A Fine White Dust Read online

  1986 Cynthia Rylant

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  To Dick, for help

  To Dawna and Diane, for friendship

  To Gerry and Nate, for everything

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Fine White Dust

  CYNTHIA RYLANT

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1986 by Cynthia Rylant

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Also available in an Atheneum Books for Young Readers hardcover edition.

  The text of this book was set in 12-point Imprint.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition March 1996

  This Aladdin Paperbacks edition May 2007

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Rylant, Cynthia.

  A fine white dust.

  Summary: The visit of the traveling Preacher Man to his small North Carolina town gives new impetus to thirteen-year-old Peter’s struggle to reconcile his own deeply felt religious belief with the beliefs and nonbeliefs of his family and friends.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-698-84087-6 (hc)

  ISBN-10: 0-689-84087-X (hc)

  [1. Religious life—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction.

  3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.R982fi 1986 [Fic] 86-1003

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-4828-5 (pbk)

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-4828-7 (pbk)

  eISBN 978-0-689-84862-9

  Contents

  1 • Dust

  2 • The Hitchhiker

  3 • The Saviour

  4 • The Joy

  5 • The Change

  6 • The Telling

  7 • The Invitation

  8 • The Leaving

  9 • The Wait

  10 • Hell

  11 • The Messenger

  12 • The Light

  Amen

  Dust

  I’ve got these little bitty pieces of broken ceramic in my hands, and some of that fine white dust is coming off them, like chalk dust. There are some flecks of green paint on a few of the pieces. And some blue here and there. You’d never know to look at it that this mess used to be a cross.

  I’ve been trying to forget it, keeping it in a paper bag in my bottom drawer for nearly a year now—since the summer of seventh grade.

  But here’s June again. Another summer ready and waiting for me. And old Rufus just itching for us to get into something.

  I guess it’s time to throw this mess away.

  So if it’s time, how come I still can’t do it? How come I pour these pieces on my desk and look at them and roll them in my fingers and can’t bring myself to chuck them?

  I figure it’s got something to do with finishing things up. Maybe if I just tell the story, tell it all from start to end, I’ll finish it. Tell it right to the end, then chuck these pieces. Chuck this cross and put the Man to rest.

  Before last summer, before the Man ever came to town, I figure I was getting ready for him. I bet I was even getting ready in first grade, when I threw up all over Billy Winfred in Sunday school.

  I guess I was getting ready for him all those years, those years I was loving church. I can’t say why exactly, but I loved church from the start. My folks were never much interested, which makes it all the harder to understand why I was. When I was little, they’d take me to services now and then—like the day I threw up—but mostly on Sundays they just stayed home. And in our little North Carolina town, where the Baptist church is the biggest building of them all, with the Methodist second, it gets noticed when you’re not a churchgoer.

  But my folks went right on staying home and reading the Sunday paper all morning, just popping into church every now and then for Easter or Christmas. Never once fearing the wrath of God.

  What was happening to me inside, I can’t say exactly. But I didn’t want to stay home Sunday mornings. So when I was in second grade, I just invited myself to go to church with the Fosters, who lived next door. Then about fourth grade, I started going on my own. Mother and Pop must have thought me slightly touched, but I went on anyway. And when I’d come back after services they’d say, “How was church?” and I’d say “Fine” and they’d say “Good” and that was that.

  I guess it was sometime during fifth grade that I got more serious about church. I don’t know why, but some part of me just got religious and there’s no other way to explain it.

  I remember one Sunday that year, I got to church kind of early and slid into the middle of a pew, waiting for the place to fill up. I was looking around, trying to act like I’d really meant to be early, when my eyes stopped on this picture of Jesus. I’d seen it before, but never really looked at it.

  It was a big one, up behind where the choir sat. Jesus was wearing the crown of thorns, blood dripping down His head, and His heart was showing, like one of those pin-on hearts. It was bright red and glowed like it was burning.

  And His eyes. They were like those brown ponds you sometimes see in the woods. So dark and shining—but when you try to see yourself in them, you can’t. You look, and maybe you see a shadow of your head, but you don’t see you.

  I sat there that morning, looking up at that picture of Jesus, and I liked Him. I started liking Him that morning and I’ve never stopped. I can’t figure it out. Before I was ever taught heaven and hell with any understanding of it, I liked Jesus.

  And I liked Him so much that I guess as I got older, I got afraid of hell just because of Him. Those preachers telling me He’s going to come back to judge me, He’s going to cast me out, He’s going to send me to hell.

  Lord have mercy.

  Why, the thought of standing there and having Jesus look at me, then point His finger away, just point me right away from Him … the thought shook me to my toes. Please, I could see me begging Him. Please. I like you.

  I didn’t want to go to hell. I wanted somebody to tell me I wouldn’t go to hell. I’d look at me and I’d see a boy who never did seem to be good or holy or worth anybody dying for. Just nothing real special. And I guess I wanted somebody to make me better. To save me from hell.

  So last year, last June, somebody came to town who I thought could do that. I called him Preacher Man.

  It’s him I’ve got to finish up. It’s him in these pieces of broken cross.

  So I’m going to tell him to the end. And then I’m going to throw away every last piece of this cross, and I’m going to wipe my hands clean of that fine white dust.

  The Hitchhiker

  It seemed like he came to town just for me. This m
an full of The Word, with The Power and The Light shining all around him. What was it, what was it, that made him come after me?

  The first time I saw him, he was hitchhiking out on the 19-21 bypass. We didn’t pick him up, so you’d think I wouldn’t have noticed him, but he wasn’t any ordinary hitchhiker. I was sitting up front, next to the window, and as we passed—going slow, because the road’s nearly all uphill—he looked me right in the eyes. I could see that his were light blue (now, how many hitch- hikers do you pass and know what color their eyes are?) and he was looking right at me. It was powerful. Scared me good. And those few seconds I thought I was looking into the eyes of a crazy man.

  The second time I saw him was a few days after, on June 11. I remember because it was the last day of seventh grade and we got to go home early, so I went into town to loaf around. Hadn’t been free on a Thursday afternoon for nearly a year. I wanted to soak it up.

  He was in the drugstore. I’d gone in to look at comics, and while I was squeaking around the old rack to find some Fantastic Four, I looked over and bam, there he was.

  I mean, he was there like a small explosion. Leaning against the counter at the soda fountain, hands in his pockets, sort of a ghost in a blue suit just swallowing me up. I knew those blue eyes, those hitchhiker eyes, and my heart flopped like a dying fish.

  I looked at him for only a split second, then I scooted around behind the rack and buried my face into the first comic I could grab. It was a Baby Huey, and I guess I looked like a fool standing there reading it, but that big fat duck saved me.

  Saved me.

  I waited for the man to leave, but he stayed and stayed at that counter like a piece of hard rock. Darlene Cook had put his hamburger and drink down in front of him, but he still didn’t sit down to eat. All this time I’m thinking he’s some lunatic who hitched into town to murder people with a pickax, and I’m his first target. Darlene maybe his next. And I dug further into Baby Huey.

  Then, like the Lone Ranger riding in, Rufus walked through the door. The bell tinkled as he opened it, and when I saw him, it was like a mighty chorus of angels just sang a few notes.

  Rufus. You old sucker.

  “Hey, Pete!” Rufus yelled when he saw me. The hitchhiker’s head turned toward him. “Hey, you old hound dog!”

  I stuck Baby Huey back in the rack like a hot potato and waved Rufus over. I slapped him on the back and made a couple of jokes and told him I’d buy him a chili dog at the truck stop, which got us both out of the store fast. As we were leaving, I never looked right at the hitchhiker, but I knew he had his eyes on me.

  I didn’t mention it to Rufus that day. Never mentioned that I’d likely be pickaxed before the summer was over. Rufus had too much sense than to listen to such stuff.

  We’d been friends since kindergarten, Rufus and me, and two boys were never more different. From the day he was born, Rufus was a practical boy. He was popular at school, and I always figured it was because he was so honest and so practical. You could always trust Rufus to tell you what was what.

  In fifth grade Rufus declared himself a CONFIRMED ATHEIST, and he’s been that way ever since. For Rufus, the world you see is all there is. He wouldn’t have any of that Spirit of the Holy Ghost.

  We were so different, you’d wonder why we stayed best friends. But I guess I gave Rufus something to marvel at, with my spiritual notions and all, and I guess he gave me something solid to count on. The whole world might be a question mark, but Rufus stayed a good hard period.

  So it helped, that afternoon, being with Rufus. We had our chili dogs, then we rode over to the volunteer firehouse to sit out front and eat a bag of pork rinds and split a Coke. You could watch the town passing by, sitting in front of the fire-house, and we liked that.

  Rufus was telling me about the wrestling coach.

  “Says I’m too cocky,” said Rufus.

  “You are.”

  “I’m not cocky, I’m confident.”

  “You strut it,” I said, starting to laugh.

  His lips spread into that smirk he was famous for.

  “Well, when you’ve got it …” he answered.

  “Strut it!” we both yelled.

  We did some laughing that day. Rufus really wasn’t cocky. In fact, I’d say he was pretty humble. But Rufus always knew what he wanted and what he’d put up with to get it. I guess a few might see that as cocky. But I always saw it as strength, and I envied him.

  Rufus was solid like a rock. And I was the Jell-O Man. Some pair.

  After a couple hours with Rufus that day, I felt sane again. And I put the hitchhiker behind me.

  If only he’d stayed there.

  That June something religious was itching me, that’s for sure, and it seemed like it got worse just when the Preacher came to town. There were posters all over for Vacation Bible School, and they’d been getting to me. I’d gone to VBS every summer till I turned ten. Even then I would have kept going, because I liked painting those little ceramic crosses, but it was not considered cool after fifth grade. My mother had my painted crosses hanging in the kitchen, which was nice of her, considering her lack of interest.

  The posters ruffled me. And I couldn’t figure why. I was going to church every Sunday as usual, so that should have been enough.

  But I was wanting more. There was some kind of longing inside me. I must have thought Vacation Bible School could fill it, whatever it was I needed. But I wasn’t about to go at age thirteen and lose what little dignity I had.

  So when summer vacation started, I ended up taking it out on my parents instead. I started simmering inside because they wouldn’t go to church with me, because they didn’t seem to care about heaven or hell or their boy’s needs for religion.

  If they were religious like me, I’d think, then we’d be a real family.

  Maybe if I’d been in school, all this thinking wouldn’t have happened. But my days were free, except for mowing lawns around town, and before one week of summer vacation had gone by, I’d been ruffled by some posters, spooked by a hitchhiker, and I’d decided my folks weren’t religious enough to suit me. That’s what free time can do to you, I guess.

  I was fed up, and I’d been out of school just about two weeks when finally it showed at home.

  “Hell,” Pop said, when he knocked over the jelly jar at breakfast Sunday morning.

  “Thought you didn’t believe in it,” I mumbled.

  Pop’s eyebrows went up. A bad sign. I always figured God had eyebrows just like Pop’s, and when somebody lied or stole or punched a person in the face, God’s eyebrows went right up like Pop’s.

  “What’s that?” Pop asked.

  “Nothing.” I reached for my orange juice. He grabbed my hand, Mother watching us both.

  “It was something,” he said. “Something real smart, I’d say.”

  I forgot the juice and just sat back, silent.

  “You have some complaint for me?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You think I shouldn’t say ‘hell’?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what do you think, Mr. Cassidy?”

  I knew I was in trouble then. Pop never called me Mr. Cassidy unless I made him real mad. I couldn’t figure why my one little comment (smart, I’ll grant you) riled him so. But I knew I’d better start talking my way out of it.

  “I think … I think people in town are wondering why you and Mother never go to church with me.”

  Mother sighed and put down her fork. I knew this was turning into something, and I was scared. Talking about God has always made me nervous. Like if I don’t quote Scripture, I’ll say the wrong thing and be doomed. God listening and his eyebrows going up.

  Pop said, “Does what people think bother you?”

  “No.”

  “I believe it does,” he answered. He leaned back and folded his arms. “Are you ashamed of your mother and me?”

  “Walt …” Mother began, reaching for his arm maybe to stop him, but he raised his
hand and silenced her.

  “Well,” he said, “are you?”

  I stared at my plate. I felt lonely, real lonely. My stomach weighed a ton. This wouldn’t be happening if we were all the same, I thought, if we were all religious.

  “No, sir,” I answered. “I don’t know. I’m just mixed up, Pop.”

  He took a deep breath then and let it out. He sipped his coffee and gently set the cup back in its saucer.

  “There’s more to it than you can see, Pete,” he said softly. “Things you might not understand.”

  I don’t know why, but those quiet words sent a swarm of chills up and down my body. I knew that when it got right down to it, I didn’t want to know their secrets, Mother’s and Pop’s. Something in me was saying, Don’t tell, Pop. Don’t explain. Don’t tell.

  Mother shook her head, looking him right in the eye. I think he would have told me things if she hadn’t. But he caught her look and he gave it up.

  Instead he said, “Peter, you go to church as much as you want. What we choose has got nothing to do with what you choose. That revival’s starting up. Some young fellow’s come to town to preach. Maybe you need a good revival meeting. And if we don’t, Peter,” he said, looking straight in my eyes, “that’s our business. Our souls are not for you to save. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded hard and looked at Mother. Her face was sad and dark, and I worried for those seconds that she might die. I was frightened she might die and I could feel my breath getting small. And I didn’t know if I was afraid she’d die because I didn’t want to be without her or because I feared more than anything that she might burn in everlasting fire.

  I never thought I’d go to a revival meeting. I guess I always figured it was for hardened sinners that regular church couldn’t save.

  But I followed Pop’s suggestion, and that evening I went to the first revival of my life. And after that, I stopped worrying so much about Mother. Because the Preacher Man got me that night. And then the only person I was afraid might not survive this world was me.