A Children's Bible Read online

  Went without saying: our parents were artsy and educated types, but they weren’t impoverished, or they couldn’t have afforded the buy-in. A great house didn’t rent for cheap. Not for a whole summer. We figured there were probably a couple of charity cases, or at least a sliding scale. David, a techie who dearly missed his advanced computer setup back home, had let slip that his parents rented. Received a demerit for that. Not for the lack of home ownership—we hated money snobs—but for getting soft and confessional over a purloined bottle of Jäger.

  Drink their liquor? Sure, yes, and by all means. Act like they acted when they drank it? Receive a demerit.

  For it was under the influence, when parents got sloppy, that they shed their protective shells. Without which they were slugs. They left a trail of slime.

  My own parents were: mother scholar, father artist. My mother taught feminist theory and my father sculpted enormous busty women, lips, breasts, and private parts garishly painted. Often with scenes of war-torn or famine-struck locations. The labia might be Mogadishu.

  He was quite successful.

  OUR YOUNGER SIBLINGS were a liability in the parent game, constantly threatening to reveal our origins. These belonged to Jen, David, and me.

  Jen’s eleven-year-old brother was a gentle, deaf kid named Shel who wanted to be a veterinarian when he grew up. He suffered a bout of food poisoning just one week in and had to be tended by their parents, so that ID was made. The mother had adult braces and droopy shoulders, the father a greasy ponytail. He picked his nose while talking. He talked and picked, picked and talked.

  We’d thought you grew out of public nose-picking in grade school, but in his case we were wrong. It was actually mind-boggling.

  We felt bad for Jen.

  And David was toast too. His sisters, IVF twins named Kay and Amy, were straight-up brats and had no interest in the game. They’d sold him out on day two, grabbing and caressing their mother—even going so far as to sit cuddled in her lap, nuzzling her neck. Whispering sweet nothings.

  My own small brother, Jack, was a prince among boys. When he contracted poison ivy he came only to me, refusing to ask a parent for assistance. I felt proud. Jack had a sense of duty.

  I ran baths for him and sat beside his bunk holding cold compresses to his legs. I smoothed on pink lotion and read to him from his favorite books. He barely complained, saying just, “It does itch, though, Evie.”

  Jack was hands down my favorite person. Always had been.

  Still, he was just a little guy—I worried he might slip up. Vigilance was required.

  And at a certain point we made a collective decision: we had to tell the parents about the game. It was getting too hard to evade them through tactical maneuvers alone.

  Of course, we’d put a positive spin on the thing. We didn’t need to reveal why we’d been playing in the first place. It didn’t have to be spoken aloud that our association with them diminished us and compromised our personal integrity. It didn’t need to be mentioned that direct evidence of our connection had been known to make us feel physically ill.

  We needed a project, we’d just say. Hadn’t they deprived us, for the whole summer, of our most dearly beloved playthings and lifelines? Hadn’t they confiscated our cell phones, our tablets, all of our screens and digital access to the outside?

  We were being held in an analog prison, said David.

  THE AUTHORITIES WERE most receptive in the magic hour before dinner, when they were lightly, pleasantly buzzed. Earlier, they tended to be cranky and might refuse. Later, they might be shit-faced and not remember the next morning.

  Drinking and talking time, they called it.

  It was then that we broached the subject.

  “We’re playing this game,” said Sukey.

  “A social experiment, if you will,” said Terry.

  Some parents smiled indulgently when we explained, while others resisted, trying to master their annoyance. But finally they said OK. They made no promises, but they’d attempt to avoid incriminating us.

  Also, we planned to camp on the beach for a few nights, said Rafe.

  Practicing self-sufficiency, added Terry.

  “Well, now, that’s another ball of wax,” said a father.

  One of the professors. His specialty was witch-burning.

  “All of you?” asked a mother.

  The youngest ones nodded—except for Kay and Amy the IVF twins, who shook their heads.

  “Good riddance,” muttered David.

  “But we didn’t bring tents!” said a second mother.

  That mother was low in the hierarchy. Wore long, flowing dresses, in floral and paisley patterns. Once, drunk-dancing, she’d fallen into a potted plant. Bloodied her nose.

  I sensed some condescension coming toward her from the other parents. If they were being hunted, she’d be the first one abandoned by the herd. Sacrificed to a marauding lioness whose powerful jaws would rip and tear. Next vultures would peck indifferently at the leftovers.

  It would be sad, probably.

  Still, no one wanted that mother. We pitied the fool who would be implicated, down the road.

  “We’ll handle it,” said Terry.

  “Handle it how?” asked a third mother. “Amazon Prime?”

  “We’ll handle it,” repeated Terry. “There are tarps in the toolshed. We’ll be fine.”

  JEN, IMPRESSED BY Terry’s masterful attitude, consented to hook up with him in the greenhouse that evening (we’d piled a nest of blankets in a corner). Jen was strong but had notoriously low standards, make-out-wise.

  Not to be outdone, the other two girls and I agreed to play Spin the Bottle with David and Low. Extreme version, oral potentially included. Juicy was fourteen, too immature for us and too much of a slob, and Rafe wasn’t bi.

  Shame, said Sukey. Rafe is hella good-looking.

  Then Dee said she wouldn’t play, so it was down to Sukey and me. Dee was afraid of Spin the Bottle, due to being—Sukey alleged—a quiet little mouse and most likely even a mouth virgin.

  Timid and shy, Dee was also passive-aggressive, neurotic, a germaphobe, and borderline paranoid.

  According to Sukey.

  “Suck it up, mousy,” said Sukey. “It’s a teachable moment.”

  “Why teachable?” asked Dee.

  Because, said Sukey, she, yours truly, was a master of the one-minute handjob. Dee could pick up some tips.

  The guys sat straighter when Sukey said that. Their interest became focused and laser-like.

  But Dee said no, she wasn’t that type.

  Plus, after this she needed a shower.

  Val also declined to participate. She left to go climbing in the dark.

  This was while the parents were playing Texas Hold ’Em and squabbling over alleged card counting—some­one’s father had been kicked out of a casino in Las Vegas.

  The younger kids were fast asleep.

  Spin the Bottle was a weak choice, admittedly, but our options were severely limited. All the phones were locked in a safe in the library. And we hadn’t cracked the combination.

  I was apprehensive, but since Dee had pulled out I had to hang tough. And as it turned out, I got lucky. I only had to French-kiss Low.

  Still, unpleasant. His tongue tasted like old banana.

  WE SET OUT the next afternoon. Packing and loading the rowboats had taken hours.

  “Lifejackets!” screeched Jen’s mother from the lawn. She held a wine bottle by the neck, a glass in the other hand, and wore a white bikini with red polka dots. The bottom exposed her ass crack and the top was pretty funny: her nipples showed through the white of the bra cups like dark eyes.

  “Make it stop,” said Jen, wincing.

  “Put on the lifejackets!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Christ on a cross,” said Sukey.

  We didn’t bother with the lifejackets, generally. Except for the little boys. But we were under scrutiny, so I brought a pile of them—bright orange and spotted black with mildew�
��from the boathouse. They scratched our skin and were bulky. Once we were out of sight, they would come off. Most certainly.

  When we pushed away from the moorings various parents waved from the porch and others clustered on the dock. We rushed, worried that they’d betray us with last-minute asinine chitchat. Sure enough, one dimwit yelled: “Did you remember your inhaler?” (Two of us were asthmatics.)

  “Shut up! Shut up!” we implored, hands over ears.

  None of us wanted to see a man go down that way.

  “And what about the EpiPens?” shouted the low-status mother.

  I’d been reading a book about medieval society I’d found in the great house library. It had a dusty paper smell I liked. There were peasants in the book: serfs, I guess. Using the filter of that history, and with reference to her flowing-dress wardrobe, I’d come to see her as the peasantry.

  We ignored them and rowed with all our strength. Damage control.

  “Damn they are imbeciles,” cursed Low.

  I was looking at him with my head cocked, I think—musing. Remembering the taste of banana.

  “Mine were cool as a cucumber,” boasted Terry.

  “Mine didn’t give a flying fuck,” bragged Juice.

  The parents were still trying to communicate with us as our boats drew farther offshore. A few made exaggerated gestures, flapping ungainly arms. Jen’s father was doing some sign language, but Shel turned away from his waggling fingers. The peasant mom dove off the dock—in hot pursuit? Taking a dip? We didn’t care.

  We reached the creek and shipped our oars. Coasting along to the ocean. This was a narrow water­way, and often our vessels would bump the banks, lodge in the muddy shallows and need to be freed.

  The water carried us: we were carried.

  We lifted our faces to the warmth, closed our eyes, let the sunlight fall across our eyelids. We felt a weight lift from our shoulders, the bliss of liberty.

  Dragonflies dipped over the surface, brilliant tiny helicopters of green and blue.

  “They live ninety-five percent of their lives underwater,” said Jack helpfully. He was an insect fan. A fan of all wildlife, in fact. “In nymph form. You know, larvae. Dragonfly nymphs have big huge jaws. They’re vicious predators.”

  “Is that interesting?” asked Jen, cocking her head.

  Not mean, just speculative. She hadn’t decided.

  “One day they come out of the water, turn beautiful and learn to fly,” said Jack.

  “Then they drop dead,” said Rafe.

  “The opposite of humans,” said David. “We turn ugly before we drop dead. Decades before.”

  Yes. It was known.

  The injustice floated over us with the dragonflies.

  “We have been granted much,” announced Terry from the prow.

  He tried to stand up, but Rafe said he’d flip the boat. So instead he sat down again and made his voice hollow and self-important like a preacher’s.

  He pushed his glasses up on his nose with a middle finger.

  “Yes, we have been given many gifts,” he projected. “We, the descendants of the ape people. Opposable thumbs. Complex language. At least a semblance of intelligence.”

  But nothing was free, he went on. Watching the parents in the privacy of their bedrooms of a night, he’d been struck by the severity of their afflictions. They had fat stomachs and pendulous breasts. They had double asses—asses that stuck out, then sagged and bulged again. Protruding veins. Back fat like stacks of donuts. Red noses cratered by pores, black hair escaping from nostrils.

  We were punished by middle age, then long decrepitude, said Terry mournfully. Our species—our demographic in the species, he amended—hung out way past its expiration date. It turned into litter, a scourge, a blight, a scab. An atrophied limb. That was our future role.

  But we should shake it off, he added, suddenly trying to wrap up his speech with an inspiring takeaway. We should summon our courage! Our strength! Like Icarus, we should rise on feathered, shimmering wings and fly up, up, up toward the sun.

  For a moment we considered this.

  It sounded OK, but was devoid of content.

  “You know it was his own fault the wings melted, right?” said David. “His father was a genius engineer. He told him not to fly too high or low. Too hot up high, too wet down low. Those wings were baller, man. Icarus totally ignored the specs. Basically, the kid was a dick.”

  2

  A SHOCK WHEN we reached the delta, with its braiding and shifting sandbars: unwelcome colonists had beached upon our shores.

  Before, when we’d come down to the ocean, the dunes had been deserted except for birds and waving grasses. The water­front had been ours to wander in peace, with its hermit crabs and driftwood and seaweed.

  Now there were others. A barbecue. Meat was grilling, and the smell of it carried. There were beach parasols in bright red-and-white stripes.

  Where had they come from? You could only get here by boat . . . yep: there it was. A majestic yacht in cream and gold was bobbing loftily offshore.

  Up the beach, teens played volleyball.

  We felt aggrieved but had no strategy. And no moral high ground, either. It was a public place.

  The situation rankled.

  If we were patient, though, the sun would soon go down and we’d be on our own. Meanwhile we set up our makeshift shelter on the other side of the braided waters—a pavilion with no walls and the threadbare tarps from the toolshed for a roof, their vinyl peeling off in ragged patches.

  We tied the tarps to shrubs on the edge of the dunes, balanced them on fishing rods and ski poles. They wouldn’t bear much of a breeze. We had sleeping bags and folded-up clothes for pillows. But at least till dawn came, as the colonists dozed in their luxury berths, we’d have our private empire of salt water and sand.

  We watched, munching on soggy sandwiches, as the barbecue-eaters folded their striped umbrellas. From the yacht, a purring and glossy powerboat came up into the shallows.

  But hey! What was this?

  Sailor types in white uniforms leapt out of the boat carrying bundles. In no time there were sleek-looking tents erected—high-end tents in pearly cream that matched the yacht, alpine-gear logos on the sides. Door flaps and rain flies. Four of them, neatly lined up. A small city above the high-tide mark.

  We stared at those handsome tents.

  The yacht kids hugged their parents goodnight, as we shuddered. The boat sputtered away. A small fire was built, around which they sat on matching camp chairs. Even their marsh­mallow sticks were manu­factured—we saw them holding the metal skewers over their fire, roasting.

  Fine, then. We’d have a fire also. A large bonfire. Our fire would dwarf their fire. It would be magnificent.

  We’d brought logs from the woodpile and ancient copies of the New York Observer we’d found for kindling. Thanks to Rafe, a can of gasoline. (Marshmallows were for babies, right? Also, we didn’t have any.) Juicy had won the latest contest and brought an item to destroy, so we stacked up a glorious pile. I set his chosen object on the top of it: an antique wooden pig in a baby bonnet. With very long lashes.

  Before long the flames were leaping high. Black smoke and acrid fumes, including gas and possibly lead paint, sailed downwind toward the yacht kids. It served them right, said Rafe. We cackled like witches over the blaze.

  After a while headlamps came bobbing toward us. Yacht kids were wading manfully across the delta, barefoot and tanned, their shorts exactly the right length. Some of us stood up proudly. Others adopted more submissive postures.

  “Hey, guys!” said the tall one in the lead. A sweep of blond hair fell over his brow. He wore a polo shirt. He was a billboard for Abercrombie & Fitch. “Dudes! What an awe­some burn! I’ve got some weed. Anyone want a smoke?”

  Grinning broadly.

  “Shit yeah,” said Juice.

  And so the empire crumbled.

  AT THAT TIME in my personal life, I was coming to grips with the end of the
world. The familiar world, anyway. Many of us were.

  Scientists said it was ending now, philosophers said it had always been ending.

  Historians said there’d been dark ages before. It all came out in the wash, because eventually, if you were patient, enlightenment arrived and then a wide array of Apple devices.

  Politicians claimed everything would be fine. Adjust­ments were being made. Much as our human ingenuity had got us into this fine mess, so would it neatly get us out. Maybe more cars would switch to electric.

  That was how we could tell it was serious. Because they were obviously lying.

  We knew who was responsible, of course: it had been a done deal before we were born.

  I wasn’t sure how to break it to Jack. He was a sensitive little guy, sweet-natured. Brimming with hope and fear. He often had nightmares, and I would comfort him when he woke up from them—dreams of hurt bunnies or friends being mean. He woke up whimpering “Bunny Bunny!” Or “Donny! Sam!”

  The end of the world, I didn’t think he’d take it so well. But it was a Santa Claus situation. One day he’d find out the truth. And if it didn’t come from me, I’d end up looking like a politician.

  The parents insisted on denial as a tactic. Not science denial exactly—they were liberals. It was more a denial of reality. A few had sent us to survival camps, where the fortunate learned to tie knots. Troubleshoot engines, even sterilize stagnant water without chemical filters.

  But most of them had a simple attitude: business as usual.

  Mine hid the truth from Jack. And he was already suspicious, because in second grade a teacher had leaked damning info about polar bears, sea ice melting. The sixth mass extinction. Jack also worried about penguins. He was a penguin fanatic—knew all the species and could rhyme them off in alphabetical order and draw them.