Free Jesus Land by Julia Scheeres Page B

him and lean out the open window, my cheeks flaming. Why didn’t he stay away? It would be better for everyone if he just disappeared once and for all. A flock of grackles falls onto the fruit trees in the back field.
    “I got tired of eating beer and potato chips,” Jerome continues. “I really missed our mama’s delicious home cookin’.”
    David snickers. I turn back around as Jerome stretches out on the narrow bed next to me, his size-14 feet poking over the end of the mattress. He leers at me, and I walk over to the door and lean against it.
    David swivels his legs over the side of his bed to face Jerome.
    “Seriously, what are you going to do when Dad gets home?”
    Jerome draws his arms behind his head and yawns. His T-shirt is ripped at the neckline, as if someone had yanked on it.
    “Yell real loud and act scared,” Jerome says, staring at the ceiling. “But then again, maybe tonight will be different. Maybe tonight I’ll give the good doctor a taste of his own medicine.”
    “As if you could!” David erupts, looking at me in alarm.
    “Could? Or would?” Jerome snarls. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a lot bigger than the old fart, and a lot stronger.”
    “But he’s our dad,” David interjects, half angry, half pleading. “You can’t do that.”
    Jerome leaps to his feet.
    “Our dad ? You looked at yourself in a mirror lately, boy? If he was your real dad, do you think he’d get such pleasure out of whipping your sorry black ass?”
    He jabs a finger at me.
    “He’s not our dad, he’s her dad. Why do you think she gets spared? Because this family thing is bullshit, figure it out already!”
    David stares at him with an open mouth, and I chew on my thumbnail. Above us, Mother walks across the great room toward the hallway, her footsteps creaking the wood floor.
    Jerome collapses back onto his bed, stomach-down. “Now let me sleep,” he says.
    We’ve never heard Jerome talk like this before. As I gnaw on my nail and contemplate the stains in the brown carpet at my feet, I feel both my brothers turn to look at me, and the weight of their stares makes me shudder.
    As we eat our frozen potpies, Rejoice Radio drones in the background, and Dad’s imminent arrival hangs over the supper table like a sledgehammer. Mother reads Guideposts at her end of the table and Jerome sits next to David, smirking to himself and shaking his head, as if he were remembering something funny. David and I wolf down our food and excuse ourselves, leaving Jerome to linger at the table with Mother. He’ll try, as always, to sweet-talk his way out of punishment, telling her how good the food tastes or complimenting her embroidered Mexican housedress or asking if he can fetch her more ice cream. But it won’t work. It never does.
    I go to my bedroom and tune my radio to WAZY 96.5. Blazin’ Lafayette’s Hottest Music, turning up the volume so I can hear Stevie Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen” above the strains of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” playing over the intercom. A news report comes on about the Korean airline that was shot down.
    “The body count is now official,” the announcer says. “Two hundred and sixty-nine people were killed on Korean Air Flight KAL-007 when the Soviets launched a missile at it. In a speech today, President Reagan called it a massacre.”
    There’s a static-filled pause before the president’s stern yet soothing voice flows over the speakers.
    “This is a crime against humanity that must never be forgotten,” the president says, and I shut my eyes.
    “Dear God, please keep us safe from Yuri Andropov and the Commies,” I pray.
    If there’s a nuclear war, Mother says we have enough provisions to survive for two weeks. The basement cold cellar doubles as a bomb shelter; it’s got concrete walls and a reinforced steel door that are supposed to withstand an atomic blast if it’s over three miles away. The shelves are lined with canned tuna, homemade preserves, bottled