The Evolution of Ethan Poe, page 20
I describe it a little, realizing after I’ve started that it hurts me to talk about it. Not because it’s Etta listening, but because it’s my brother’s hand. And he did this awful thing to himself. My voice kind of tapers off, and I’m almost dizzy. Then I feel Etta’s arm around my shoulders. She doesn’t say anything, just pulls me to her side a little, and after a few seconds lets go.
On the drive home, Two lies down on the backseat and promptly falls asleep. He has a gentle snore that suits him somehow, and the inside of the car feels like home, or someplace safe and warm.
But I know it’s an illusion. I’m beginning to think there is no place that’s safe enough or warm enough to offer any real protection from the world. Mr. Coffin’s house, and Sylvia’s place, should have been safe for them. And Etta gets letters delivered to her house, and phone calls to her own phone, threatening her life.
My voice says, “Why is it only the ID side that’s doing things?”
“Doing things?”
“You know they threw rocks and broke all Sylvia’s windows, right? And there was the sit-in at Mr. Coffin’s, and you get those letters.”
Etta lets out a long breath before she speaks. “Sometimes people believe in something desperately. That means there’s fear there. When that happens, anyone with another point of view is dangerous. The believers get scared, though they might not see it like that. They’ll try to fight with words, but if they meet too much resistance, or if they meet resistance that takes the power out of their beliefs, they might pick up a weapon instead.
“When these beliefs revolve around God, people can convince themselves that anything they do to preserve their beliefs is actually something they’re doing for God. And this makes them feel like they have permission to do almost anything, because they’re convinced God is working through them, and it’s not just them doing it.”
“Kind of the opposite of saying, ‘The devil made me do it,’ right?”
Etta chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “To me it’s exactly the same, anytime someone does something violent or that doesn’t come from love. Helps me tell the difference between a disciple and a partisan.”
Disciple I’m pretty sure I get—like the guys who followed Jesus around. But . . . “Partisan?”
“Someone who follows something—some idea, or someone—blindly, without thinking, no questions asked, without stopping to see if the path they’re on actually makes sense.”
This sets my mind into gear, and I picture Jorja going on about the mark of the beast, and all the other crap in Revelations that’s more like a bad horror flick than anything I would think God wants associated with his name. It’s like the ID Christians are afraid that something about evolution will kill them, so they try to kill it first. And I don’t see a way to show anyone that evolution won’t kill anyone.
I’m quiet for so long that Etta finally says, “I can smell the wood burning, Ethan. Thinking about anything you want to share?”
My thoughts are so scattered I don’t know where to start. But I manage to ask, “Doesn’t it bother you? All the hatred? And the letters and calls? Aren’t you worried?”
“Sure. It’s scary, even though I try hard to convince myself that no one would really do anything truly violent. This is a small community, Ethan, and most of us have lived here all our lives, give or take a few years. I can’t believe that they’ll forget that, for all their threats. They’re just afraid.”
“But so are you!”
“Yes, but I know my fear is greater than the actual threat. And even if I’m wrong, what they’re afraid of is so much less identifiable, so much bigger and scarier and vaguer, that they’re at more of a disadvantage.”
I’m not sure I agree with her assessment; if someone threatened to kill me, maybe that’s not vague, but it doesn’t get much scarier. But I decide against saying anything that might make it harder for her. I have to ask this, though: “Why don’t you drop out of the race? You don’t even really want to be on that stupid committee, do you?”
Another long breath. “Have you studied much about Nazi Germany in school?”
“Enough to know what it is.”
“Did you learn about how the Nazi movement indoctrinated the young people? They taught them hatred and prejudice very deliberately, very early, and they recruited them into youth armies, doling out rewards and praise when the children exhibited blind allegiance to Nazi principles. If one of the children in Hitler’s youth army heard or saw something from their own parents that seemed even remotely sympathetic to the Jews, that child would turn his parents in to the party authorities.
“To me, inculcating school children with ideas based on specific religious doctrine that leaves no room for any other viewpoint is very nearly the same thing. Furthermore, teaching it as science could damage your ability to perform true analysis and arrive at valid understanding of so many other things about life. This isn’t just a question of Intelligent Design versus evolution. It’s a question of how we teach children to think. Or, no, actually it’s whether we teach children to think.”
“Jorja believes she’s met the beast in Revelations.”
“Met the beast? What do you think she means?”
“Um . . . I don’t know. I guess she means what she says.”
Etta’s quiet for a couple of minutes. “Is she all right? I mean, is there anything difficult going on in her life right now?”
“Not that I know of.” And my mind goes bouncing off again, revisiting recent conversations with Jorja. Not that there have been very many of them. And again, there’s that nagging guilt, that I haven’t exactly been her friend lately. I try to shake it off and just drive.
At home that afternoon, after a yelling match between Kyle and Mom because she wouldn’t let him go to church, Kyle wanders in and out of the kitchen and the living room, like he can’t decide what he wants to do. He sits down at the computer for a bit, pecking with the fingers on his good hand, while I do homework and try to time my computer needs in between Kyle’s assaults on the keyboard. At one point I send Jorja an e-mail to let her know I have something for her.
Sometime around three, just after Mom gets home, the doorbell rings. Kyle jumps up from the computer like it’s shocked him and runs upstairs; not many people know how bad his hand is. I go to the door.
It’s Jorja. “So? What have you got for me?” She looks like she’s trying not to seem interested, but I can tell she is.
“Come upstairs. I’ll show you.”
On the trip up she says, “What’s that on your ear now?”
“Just wait. You’ll see.”
In my room, she examines the bat closely. “Cool. When did you get this one?”
“Yesterday. And”—and I open the package and pull out just the ear cuff first—“here’s one for you.”
“An ichthus!” She grabs it and dashes to my bureau to watch herself put it on. I start to tell her how, but she shushes me and manages to get it on by herself. “Thanks, Ethan!” She’s actually smiling.
“That’s not all.”
“Oh?” And as she’s turning toward me, I lift the sparkling silver, purple, and black mass up and hold it aloft. Her eyes get huge as I drop it, link by shining link, onto her palm. I have to help her put it on, though she’ll be able to do it herself next time. She turns her hand one way and then another, holds it up, turns it again, her whole face kind of glowing. Then she turns toward me and wraps me in this bear hug.
“Ethan, Ethan! They’re gorgeous! Both of them. Thank you so, so much.” She lets me go so she can admire the slave bracelet again. “I’m never taking this off!” She’s practically skipping around the room by now. I put some music on, not too loud, and she plops herself onto my bed.
“I thought you’d like that. They had a blue one, but—”
“Oh, no. Purple’s much better.” She grins at me and then says, “So, how’s Kyle doing? How’s his hand?”
I sit on the end of the bed, sorry that the euphoria has to end. “Not great.” I look at her; how much should I say? “How much do you want to know?”
“You mean, like, how badly, or how much information?”
“Both, really.”
She changes position to sit cross-legged. “Tell me.”
Where to start? “Okay, but don’t let on to Mom that I told. I don’t know how much she wants me to talk about. And you have to promise not to say anything to anybody.”
“I’d swear on the Bible, if you had one.”
“We do, but it’s in Kyle’s room, and so is he right now, hiding. I’ll trust you.” I rub my face with both hands. “Okay, here goes. He has this thing called BIID. Some psychological thing about body identity. He thinks his right hand shouldn’t be part of him anymore, and he’s damaged it pretty badly. Cuts, punctures—it’s hideous.”
Jorja’s eyes are big again, but not in a good way this time. “Are you serious? What does he think that’s going to do for him?” I shrug, and she adds, “Of course, if it’s still—what was it you said?—causing him to stumble, then I guess if it’s damaged enough it won’t be able to do that. Did you ever figure out what he meant? What the stumbling part was?”
“Not entirely,” I lie. Sort of.
“Gosh. Well . . . who’s helping him? What are you doing for him?”
“He won’t really talk to me or to Mom, except when we do something he doesn’t like. He yelled and screamed today when he couldn’t go to church.”
“Why couldn’t he go to church? That’s exactly what he needs!”
“No, Jorja, listen. He’s got this disease, right? This disorder? And he’s using scripture to make himself believe it’s the right thing to do. But it isn’t, obviously. So as long as he’s focused on all those scriptures that tell him to cut his hand off, that helps him think he has to do that to make God happy, or something.” I pause; Jorja’s scowl tells me she’s thinking hard.
Finally she says, “Well, you know, Christians are also supposed to let Jesus’s love for us teach us how to love ourselves.”
I blink at her. That’s nothing like what I thought she’d say. “Are you learning to love yourself?”
She looks away and then down at her hands. “Sort of.”
“Can you help Kyle?”
She takes a shaky breath. “I doubt it. But, listen, that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone in the church—his church, or someone else’s—who couldn’t. Maybe you just need to look for someone.”
I give a kind of snort. “You mean like Mrs. Glasier?”
“I don’t know, Ethan. This isn’t my area. But have you tried?”
I haven’t. We haven’t. And I don’t have a lot of hope that it’s an idea Mom will embrace enthusiastically. Didn’t the therapist say no church? “I’ll think about it.”
We listen to some music for a bit, talk a little about school—staying away from touchy subjects like science and history, talking more about the other kids. Once or twice my mind lands on what Max has told me about Jorja’s part in the sit-in at Coffin’s, but I don’t let it stay there. That would not be a productive discussion. And she never mentions it.
At about four-thirty she looks at her watch. “Can I stay another half hour or so?”
I shrug. “Sure. You wanna see my iPhone?”
Her eyes light up. “You have an iPhone?”
“Mom knew I wanted one, and she figured she might need to reach me because of Kyle. So instead of just getting me a boring old cell, she got me this.” I pull it out, and we spend about forty minutes playing with it. I have to grab it at one point to avoid letting her see my messages from Max.
By the time she leaves, slave bracelet still on her hand and her quiet parting words—I’ll pray for Kyle—echoing in my mind, it kind of feels like we’re best friends again.
Almost.
Kyle has dinner with us tonight. I make a few attempts to talk to him, but his responses are minimal. It gets my goat, and my voice gets away from me, words getting out before I know what they’re going to be.
“You know, Kyle, Jesus is supposed to help you learn to love yourself. Why don’t you try focusing on that part of the Bible?”
He freezes, and Mom says, “Ethan!”
“What? It’s true!”
“Stop it!” Her hands are wrapped in fists around her knife and fork, leaning hard on the edge of the table.
Kyle mumbles something about having to go to the bathroom and gets up. Mom glares at me before following him, and then I hear her voice saying, “Don’t lock that door, Kyle. I’m waiting out here.”
They come back down in a few minutes, where I’m in a black sulk. Mom says, “Ethan, apologize to your brother.”
“For what?”
“It seems to me you just told him he doesn’t love himself. You don’t have the right or the knowledge to say that. Now apologize.”
I let out a long breath through my nose. “Sorry.”
Kyle manages a few bites of dessert before he heads back upstairs. “I’ve got some more homework to do.” I don’t know for what; he’s not going to school again yet.
While Mom and I wash and dry the dishes, she lectures me about how to talk to Kyle. “I just told you yesterday that he needs to stop focusing on religion. That’s what got him into this mess. So don’t you do anything to lure him back in again.”
“I was only trying to help. He needs to see the good side—”
“Ethan!” Her voice is a hoarse whisper. “There is no good side to religion!”
So much for trying to find someone helpful from any church to talk to Kyle.
Mom collapses in front of the TV, and I settle at the computer and do some research on BIID without finding out anything more useful than what Mom has told me. Every so often I feel the slender chain on my bat where it dangles against my ear, and suddenly I’m searching the Internet for power animals. Maybe because it’s close to the front of the alphabet, Cat stands out right away. I keep looking, but I also keep coming back to Cat.
There are so many things about the cat’s powers that seem like they’re exactly what Kyle needs. They see in the dark, so they’re not afraid of the same things people fear. Their energy moves in the opposite direction from a human’s, so if someone’s energy is going wild the cat’s can neutralize it. They help us see that the physical and spiritual worlds aren’t separate, because they’re both very sensual and very mysterious. And they can act as guides on a journey that takes you into self-discovery, helping you find your way in the dark. Some of these things, I notice, are in common with what Edgar is supposed to do for me.
I almost don’t want Kyle’s power animal to be Cat; it seems so ordinary. Mine’s Bat, after all, and Etta’s is the Australian dingo. Even Heidi’s Fox seems more interesting than some old cat. But the more I read, the more magical Cat seems.
When the phone rings, Mom and I both jump out of our skins. I get there first. It’s Sylvia Modine.
“Ethan, great! Just the young man I wanted to talk to.”
“Really? Um, how are you? I mean, after they broke all your windows. I’m really sorry that happened to you.”
“I’m managing, thanks. And that’s not exactly why I’m calling, but it’s related. Listen, do you mind if I come over for a few minutes?”
I glance at Mom, who’s watching me. “Now? You want to come over now?” Mom sits forward on the couch.
“If it’s okay. I’d like to talk to you and your mom together, if she’s there.”
“Hang on.” I don’t want to make this decision, so I tell Mom what I know and hand her the phone.
“Sylvia? What’s this about? It’s been kind of a tough weekend for us.” I wait through Mom listening to Sylvia talk. Then, “Well, I can’t answer for Ethan. But why can’t you talk to him tomorrow?” More listening. Then, “All right, since time is so limited. See you when you get here.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Sylvia wants to ask you a favor. I’d better let her describe it. But I don’t want you to feel pressured to do it. I’ll support you if you do, but do it only if you really want to.”
Well, that’s mysterious. I try to get more out of her, but it doesn’t work. So I’m kind of nervous by the time I hear the Jeep pull into our driveway. Mom turns the TV off, and then I hear voices—Sylvia’s and Max’s. I have the door open before they can knock, reminding myself that Mom isn’t supposed to know about Max and me, knowing that Sylvia does know, and feeling a little panicked about how this will all work itself out.
We all sit kind of formally around the living room, though it doesn’t take long for Sylvia to get to her point. “Well!” She glances around, hands propping her up from where they press against her thighs. “I have a very exciting opportunity for you, Ethan. Did your mother tell you about it?”
“Not yet.” I’m already not feeling great about this. When someone in any kind of authority role says they’re excited about something they obviously want you to get excited about, too, that’s usually a bad sign.
“Okay, well, you know about the town hall meeting this week, right? And, I mean, the whole subject. The whole idea about bringing religion into science class by calling it ‘Intelligent Design. ’ You’ve heard all about that?”
“I’ve heard a lot, sure.”
“Max tells me you’ve helped Etta Greenleaf put up campaign signs. Can I assume that means you’d be against ID?”
I give myself enough space to consider how much intelligence could have gone into the design that makes Kyle want to remove part of himself, or how intelligent it is that best friends cut each other off. “I guess. I’m not really taking sides, though.”
This stops her, but just for a nanosecond. “I think what you’ll hear at the town hall—you are going, right?—is that it’s going to be pretty difficult not to take sides. There’s going to be a pitched battle, Ethan. I don’t like it, but there it is. What happened to my windows proves it, and so does the sit-in at Mr. Coffin’s house. You heard about that?” I just nod, deliberately not looking at Max, who’s deliberately not looking at me. “So, if you don’t like taking sides, then you probably don’t want this battle, either. So help me neutralize it.”
