The Creek Will Rise
They found me tossing whiskey bottles into the creek behind the ‘ol Winn-Dixie on Cedar Road. Despite the cool breeze that drifted through town that evening, I wore my heartbreak like a wool coat in the blazing months of summer. Beads of sweat rolled down my back, and the sleeves of my dress were damp with snot and tears.
“Mary-Anne Duncan,” my best friend, Lottie, started, planting her hands on her hips. “And where, exactly, have you been? You missed choir practice and church! Everyone is looking for you, practically scouring the hills!” She looked so much like her mama, who, despite being petite, could command a room with a single stern gaze, unlike my mama, who was tall and timid. “Ms. Macy said she’s going to give away your solo to Leane.”
I rolled my eyes and said, “Ms. Macy can go wandering across the freeway butt-naked for all I care.”
Lottie stared, her mouth open like a fish.
Her older brother, Tommy, stood aside, hands shoved in his pockets. Their daddy, Pastor John, made him clean up on Sundays, so he’d traded his muddied boots for scuffed loafers instead. Although he was hard-headed, like his mama, he wore his baseball cap with his dress shirt untucked. My mama was anything but stubborn and could bend to my daddy’s will quicker than a flower starved of water. “You rob a liquor store or did your daddy finally fall off the wagon?” he asked.
“Can’t fall off when you never got on,” I said, taking a step forward. The soles of my Mary Janes sank into the creek’s muddy bank. “You gon’ just stand there or help me?”
He whooped his appreciation, grabbing the neck of a bottle and throwing it further than I ever could. It made a large splash, briefly bobbing to the surface before sinking into the depths of the murky water.
“So what now?” Lottie asked. “Set up camp here, and pitch a fit?”
“Don’t you see, Lottie?” Tommy laughed. “Sweet ‘ol Mary-Anne is pitching her daddy’s stash into the creek.”
“Missing church is sinful,” she said, lifting the hem of her dress. It was a vain attempt to keep it clean. “And so is littering…”
“Then I’m a sinner too, like my daddy,” I said, and the thought made my heart so heavy I felt it could sink to the bottom of the creek. My daddy could recite most of the Bible by heart, and that made him the worst kind of sinner.
Lottie kept nagging. Mostly, she liked to hear herself talk. “And you were supposed to print the sheet music, so poor Ms. Macy had to play Amazing Grace off the top of her head. Good Lord, it sounded like a stray cat wandered in and walked across the keys!”
“Will you shut up!” I shouted. “Enough about Ms. Macy—and church—and whatever else you have floating around in that damn head of yours.”
Her mouth screwed shut, and in the silence the cicadas cried out with a high-pitched whine. I wished so badly that I could join in, but my tears had since subsided. I felt restless and itchy.
“Why are you acting like it’s the end of the world?” Tommy asked. “It ain’t your liver, is it?”
“He’s my daddy, and I love him. Why wouldn’t I be upset?”
“I didn’t say you don’t love him,” he said. “It just seems like you’ve got more to give than tears.”
“I do?”
“Yep, and you know that pain you feel right there?” he asked, thumping my chest. “It’ll eat you right up if you don’t spit it out.”
It might have been because I was only fourteen, but I thought that was the wisest thing I’d ever heard, even though Tommy was only seventeen and had to repeat the 9th grade twice. He was right. This heartbreak deserved more than my tears. I wanted to scream until my voice was hoarse. Truthfully, I was angry at my mama—the woman who was supposed to protect me, even if it meant confronting the belligerent man my father became when he returned home from work. Was I not worth it? I must not have been, or I wouldn’t be standing here all dirty and a mess.
I reached for another whiskey bottle, but the crate was empty. So I kicked it away with my foot, but it wasn’t enough, and it got stuck in the mud. I meant to chase it, but Tommy grabbed my arm. “Watch your step, or you’ll drown,” he warned. “The creek’s risen at least a foot and a half from all the rain.”
“Give it a rest, Mary Anne. It’s getting late,” Lottie said, standing up and dusting off her dress. “Leave the creek alone, and go home.”
I tried to pull my arm free. “Tommy, let go. I’d rather drown.”
“Not your home,” Lottie said. “Our house, silly. Mama’s making meatloaf.”
We linked arms, our argument forgotten. There’d be another one by the time we reached the next street, and many more, I’m sure, over the years to come, but when Lottie and I first met, we knew we were meant to walk this life together. We felt the truth of it in our bones. She could never hurt me, at least in the ways that truly mattered.
Tommy whistled, trailing behind as we walked back towards town.
Stubbornly, I stewed in my anger the entire way to Lottie’s house.
I couldn’t help but replay that day in church, when my daddy confessed before the congregation. I remembered the smell of fresh-cut flowers, too much hairspray, and the nauseating stench of cologne as nearly the whole town squeezed into the pews. It was a spectacle. My daddy’s intervention had drawn the usual churchgoers, but also the town gossip, Mrs. Sandy, and even the mayor of our small town. “I pray for your help in my family’s time of need,” he’d pleaded, wiping tears. “I’ve become a changed man, and you all—but more importantly, God—is my witness.”
Mama had clasped her hands tightly in her lap, the skin on the back of her hand pulled taut. I could see her veins, and I sat beside her, tracing the faint blue lines. “Your daddy will get better, Mary-Anne,” she’d said, taking my hand. “God willing and the creek don’t rise.”
Pastor John bowed his head, and we’d all followed. “Let us bow our heads and pray for forgiveness. For we are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord.”
I’d taken a peek during prayer. So had my father. Almost as if he’d been checking to see if everyone believed his lies, and I was now shamed to admit, he had sure fooled me with sugared words and so many presents—a pretty dress and shiny Mary Janes that would forever be dirtied by the muddy bank of a creek.
He’d met my eyes. “Amen.”
My mother squeezed my hand, and I squeezed hers back.
“Amen.”