The gathering was the bastard child of a townhall and a party. There was no drinking, but a strange joy pervaded having nothing and discussing everything. When talk died out, singing began. These people had a peace of mind Terah envied. They were professionals discarded by society—each of them capable, but told there was no need for them. They lived here without utilities, subsisting on pilfered food that wasn’t freshly made, and yet they celebrated. He nevertheless wondered about the gorilla in the room, or rather, about the fire.
The main business conducted centered on sending a party of two to get supplies and how to keep the wood stores replenished. Missionary parties were sent out in twos to get food. The nearest town was a three-hour walk, and it had a food pantry that was always the first stop. There was a super Walmart there as well, which had driven other area stores out of business. The giant chain had a tight fist about its income, but the system wasn’t foolproof. In any case, when it was Terah’s turn to go they’d send him with a more experienced member. Cicero and Heron would be the current party.
Vince, with a little help from Cal, it was noted, had brought some more wood in. It was half-past January, but winter would maintain its grip for months yet. Those able to do so were encouraged to keep up wood-splitting. Each house had a fireplace, which was its sole source of heat. During the gathering Lindsey had spent most of her time with Vince.
The ape around the fire was the monkey that had to be on many backs. These were men and even with rules, Lindsey was a young woman. More than that, most of these guys had known her longer than Terah.
His new house was in better repair than the outhouse. Cushions had been laid out on the living room floor so that a sleeping bag and a banked fire would get him through the night. He experienced that state of basal perpetual hunger that was familiar to those who lived on the edge. His thoughts, however, were of Lindsey.
The night grew long without sleep and his incoherent mind went back to how he’d learned about the facts of life. His mother had been a religious woman who’d internalized Paul’s fear of sex. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t talk about it. Fred, his step-father, wasn’t an educated man and refused to discuss much of anything, preferring to sit sullenly and smoke the evenings away watching television.
Pithole had been a small town. There were some cute girls at school, but most of them smoked and partied with the guys. Terah was bookish and more than a little timid, and spent his weekends at the library over in Titusville. He always told people that was where he was from. Who’d heard of Pithole?
Sex education in high school was taught by a very nervous swimming coach—he’d seen plenty of bodies in swimsuits, the logic apparently went—who could never really bring himself to go into any detail. He’d start to discuss biology and then before anyone knew it he was on to the Steelers and whether another Super Bowl was in the cards. Books on the topic in the library were catalogued under shame, and this religious little town kept careful track of who checked them out. Onanism was one of the greatest sins, and yet the alternative was biblically forbidden. Terah had been caught in the grip of two huge gorillas pulling forcefully in opposite directions. He’d decided to follow Paul’s advice—anyone capable of celibacy should maintain it. The time is short. Our lord, come!
An uneasy truce with occasional lapses saw him through those lengthy teenage nights and he even made it through college still a virgin. It had been a trial. College put him together with kids who’d been raised in affluent households, and were the girls ever attractive! Dorms had been carefully segregated at Grove City, but that why cars had been invented. Then Terah met Wendy.
Wendy wasn’t a Grover, but after their week as counselors at Evangelism Camp, they’d stayed in touch. Billy with his ghosts was only one of the intensities of that experience. The kids wanted to talk about sex. Terah realized that with all the rules and trigger warnings of the present day there would’ve been lawsuits and allegations made had they proposed what they’d done back then. “Let’s have a fireless campfire,” Wendy suggested. “The kids can ask questions without seeing each other. They won’t be embarrassed that way.”
Every night that week in their segregated tents, the kids asked Terah and Wendy about sex when they should’ve been saying their prayers. Wendy was a virgin too, it turned out, and neither of them could answer the kinds of questions floated. “How long to do have to leave it in?” Eric had asked, point blank. Terah had no idea—he had followed Paul.
After camp Wendy had been even more friendly to Terah. On Saturday, as they were about to part ways to their next assignments, she’d come up to him as he was writing in his journal. Men didn’t keep diaries.
“Whatcha doin’?” she asked.
“Writing all this down,” he replied. “I don’t want to forget it.” A closed Bible lay on the ground behind her. Someone snapped their picture.
When she was gone Terah could think of nothing but her. “Wendy was a name made up by J. M. Barrie, did you know that?” she had asked. “The kids in Peter Pan couldn’t pronounce ‘friendly’ so they called her Wendy. I’ll always be your special friend.”
In his head he’d found his destined women without ever dating. For the first time in his life he wasn’t self-conscious around a female. Slippery Rock University, where she went, wasn’t far from Grove City. They saw each other once in a while. They held hands. They talked intensely. She kept a proper distance, and being new to this Terah supposed that normal. One time he brought the pictures from the summer. She looked at the one where he sat, body language accessible, journal an open book in front of him. Wendy was crouched next to him, closed Bible in the shadows behind. “This is such an appropriate picture,” she sighed. “You’re so open and honest, and I’m a closed book in the dark.”
Terah thought it a profound thing to say, but love blinded him to its meaning. Then, just before Halloween the phone call came.
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