Even thinking about the trip, about the year-long quest we were embarking on to evangelize to the godless masses, I was bored. Dread, not excitement. I was sitting at a dinner thrown in my honor. In our honor, and my legs were asleep, my back was aching from sitting and I was tired of smiling and saying thank you, thank you, yes I'm really excited...
Believe me, when I signed up for this trip, things were different. Everyone was different. Rusty gave a dedication about the young armies of God with the Word as their weapon. He nearly cried he was so excited and moved. He called us a "mark of God's goodness to the world." He called us righteous and brave and he hugged and kissed every one of us.
Everyone is wondering where Matty is but no one is saying anything, everyone hoping that no one will notice, though we all do. I keep looking over at the Hurts, as does everyone, and I can see Nathan furiously texting under the table, thinking no one can see just how frantic he is. I wouldn't have thought anything was really wrong until I saw his face. He has already gotten up twice during Rusty's dedication and and once before that and now he isn't even bothering to get up. The problem is, of course, that Matty is part of the presentation. He is supposed to, in five minutes or less, present the slideshow he put together of all the senior highlights. So now Rusty is sitting back down with Marta and Nathan is standing, responding to the three or four seconds of silence that pass in which everyone is waiting for something to be explained to them. He stands up, clearing his throat too many times, bearing his panic with stoic grace, as usual, and he grips the sides of the podium, continually indicating the massive projector screen behind him, staring blank and blue at the waiting audience. Prolonged eye contact is making him nervous he is starting to lose it, his mask starting to slip. But he smiles in this nearly bashful way and says, "my son got stuck in traffic on the way back from a football game in Greenville today...he was very excited about showing this presentation and I'm honestly sorry to steal the honor from him but, hey, the show must go on, right? So here it is, Matty's gift to the youth, to the church really, for what he has called, in his own words, "the most important year of his life." I hope you enjoy it."
He signals to phil, the A/V guy in the back of the auditorium and then steps out from behind the podium, acknowledging the silent sympathies of the audience with a "what can you do?" sort of shrug. He makes it back to his seat and Cecilia touches his shoulder and then they lean into each other and whisper as the presentation begins. The lights go down and a Michael W. Smith song begins, soft piano and acoustic guitar, as the words WHITE CHAPEL YOUTH 2005 spins onto the screen, superimposed over the first image. It is a picture of us, all 17 of us, smiling in front of the soupkitchen where we volunteer as a general practice, on Sunday afternoons. This particular picture was taken on a Sunday shortly after Matty's return to us, when all of us were over the moon about his rebirth. He is right in the middle of the crowd, giving a peace sign to the camera. Next is an array of photos; us dancing with the mentally and physically disabled wards of the Mary Campbell center, us at the water park, us giving out Easter eggs at the pediatric ward of the hospital, us rebuilding a house in Texas after hurricane Rita. The crowd oohs and aahs accordingly.
Then an image occupies the screen, something too close up, too zoomed in to see clearly. Under the image are the words, in a dripping red font typically used for Halloween, the words, CAN YOU TELL WHAT THESE ARE?
All I can see is a blur of pinky-peach.
Splashed onto the screen is the giant face of Jamie Whitaker, her eyeliner hanging in ugly crescents under her eyes as she drunkenly blathers on about her reluctance to go to Japan because of the availability of horse meat. Her speech is so slurred it's actually alarming. She cusses like a sailor. From somewhere behind me, Jamie shrieks and ducks down in her seat. Michael W. Smith is still playing.
The original flesh-colored image returns to the screen, clear this time, and my heart stops beating, just for a second. Right away I recognize Rodney, Cassie, Alex, Jared, Bethany, Jessica, Amber and Hunter, all of them staring at Stephanie and Elizabeth with their shirts up, flashing their small, perky breasts, their faces stretched in ecstatic toothy smiles. Cameron is behind them, his eyes wide and dilated, giving two thumbs up. Everyone in the crowd gasps, some people actually cover their eyes. The fathers look away, then start looking around, trying to figure out who to blame.
The rest of them in the photo are all guilty of their own sins: bottles of beer, bottles of liquor, big blunts and even if they're not holding something incriminating, they're in the picture, so the damage is done. In a moment, the image disappears and is replaced by a shaky video of a door opening, a dark room illuminated by camera light, a surprised and naked Rodney and Cassie in bed, clawing at the covers, Rodney stumbling out and yelling at the camera to "get the fuck out of here!"
Finally, the women are covering their faces, putting their heads down. Someone is yelling to turn it off, turn it off, for God's sake. From the corner of my eye, I see Rodney bolt, then Mr. Maddox stand up and walk out as quickly as he can. My mother takes my wrist but does not stop watching, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I must be on the video, too, right? It's just a matter of time.
But I'm not. That I know for sure.
By the time Phil gets out of his chair, licks the barbecue sauce from his fingers and gets to the controls, it is too late. The video is over, the question answered in those horrible, dripping red letters:
THESE ARE YOUR CHILDREN.
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