on the platform now, all of them awash in the golden glow of a beautiful October morning.
No Jeremy Lewis around to enjoy it.
“There was a jumper here last month,” I say.
“What’s that?” Dana asks.
“A boy jumped in front of the train. He died.” I turn back to her. Her eyes widen politely in the once-removed way they do when you’ve heard something bad has happened and you know that’s how you’re supposed to react. “You hadn’t heard about it?”
“No.” She looks me right in the eyes when she lies. “I hadn’t.”
* * *
The silhouette of a weathered barn stands tall against the backdrop of a cloudy sky.
Eight years ago, the Garrett family gave Lev Warren use of their land in exchange for free labor, and it was there, in that barn, where he gathered a small group of people and asked them to imagine their part in the work he was only calling God’s will at the time. A large white tent stands at the front of the property now and I shadow countless bodies navigating the maze of vehicles parked in the mud as they make their way to it. It calls to mind a tent revival, the air thick with easily corrupted, foolish belief.
And my sister, here.
My sister has been here.
I have to push my soul past that reality, through it, just so my body can exist within it. I’ve wasted enough time trying to see all of this through Bea’s eyes, to understand it with her heart, and I can’t. I see it for what it is: the dirt-stained edges of the tent pinned to the ground, the sick scent of desperation in the air, cow shit mapping its edges, Project members moving through the crowd, sizing up the weakest to bring into their fold. Bea was weak. I’m not.
That we’re both here today proves it.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Dana asks.
I swallow hard, find my voice somehow.
“How many here are already members?” I don’t believe half the attendees are unique hits. They’re card-carrying. They know belief is contagious and the most important thing they can do is show up en masse to clap their hands and shout amen.
“Fewer than you think.”
There’s a cold bite to the air that makes me rub my hands together. I see a gap among people and imagine Jeremy there, a smile on his face like in the pictures. I scan the crowd and wait for a sick jolt in my stomach to signal Bea, but it doesn’t come.
“You won’t see Lev before the sermon starts,” Dana tells me.
“Right,” I say, like that’s who I was looking for.
I pull my collar farther up. We continue our way to the tent and I catch threads of conversations as we move. Quite a few people are here at the behest of friends and family. There are several who have left their church recently and are trying to find something that feels “right” and hope this is it. A little girl complains to her mother of the cold, and a stranger assures them the tent is heated. Before I can find out, a man stops me at its entrance, raising his hand and sending my heart crashing to my feet. He’s tall and thin. He has strawberry-blond hair tucked behind his ears. It falls to the nape of his neck, curling at the ends. A tidy ginger beard frames his pale white face. He wears blue jeans, a gray Henley, a camo puffer vest and black gloves. He stares at me for a moment that feels longer than necessary. I stare back because it’s all I can do.
“Foster,” Dana says.
“Dana.” He nods at me. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Gloria.”
“Step forward, hold your arms out.” He gestures me toward him, then leans half into the tent and calls, “Amalia.” A moment later, a young woman with curly black hair and light brown skin appears. She’s wearing the same kind of outfit he is: jeans, Henley, camo vest, gloves.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Security,” Dana says. “Pat down, then you’re free to go in.”
“Are you serious?”
“We do it for everyone and I’m right after you.”
I step forward and stretch out my arms. Amalia gives me a very small smile before her hands feather over my body, my arms, my legs, my back and my sides. It doesn’t stop there; they open my bag, riffling through it, and then Foster plucks my phone from one of the inside pockets. I make a grab for it, saying, “I don’t think so.”