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Mama lets him hold her hand on Sundays, when they go to church. She ties his shoes and smooths his shirt and takes his left hand, and Daddy takes his right, and they walk the twenty minutes to church together. He never asks, because good boys don’t ask for more than they get, but sometimes if he’s good they’ll swing him into the air on the way home.
He can’t see Pastor David very well from where they sit, so Mama will pull him onto her lap, and she smells like fruit and flowers and lets him hold her hymn book. The ladies and men in their matching robes with their silver and gold crosses sing of the boy savior, they sing of the everlasting sunrise, they sing of Glory Be to God, the Heavenly Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. They sing of deliverance and of damnation, of pride and of humility. They sing of crosses to be beared and of lambs in the manger.
Mama and Daddy stop taking him to church, eventually. There’s no time for it anymore, they say. He takes up too much time and they work too much to keep an ungrateful boy like him alive to bother with that holier than thou bullshit, they say. On Sundays, he ties his shoes and smooths his shirt, though he’s grown out of his Sunday bests, and there’s no money for replacements, and walks to church by himself.
Sometimes Pony comes with him, but Pony likes to go to his church, to the church his parents took him to, and Johnny doesn’t like the hymns they sing or their preacher, but he doesn’t want to make Pony go to his church, so they only go sometimes.
There’s a cross – not a crucifixion, he doesn’t like to look at the crown of thorns or the five wounds – on his wall. Dally makes fun of him, calls him an altar-boy, or Sister John, if he’s feeling really mean. Johnny doesn’t get defensive – never really gets defensive anymore. He takes what he is given, and doesn’t ask for more, because good boys don’t ask for more than they get. He likes the teasing, when it’s Dallas. So he takes it, grinning and good-natured, quiet and demure.
Glory is like a fruit, his Mama said, once, a million years ago. It must be worked for and harvested before it can be tasted. You can’t buy Glory in a grocery store, baby. You gotta work for it.
Dally’s palm is warm on his neck and his lips are soft where they touch Johnny’s ear, and he cannot breathe through the weight of it. Dally comes to church with him, once. The men and women in their matching robes sing hymns of Glory Be to God and of deliverance and of Glory, Glory, Glory.
Glory, Johnny, he hears. You sure are pretty.
Dallas doesn’t say a word through the whole service, and Johnny wishes he would sit closer or put his warm hand on Johnny’s leg like he does sometimes, but Johnny doesn’t say it, because good boys don’t ask for more than they get. He takes what he gets, good-natured, quietly.
He thinks he tastes Glory, in the back of Buck Merril’s T-Bird; it’s sweet on his lips and his tongue and down his throat and into his stomach. He thinks of mortal sin and of damnation and his blood runs cold, but Dallas runs hot, so the feeling goes away and he tries not to think about it.
They sit side-by-side, pressed together ankle to knee to thigh to hip to shoulder, on the hood of the T-Bird, and Johnny watches the sun rise and tastes Glory like the forbidden fruit of Eden on his tongue, and he thinks that maybe God cares more about impressing him then he should have to care about impressing God.
When he gets home, his Mama screams about the Ungrateful Son, about the disease of the night, about that no-good-rotten-boy who's corrupting him, and he takes it, good-natured and quiet, because that is what the dutiful son must do. When he gets home, his daddy clobbers him a good one, whips him a few with his belt, and he takes it, the way good sons must do, because the Lord commands men to honor thy mother and thy father. After he takes what he is given, he leaves.
Dally is waiting for him with a Coca-Cola to put on his swelling lip, and he tries not to let it sting. Dallas ties his shoes for him, and they walk the twenty minutes to the church. It’s not Sunday, but Pastor David is there nonetheless. Dally doesn’t say anything, but his steady presence is warm along Johnny’s back, and Johnny and Pastor David talk quietly for a long while.
Pastor David tells him the story of Cain and Abel, and of Joseph and his beautiful robe, and Johnny doesn’t understand. Pastor David presses oil onto Johnny’s forehead, and they light incense and pray, and Johnny doesn’t understand. Pastor David asks him how school is, how his parents are, how he got his fat lip and shiner, and Johnny answers one of the questions honestly. Pastor David tells him not to sweat school too much, that he’s bright even if he doesn’t do so well, and that Miss Josie who runs the youth group works at the library, if he ever needs help. Pastor David tells him to join the church choir, and he claps Dally on the shoulder and tells him that their congregation is always growing. He grins good-naturedly when Dallas sneers at him, and lets Johnny pull Dallas out of the church and into the crisp mid-morning air.
They steal Buck’s T-Bird and park it in a field and Johnny tastes Glory and watches the birds fly away. Johnny feels Glory slide down his throat and thinks about telling Pastor David the truth.
I don’t know why you like that hokey stuff, Dally says, light and conversational.
I like thinkin’ about Glory, Johnny says.
Dallas sucks his teeth and shakes his head, adjusts his arm where it’s thrown over Johnny’s shoulders.
If that stupid priest had any sense –
He’s a pastor.
What?
He’s a pastor, not a priest, Johnny corrects. I’m not Catholic.
Dallas snorts, all that righteous fury gone suddenly, and he’s the most beautiful boy Johnny’s ever tasted.
I like Pastor David, anyways, Johnny says. He’s nice. And smart.
Dallas makes a vaguely interested noise.
Don’t go home tonight, Dally says.
Okay, Johnny agrees.
Come with me, Dally says.
Okay, Johnny agrees. Come to church with me tomorrow.
Dally makes a face.
Come to church with me, please. Johnny asks. And sing a hymn.
Dally kisses him squarely on the mouth.
Fine, he says into Johnny’s teeth. He slips his tongue in and it tastes like Heaven.