Dad led me to the car, where mom was sitting in the passenger side with her head against the window. Her brown-reddish hair flattened against the glass as if we were looking at a two-dimensional image of her, and her wispy fingers combed through the unexposed side of her head.
My sword was in the backseat. Mom's reflection looked back at me from the passenger's wing mirror. I waved the sword. We pulled away from the school and drove quickly through town.
I stretched out flat in the backseat, holding the sword upright. It would have appeared to be standing independently to an outside observer. I could only see the tips of roofs through the backseat windows, the shingled bases of upside down V's. They appeared as shadows against the bright sky.
We stopped on the side of the street in front of the church, and mom got out without saying anything. She closed the door quietly, but then stood there looking at me laying in the backseat. There was a cross flying high above her on the roof of the church, and her body aligned perfectly with the upright beam. She turned her back to us. She flipped her hair behind her shoulders. I felt a sinking sensation, as if the road were swallowing up the car.
"Get up here," dad said gently.
I sat up and got out of the car, still clutching the sword. For a moment, mom and I were side by side in the shadow of the cross.
"Are you coming with me?" she asked, looking very tall and out of place on the manicured lawn of the church grounds.
"No." I stood there, outside the car, suddenly thinking about the girl from school. Mom had once told me that Jesus died "on" that cross, but I didn't understand how that would work. It made my stomach feel strange, just thinking about it. She hadn't said it again. But thinking about the girl at school, something about it started to come together. I could picture a man on the cross, maybe sitting on the horizontal beam. He'd be struggling to keep his balance. And maybe he fell. Maybe that was why the cross was important. It helped you learn to keep your balance, like pushing a chair to help you skate.
Old people were walking very, very slowly into the church. They seemed hesitant, but I think that was because they were so used to being there. Nobody wants to be where they're going.
Then I felt silly standing outside with the sword, so I crawled into the passenger seat where mom had been sitting. Then I watched her looking at the low building and wished she wouldn't go in alone.
"Why don't you go to church?" I asked dad. Mom was joining the slow-moving stream of people walking through the open doors. She looked like she didn't want to go but had no choice, just as I felt getting on the yellow bus in the morning.
I thought it might be better here than at school, because people here took their time instead of running. When you went to school you ran, and it was like being sucked into a hole.
Dad lit a cigarette, then pulled away from the curb. The smoke curled out and around his lips. It drifted over to where I sat, then held shape for a moment. There was almost no traffic.
"I go sometimes," he said. "We've gone together. You remember."
I couldn't remember.
"Grandpa needs us more. God can wait."
