“Yes, ma’am,” I agree, my eyes downcast to look subdued and sorry. The truth is, I’d just finished the book when Mary found me. No point in arguing. I don’t want to see the flat end of my father’s Rod of God, so I go quietly. My mother is not a disciplinarian. Her heart isn’t in it, unlike other adults, who are eager to hand out retribution. But she’ll call my father if she thinks the offense merits it.
I walk away disappointed the book has been taken and I can’t read it again. Where can I possibly get my hands on more novels? I discover that Ching-Ching’s parents are not quite as strict as ours. They have The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis, which Grandpa approves of, since it’s a retelling of the story of Jesus; we’ve all seen the cartoon a dozen times. But the other books in the series, like Prince Caspian, don’t have such an obvious parallel and would be suspect. I don’t dare take the books home, afraid they will be confiscated by a stricter adult. Curled up in the corner of Auntie Hope’s couch, I read as fast as I can. All too soon, I finish the few slim volumes. By the time I leave Auntie Hope’s, I have a desperate hunger in my belly to return to the fantasy world the books created for me—I must find more, but I have no idea how.
My reading material is not the only point of conflict between my mother and me.
Her frustration with me is mounting. She’s been getting complaints from a few adult men. “Why can’t you be more loving?” she asks. “You’re too proud.”
My behavior around men has changed since the French-kissing lessons. I pretend not to notice them, and offer no warmth, no smiles, no encouragement, and try to never be caught alone with one. This standoffish attitude frustrates my mother, who doesn’t understand where it is coming from.
I shrug and say, “I’ll try to be nicer,” but I know I won’t. The instant any man starts being nice to me, I get a sick feeling in my gut and blast them with as much frosty distance as I can. I manage to look down my nose at them from my great height of four-eleven.
My mother nicknames me the Ice Queen.
It embarrasses me when she calls me that in front of people, but the truth is that when I imagine ice in my veins, I feel a little stronger, harder, and safer.
It seems that as I grow more distant from my mother and withdraw more, the more yielding Mary becomes.
I pass my older sister in the hallway one afternoon, and she says, “Faithy, I want to speak to you. Can you come with me?”
I give her a sideways look, wondering what she’s playing at. “Fine.” I shrug, following her into the empty kids’ bedroom.
She smiles at me and pats the mattress next to her on the single bed.
“Okay. What do you want?” I ask suspiciously. After Josh, Mary is the naughtiest kid on the Farm, but far worse, she’s the number one tattletale. What is she going to get me in trouble for this time? I’m still sore at her for turning in my book.
“I just want to say that you’re my sister, and I love you. I want to apologize for fighting with you all of our childhood and for telling on you.”
I try to speak and realize my jaw is hanging open. She must be building up to something, I think. No way this is genuine.
“I’m turning over a new leaf and apologizing to those I’ve hurt. Our relationship will be different from now on,” she continues with a serious look.
I’m not sure what to say. Is this a setup that I haven’t seen through? I give her the obligatory hug and mouth, “I love you, too.”
I walk away, waiting for an ambush. But it doesn’t come. Instead, every time I see Mary, she smiles at me and says, “I love you.” It’s a nice relief to not be fighting, but this is weird. Can a naughty, bickering, rule-breaking girl change into a calm, loving, yielded woman overnight? Like flipping a switch, the sister I’ve known my whole life is gone, replaced by a perfect disciple. Always positive, always willing, always praying and praising God. I keep waiting for the mask to crack, but it never does. How does she do it? I wonder.
In the strangest turn of events, Mary is now held up as a shining example for me to follow. As I hear the adults compliment her and see her happy (smug) face, I am resentful and jealous, and then I feel bad for being so. Maybe I’m wrong to be suspicious. Maybe Jesus really did transform her. But I feel further away from her than ever. The only explanation I can come up with is that she’s been paying attention to Josh and the ever-harsher punishments befalling him.
I’ve noticed that despite the consequences, Josh, at fifteen, is defiant as ever. He can’t seem to keep his mouth shut or his hands out of trouble. He’s sarcastic and rude, and he even sneaks alcohol and smokes cigarettes with Lok Keen’s teens, whom I rarely see these days.
Esther keeps making us have exorcisms over him, even having him fast for three days prior to make sure he is taking it seriously, agony for a hungry teen boy. My father keeps sending him into isolation at the Stone House, where he’s kept in a locked room like a prisoner. Someone brings him his meals, and he’s allowed to read only a prescribed list of Mo Letters. I wonder if the isolation is more for the adults’ benefit than for the redemption of my brother; it keeps him out of their way and from derailing the delicate balance of communal living. Over the past three years, he’s spent nearly a year total in isolation.
Fortunately for the adults, the other boys have fallen into line as best as lively teen boys can; though there is much the adults don’t know. Caleb still follows Josh around when he’s not in isolation, but he knows how to keep quiet. Hobo is doing his best to be a good example and follow orders. He struggles quietly with an inability to read; he sees the letters backward, so he thinks he’s dumb, which is very hard on his pride. Nehi is off in his own dreamy world with his Nikon and guitar. Bones is still a clown, always goofing around and making weird faces, trying to get a laugh.
With the exception of Josh, it seems the Farm is a good place for whipping teens into line.
In fact, some government officials and police have serious issues with their teenagers taking drugs and bring us their sons so we can be a good influence on them. Their boys work with us on the Farm, mucking out stalls and riding horses, kind of like a halfway house. I don’t know if our rehabilitation efforts are successful; the boys don’t usually stay long with all the hard work.
But my father boasts to anyone who will listen, “We know that the Family way of life is right because of our good fruit, our children.” While other families are desperate, struggling with children who are on heroin or cocaine, we live a clean life with hard work and discipline. As he likes to say, “A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit.”