Free Jesus Land by Julia Scheeres Page A

wall: “Spare the Rod,” and “And Spoil the Child.” Proverbs 13:24.
    David waits for me by the back door. I stuff the Glamour into my backpack and we go inside together. “Holy! Holy! Holy!” plays loudly on the rec room intercom.
    The door to the boys’ room is shut. David walks to it and twists the knob. It’s locked. He shrugs and we go upstairs, where “Holy! Holy! Holy!” booms off the walls and windows. Mother’s at the dining room table with the Bible opened in front of her. Her head is in her hands and her glasses lie on the plastic tablecloth. David looks at me and raises his eyebrows before tiptoeing to the cookie jar.
    The ceramic lid clinks just as the music fades, and he freezes, hand in the jar. Mother looks up sharply, a tissue clutched in her hand.
    “Oh, hi,” she says in a weak voice. “Was . . .”
    Her words are drowned out by opening chords of the next hymn, and I reach to turn down the intercom volume.
    “Pardon me?” I ask.
    “Was there any mail?” Her voice is brusque now, back to normal. She puts on her glasses.
    “Some,” I respond. I walk to her and lay a sheaf of envelopes next to the Bible. It’s open to Psalm 23: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. . . . I will fear no evil, for You are with me, Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me . We had to memorize it in fifth grade. It’s a good passage to read to yourself, Reverend Dykstra says, whenever you feel troubled.
    When Mother lifts her head to study an envelope, I notice her eyes are red.
    David pours grape Kool-Aid into two glasses and brings one to me.
    “So, Jerome’s back?” he asks casually.
    Mother’s jaw tightens as she shuffles through the rest of the envelopes, separating the junk mail from the bills.
    “I’d prefer not to talk about it,” she says, drawing her elbows into her sides, clamping up.
    David and I are both standing next to her, over her.
    “Does Dad know?” I ask. I want her to look up so I can see if she was crying. I’ve never seen her cry before . . . if that’s what she was doing. . . . I thought she was too strong for that.
    “Of course he knows!” she says in an irritated voice.
    “Do you want any help with supper or anything?” I persist. If she really is crying, I’d feel bad for her.
    “What I want is some peace and quiet!” she says, shaking an electric bill in her hand, and still refusing to look up at us. “Don’t you kids have homework to do?”
    David elbows me and nods toward the basement door. I hesitate—not wanting to see Jerome, but curiosity getting the better of me—before following him downstairs. The door is still locked, and there’s no answer when David knocks. In the kitchen, Mother turns the volume up on Rejoice Radio. The hymn is “Blessed Assurance.”
    “Jerome. Open up,” David calls. Nothing. He kicks the door with his sneaker.
    Silence.
    “Open the door!” he shouts, pounding the wood slab with both fists. The door implodes, sucking David into the room. Jerome stands there, tall and glowering in the shadows. He has turned off the intercom, and the blinds are shut. The room smells sour, like dirty laundry. I follow David inside, and Jerome locks the door behind me. He’s several shades darker than David, almost coal-colored. No one would confuse them for brothers.
    David sits on his bed and I walk to the far wall and open the blinds and window to let in fresh air. The popped-out screen still leans against the wall beneath the window frame.
    “So . . . where you been?” David says.
    “Around,” Jerome says, turning to squint at the bright window; his left eye is swollen shut.
    “What happened to your face?” I ask.
    He sneers.
    “You should see the other guy.”
    “What’d you come back for?” David asks. “When Dad gets home . . .”
    “To fulfill some basic needs.”
    Jerome keeps his one good eye on me. I turn my back to