Watch How We Walk (4 page)

She slides out of bed and gets her green sleeping bag, usually used only for camping or for relatives staying overnight, and drags it and her pillow down the hall. She listens at the closed door — nothing. It opens easily and Lenora does not wake up. She's almost disappointed. She would have asked her who was on the phone, and if she ever worries about demons. At the same time, she is relieved that she's asleep; it's strangely comforting.

Emily spreads the sleeping bag out on the floor next to Lenora's bed. She sets her pillow squarely at the top of it, climbs in, and falls asleep.

7

EMILY SITS ON THE LIGHT
blue carpet of her floral, ruffled bedroom, with
Circus World
open on her lap. The house hums quietly with its normal sounds — low, mournful music from Lenora's room down the hall, the fridge door opening and closing, a dog barking down the road, the scrape of metal on ice and gravel as her father shovels the driveway. She has a couple of hours before the Thursday night meeting and so she flips the colourful pages of her book.

Her favourite section is about the tightrope walkers. She doesn't understand how they do it. It looks impossible, like walking on air or flying, but Emily knows that no one but Jesus can do that. Instead, they have amazing balance. She reads about the special leather shoes they wear, made specifically so their feet can curve around the wire. Some of them even walk barefoot, clutching the rope between their big and second toes. Emily thinks that would be even more difficult, and would probably hurt. She can't even wear flip-flops on her feet in the summer; they cut the skin between her toes and she hates them.

High wire walkers are also called funambulists.

— Funambulist. Funambulist. Funambulist. Emily practises saying this aloud. She wonders where the word comes from, and hopes she remembers to look it up in the big reference dictionary in the school library. That's what she'll be when she grows up — a funambulist.

She doesn't think Jehovah's Witnesses are allowed to join the circus though, since it's probably full of immoral, worldly people. But she wonders what it would be like to live among the acrobats and clowns and bears and elephants and freaks of nature. Scary, probably. Maybe they would be mean to her because she's just a little girl from a small town who gets good marks and has to read the Bible a lot. Maybe not, though; maybe they would like her because she would be the best funambulist they'd ever met, and people would travel from all over the world to see her walk high above the Earth without a net and she would never, ever fall. She would be famous and maybe even beautiful. Her family would wonder where she was and miss her terribly, but it would be too late. Emily would be used to living in a tent and travelling to new and exciting places every week and signing autographs for her loyal fans. The acrobats and lion tamers and contortionists would fight over who got to sit beside her at the long tables in the dining tent. Everyone would want to be her friend and no one would ever get mad at her, or make her feel like she had done something wrong.

But her best friend of all would be the dog-boy — half-human, half-canine, tragic and beautiful. He would tell her what it's like to live in a cage and have itchy fur and wear a collar and have to bark for the crowds and roll over in the dirt and play dead. He would confess to her and her alone that he never really felt like a dog, because he's really just a boy, one who happens to have some fur, but that he's a normal boy who loves mystery books like she does, and misses his two brothers and three sisters back home, and so she would sneak
Hardy Boys
and
Sherlock Holmes
between the bars, along with a flashlight, so he could read at night and she would never treat him like a dog and beat him like the ringmaster. She would steal the key to his cage and after everyone else was asleep, they would sneak off to the edge of the camp and act out the scenes from the books. Especially the murder scenes. They would compete at who was better at playing dead. Emily thought she would always lose because her weird, twitching eyelid would always give her away.

Just as dawn seeped back along the dirt toward them, they would have to go back to camp, but no one could ever take their secret nights away from them. They would plan to run away together and start their own circus. No one could stop them.

Emily gazes at the grainy photograph of the dog-boy and wipes away a small tear.

A shadow falls across the picture of the furry boy baring his teeth at a fancy-dressed couple, and she looks up to see Lenora leaning in her doorway.

— What's the matter? Your new book too scary for you?

Emily pretends to cough and wipes her face in her sleeve.

— No. It's not scary.

— They what are you crying about?

— Nothing. Never mind.

Lenora would never understand. She seemed to have plenty of friends.

— What are you going to wear to the meeting tonight?

— I don't know. Emily hasn't given it any thought, and usually just grabs the first skirt and sweater or dress she can find, hoping that she didn't wear the same thing to the last meeting. She'd rather be reading than worrying about clothes. Lenora is already dressed and ready to go, in her dark green corduroy skirt and black sweater. Their parents have recently allowed her to wear makeup because she is sixteen now, and she has on green eyeliner that matches her skirt and black mascara. She had to remove the black nail polish though; their mom said it was just too much, too weird, and what would people at the Hall say.

— I'm going to pick out your outfit. I'm sick of seeing you wear the same thing all the time.

— Okay. I don't care.

Emily opens her book again, randomly, to a page about clowns. They're her least favourite part of the circus. They're silly and not funny at all. It's embarrassing to look at them.

— Has Tammy Bales been bugging you at school anymore? Lenora's voice is muffled from within Emily's closet.

— No. She hasn't said anything since that day at the side of the road.

— Good. What a bitch.

Emily gasps. She's not used to hearing her sister swear — other than at Tammy Bales — and never at home. And to say it like it's so normal, and not even take it back. She must have misheard her. She must have said witch.

— What did you say?

— Nothing. Forget it. Lenora hands her a red plaid kilt and white blouse.

— Here. Try this.

— I hate that skirt. It's itchy.

— I know how to fix that. I'll just sew in a lining along the waist so you don't feel it. It won't take long.

Emily follows Lenora into her room where she flattens the skirt at her sewing machine and quickly stitches in a strip of white fabric. They go back to Emily's room and she tries it on. It works. The wool doesn't scratch her, and you can't even see the liner. She stuffs her shirt into the waist band.

Lenora frowns and hands Emily her brand-new, black double-wrap belt.

— Don't be such a nerd, untuck your shirt. Emily does and Lenora wraps the belt around Emily's tiny torso.

— I can really borrow your new belt?

— Just this once. There, that looks better. Now you look almost cool.

— Thanks. Emily looks at herself in the mirror.
Almost cool
. She smiles.

— And just leave your hair down, no ponytails or anything.

— Okay. Emily looks at her watch. They don't have to leave for a while yet. She's been waiting for a chance to ask Lenora a question without their parents nearby.

— Who was that girl with you the other day? With the black lips? And the boy in the car with you guys — who was he?

— Nobody.

— But who are they? How come you were with them?

— Just kids from school. Marla and Theo. Don't worry about it.

— But they're worldly. Are you going to get in trouble?

— Ems, just because they don't go to the Hall doesn't mean they're bad.

Emily is confused. Aren't all worldly kids immoral? Because they don't know any better? That's why they're supposed to tell them about the Truth, and what they can do to live forever. Maybe Lenora really is Witnessing to them.

— It doesn't? Are you sure? Are they going to start coming to the Hall with you?

— Yes, I'm sure they're not evil. But Mom and Dad wouldn't understand, so keep quiet.

— Why was Marla wearing black lipstick?

— Because! Lenora throws up her hands.

— You ask too many questions! Because she likes the way it looks.

— Oh. Do lots of people look weird at high school? Are kids mean like in elementary school?

Lenora sighs.

— It's different. Bigger. There are lots of different kinds of kids, from all the different schools. Yeah, there are some nasty ones, but it's easier to get lost in the crowd because it's bigger. And most people don't already know you, so you can start over if you want.

— What do you mean, ‘start over'?

— Be someone new. Be more yourself. If the other kids and teachers don't have anything to compare you to, you can, I don't know, be another person. A new version of yourself. Better.

Emily doesn't know what to say. Their parents and the elders are always telling them to improve, to try harder to please God, but this doesn't sound like the same thing to her.

— Is it like having an alter-ego?

— Something like that.

— Did you start over? Are you someone else now? Lenora shrugs.

— Don't worry. I'm the same as ever.

Emily doesn't feel reassured. Black nail polish, worldly friends, swearing. None of it goes with the perfect Lenora she's used to — the elders' favourite, straight As, never getting in trouble. Now she's practically admitted that she has a double life. The changes must have been so gradual that Emily didn't even notice, but now it's as though her sister has turned into someone else overnight.

— Girls! It's time to go!

They head downstairs to go to the meeting. Lenora puts a finger to her lips.

— Shhh. She grins. Emily looks away and touches the cold, taut belt.

8

AT THE MEETING, THE MAIN
topic is immorality. Didn't one of the elders just give a talk about that recently? Emily knows they are living in
the Last Days
, but why so much about that? Lately it's either immorality or demonism. Sometimes she wishes they'd just teach them more about how to Witness to kids at school, or maybe do some short plays in costume like at the big summer assemblies. She never falls asleep during the dramas. She leans over to her mother and whispers.

— Didn't we just have a talk about immorality?

Her mom shrugs.

— I don't know.

Emily turns her head; her mom's breath smells bad, like the medicine Emily has to take when she has a cough.

There are rows and rows of brothers and sisters in the red, itchy chairs and Emily tries to count them, but loses track after forty-seven, and her dad will get mad if she keeps turning around to look at people. Everyone is facing the front, listening, nodding, looking up the scriptures that Brother Bulchinsky tells them to read. He is as skinny as his wife is fat, and bent at the middle, leaning forward, awkward, in his wire glasses and a light grey suit. Pointy like a safety pin, Emily decides, and tries not to smile.

— Temptation is everywhere. His high, squeaky voice makes Emily look away, embarrassed. It's hard to be afraid when Brother Bulchinsky tells you to be.

— The worldly media — magazines and pop music and television and movies — are full of fornication and adultery. They're trying to tell you it's okay to live without any morals, that sin doesn't exist, but it does. It does. Not just in the big cities, but in our towns and rural areas too. Temptation lurks in fashion and advertising, in PG-rated films, in Satanic heavy metal music. We must avoid these things completely, entirely, with our whole bodies and minds, and keep the demons of immorality at bay. And pray, we must pray . . .

It's as though he is speaking through his long nose, and Emily can't concentrate on his words, only their shrill, nasal sound. That and the smells of the Hall. She wishes they could open a window — so much perfume, hairspray, aftershave — she can hardly breathe. Outside, it's already very dark and the wind howls at the windows and she shivers and wishes she'd brought a sweater. She twists in her seat to check the time. There is still over an hour left of the meeting, and Brother Bulchinsky keeps on whining and bobbing at the waist over the podium.

— Pay attention! Emily massages her forearm where her father elbowed her, and rubs her hands together to keep warm.

— They are very real, brothers and sisters, and they are always watching us, waiting for us to become weak, to sin, that they might slip in and take over our bodies and minds.

Brother Bulchinsky is talking about modesty now, and avoiding not only sins of the flesh but even thoughts of such transgressions. He is still hunched over, a reflection of the microphone stand bent in front of him. Emily thinks it's funny and tries to draw it but it doesn't turn out the same at all. She doodles a safety pin instead. Brother Bulchinsky's alter ego
.

Emily doesn't know what Lenora meant about starting over. Is she one person at school and a different one at home and at the Hall? Emily looks two seats down at her sister. She wears the black felt hat with white stitching — called a cloche — that Uncle Tyler gave her last month. She's staring straight ahead, listening to the talk, following along with the scripture. Lenora looks like her sister, the same as she always does. She doesn't look like a worldly person, like someone who would smoke and swear and hang around with boys in leather jackets and girls in black lipstick.

Brother Bulchinsky asks for a volunteer to read a scripture aloud for the congregation, and Lenora's hand shoots up. He chooses her, and Uncle Tyler brings the microphone over. It's his turn to stride up and down the aisles with the microphone during the question and answer segments. Lenora clears her throat, pauses, then reads the scripture clearly, without stumbling over any words.

Their father smiles his approval, and Brother Bulchinsky thanks her. Emily wonders if she has imagined Lenora's recent swearing.

Fuck you, loser!

What a bitch.

Was it some sort of test to see if Emily would tell on her? Or does she talk that way all the time at school and it just slipped out at home?
What a bitch
. It's stuck, like a song on the radio that she can't get out of her head.

What a bitch what a bitch what a bitch what a bitch what a bitch.
She scrunches her eyes shut
What a bitch what a bitch what a bitch what a bitch
and feels like everyone can hear her and what if having a swear word stuck in your head is enough to get you demonized? She tries to focus on what Brother Bulchinsky is saying about abstaining from fornication, but the words all blur into one monotonous drone and her head is so heavy she can't hold it up anymore and she slumps forward into sleep.