The Campgrounds

The air outside the tabernacle baked in the incandescent Louisiana sun. Dragonflies migrated across the field, hailing from the pond at the edge of the campgrounds, where reeds swayed and toads warmed their backs on rocks sequenced along the shore. We weren't allowed to approach the pond.

My head ached listening to the tin-metal speakers mounted outside the tabernacle. It was more of the same.

The evangelist shouted.

The evangelist ran back and forth, sweat soaking through his teal polyester button down and binding to his skin.

The evangelist spewed fire, and brimstone ricocheted through the crowd. The people found glory in their burns.

I did not want to go back in to the tabernacle. I did not want to feel the still hot air pressing into my skin and see the deacons cast their lidded eyes back and forth across the congregation and I did not want to hold my feet close the fire.

So I sat on the splintered wooden porch step outside the tabernacle, and I watched a warren of rabbits investigate a great oak that shook its limbs. I saw the metallic pools of mirage shimmer on the asphalt basketball court (such games strictly prohibited). I felt wet air tweak the tips of my bangs and curl the hair around my ears, interrupted by a breeze coasting off the pond and gracing my face. And I saw that it was good.

The heavy white door fitted with rosy chapel glass scraped open behind me. I smelled him before I heard him: aftershave, sweat, and that peculiar disinfectant they spray on blazers at Goodwill.

"Unless you're feeling sick, you ain't 'sposed to be out here. C'mon in. Get back to your seat and receive what the preacher is sayin'."

I followed the deacon back inside the tabernacle.