A Brief History of Satanic Baptism
By MJ Brown
It’s a Sunday morning and you are dangling in the air, strapped into a harness that’s the only thing keeping you from certain death. Whenever your siblings would beg to go to amusement parks as children, your parents always had the same response: them rollercoasters are flying death traps. Ain’t nothing right or natural about them. That’s why when Ozzie took you to Six Flags, you immediately made a beeline for the ride that looked scariest. This beast definitely has the capacity, if not the intent, to dislocate your shoulders.
Admit it, you get a little spooked when the harness tilts and lays you horizontal like a corpse in a casket. Ozzie kicks her spray-tanned legs, sliding her fingers through yours as the pulley drags you forward and up, up, up.
“Isn’t this great?” Ozzie screams.
You hardly hear her over the rush of wind, but you are for the moment knocked speechless.
When you were six, Daddy slid your swim floaties off and threw you belly-first back in the pool, toes pruned, goggle marks imprinted around your eyes. Maybe if you kept them on long enough you’d magically know how to swim, but the first needle-sharp crash of the water proved you didn’t, you’d drown inches away from your father’s arms. This time there is no water to break the fall, and Daddy wouldn’t even wanna catch you if he could.
Seconds before the descent, Ozzie squeezes your hand and grins that big, mischievous grin she gets after she tells a rude customer off. You admire that smile, that grip. You’ve copied both in interviews, though you can’t put your other skills from the club on your resume. Big corps don’t take kindly to seven-inch heels and glittery tits, can’t imagine why. Ozzie jokes that you should give the next disgruntled hiring manager a lapdance just to see what happens. You always pretend you don’t find it funny.
Well, you’re definitely not laughing now. The sky is very large, the ground is very far away, and you are very, very breakable.
“Promise you won’t regret it,” she shouts.
Then the ride tilts down again and
for a vivid punch of a second, you
think
you
might
die.
The next three minutes are the closest you’ll ever get to God, the God you ran away from, the God you now chase through the air, the God that lives in Ozzie’s delighted scream and the wind beneath your arms. It’s starting to rain but you don’t even care. You could live up here with your stomach in your feet and your heart in your mouth, you doe-eyed, beautiful little fool, and the comedown is so sudden that the Holy Ghost
inside you
plummets
out.
You stop.
“Wow,” you say. “That was something.”
“Really makes you think about life, don’t it?” Ozzie says. “I feel like a fuckin’ baby. A superpowered flyin’ fuckin’ baby. I haven’t felt that much like a kid since I had my own.”
Libby, Ozzie’s seven-year-old, is elsewhere babbling to her daddy about the life cycle of butterflies. Honestly, you’re impressed by that child and her boundless curiosity, but you’re even more impressed by how Ozzie and Jack encourage it.
“My baby’s gonna go to college someday,” you heard her say once. “First in her family, I know it.”
Your parents never held that same hope for you. They homeschooled you and your siblings; they never asked you to be great or even good. You had pancakes for lunch every Thursday while your mother stared out the trailer window. If she grew tired of answering your questions about long division or the Supreme Court, she would switch on the Christian radio and shuffle listlessly along to the music. You can’t listen to that channel anymore without a hint of sugar hanging from your tongue.
You often taste maple syrup when Ozzie talks about her little girl. It makes you tear up every time.
After a second ride on the rollercoaster, Ozzie leads you by the hand toward the food courts. When she spots her family at the ice cream truck, she doesn’t acknowledge Jack, waving at Libby instead. It feels like there’s a fist around your throat, but you say nothing.
The scene in front of you is idyllic but sparse, a dollhouse without its furniture. There’s a DJ playing the latest hits and an actor jumping around in a Bugs Bunny suit, but there’s no one else here. Ozzie buys you some kinda fancy beer, arm grazing yours, while Libby and her dad get their popsicles. Jack lifts her onto his shoulders like it’s nothing. You can’t help but remember what he’s like at home. He tucks Libby in every night and pulls Ozzie into their bedroom immediately afterward like it’s his God-given right, even if you’re still nursing a hot cocoa on their couch.
You wonder if he knows.
“Maren,” Ozzie says gently, drawing lines across your knuckles. She’s been trying to get your attention for a minute.
As a quiet, shy afterthought: “Baby.”
You wish you could kiss her senseless instead of drinking this unbearably hoppy beer. Wouldn’t that be something? It’s hard missing her when she’s right in front of you.
“I’m leaving him,” she murmurs. “I’m doin’ it this time. I made a shit ton dancing last week ‘n I’m serving him the papers tonight.”
Oh.
Oh.
You trace the condensation on your can, afraid to look up. She’s apocalypse-beautiful like this, staring at you like she’s seen your future together and it’s fucking beautiful.
Do you dare to break the spell?
“Thought you weren’t sure yet.”
You do.
“I’m sure as I’ll ever be,” Ozzie says. “I know it’s been hard. I haven’t been fair to you, but it’s all over now.”
Thing is, though, it’ll never be over. Not for you. As much as you hate Jack for hurting Ozzie, you love him, too. You love his slow smile, his pancake recipe, his endless kindness toward you, and most of all you love how much he loves his little girl. In the fuzzy edge of your vision, you can see him wiping the chocolate off of Libby’s mouth.
You have always been a traitor to your own heart.
“What about Libby?”
Ozzie flinches.
“What do you mean what about Libby? She’s seven. She’ll get two Christmases. Kids fucking love Christmas.”
“Maybe you should think about it more,” you say as you watch the kid stuff her face with ice cream in the distance. “Kids do better if their parents are still together, you know?”
Her mouth folds down in a way you’ve never seen before. “I really thought you’d be happier. Gotta say this isn’t what I expected.”
To be honest, there’s not much about this scenario you would’ve expected. Three years ago, when you started to think about escaping, strip clubs and dingy theme parks were not what you had in mind. You dreamt of New York City, you dreamt of school, and most of all you dreamt of love. Maybe you’d come back someday, shiny and sophisticated, to the trailer park’s knee-high weeds, its cigarette butts and earnest bitterness. You would flash your teeth at the man you left behind and fly your diploma like a black flag.
You most certainly did not dream of celebrating your twenty-first birthday with an ice bath, nursing the bruises a client gave you. Ozzie would find you facedown in the bathwater and hold you up as you sagged against her. You wouldn’t let go of the cheap-ass champagne you bought with your own damn money. It would be two weeks before you could touch that stack of cash again, and you’d blow it on an ornate tattoo of an upside-down cross. It’s a good thing your father doesn’t pick up the phone when you do try to call, slumped in a drunken stupor. He wouldn’t recognize the girl on the other end.
“You know this shit better’n anyone, Maren,” Ozzie says. “You know what it’s like to leave.”
“We don’t need to talk about my ex.”
“I didn’t say anything about him!” Ozzie pinches the bridge of her nose and clenches your hand tighter. “God, Maren, can’t we just be happy? For once? Can we be a fucking family?”
Ozzie knows about your background. How could she not? The pastor and his bullshit made national news. The funniest part is that when you were little, you thought it was all a game. Playing house. No school? No rules on what to eat or how to dress? There was a giant man in the sky who would save you, special, precious you, when the world set ablaze? It all made you feel like Daddy’s little princess. At least, that was until your Daddy beat you senseless for hiding a People Magazine and a copy of The Bell Jar beneath your bed. That was until you found yourself at 16 married to a man twice your age, washing his dishes and cooking his food. God wouldn’t save you now and he certainly wouldn’t then.
The cops did.
And then there was Ozzie, who’s been answering your prayers ever since.
Maybe this time you could answer hers.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”
“Look,” Ozzie says. “You’ve had a rough time, I get it, but I don’t owe Jack shit. ‘Specially not cause he’s the father of my kid.”
“He loves you.”
“It’s not a sin to want more than that,” she says quietly. “It’s not a sin to want more than a second paycheck and a box of goddamn grocery store chocolates every Valentine’s Day.”
Jack is coming back over now with the kid in tow. You wait for her to ask if you would give her more, if you would kiss her awake every morning and hold her hand when she cried.
It doesn’t come.
***
Last weekend the Atlanta Society of Southern Baptist Women took a little trip to the Black Cherry Gentleman’s Club, where you were plucking bills elegantly out of your g-string. You never thought you would enjoy this line of work, but there is a certain wildness to this that you haven’t found anywhere else. You shot a wink at the only guy fucked up enough to be sloshed here at noon, thanking him for the cash as you strode into the breakroom. It was freezing out, but you just threw your coat over your work outfit and headed out for fast food.
You found your sister standing there with a picket sign, surrounded by little blonde women who looked just like her. They set up some tables outside with charity-case snacks---sandwich wraps and fruit platters and the like---but they wouldn’t come inside. Este was always the kindest sibling, the most gullible. She’d tell you anything you wanted to hear but she made this ugly, twisted face when was lying. That’s what she did, stood there with her face all scrunched up like that, and said:
“God loves you.”
You wanted to ask her when she joined up with these women when she left home and decided to trade one cult for another. One of them was inexplicably holding a sign that said “LEARN THE TRUTH ABOUT VACCINES---FAUCI IS KILLING THE CHILDREN!!!” You had to laugh.
“The CVS is down the street,” you said. “And I got my flu shot last month, so I guess God doesn’t love me after all.”
“He does,” Este said softly, her eyes far away. She was seeing through you.
“Didn’t know you left the commune,” you said. “Talked to Mom and Dad in a while?”
“God loves you.”
“Okay.”
“But you should repent.”
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
“Please take a sandwich.”
You had hoped that maybe one day you could salvage your family, that maybe another sibling would wake up and get the hell out. If you could hold on to the cleanest, most lovable shard of your childhood, you would do it in a heartbeat.
Este was not that missing piece, and neither was your father, but you still called him again that night, head bent in prayer against the cool bathroom tile.
***
Ozzie pulls you silently into the line for the log ride, beers downed and the little one between you. It shocked Ozzie when you told her you’ve never been on an actual boat before, never even seen the ocean. Vacations weren’t easy to come by when the apocalypse was always at your doorstep.
Every night, Mom would grab her Bible and pray over each child, hands gripping the scripture like a drowning man grips a piece of driftwood. The devil followed you when your skirt was too short, when you sang too loud, when you looked at a girl a certain way. Your father’s hands followed after. After two years, it’s hard to remember the details of his face, but you remember every callous on his fingers.
Now Libby’s hand is soft and small in yours, and she smiles up at you like you’ve built this place just for her. You have no doubt she’ll be asking her mom to build her a backyard theme park out of popsicle sticks. As if it’s that easy. You squeeze Libby tight, avoiding Ozzie’s gaze, and you help her into the hollowed-out boat.
The urge to climb out strikes you as soon as the boat starts moving. Quirky little puppets scatter the carefully sanitized shore of this ride's little universe—are they supposed to be pirates? Monsters? Both? You’re not really sure. They’re singing about the dangerous boogieman that lives in the woods your boat is currently speeding towards. The water beneath you looks rancid, but Libby is having the time of her life.
“Ten bucks says I could climb out and give that dancing frog a wedgie,” you whisper to Ozzie.
She tries not to laugh and fails miserably.
“You better not,” Ozzie says. “Lib loves it here. Aunt Maren can’t get her banned for life.”
“But I could steal his little cowboy hat. Favorite rides come and go, but cowboy hats are forever.”
“Then can I have her tiara?” Libby says, pointing at a regal-looking and utterly terrifying unicorn perched in a tower.
“Dear god, you’re giving her ideas,” whispers Ozzie, but she’s laughing now and that’s all that matters.
“Who’s gonna stop me?” You smile and turn to Libby. “If you wanna commit crimes, go ahead and commit crimes.”
“Maren!”
Oh a whim, she furrows her brow and sweeps a hand into the murky water, splashing you in the face. You gape at her with fake bog water running in rivulets down your face. The boat rushes into the woods, where pairs of gleaming animatronic eyes glower in the darkness. Ozzie’s breath rushes hot and fast against your neck. When you look back over, she’s looking at you, not the spectacle in front of you. Ever so gently, she takes her thumbs to your wet forehead and kisses your temple.
“I know you liked Jack,” Ozzie says. “But we’re family, Maren. We’re family.”
When you look down at Libby, you are taken by a vision, an augury of bliss and morning-dew comfort. Ozzie’s arms are wrapped around your waist, pancakes sizzling on the stove. When she catches you snapping a hair-tie on your wrist like you do when you’re stressed about money, she lifts you into the air squealing and throws you down on the bed, the bed that you share, the bed ten-year-old Libby is tucked into because she had a nightmare, and you wouldn’t dare wake her, not even for pancakes, and you’ve got to get to class, college, you’re going to college, and Jack is taking her tonight so you and Ozzie can drink hard cider and see some shitty Bowie tribute band, and it is wretched sin in the eyes of your father but it is perfect.
You baptize Ozzie in turn, wrapped in synthetic darkness.
THE END
Author Bio: MJ Brown is a second-year creative writing student at Emory University. Their work is forthcoming in both The Kudzu Review and Door is a Jar.