Sinners (another relic from the cobwebbed closet)

SINNERS
By Michael Kroetch

She is mad at her doll so she turns its face to the wall. She’s my niece. I’ve come to take her for ice cream. She says she doesn’t want to. Her mother says she has to.
We go through the farmland past cows and fences, she asks if she can turn on my radio.
I say whatever she wants to do, she can do.
She says I sound like a game show guy.
Which one?
She says she doesn’t remember.
The station she picks is a Bible station. The preacher is thunking something against the microphone and saying we’re all going to hell.
Did you hear that? she says. She has the window rolled down and her head out with her mouth open. Her cheeks are all red.
The preacher thunks the microphone and says the devil is alive in this land and that he has lots of money.
I have a hundred dollars, my niece says. That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?
Yeah.
Do you think the devil has a hundred dollars?
I don’t know, I say and look at her. She’s unwrapping some gum. She stuffs the wrapper into the seat where the fabric’s torn.
Do you go to church? I say.
Heck, yes! Mom would have a fit if she heard you. She says you’re irreligious. She says other things, too. Are you irreligious?
I tell her she’s pretty little to be using words like that.
She says, ha, blows a bubble and pops it. She says she’s got God to protect her. Who do I have? She says God watches her. She says she’s seen him. Who’ve I got?
I tell her I’ve got my cat.
She says the cat probably doesn’t like me.
I say it does so.
She says I probably have it roped up or locked in my house so it can’t get away.
I ask her why she’s not a nicer person.
She says she’s nice. She has lots of friends, she says. Tons of friends.
I say I do, too.
She looks at me.
I do, I say.
What are their names?
Why you want to know that?
I got my reasons.
Ha, I say.
We don’t talk for awhile. We listen to the preacher. He’s telling us the number we can call to tell him how much money we’re going to give him.
I give God money, she says.
You do?
In envelopes. At church. I put them in on Sunday. I like licking the envelopes. The men who hold the baskets always smile at me when I put the money in the baskets.
Where do you get the money?
Mom.
The city jumps out at us as we come around the next bend. A dump truck is ahead of us. Little clumps of dirt fall from it, making a trail on the pavement.
Do you sin? she asks.
Why?
My doll sins. I heard her lie to me. I don’t know what I should do about it. She can’t go to a priest. She’s a doll.
What do you do about it?
I put her face against the wall.
Oh.
We come to the ice cream store and I park in front beside a station wagon with a dog in it. It’s a little dog and barks a lot.
What do you think about heaven? she says.
Heaven?
You think they have dogs in heaven? Will they let you keep your cat in heaven?
I say I don’t think about heaven too much.
She says she does. All the time. She says she thinks it has a big swingset. A swingset so big you can swing up into where the stars are, up into the milkystuff.
I ask if she wants ice cream.
No.
It’s a while before either of us say anything. The dog isn’t barking anymore. It’s just looking at us.
We should get out, I say.
You’re going to go to hell, she says.
I tell her she needs to have some ice cream.
She gets out of the car.
That’s a big girl, I say.
She just stares at me.
We get our ice creams. She gets chocolate mint. I get chocolate. When we’re done eating, she asks me what my cat’s name is.
George, I say.
She laughs.
That’s a dumb name for a cat, she says.
Well, he looks like a George.
She laughs. She says can she come see him some time?
I say sure. She can come over any time she feels like it.
She says she wishes I wasn’t irreligious.
I say nothing.
She touches my hand and says God’s not a mean guy.
I tell her not to worry about me.
She says she’ll put my name on some of her Sunday envelopes.
I say thanks.
She says it’s nothing. She says it’s the least she can do for a sinner like me.