The Biblio File June 2017 Essay: “Bustin’ Out”

BUSTIN’ OUT

Dogwoods are blooming among the cedars and alders and cottonwoods across our river. Rhodys sport clusters big as cabbages. Buds on our rosebushes are fat, about to pop. They’re doing their June thing, the one I celebrated in seventh grade Choral Music class. They’re bustin’ out all over.

We twelve years olds were bustin’ out ourselves, budding breasts, hair sprouting in new places, voices that cracked– June is bustin out all over! All over the meadow and the hill! School bored me, but bustin’ out some songs was all fine.

It was fine with me too, that year, to “join the church”, as expected before turning thirteen in our Southern Baptist congregation. The choir crooned Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling, their voices as tender and soft as the beige mouton jacket I wore as I slipped from my pew and walked, anxious but determined, down to the aisle to the preacher who clasped my hands and said, “Welcome, Welcome.”

My baptism was scheduled for Wednesday night two weeks later. Four of us recent dedicators, we were told, would wade into thigh-deep water, where the preacher would lean us back, immersing our faces. Daddy said he’d take Mama and me out for a lobster dinner afterwards. I loved lobster more than dill pickle juice poured over crushed ice, which was a whole, whole lot.

When it was time to leave for church on Wednesday evening, Daddy swilled from his murky glass of bourbon and squinted at me. “Where’s your bathing cap?”

“What? I’m not wearing one.” I hated bathing caps and put up with chlorine green hair every summer. And I blushed to think about wearing one of the ugly things in front of God and the church and everybody.

I glimpsed the beginning of a purple flush on Daddy’s face. “Yes,” he said. “You will wear a bathing cap.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because we’re going out to dinner after. Because I said so.”

“But I don’t want to. I’ll pull my hair back in a pony tail.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn’t say ‘pony tail’. I said ‘bathing cap’.”

“But— It’s my hair.”

“And it’s my dinner offer,” Daddy said, that look on his face, the haughty drunk one I hated. “What’ll it be, Queenie?”

I couldn’t believe this. I loved lobster more than Dr. Pepper. And I loved Daddy’s approval. When he was happy, he could be funny, in a teasing-sweet way.

He tossed back the rest of his drink. “You’re hard headed, you know it? Now. You wearing that cap and we gone eat lobster?”

I took a breath. Another. I heard my voice, a little low, but clear. “Nope. No bathing cap.”

Daddy’s eyebrows arched. His mouth pursed. He shrugged. “Allrightee then. Your loss.”

An hour later, I got baptized. The preacher seemed solemn, the picture behind the baptismal font surreal with a crystal blue sky and clouds pink as cotton candy and the whitest robe draping a glowing Jesus. My immersion lasted only a few seconds, and what I most remember is warm, soft water on my free flowing hair. “In the name of the Father…”

Afterwards, I sat at my kitchen table, my hair still damp against my neck, and ate the bowl of canned tomato soup Mama heated and the cheese sandwich she grilled and cut in triangles. I remember it tasting sweet, a little tart, like the bold orange salmon berries about to emerge from frothy white blossoms on our river shore. I felt on the verge of something, but not sure what. Bustin’ out all over.

#