The Not-So-Holy Bible

By Pete Nicely

Since God created him, fourteen-year old Claude Tillson’s life has only gone downhill. Despite constant midnight moves and an endless march of mustached boyfriends for his mom, it was never unbearable for long. And he always had his Bible borrowed from the Gideons to help fix him. Then his mother hit a new, even deeper rock bottom, and they had to move in with his miserable Grandparents in Marietta, Georgia.

Now his mother's latest crush has offered her a job that could keep them stuck in that house forever. Claude decides he has to find the money to get them to the Promised Land in California himself. But when he turns to his grandfather for help, the answer destroys his faith and sends him off into the night. When his mother finds her son trying to hold back tears, she makes a decision that sends them on the run from everyone.

The Not-So-Holy Bible is the story of how the truth can set you free. But first it will break your heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pete Nicely
• Release date: May 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311978370

Pete Nicely

Working on a fishing boat right outside Delacroix.

Book preview

The Not-So-Holy Bible

Pete Nicely

Copyright © 2015 Pete Nicely

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

WARNING:

Results vary, and you won’t know yours till you’re dead.

Chapter 1

Nothing in this world is more terrifying than a smile wide across my mother’s face.

I was alone, in my Grandparents’ guest room, tucked into their twin bed, which creaked any time you just thought hard enough. Still I was closer to sleep than I had been for two and a half days. Somewhere, the Hoover coughed as it grumbled on. Then flip-flops came flipping and flopping down the hall. Before I could summon the sense it takes to hide properly, the door flew open.

All I saw were teeth—my mother’s ghost-white teeth.

I curled into a ball and covered my face with the nearest throw pillow. But my feet did not tuck tightly or quickly enough. She reached under the blankets and caught an ankle. Come here, babe, she said.

I didn’t budge, so she stabbed the tip of a fingernail into my heel.

My fingers crawled out and latched on to the mattress’ loose edge. With both hands, she pulled, dragging my ankle, the creaking, and me to her. My free foot flailed, until the big toe found her hip. When I gave her a slight push, she let go, which sent me tumbling to the floor.

Sitting up, I found her finger pressed into my top lip, shushing me, though I had not spoken a word. Beyond the wall, the Hoover gobbled up something that grinded its gears. My mother gave me a wink and I had to look down.

A thumb-shaped smear on the inside thigh of the moss-green sweatpants she had been wearing for weeks was pointing at me. Before I could guess how she’d gotten that there, she kicked off her flip-flops, and grabbed my wrist to tow me into the bathroom.

Once the door was locked and the faucet was flowing full blast, she dug two fingers into the watch pocket of my jeans and drew me close. The fresh stink of her cigarette breath made me shudder as she whispered, Your grandmother has informed me that we may borrow one thousand whole dollars to move out—immediately. She stepped back to wait for her news to arrive on my face. If we scrimp and scavenge, babe, we’ll get to California, easy.

Like that, the world was new.

She grabbed me and squeezed till she found bone.

See, she said, locking her hands into my shoulders in case I attempted to flee before I had demonstrated sufficient gratitude. Your grandma ain’t entirely evil.

I never said that. I hadn’t. She just wants us out of their house. Her house.

"He don’t want to be bothered, either. She pressed her forehead into mine. So we don’t mention it to him or her, never—especially him. Even if you’re asked twice."

Him was my grandfather, and there was less than no chance he would ask me about anything, ever. In ninety-seven days, he hadn’t even looked me in the eye once. Fine.

Promise a promise.

My mother has always been well aware that I do my very best to avoid unnecessary deceptions of any sort. But in that moment, I was convinced that she had delivered us a miracle that had proven that genuinely desperate and constantly repeated prayers could be suddenly and completely answered. So I nodded. But I must have given in too easily.

No one’s gonna tear us apart? she asked. Never ever?

Fine, I said, unable to imagine why anyone would ever bother to do that. I promise.

Her hands flew over her head to begin a dance of pure joy. Once she had completed two full 360-degree spins, I shut off the faucet to ask, Shall we pack?

She sighed, knowing that all of my possessions—except for my most essential toiletries—were zipped inside my suitcase. Tonight’s the night, babe. Tonight we celebrate.

I shrugged as the Hoover moaned off.

Claude Norman Tillson. My mother only used all my names to indicate she was no longer in a mood to fuss—or when she felt obligated to demonstrate she was sober enough to remember all three in their proper order. The bank don’t even open up till Monday, babe.

The thought of two more nights in that house, on that bed, paralyzed me, until she said, Get.

It took less than five minutes to ready myself. I decided on my churchiest outfit—my only option that did not require hours of ironing. It was a yellow button-up shirt, with matching yellow dress shoes and nearly matching slacks. Hair parted. Teeth brushed, rinsed, and brushed again. Nails clipped. Done. I was ready to get the festivities over with.

You’re too cute, my mother said, shoving me out of the bathroom. It’s easy for you.

Her preparations, however, took hours.

I made the bed, then sat on the floor and memorized Proverbs while she bathed and re-bathed; shaved, and re-shaved. Once every cranny and crease on her body had been dried and then smothered in coconut-scented lotion, she put on her bra and underwear and stood in front of the mirror on the back of the bedroom door to tweeze every stray strawberry-blonde hair off her brow—and chin. She did this for the better part of the afternoon before she was ready to cake on her makeup and declare with complete confidence and all due modesty, Earthly perfection has been achieved. Yet it was not until she returned from the bathroom in her outfit and heels for the evening that it was clear that we had entirely different celebrations in mind.

She dangled her left hand over her head and twirled slowly to reveal how the smooth fit of her chocolate skirt complimented her snug tapioca blouse with its oblong shoulder pads. The top had been stranded in our Sunbird’s trunk for months since she bought it for half off of half off during Rich’s Department Store’s So Long, Santa! sale. I thought it was an interesting match for her reddish quilted Vera Bradley handbag, even though it came off a bit stuffy when Princess Diana wore the original version on the evening news. My mother had added some zest by tucking the collar in as far as it would go, revealing even more of her mostly vanilla skin along with a scenic view of her more-than-ample cleavage. Before she could twirl again, I had to set my Bible aside to ask if such a fine ensemble might be wasted on such a trifling celebration.

She put her hands on her waist and studied herself up and down in the mirror until her gaze settled on her lips. Pink and pursed, they resembled a frosted rosebud.

Honestly, Claude, she said. It don’t get any better than this.

Chapter 2

As soon as we stepped into the lobby of the A & A Fish Company, I tasted something fried, greasy, and delicious in the air. Whatever it was must have been seeping down the dried blood-red curtains and the charred-wood trim, forming puddles on the cement floor, which explained why sawdust had been scattered like salt on a slippery road. Crusty ropes, frayed nets, and rusty hooks hung on the walls, angled to snare any fish, lobster, or stowaway that dared wander in through the front door. Beyond the curtain, a dim dining room bustled.

Every few feet, a trembling pool of candlelight revealed more ruddy faces framed by the shadows of stooped servers serving and bent busboys busing. Shells cracked. Silverware clinked against plates as men spoke over each other. A bell rang. A cork popped. Women tittered.

One squealed, which made her friends titter as if they actually meant it.

No scene on God’s green Earth could have been more perfectly designed to remind us that we should have been packing, not celebrating. Yet my mother has always been more interested in characters than settings. She did not care what was in the air, in the floor, or on my mind. Her only concern: "Who could possibly be having all that fun—without me?"

A quick tiptoe to the curtain allowed her to survey the situation. As she turned back toward me, her wicked grin indicated that her public was waiting. She sneaked back to my side.

’Scuse me, babe. I’ve gotta visit the comfort room. Get us the best table in the house. She spun away, then leaned back to whisper, "And give her our real names."

Before I could ask her which table might be the best, men were leaning their foreheads into the glow of candles to watch her strut across the dining room. Behind the cash register, a hostess about my age with a perfect dot of a nose and fine dirty-blonde hair—in a bob like my mother’s but obviously cut and styled by a licensed cosmetologist—was sitting on a barstool behind a nearly empty glass display case. I stepped toward her and pretended to be captivated by the three packs of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum displayed on black felt, like fine pawned watches.

After staring at each pack for so long that everything about them—from the arrow in the logo to the three dainty mint sprigs—suggested some secret significance, I looked up.

The hostess was studying some swirl in the grain of the wood ceiling that was far more stimulating than I ever would be. I took a step back, attempting to put at least my hair in her line of sight, which did no good at all. After a minute, I knew that even if I stood there staring at her until this world crumbled and rain ground my bones into sand and on and on till long after March 23, 1984 was just some marking on an ancient calendar that no one could say for sure had ever happened, this girl would never intentionally waste a single moment of her life on me.

In situations where I am being entirely ignored, I attempt to make use of my uselessness by reading The Holy Bible I’d borrowed from the Gideons, who’d placed it in the Athens, Georgia Travelodge. But I suspected this girl already considered me prim for carrying it around, and would despise me even more than she did already—if that were possible—once I opened it.

So I gave up any hope of persuading her with patience and said, Pardon me.

She refused to acknowledge that I existed at the same time and in the same space as her. I turned away to conjure some excuse my mother might accept for my failure to complete my one task. In the dining room, a bell rang out. The clang faded into the clatter of the crowd.

Oh, was I supposed to notice you? the hostess asked, as if I’d just woken her.

The question shook me. I faced her and attempted to summon a sensible answer. Was she supposed to notice me? All I knew was that if she were, she wouldn’t have asked that question.

The glaze of indifference returned to her eyes.

Before she could look away, I offered my mother’s real name and, Party of two.

How would you spell that? she asked. Another excellent question.

Though I had mastered the spelling of my mother’s actual name—Elizabeth Marie—when I was four, I only knew her real name from hearing it spoken in a TV movie about how smart it was for Elvis Presley’s wife to divorce him. The day after it aired, last summer, my mother decided that the name of The King’s ex-wife was the perfect getup for her special occasions, which, to her, were any occasions when a stranger asked for her name.

P-R-I-S-S-I-L-L-A, I said, as if I had spelled it a million times that day.

She grabbed a crayon to scribble Priss 2 at the bottom of her list of crossed-out names. Then she turned away to act the part of a good employee by tidying a stack of three menus.

I sat down on the one bench that would not force me to stare at the hostess—or vice versa.

With nothing else to do, I set my mind on the only practical use of my time: Praising the Lord, for it was He—and He alone—who had delivered us to the end. The end of regretting every move I made and every word I said, even before the move was made or the word was said. The end of breathing someone else’s air, occupying someone else’s space, wasting their Kleenex Softique Tissues, their heat, their margarine, their 2 percent milk, their gray tap water while offering nothing in return—except the hope that some day I would be gone, then forgotten.

The end of a billion subtle and not-so-subtle sighs, grunts, and groans, each confirming what I suspected from the moment I had first stepped through the front door: I was an unwelcome intruder, a useless reminder of their greatest shame in a perfect little world that had an exact, permanent place for every linen, every collectible brass spoon, every fat, smug porcelain angel—everything, except me. Thank you, Lord—I prayed—for delivering us to the end of ninety-seven slow days and even slower nights in my grandparents’ house.

Somehow—even then—I recognized that if my prayers were telling the Lord anything at all, I was reminding Him that our tribulations were slight compared to those of Job, Jonah, or anyone He knew by name. And my flaws were greater than all of theirs combined.

Hence, despite the fact that our miracle was only a few hours old, I began to sense that it had brought with it some huge, all-encompassing doom that was near—and loitering.

Lar-ry! my mother said. Larry, to her, is the boy version of Lisa Marie.

From the way she pronounced both syllables, I knew she was not only frustrated that we had not been seated, she was certain I was trying to sabotage her celebration, thus her entire life.

I made a steeple with my hands to remind her that I—like her—am more inept than evil.

She winked and sat down on the bench next to me to whisper a secret. This A & A Fish Company is packed fuller than a can full of sardines, she said, as if this should thrill me.

I nodded and resisted the urge to tell her that despite this A & A Fish Company’s undeniable charms, it had a waiting list of exactly one name—Priss, party of two.

Smile, she whispered. And stop thinking. I did neither.

Assuming I was a complete moron, she asked if I had put our names in. I nodded.

Are you feeling okay? she asked.

When I nodded again, she gave up on me to focus on the only person in the room with any sway over our fate: The hostess. My mother ambled to the counter and leaned in too closely, the way she always does. I saw her sweetest smile in the mirror on the wall—no teeth.

She covered her mouth to whisper something. Before I could guess what handicap or emergency she had assigned me, I was following her, the hostess, and our menus.

Sawdust crunched under every step, and I just about had to sprint to keep up.

We looped through the entire restaurant before our hostess sat us at a table in a bright backroom, with a wide door that swung directly into the kitchen. As she handed us our menus, she offered a grin to my mother and—when my mother reached for a napkin—a flash of her scowl for me. Nice slacks, the hostess said to me, and spun away.

My mother tilted her head at me, as if I’d just won a giant stuffed bear at a fair.

I pointed at her menu, hoping to divert her before she got started.

It worked. She became instantly entranced by how firm its cardboard was.

This red brick-walled nook was not nearly as fancy or relaxed as the dim, wood-trimmed dining room. Fluorescently lit early birds—frail elderly men and their slightly less frail elderly wives—surrounded us, eating as slowly as they could, gripping their silverware in a way that suggested that they’d all been alerted of a plot to steal their forks and knives from their hands.

Still, I decided that I should at least attempt to enjoy myself. I sipped icy water, melted butter into my roll, and ignored the shouts of Whaaa? across tables as the early birds hacked up something just larger than their own throats. Yet it was hard to ignore my mother's malt-ball brown eyes, pried wide, on the lookout. With the savvy of a untrained spy, she slid her chin from one shoulder to the other, examining each wrinkled face for features that resembled someone she knew, or might like to know. She did this until she realized that I was studying her chin. Yes?

What did you whisper to our hostess?

First. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, though she hadn’t taken a bite. Tell me how we’re going to decorate our new place. And use all your biggest words.

You go first. I could not let her slither into my favorite subject so easily. Please.

She nodded, as if she had been afraid that it might come to this. Well, each and every room will have its own theme, she said, attempting to imitate the way human beings sound as they fuss over precious yet irrelevant things. Like the Wild West or Christmas and each will have a… a whodoyoucallit? A scheme… for everything, down to the light-switch covers.

That I am superficial—more interested in discussing how clothing, accessories, or furnishings might coordinate than anything of consequence to my eternal soul—has always been obvious to my mother. Still, I was pleased that she was at least attempting to play along.

Them carpets in the Wild West room, she said. They’ll be sky blue—no, brown shag like a horse’s mane—or… Before she could unravel her tangled thought, she gave up. But will our insides even matter, baby? Truly? We’ll be in California. There’s no frost to spoil Christmas… no stickiness to yuck up summer. I can let my hair grow down my back, then iron it out once a week on… on Sunday night, she said, as if she had solved a ten-sentence riddle.

The way they did in the 1960s?

It’s always the 1960s in California, Claude.

I wanted to tell her that it was always the 1960s in her brain. But there was something about the way her eyebrows shot up, as if they were trying to turn her eyes into dots at the bottom of twin exclamation points, that made me feel sorry for her. I looked over her shoulders to examine the early birds behind her. A sweet, hunched, quivering couple with an identical bald spot had made it through their entire lives without strangling each other—at least to death.

Surely they did not rejoice at every opportunity to disagree.

In hopes of reminding her and myself that we were celebrating the end, I asked if her friend in California knew we were on our way. She winked, which meant, Of course.

Runt, which is what my mother says everyone calls Rue Ann Nelson, had grown up nine houses down from my grandparents’ yet had escaped Marietta with her boyfriend Wade in a VW Bug on the morning of her eighteenth birthday. Fifteen years later, they were still together—though Wade was a lout who had once even made a pass at my mother. Now they lived across the street from an orange grove, nineteen miles from the beach and eleven miles from the house where they’d filmed Family. To my mother, Runt being in California was undeniable proof that it was possible to end up in the one Golden State, no matter where one had been unfortunate enough to be born. It