High as the Horses' Bridles: A Novel Read online

  From up here, the highest seat in his house, you can see it all, a crazy mixed perspective, where the clouds crawl high over the heads of husbands, wives, and children now settled in their seats. The applause has stopped. What sermon first? What song? Will there be talk of a new date? Because there’s been rumor of a brand-new date.… These are End Days, the Last Days, and the signs of the times are real, everywhere, and it’s so obvious. The earthquakes on the news. Russia killing all the God-fearing good men and women. Armageddon must be right around the corner. There has been talk among the congregations of a possible announcement, a date of divine prophecy revealed. The hour and the day made known, in honor of this new house of His worship. Since ’75—five years ago, but feels like yesterday—when so many prayed for Armageddon, and the Holy Ghost spoke through the pages of Ezekiel, Daniel, and the ancient dreamer John of Revelation. All their numerical reckonings had been pointing toward a date just right around the corner: Come 1975, the End will be here! The date was wrong. How many subsequent defections from how many ministries? Some got lucky and found a family with these new Brothers in the Lord. Hilda wasn’t around for all that drama, but she heard about it. She was new, and only started coming when someone gave her a pamphlet, “Don’t Be Afraid of Death,” two years ago on a subway. But of course the End didn’t come in 1975, it wasn’t time. But have you seen the TV news lately? The world is falling apart, with volcanoes, and they keep on talking about the Cold War, and how is war ever cold anyway? And the snatching up of the kids. Crack sold on street corners. Ay dios mio, what happens after Armageddon, then? Will the Holy Spirit talk to us today?

  Hilda spots little Josiah opening a door by the stairs to the stage. Or maybe he’s not so little after all. Almost the same age as Havi, but he’s so much more mature. Josiah Laudermilk is special and Hilda knows it, too: special like her Havi can’t ever be. He seems a little bit lost, and looking maybe for someone in the audience. Right there, in the front row, a man stands up and motions back to Josiah. It’s the boy’s father, Brother Gill Laudermilk. She doesn’t talk with him too much at church, because he makes her uncomfortable. Muy intenso. Now he’s waving at the boy, and excusing himself, making his way toward Josiah.

  Kizowski is saying: “Let’s open our songbooks to page number…”

  Josiah walks toward his father, the door closing behind him.

  The boy’s father takes him by the shoulder and pushes him along and away toward the back of the hall, under the balcony, where Hilda can’t see him no more. There is a yearning energy filling this place, a spirit she can’t help but receive even as she’s still feeling dizzy. It calms her even as it rises. She reaches one hand toward the stage, as if she expects to be taken, and lifted. But where are her boys?

  * * *

  Just like in junior high school, it’s in the stairwells you find the kids. In the halls and every darkened corner. They ditch parents first chance they get, and the parents don’t mind because inside is not the world outside. No crime, here, not in his house. No borough factions, or fights. Queens, Brooklyn, or Bronx. Best of all, no unbelievers. We’re a clean people, have a good time with your brothers and sisters. But be in your seats before the service begins.

  Havi and Issy stand by the water fountain and the restrooms at the top of the stairs. The doors to the balcony are closed, but Kizowski’s voice booms through the walls. You can’t get away from Kizowski. But with enough practice—and boy, do they have practice, church twice a week, sometimes more, for as long as they can remember—with enough practice you tune out the voices. Doesn’t mean you don’t get the message. These boys, thirteen and fourteen, they know it all by heart.

  “Look at that,” Havi says.

  Issy looks. The girl is maybe thirteen, and coming out of the ladies’ room, Dominican or maybe Puerto Rican, but it’s also, like, she’s a young woman. Not bodily—she weighs no more than what little girls weigh, it’s like she weighs so perfect—but would you look at the way she walks. No time anymore for play dolls or boy crush magazines, she wears a yellow dress with a white stripe around her knees like icing. Issy feels a little dizzy, and he knows a soda will make him feel better, but he also likes the buzzy feeling when his body wants sweets. Right now he wants nothing more in the world than to know her name.

  “Girl is fresh,” Havi says.

  Issy shoots him a look. Havi always gets the girls, but not this time. No way.

  Havi says, “What I say?”

  Issy watches the girl walk over to a man, probably her father, who talks with a fat Chinese brother sitting in a foldout chair. The Chinese brother is collecting donations in a tall wooden box with a handwritten sign taped to it: “Contributions for Furthering God’s Good Work.”

  Havi whispers, “Bet his chair busts in like five minutes.”

  Is she looking? Issy’s small heart hiccups. Nah, she’s not looking …

  Brother Laudermilk, Josiah’s father, stands by the door. The door opens again, and hot moist air comes wafting out. The restrooms are enormous. “Like a house in there,” says Havi. Urinals line the wall, each one with a blue flush cake. The air in there can’t be helped, though. The Argentines, Dominicans, Filipinos, Dutch. The Japanese, Ukrainians, Indians, Egyptians. The northern blacks, the southern blacks. Then every kind of white there is. They all come to worship and they bring their neighborhood smells, an invisible map of the world.

  Havi says, “Jesus.”

  “Don’t cuss,” says Issy, looking away to the girl.

  Then Issy looks at Brother Laudermilk, who now glances back toward the boys, flattens his left lapel. Issy half waves, and says, “Thas Josiah’s father. You see Josiah around?”

  Havi says, “Nah, I bet he’s in the pisser.”

  Issy says, “Looks like he’s waiting for Josiah.”

  “C’mon, les’ go, b’.”

  “Hey, thas Josiah,” says Issy. “Just look it.”

  The door closes behind the boy as he leaves the bathroom, blowing his nose into a stiff paper towel.

  Issy waves him over.

  Josiah looks at the two boys. His father is chatting with the large man, and with the father of the girl in the yellow dress, and the girl, too. On the way to the restroom, Josiah and father passed a lunch table stacked with heros. He showed his father, and asked for one, please. But his father said, No, wait for lunch. Food weighs you down. A spirit hungry for God is never satisfied. Concentrate on your sermon, son.

  Josiah throws away the paper towel and heads over to where the boys are standing, but then hesitates. Should he talk to them? Talk to Havi? He realizes he hasn’t really talked to anyone his age all day. He walks over.

  Issy says, “Wassup, what you doing?”

  Havi acts like he doesn’t see Josiah.

  Josiah nods his head, his father still busy talking. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to be somewhere. I have something to do.” Figures he better not mention his sermon because every time he gives one at church, Havi makes fun of him after. Issy never does, though. Josiah used to think it was because of their parents, that he had two parents and they both went to church. Except then Havi’s father started going to church, too, like his mother, and still he acts like a jerk. Issy’s father’s hardly ever around. His mom was, but not so much anymore. He’s practically living at Havi’s. One time, at church, when Issy’s mother was there, she pushed Issy’s head against a wall. Josiah was on his way to the restroom, saw it, and didn’t know what to do. Issy’s mom looked so mad, and she tried to keep her voice low as she smacked at Issy’s head. Josiah went over and took Issy’s hand. He had lied and said, My father wants to see you.

  “You so weird, Josiah,” Havi says, shaking his head.

  “Shut up, Havi,” says Issy.

  “Why? He your boyfriend now? Yo, we should go get Shastas. Josiah, hey, you got fifty cents?” Havi pats at his pockets, like he swears he’s got money somewhere.

  Josiah shakes his head, no. “I like Royal Crown anyway.”


  “Your boyfriend doesn’t even like Shasta. You know that girl, Josiah?” Havi likes talking at girls. He learned it from his older brother Carlo. Issy’s more shy, and the girls like that about him, they like that he doesn’t know he’s handsome. Havi knows Issy’s good-looking, but he’ll never say it. Havi’s in charge anyway.

  Josiah says, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know nothing, man.” Havi sucks at his teeth. “She’s looking at me.” Havi with his small chest pushed out, always ready, pre-confrontation. He learned this from his big brother, too, all five feet and five inches of bulldog Carlo. He checks himself in the silver backsplash of the water fountain.

  Josiah surprises himself, and says, “Oh, yeah? Then why don’t you go talk to her?”

  Havi straightens up. “Say what?”

  “Yeah,” snaps Issy, laughing, a little bit anxious. “Thas a nice one!” He puts up his hand for a high five. Josiah looks at the hand, and then he looks at his own. Then he presses his hand against Issy’s. He realizes he’s never seen them outside of church before.

  Havi says, “You two stupid.” His face goes a little pale. “Why don’t you go talk to her? Tell her how smart you are? Faggot.”

  Josiah wants to tell Havi to stop it already, teasing him hard for over a year. It’s not like they were best friends ever, but Havi used to leave him alone. Until last summer, when Havi started dressing like his brother and wearing a thick gold necklace. The new clothes make him act like the biggest jerk Josiah’s ever met. But sometimes the teasing is better than not talking with anyone at all.

  Issy says, “I told you to leave him alone. Nobody’s going to talk to her.”

  It’s not like Josiah’s timid, not at all. Sometimes he has a problem of saying too much. And face it, he knows it, he is more comfortable around adults. Other kids usually make him nervous. But who doesn’t want friends? And Issy has always been good. Look how he’s looking at the girl. Issy is in love. Josiah sees it, and it makes him smile. He draws a long breath and says: “Yeah, she’s not for you anyway.” He’s nodding at Issy.

  “Excuse me?” Havi scratches at his ear, puffs up.

  Issy puts up his hand for another high five. “Havi got schooled,” he sings.

  Havi sucks at his teeth again. “Please.” He flicks Josiah’s ear.

  Josiah flinches.

  “You gonna tell your daddy?”

  Josiah turns and looks at his father, who is still talking with the others.

  “Huh?” says Havi. “You looking for your mommy, too?”

  Maybe his father has forgotten he’s here. He looks back at Havi, and suddenly wants to punch him in the face. He’s never hit anyone before, and definitely not with a punch in the face. How would it feel? Would it hurt his hand? He thinks about this morning, in the kitchen, when his parents were yelling again. His father had said this time it was different. The Holy Spirit had spoken directly to him. Josiah walked into the kitchen, and he asked how it sounded. His father said, almost yelling, Would you please leave the room while your mother and I … Josiah wondered, Why tell Mom? Not me? I’m the one giving a sermon … He didn’t like it when his father raised his voice to his mother. Josiah’s mind was racing. Did the Holy Spirit say, Not Josiah? Anybody but him? Can the Spirit talk to anyone it wants?

  In 1975, Josiah was only seven. Too young to remember, really, but here his father was talking about 1975 again. About Armageddon. His father talked so much about Armageddon. Josiah knew the scriptures, what the End was supposed to look like. Fire in the sky, like a war. His father said it would happen maybe in 1980, maybe now. But he couldn’t be sure, only that we have to stay faithful. Look for signs. He heard his father say there was a rumor an announcement would be made. Today. When Josiah thinks of Armageddon, it makes him feel older, and bigger, stronger like his father.

  Havi says, “You just gonna stand there?”

  He steps up to Havi—right up. Makes a fist.

  “Oh, shoot,” says Havi. “Look it, stepping up like he’s gonna go ballistic. Please.”

  Josiah says a quick prayer and asks for the Lord God’s blessing. And then, surprisingly, he relaxes his fist, but lifts his foot up above Havi’s sneaker. Because he wants to hurt Havi. He wants to smash Havi’s toes with the hard heel of his own dress shoe.

  Issy shakes his head: Don’t do it.

  But they can’t tune the voice out forever, and Kizowski is coming on strong. His father crooks a finger—Get over here. We have to get backstage.

  The amplified voice speaks out: “You pretend to know the mind of God? The hour? The day? There will come God’s great war, Armageddon!” And this word is like a wooden chair thrown against a concrete wall.

  Issy says, “We should get back to our seats.”

  The voice surges through the halls like rushing dark water: “That Last Day will come like a thief in the night! Hear the psalmist! Who is there knowing the strength of His anger? His fury? You think His anger is like our Mount St. Helens?” A long pause … then, percussive, his lips closer to the mic, touching mesh: “Bah! A bee sting! A headache! For our God has come to prove to you that His fear will be before your faces.” A laugh, expelling his breath: “The Lord God has shaped every mountain with His hands, and the heavens themselves. Little lady Helen is no different!”

  Josiah unfreezes. Lets down his foot, away from Havi’s. His brain swirls with the TV footage. The bursting of Mount St. Helens’s rock face, the hellish smoke and flame spewing from the hole, the shower of black ash rain. He looks at his father, who looks back at him, tapping on his wristwatch. What was his father talking about with those brothers?

  Josiah says, “I gotta go.”

  Havi says, “You so weird.”

  The speaker box says: “The insistence of this world is on hurtful things, on evil things. But our Lord God has no fear. You think God is only love? Don’t you cherry-pick your scripture! Our Lord God is love, but also power! And fury! And that Last Day will be like none since the Flood. And God’s army will come riding forth on horses, and the sinners’ blood will run in the streets, thick and deep, high as a horse’s bridle, and just as fast.”

  Issy says, “Nah, man, Josiah’s cool.” Issy swallows a gulp of air, his eyes still on the girl.

  Josiah waves goodbye. He walks over to his father as the boys leave off. He sees Issy looking back as he runs, tripping on his way to the stairs. He nods hello to the girl in the yellow dress. But she looks through him, right past him, over and around, behind him. With every sense she follows Issy. Josiah wants to shout, “Hey Issy! She likes you, too!” But they’re gone, the boys, like animals let off their leashes.

  * * *

  His father walks him down the aisle toward the stage, and alongside the audience. They enter the doorway that leads backstage. Soon they are alone. Josiah stops before going any farther, the muffled echo of sermon behind the concrete walls. “What were you and those brothers talking about?” he asks.

  “Don’t you worry,” his father says. “You’re young yet.”

  Josiah considers this, and does not like it.

  Whenever his father doesn’t want to involve him in a conversation at church, and sometimes it seems important, he says it’s only for the older brothers. But Josiah knows so much scripture by heart, even more than some of the elders. He has displayed this scriptural knowledge in the past. As he gets older, the more he displays, the stronger he feels—at least here he does, in church, among believers. Even though he is powerless in school. Or around the block. Or in his neighborhood. Last week his father stopped a bully from stealing Josiah’s bike.

  “Were you talking about Armageddon?” he asks.

  His father looks him up and down, smooths the face of Josiah’s tie with his hand. “You’re becoming a real young man. And you will get taller, I promise. But not today.” It’s an old joke between them. But Josiah doesn’t smile.

  He asks the question again. “Were you talking about Armageddon?”

  His
father touches the boy’s cheek and says, “The first book of Corinthians, you remember? The faithful ask the Apostle Paul lots of questions. What about this, and what about that? But he doesn’t answer them all. And why? Because not everyone was ready. Even to the faithful I give milk, he said, and not solid food, because you are not yet ready.”

  Josiah considers this.

  “Isaiah, chapter three, verse four,” he says. “And I will make the boys their leaders, and the children shall govern over them.” He does not look away from his father.

  Gill is silent.

  What is a boy like this?

  Can a father love his son and release him? Sacrifice him, and still love him? Is this not what God the Father did for the Christ? Jesus taught the Temple fathers when he was only twelve … And it seems like this has been the case ever since Josiah’s third birthday, when he dropped his Dr. Seuss and picked up Genesis. Maybe even before, since his mother went underwater in a long white T-shirt and a modest black one-piece swimsuit. Baptized at thirty-five, her stomach was so swollen with Josiah, it took two men to get her underwater and rebirth her to the Lord. You were there, Josiah, she always says, my miracle boy inside me, and when I finally went under you dragged me down, so every last inch of my belly got saved. My belly button bobbed till you pulled me down, you keep my faith from drifting. I was thinking of 2 Kings, Gill always says, when you came up from the water. And I knew it then, this special boy would be nothing less than kingly. Born with a breath of God’s power in his infant lungs. And your name would be Josiah, like the anointed boy-king of old. Only a child, but touched by God’s great hands, the very thing we needed, the answer to our every prayer.

  Josiah, Josiah, Josiah, hang on the boy’s every word …

  He kisses Josiah’s head. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “I love you. Your mother and I are very proud. You come from a long line of godly men. Got your notes?”

  Satisfied, Josiah taps his jacket pocket, turns away, and heads for the backstage door.

  His father never answered the question—and that kiss, what was that kiss? He could have picked so many scriptures to show his father he wasn’t a kid anymore. He turns back, and sees him. He takes the notes from his pocket, and raises them. He waves them and can’t keep from smiling. Neither of them can. He opens the door to the stage. Takes two stairs at a time.