I remember church and praying. I remember revival meetings and the testifying of women who began to cry before the congregation and ended their plea of hardships and sorrow and faithfulness to the Lord with the request for those who knew the word of prayer to pray much for me. I remember taking Communion and wondering how the bread was the body and the grape juice was the blood and thinking how that made us all cannibals. I remember worrying that I was not worthy of taking Communion because I was unclean, no matter how much I prayed and asked forgiveness. I remember wondering what God looks like and I remember after a time stopping wondering what he looked like and wondering more who he was, thinking it was surely possible that he did not like some people so much, despite what my grandfather and the Bible said. I remember wondering what he would tell me if he ever did want to break his centuries of silence. I remember deciding that I would find out if I lived right and finally went home to heaven. Then I remember the day I realized that I was probably not going to go home to heaven, cause the rules were too hard for me to keep. That I was too weak.

I remember me.

April 30, 1984 7:05 am

April 30, 1984

7:05 am

Someone once said that if man is but a figment in God’s mind then the characters in men’s imagination are no less real than we are. Perhaps. No one can say for certain. But we cannot deny the possibility.

Consider the demon. Regard him with awe and loathing, for he is what men despise. Or think they despise. Themselves. That day the demon, if indeed he existed, was there all the while perched on the boy’s ear whispering words for him to say. He would have made him say: Fuck you. Now it’s my turn, preacher-boy. This is the new order—no order. The new day—night.

He could have put hate in the boy’s mouth as easily as he put the fantasies in his head; he could have caused him to clutch the gun for lo those many hours. He could have . . . if he did indeed exist.

Perhaps he heard the man say:

“Horace. Why? Why are you doing this? Why?”

And the boy answer: “It’s like the boy wants off the roller­coaster ride. He wants his money back. See. No fun. Poor Horace. He don’t like life, see. Too many fucking rules. Too many unanswered questions. Too many loose ends. You see, life the way Horace wants it ain’t condoned, you know what I mean? And condonation—if that’s what you call it—is what he wants. So—”

“I can’t believe this. You’re too intelligent, Horace, to fall for this crap. It’s a copout.”