on rags in the fields at the edge of town, combing the women’s mud-baked hair, holding their hands and exorcising evil from their hearts. I imagined her floating above our beloved town of Peaches, dropping God glitter over us like an angel, summoning the rain to cure our droughted fields. I imagined all these things with a burn of jealousy, for I had not received my woman’s blessing yet, the rush of blood between my legs that would signify me as useful. I’d just turned fourteen but was still a board-chested child in the eyes of God and Pastor Vern, and so I prayed day and night for the blood to come to me in a river, to flood the bed I shared with my mother. Then I would be ready. I could have an assignment too.
THAT SPRING PASTOR VERN decided we were due for a congregation-wide revival. We filled an abandoned bathtub behind the church with liters of Check Mate Cola and one by one he held us under just long enough for the lungs to burn, for fearful desperation to set in, and we came up gasping and sticky, his face the first face we saw, a God to us. Our tongues darted to catch the sugar drops falling from our brows. How we cheered as the sugar dried on our skin under the ruthless burn of the sun. There was no wasting water, and so the soda would do. It was such a small sacrifice, to use soda instead of water, that I almost mistook it for a thrill.
After the baptisms, he lined us up. He paced like a mad daddy. The valley floor had sunk thirteen inches over the last year alone, and where, Pastor Vern asked, did we think we were going?
Of course we already knew. Hell was always waiting.
He said in order to save the land we so loved we would need to step over the lines of our comfort. To open our arms, span them wide, and risk being shot down by God. He fell straight as a post onto his back to demonstrate. I spread my arms, my mother next to me, other mothers beyond her and their girls. The boys and the men were there too but it’s the girls I noticed most, girls like me, ready. I thought we looked tough lined up like that, like soldiers, the hay-dead field our battleground, that vast open plain of beige nothingness surrounding. I remembered what had once been here, a land so fertile you could throw the pit of a peach after eating the sweet flesh from it and underfoot would sprout up an orchard, how we had walked lightly over the dirt, electric with the possibility of small seeds creating bounty, lettuces and kales shimmering opulent, where before there had been only earth.
But now all was dry, and the steady stream of infidels we might recruit was dwindling. No one wanted to have the rodeo here anymore. No one wanted to hold an agriculture convention where there was no agriculture. And without new believers how would we ever offer Pastor Vern’s message to the world? How could anyone trust the faith of God’s own chosen people if they could not restore their land?
Pastor Vern stood up and looked straight at me. There might have been crows in the sky circling. There might have been a child’s cough or an old man’s sniffle or sneeze from all that dust, or the scraping shift of bare feet in the hot dirt. I thought maybe Vern would look at everyone this way, and maybe he did but I couldn’t see anything beyond the way he was looking at me, like he knew me through and through, eyes saddened by my natural-born sin yet still hopeful. There was no sound but for my own blood rushing in my ears. I felt a wave of desire rise up in me—I could have jumped into his arms. He looked looked looked and finally he made a gun of his hand and pointed it at my face. Pulled the trigger.
REBAPTIZED OR NOT, the next day brown water still ran from our taps, but praise, it turned clear by the time we counted to ten. It was dawn and I perched on the bathroom counter in one of my mother’s camisoles, a silky black thing that felt glamorous but she liked to remind me it was one hundred percent polyester, not silk. I wore too-small underwear she picked up from Goodwill that were clearly meant for a little boy, a penis hole and yellow tractors. I didn’t complain. She wore nothing, mowed over by the heat, and leaned toward the mirror, smoothed cream foundation over her sweaty skin even though it would slide off before she walked out the door.
“Holy holy, praise almighty,” she sang. “Our King is here, He is here. Hell is hot. Don’t drink the water. Stand and feel the fear.”
I was past the point of desiring sleep at this hour. What I desired most was time with her. I handed her the mascara and she craned her head back and opened her mouth as she raked black ink through her lashes, smudged raspberry glow into the hollows of her cheeks. I eyed her body, the thicket of light brown hair between her legs. She told me she never nursed me a day in her life and that’s why her breasts were still buoyed up on their own instead of sinking down in flaps of sadness. She was very concerned that one day they would give up so she gave them little pep talks—come on, girls, don’t fail me now. Ready steady.
I loved watching her. My mother was the sun in a dark room.
“Can I try?” I asked, hungry to look like her, to do my makeup like her, or better yet, to have her lean close and do it for me.
But her eyes settled on my crotch.
“Lacey May,” she whispered.
She swiped a finger across my thigh and then held it to the light. We both saw it—the red smear.
I looked down at myself. It was as if something deep inside me had cracked open and now wanted out. I jumped off the counter and pulled her to me, but her arms stayed by her sides.
“Looks like you’re ready for a real spiritual assignment now,” she said into my hair.
“Like yours?” I asked.
She pulled away sharply, but then softened. “He’ll have something special just for you.”
I felt a surge of new self tingle within me. I didn’t like the way my mother’s face flickered when she saw my first blood, I could read her so well, I could tell something troubled her, but it seemed selfish of her when now I was finally a woman. Surely the rebaptism had sparked this flow, and I smiled with that warm believer’s glow of confidence that came from answered prayers. I primed my eyes toward destiny. I would have an assignment and Pastor Vern would bring the rain at the right time and the town trusted him and loved him and all God’s people would be tended and the crops would persevere, amen.
I pulled the camisole over my head, kicked off the bloody boy unders, and stepped into the shower. “Can I?” I asked her, hand hovering over the faucet.
She shrugged in a way I knew to mean yes.
The water rained brown on my skin, almost like blood, I thought, as it streamed down my thighs, wasted its way down the drain. Then clear and clean, the smell of metal. Hard water, everyone called it. My mother liked to complain it made our hair dull but what could dull me now? I was electric. I was thinking in glitter and gold. Thinking, with my hands raised in praise right there in the shower, of Vern’s original miracle, the way he’d cured the town of drought years before when I was just seven years old. His dying daddy had ushered him in as a replacement, the new pastor of Gifts of the Spirit church. Vern had confused everyone at first with his proclamations of the supernatural and foresight, his golden robes and long blond hair curled in ringlets, sprayed to a starch. No one in town had seen him in over ten years—he’d been on mission trips around the world, it was said, casting God into the hearts of infidels. The top of his head was shaved clean in what he called a Spirit Hole, so that God could reach him without hair in the way.