Acts

by Missy Burkholder

The summer that we decided to be kind to people was hot. A few years have passed since then, but I still remember how the gardens in our community grew that year. The plants, as fruitful as the Mennonites that raised them, grew heavy with vegetables until the yield became emblems of our virtue. Every morning, I was out in my parents’ truck patch early, hiking up my skirt and crawling along rows, picking the good and rejecting the bad.

If the sun was hot, at least the wind was busy. Unusually frequent days of breeze weakened the heat and made it bearable. As I parted the leaves that had sewed themselves together over the naked beans and tomatoes, I would feel the wind tugging at my hair and fighting for a grip on my dress as if it would rip my clothing off. Wind inspires people to act, I think, and one extra airy evening when all of the church youth were hanging out at our favorite lake, the notion began. 

We were talking about how to help people in our community, scattered around the requisite campfire which was lit in spite of the sweltering day of Ontarian summertime behind us. The rest were ranged about on camp chairs, but I was sitting on the ground. The smoke didn’t reach me there, and I had a clear view of the flames to myself.

Being kind was Johnny’s idea, of course, and Shakira backed him up. She couldn’t help it, just like Johnny couldn’t help having the idea. She was his cousin by adoption, and they hung together in the smug manner that boy and girl cousins do in groups like ours where cross gender relationships are so full of conscious boundaries. None of the rest of us said much at first. Johnny rambled, and we were slow to speak, slower to remonstrate, carried along in the familiar rhythm of Johnny’s thoughts. 

“The thing is,” Johnny said, “you can’t plan these things. You just have to be out there, in tune with the Spirit. There’s a lot of darkness out there, and we have to go armed and ready to conquer with the light. When we have the Spirit, we can go into the darkest places and prevail, and people will see that we have something they don’t and they will want what we have.”

I knew he wasn’t trying to be impressive, but, again, he couldn’t help it. There were a lot of things about Johnny that he couldn’t help, including talking about the Spirit.  

“Our heritage is such a gift,” Sam said, breaking in on Johnny. He was a skinny, serious type, usually seen with a book and big on church history. 

Everyone nodded. We had all been brought up in the tradition of what we had that the world around us didn’t have, and we knew the world was in need of it. 

“Right,” said Johnny, “We have to share. We just can’t keep all our blessings to ourselves. Just being out and about, people see us, especially you girls, and– don’t forget what a powerful witness that is –but we have to go farther. 

“The world is hungry,” Johnny added, “And we have so much to give. We’ll feed people all we can. We’ll go out and find people to reach out to, doing kind deeds for people everywhere we can.” 

Mid-summer evenings are long in northeastern Ontario, and we were so often together with so little fresh material for conversation that the matter didn’t drop. Leaning back on my elbows, I studied the deepening dome of dark overhead. It was becoming obvious to me that these acts of kindness would involve speaking to strangers, a barrier I was almost never able to comfortably surmount. Miserable memories of street meetings and handing out tracts surfaced, but after a moment, I pushed them down. Maybe, just maybe, if I followed close behind the others, I would finally be able to break out of my shyness and do my part in these efforts.

The fire burned on, we piled on more logs, and Johnny dreamed. He wanted to form a club around this idea; being a conservative Mennonite youth group in a small community with no other social options on hand wasn’t enough. A club it must be, and, eventually, the attending supporters ratified it into existence. 

When the only evidence of light left us was the turquoise beyond the pine spears on the other side of the lake and the tongues of fire in front, the silent members began to wake up. Avery, who had been stomping around breaking off dead branches to pile on the fire, settled down to poking it while the others hashed out a name. Sam, sitting bolt upright with his hands folded in his lap, suggested Anabaptist Acts of Amiability. He also floated the idea of Kingdom Kompassions, spelled with a “k”, but Johnny said it sounded too much like a failing doughnut chain. Shakira wanted Christian Kindness in the title, but Terry, a big, pale-eyed lad, said it was sketch. 

“Caring, kindness, Christian, compassion, kingdom,” Johnny said. “How many words that start with “k” can we find?” 

Terry said that he could think of another group whose initials all started with “k” but no one answered. Terry could be difficult. 

“Christians That Care?” Shakira said. She pressed her chin into her brown hands. “I like that.”

“More sketch.” said Avery, suddenly joining the discussion. 

“Mary,” Shakira appealed, “Help me.”

But I couldn’t. I took my coffee cup and went to the picnic table to pack up the food. Whatever the name of the club, it would require food, and I knew who would be in charge of that. Stowing a half-empty container of fresh vegetables in the cooler, I took a plate of cookies and the remainder of the coffee over to the fire. 

“We will meet every other week,” Johnny’s curly head was lolling on the back of his camp chair, taking in the night sky which was perforated with sparks from the snapping fire. “We can hold our team strategy meetings here at this lake. It makes sense, I think…”

“Unless it rains.” Shakira’s voice was unusually sour. I knew then that she had lost the naming game. 

“Mary,” said Johnny, sitting up suddenly and smiling till his eyes crinkled. “You make the best chocolate chip cookies.” He took three. 

“What name did you choose?” I asked, backing away and passing the plate to Avery. 

“Acts.”

“Very concise,” I said.

“It sets a high standard,” Johnny agreed, holding up his cookie and smiling at it. “Of course, it’s really Acts of Kindness, but we’ll just use Acts for short.”

__

The club started out quietly enough. Our first order of business was to sing at a nursing home, partly because it was expected of us and had already been scheduled by the church outreach committee.

Johnny, who was the leader, prepared a program of songs. “I don’t feel like singing ‘Blessed Assurance’ and ‘I Come To the Garden Alone’ three times in a row,” he had told me.

“Won’t you at least take a few requests?” I asked, picturing the familiar low-ceilinged room full of elderly faces that we had been singing to most of our lives. I knew how much they liked those very songs. 

But Johnny said it wasn’t necessary. “It’s all great doing this, Mary,” he said, “But I hope we don’t stop here. You know what, I saw two homeless people today from Tent City, and I really think there’s a field to harvest there. Those addicts really need our help, I think. I would love it if we could find something to do there.” 

Nonetheless, we started with the old people. We went on a hot, still evening, strolling into the main room of the nursing home with the conscious swagger of choirs. Lining up, we sang Johnny’s prepared pieces which included “In His Time” and “Give Me a Grateful Heart.” We wound up with a final number of “How Deep the Father’s Love”, featuring a fine high tenor from Shakira on the last verse. 

“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” Johnny said later as we refreshed ourselves at Tim Horton’s. “But let’s try something else. We want to reach all kinds of people, not just old people. Like I want to reach young people, people that really need what we have. We need to bring the young people in.”

The main doors had closed at the coffee shop, and the visored employees were mopping under the tables before we straggled out, laughing and talking. 

 A week later, we held a coffee-for-everyone day. Our town had only one coffee shop, and there we gathered. We spent a few hours circling through the Tim Horton’s drivethrough, paying for the customer behind us. It was great fun. Buying coffee is practically the only consumer thrill available in a small northeastern town and the apex of Canadian goodwill besides. With reluctance, we reconvened in the parking lot when Johnny called a halt. 

Terry leaned out of the window of his truck to accost the rest of us. “Do you guys have any idea how much money we’ve spent by now? We’ve been spending an average of five dollars every five minutes since one o’ clock.”

“Who cares?” Johnny said. “It’s all split up between us. It’s not that much, not more than a day of skiing. We’re following the Spirit.”

“There goes the day of skiing.” That was Avery from the backseat of Terry’s truck. 

“I’m done,” Terry said. “Let’s send it.”

“I need a coffee before I’m done,” Shakira declared. 

“Me too,” said Johnny. 

Shakira jumped out of the car she had shared with me and Sam and clambered in with the boys, but in the end, we all drove through the coffee line one more time. As we reappeared in front of the window again, the manager, Audrey, pushed back her headset and, leaning out on her rounded elbows, started to laugh. “You folks want something?”

“Just coffee,” Sam said. “We’re prone to afterthoughts.”

Audrey laughed harder, dropping her big head into her arms, her bosom pushing against the window shelf. “I’ve never seen the likes before in my life, but I don’t have the heart to charge you,” she said after a mirthful minute, and heaving herself off the counter, she disappeared. Returning, she handed out large regulars for everyone and a fifty count of timbits with not a plain one to be seen in the assortment.

“What a nice lady,” Johnny said as we sat on the curb eating. “See? People love what we’re doing. We’re feeding the town.”

“Wouldn’t there be a cheaper way to feed the town?” Terry asked.

I sat, turning a timbit over and over in my hand, trying to identify the source of my weariness. Johnny’s cherubic enthusiasm was beginning to wear on me, but I wasn’t sure why. 

“Or even a way to feed people who actually need it?” I ventured.

Then, surprised at myself, I looked up to see a piece of blowing garbage and hopped up to catch it. Just as I reached it, another blast of air carried it off again. I darted the entire length of the parking lot, the paper bag dancing just beyond. Reaching the farthest curb, I captured it. The others clapped and cheered as I marched back waving it, except for Johnny who sat staring down into his coffee. 

“We have no idea who all we bought coffee for today,” he said, “There might have been some very poor people in some of those vehicles.”

“Yes,” said Shakira, taking this up. “I’m pretty sure that one vehicle was full of hungry people. There were a bunch of kids and a sad-looking woman, and there wasn’t any dad…”

“Yeah but couldn’t we just make a batch of spaghetti and take it somewhere?” Terry asked. “Where’s the timbits? Hey, stop eating all the filled ones!” He whisked the box out of Johnny’s lap. 

Johnny insisted on a Bless the Businesses Day, more goodwill involving caffeine. Sam and I were assigned to the bank and the hardware store, but all of us assembled at Tim Hortons first to buy the coffees, saying hi to Audrey as we collected the trays of drinks. She eyed us, bright with smiles and eyebrows arching under her visor, but didn’t pause to ask us any questions. The order line behind us was clogged with customers waiting on our order of fifty coffees to be processed. 

I was silent as we drove to the bank. Sam said it was a nice day, and then he was quiet too. We opened the windows to stir the still air of the sticky morning. Not a leaf was moving. I stared out at passersby without really seeing them, trying to envision walking into the bank with those coffees, but my imagination balked. Try as I might, I could not picture anyway to proceed beyond that point, and the idea made the wad of dread in my middle lurch with an electric discomfort. 

But walk in we did, Sam carrying the tray of coffees. People holding their checkbooks and debit cards turned to look at us. Only the tellers did not look at us. Automatically, I pressed back against the doorway, but Sam gazed about in that lost way he had. I wondered if he remembered why we were there. 

“I guess we should stand in line,” he said eventually. 

So we did. By now the two tellers must have seen us, but they didn’t beckon us forward. We continued standing. I gazed at the walls, studying the advertisements of happy people helping each other. Sowing trust in every transaction and Your aspirations, our expertise. 

No one was ahead of us in the line anymore. Sam started forward, and I tried on an expression of joy and generosity but gave it up quickly. 

“Uh…”

A teller looked up. “Yes?”
“Could I offer you a coffee?”

“No thanks. I don’t drink coffee.” Turning away, she bent down to open a drawer.

Sam gaped, and I looked down at the coffees.

“Uh…” That was Sam again.

The other teller looked over, her smile gentle like my mother’s. “I’ll take one, thank you.”

“Sam…!” 

I was too late. Half of the damp coffee tray suddenly folded under, and as Sam grabbed at it, he came up empty. Bombs away. All four large coffees– one sugar, one cream– exploded over the carpet and available surfaces. One struck the desk, and warm stains began spreading over receipts. 

Maybe it was minutes, maybe it was hours later when we found ourselves back out in Sam’s car. For some reason, in my head I could hear Shakira shrieking with laughter. I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t. The sound of ripping paper towels as the tellers tried to soak up the coffee was still grating in my ears. 

__

We held a debrief session that afternoon at my place. The humidity was lifting a bit, and the air had picked up, lifting the leaves on the trees and cooling my arms as I ran to get drinks, and then ran for ice. I ran for a bag of chips and brought a tray of cinnamon buns too. Then there was coffee to fetch, mugs, and the cream. The conversation burst on me each time I reentered the circle around the smoky fire, laden with more supplies.

Johnny was holding court. It appeared that Terry and Avery, who had been directed to the grocery and drugstores as well as the post office, had given up after going into the grocery store. The cashiers were too busy with the summer tourist shoppers to want coffee. The guys had gone skateboarding instead, drinking a large number of the coffees themselves and sharing the rest with a few other skateboarders. Johnny and Shakira announced that they had been a huge hit at the police and fire stations, having posed for a photo with the firechief, and they couldn’t understand why the rest of us hadn’t managed better. 

Sam was silent, and, after finally sitting down with the others, I didn’t volunteer any remarks either, still stinging with the humiliation of the bank catastrophe. The only thing I knew for sure was that I never wanted to offer a coffee to anyone again. Pressing my fingers together and resting my lips against them, I tried to think it through reasonably, but the wad in my stomach had shifted from dread to guilt. I hated my shyness; I hated having to do outreach. I didn’t want anything to do with any more evangelism ever, but I knew I couldn’t admit that. If we didn’t show the people around us love, who would? So upset that I couldn’t even eat, I sat limply, listening to the others.

The boys were openly rebellious. After an involved argument, Avery walked off, and Terry summed it up with “…something has to change, John. We can’t just keep dorking about like a bunch of girls, giving out coffees. Coffee won’t change anyone’s life. We’re going down the wrong trail. We need to actually do something.”

“Like what?” Johnny looked quickly from person to person. “Any ideas? Mary, what do you think?” He did not mention the Spirit. 

“Look out guys,” Avery called out just then, saving me from having to answer. He shoved back into the circle, unstopping a jug of black oil. “Bye, bye smoky fire.”

We scattered, whooping. The fire caught the oil and roared high above our heads. Then as it died down, we drew in after it, dancing partners with the flickers of heat and light, and fell back as the flames leaped out again in time to the breeze. The afternoon faded into a soft evening, and together, we laughed and drank and ate. No more mention was made of Acts that day.

__

The hot weather melted away after that, and August drifted in, ethereal with its blue skies and gentle weather, a last gift of the year. Every day was perfect, just sunny and warm enough. The air hushed with the sleepy squeaks of crickets in autumnal protest. The counters of my mother’s kitchen, usually so clean and bare, were piled high with a harvest of kale, newly canned peaches, pickles, warm tomatoes, baby potatoes, and wild berries I had picked for jam. I was bringing in a wheelbarrow of beets and broccoli for the roadside stand late one Saturday afternoon when Shakira arrived. 

“Johnny is calling an emergency meeting of Acts. Didn’t you see the message?”

“No?” I couldn’t even remember where my phone was. It had been several weeks since Johnny had called us together, even to talk. 

“C’mon.”

I hung back a moment, the memories of the last Acts effort still raw, but ever irrepressible, Shakira pulled me along. By the time I had cleaned up and we had reached the little green square in the center of town called the park, we found Johnny and the others already assembled. 

Johnny’s face was flushed as he whipped open the tailgate of his pickup truck. “Look!”

Dumbly, we beheld an array of boxes. Johnny tugged one out and opened it, displaying a pretty conglomerate of yellow beans, zucchini, lettuce, and radishes. He took a handful of beans and spread his palm toward us. “Someone donated a whole bunch of fresh produce to the Food Bank, and they’re looking for volunteers to hand it out before it goes bad.”

“How did they find you?” Terry wanted to know.

“Audrey– you know the manager at Tim Horton’s– I stopped for a coffee, and she asked if I would help find a home for these. She works at the Food Bank sometimes, I guess, and she remembered the day we were buying coffees. See? The Spirit is at work! We just have to go where it leads.”

“So who do we give it to?” Shakira asked, surveying the pile of boxes.

“Did the Spirit tell you where to take it?” That was Terry again.

Johnny looked at him, and for a moment there gleamed in Johnny’s pupils a very small, distorted reflection of Terry.

“I think,” he said, “that Tent City is the obvious place.”

Tent City was not a place that any of us had set foot in before. None of us had ever even talked with anyone who lived there. As we parked along the dirt road by the homeless camp, I cast glances over my shoulder to where I could see bikes leaning against trees, a shopping cart or two, tents, tarps, a fishing hut with wires strung all around it, power cords roving across the ground, and general litter of garbage, salvaged items of broken furniture, packs with heavy clothes sprawling out through the opening, and paraphernalia of the randomest order. I could see keen interest on the faces of my friends, but no one said much as we shouldered the boxes. I took one, and swallowing back nervousness, decided I would stay close behind Johnny.

“Where are all the people?” Terry asked in a low voice. We all stopped, and I realized that there was no one in sight. “Watch out for needles,” he added, sidestepping a syringe.

“Let’s knock,” said Johnny, turning toward the fishing hut. 

“Hey, here’s someone,” Shakira gestured with her box into the brush. We looked at a man, sprawled on his back over a tree root, ageless in the deep slumber that belongs to children and the elderly. His hair was young, the teeth in his open mouth were old, and his knotty body somewhere in between.

Johnny was knocking on the door of the fishing hut, and someone yelled, “Who’s there?”

“It’s us, some friends!” Johnny called back. “We have something for you.”

The door flew open, banging against the plywood of the hut, and a short, bald man peered out. Beyond him we could see a flashing TV screen. 

“What is it?” The man eyed the box. “Food?”

“Some fresh vegetables. We thought you might like to have some.” Johnny opened the box and held it out.

The man reached into the box and fumbled through the contents. “Zucchini,” he grunted and dropped a slender, green one. Shoving his round face closer to Johnny, he said, “Where’s the meat?”

“Meat?” Johnny shook his head. “We don’t have any meat. Just these.” He rearranged the spurned vegetable, smoothing it in with the others again. The man turned away and disappeared into the hut again. 

“Who’sh there?” A creaky voice came from behind the little structure, its tone unassignable to gender. “Barney?”

Johnny was already on his way around the hut, and the rest of us followed close behind. 

“Hey!” The voice this time was raised.

Johnny jerked, stopping abruptly, and I stumbled up against his back. The bushes swayed, and I heard leaves scruffing together and a low moan, then panting. 

A figure, gaunt and very tall, was rising from the ground, unfolding in segments. Blood drops had pooled at the corners of the eyes, the arms covered in open, fresh gashes, and the person was without doubt a woman, naked except for a short, dingy white jean jacket spattered with blood and swinging loose under her hairy armpits.

“Hey, there…!” she took one long step forward, fixing her bleeding gaze on Johnny. She was a head taller than most of us, even the boys. “You look like a nice lil’ boy. Got somefin’ for me?” She cooed.

Johnny shifted the box from one arm to the other and took a step back as she closed in. “Excuse me.” He swallowed and lamely, half-lifted the box toward her as if to offer it to her. Then, as she was awfully close, he stumbled back again. “Um, here…”

The fishing hut door creaked. “Tanya?” Barney was looking around the hut. “Oh, my God, Tanya– you’ve done it again.”

We fell back to the side. Bursting out of the hut, Barney took Tanya by the arms, lifting them one after another to look at the cuts. He cursed at her, and she began to flail, her long, blotchy legs flashing out like a horse going wild in its stall. 

The sound of a zipper made us glance back, and another man appeared at the door of his tent. A woman looked out from behind him, her expression blank.

“Call 911!” Barney screamed at him, hanging onto Tanya. “This crazy is gonna kill me!” He jerked his head at us. “Get out of here!”

We needed no second instructions, darting off with our boxes of vegetables. Only Johnny still stood uncertainly. He had pulled out his phone, and eyes on Barney and Tanya, seemed to be debating with himself. 

“Get out!” Barney shrieked again, and, as Tanya calmed temporarily, he added, “No one likes zucchini.”

Johnny drew himself up, but as he turned to go, Tanya lunged at him and caught at the jacket he had tied around his waist. It unraveled, and she snatched it to her face, hiding her bloody eyes. Johnny broke into a stride, then a trot.

Reaching the trucks, we halted and looked back. All of us were big-eyed, and I was fighting to catch my breath. Screams issued in ear-stabbing staccato from the undergrowth, and I pressed my fingers to my ears. 

 Another car, low to the ground and covered in rust, had parked beside our vehicles. The engine was running, and the occupants had been watching us come pelting out from the camp. Now the two young men, boys rather, opened their doors and got out. One was tall, thin, long-nosed, and long-haired with big scabs on his elbows. The other was short, dark, and cute-faced with a low hair-line and dressed neatly in a pink flowing blouse and lady-like jeans. 

“Is there a fight?” The long one jerked his chin toward the direction of the noise. “Hey, look– the cops will be here soon if anything’s going on and probably an ambulance. It’s going to be a mess. You should get out of here.”

“But where do we take the vegetables?” Johnny’s voice was little and lost. “We brought some produce from the Food Bank to give to them.”

“Hey, did my mom send you?”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah, my mom. She’s Audrey. She said she had asked some… young people to take these vegetables from the Food Bank– oh, cool. Here, I’m Dorian…”

Terry was looking him over. “Hey, I remember you from skateboarding the other day!”

Dorian brightened. “Oh, hey! Yeah, I remember you too… oh, and this is my boyfriend, Candace…”

“Hi, guys,” Candance said immediately in a high, nasal lisp. “So nice to meet you…” 

We nodded our responses, Sam murmured something, and I saw the confusion I felt registering briefly on the others’ faces. Dorian was interrupting. “Look, would you all come with me?”

We had no time to try to figure it out. Following Dorian’s direction, we found ourselves on the road again, falling into line.  Dorian rode in Avery’s truck with some of the boys. Candace, fluttering a wave at us, had driven off alone in a different direction and didn’t appear to be coming with us. As we turned back onto the main road, a squad car wheeled off it and barreled down the lane in the direction from which we had just come. We all craned after it, relieved to be away and yet reluctant to miss what might follow. 

Dorian led us to Lakeshore Circle, a cul-de-sac of dull government houses, two-story and battered. The neighborhood was buffered on either side by ridges topped with fluttering poplars, and beyond the ridges opened out, descending onto the shore of a little bay.

As we disembarked, Dorian gestured toward the houses and said that we could go from door to door, handing out the boxes. “It’s not the homeless camp, but it’s as good a place as any to give things out,” he said. Then he added, “I grew up here.”

He and Terry organized us into pairs and sent us off in several directions with the boxes. The going was slow, however, and as we traipsed around the cul-de-sac, knocking on doors, clouds of charcoal and purple washed in over from the lake and obliterated the sky. Wind lashed around the buildings as Sam and I shouted to the few people that came to their doors that we had vegetables and would they like some? Here and there, a person pawed through the boxes and took something; others hedged; most didn’t even answer their doors. 

Then lightning ripped the sky, thunder exploded the atmosphere, and Terry loped by. “Nevermind!” he shouted. “Dorian says go over there!”

The first rain smashed onto the pavement around us as we pounded up onto the stoop of the indicated house. The door swung open, and Audrey was there, round and smiling. She swept us all inside the small, stinking hall and, opening a door beyond, showed us chairs where we could sit. 

“The vegetables!” Johnny cried, leaping up to look out of the window through which we could see the remaining boxes still piled on the back of his truck. 

“Leave it, John,” said Terry. “They’ll be fine. No one wants them anyway.” 

It was a merry storm shelter in the kitchen, dirty and warm. We shoved cereal boxes, mail, empty dishes, and tins of dogfood aside from the table as Audrey brought Styrofoam cups of tea and opened a package of Oreos. Only Johnny was glum, and Audrey patted his shoulder as she squeezed past. 

“What should we do with the vegetables?” he asked once.

“Maybe your mom would like some?” Audrey inquired. Johnny shook his head and said nothing more.

The rain didn’t last long, and half an hour later, the sun was shining through the last drops. We said good-bye to Audrey and Dorian and wandered out into the world again. Ever loath to split up, we drifted down to the bayshore and sprawled on the drying sand, discussing the events of the day. The fading adrenaline from the wild camp run-in followed by the cosy retreat in Audrey’s kitchen all mixed together inside of me, leaving a prevailing sleepiness. I curled up on a blanket beside Shakira and listened to the others.

Johnny only spoke once, and I thought he sounded grumpy.  “That Candace was weird,” he said. No one responded, and after a minute, the conversation moved on to general topics.

Not everyone was drowsy. The events of the afternoon had left Shakira in a buoyant mood, and soon she and Avery began to banter. Then they started chasing each other about on the shore, then off down a path. Some of the others got up and went to stand in the shallow water. I dragged myself over to wake my feet up in the cool water, and soon all of us were splashing and kicking about, getting wet and then wetter. The sun curved out over the earth in a final stand, a protest against the coming night, and our cries and shrieks of wet happiness echoed along the lake, bubbling like little waves up onto the shore. Only Johnny did not join in, propping his chin in his hands and gazing out at the fading brightness of the water. 

Squealing, Shakira burst in upon the group of us, and Avery charged after her. She slipped and sat down in the lake. Avery tunneled in after her on his belly. 

He leaped up and cupped his hands over Shakira’s black head. “Here is water. Why not be baptized?”

The deacon was pouring. Then I helped, and Terry helped, and Shakira got dunked. Then another one and another until all of us were baptized, except Johnny. 

“C’mon, John!” Terry called. “Get in the spirit here!” But Johnny didn’t answer. 

Finally, we piled, dripping, onto the sand again, draped about like so many puppies, and Avery ran for matches. So there was a fire as usual; just a quiet fire to warm ourselves beside, nothing big enough to start a forest on fire like sometimes. The night was cooling, and wet as we were, the heat felt good.

Darkness was nearly upon us, and only outlines were visible beyond the range of the wavering flames when the sand crunched. The silhouette of Audrey with her German shepherd emerged against the sky. We looked up, damp and happy. Shakira jumped up to pet the dog, and I waved, forgetting to be timid.

Audrey squatted low to the sand, an unbelievable size of person, and looked around at us. “I have a favor to ask of you folks.” Quiet suddenly, we waited. 

“I like what I see in your club. I think you’re a great group, and you seem to be such good friends all together. I was wondering if you would let Dorian join your club.”

The silence grew and deepened. She continued, shifting her weight in the sand, “He loves volunteering here and there, you see. He’s a big help at the Food Bank, and he’s been organizing snack package drives for the homeless camp. He’d like to do social work some day, you know, and I thought maybe your club would be a good place for him– and Candace. Candace is a good kid even if he’s a little different. He’s got the right spirit, I think, a really loving guy.”

Johnny, who had been lying on his belly, rolled over and sat up, a smile lighting on his face. Seeing him, my stomach contracted suddenly, and I felt a strange pall. 

“Aww, Audrey… I’m glad you asked. We’ll talk it over and let you know…” he paused.

No one else said anything. I swallowed, wishing for the courage to say something although I didn’t know what it would be. As much as I didn’t want it to, the idea of adding Dorian to our group did feel weird to me. I wasn’t sure what Johnny would do with someone like Dorian around. Johnny didn’t like competition. And Candace– I pictured him briefly in his pink blouse.

Johnny was speaking again. “We do love to go about sharing Christ. He’s the reason for what we do! We try to be like him in every way we can and try to walk in the Spirit…” he seemed to be searching for words. Then brightly, as if he had just thought of something new, he finished, “But you’re both definitely welcome to join us for church on Sunday! Candace, too. We’d love to have you!”

The hush of the air was cool and sweet. A mockingbird twittered from the still trees along the shore, and the water lapped at our feet. For a moment, I heard it and thought longingly of the baptisms, the joy of dumping water over each other, the exhilaration that I associated with getting wet. A yearning that I could not understand made me swallow again. 

“Yes, I see,” Audrey said at last, seeming to realize the thing we all knew– that her request had been turned down. “Well, that’s that then.” She hoisted herself to her feet again, and as she looked down at us, the fire reflected on her kind face. “You all have a good night.”

My heart followed her as she lumbered off, and I wrestled with the nameless yearning, a thing that grew bigger and swelled until it swallowed up my shyness. Audrey’s shape had almost joined the darkness again when the fight inside me gave way. I jumped up. 

“Audrey!” I called, dashing after her. She turned half-way, her eyes catching and filling with the firelight again as I ran up to her. 

“I just wanted to walk back with you,” I said and, following up one impulse with another, I took the dog’s leash. Silent but together, we walked the path to her house.

 By the time I said good-bye at her door, the others had made their way back to the parked trucks. That, however, was not the last we saw of Audrey that night. Johnny’s truck was out of gas, we discovered, and the boys went to ask for the loan of some fuel. Dorian and Audrey found a gas can somewhere in the pile of odd and ends of equipment, rusty play structures, and old furniture behind their house. So, powered by Audrey’s gas, we drove off to a gas station where we bought a bunch of overpriced snacks and, sitting on tailgates, ate them.

The vegetables we took home with us, and the next day after church, every family went home with a damp box of yellow beans, lettuce, and radishes– and zucchini, of course. Terry said that if you saw someone buying zucchini in August, you knew they had no friends. No one seemed to mind the extra vegetables. In our community, vegetables have a place on every table. Our moms canned a little bit more, and there we were, set for the winter with goodness in jars for whenever we needed it. 

Summer was at an end, and with it, the harvest. The time for growing was past. The next time we gathered, the wind did not blow. Well-clothed against the growing autumn chill and always well-fed, we laughed and talked around our cosy fire. Once in the middle of general topics when I mentioned talking to Audrey at the drive-through window, Johnny said that he had seen Dorian loading flats of canned tuna into his car at the Food Bank. Terry laughed and said maybe we should go help him pass them out at Tent City, but Johnny changed the subject. Acts had no more official business. 

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Missy Burkholder, who used to be any number of things, is now first and foremost a wife and mother, but she doesn’t mind writing the occasional story.

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Artwork: Claude Monet 1840-1926 Sunset near Le Havre