Lowers in the West

 

                Dust clouds in sickly spires blew across the burnt topsoil. The children sat in a rough circle, tossing small sandy pebbles toward the center. Summer insects whizzed weakly through the dry, hot air.

It was silent. The children continued their game, unenthusiastically. Their heads rested on their bent knees or in the crook of their arms. If it would only rain. 

                “I blame the queers,” said Dervin, “that’s why it ain’t ranin’.” 

                “That’s stupid,” said Nigella, “Ain’t no queers in this County.” 

                “Ya’ll both stupid,” said Jimmy, “that ain’t got nothin’ to do with nothin’. It’s a drought ya dummies. Ain’t got nothing to do with none of all that.” 

                A cricket buzzed in the distance as it hopped across the barren dirt. Dervin tossed a rock at it but missed. 

                “That’s what I heard anyway. That the queers and the trans folks or them New Yorks, they been makin’ God angry, yet we’s the ones to suffer,” said Dervin. 

                “Where’d you hear that,” asked Jimmy. 

                “My Daddy. The preacher. That fella on the cable News,” said Dervin as he held up three fingers and counted them off as he spoke. 

                “Well my Daddy and my Momma say them folks is the ones who’re sinnin’ and making God angry,” said Jimmy. 

                “You callin’ my Daddy a sinner,” said Dervin as he started to curl his hands into little fists. 

                “I ain’t calling him a sinner, no,” said Jimmy, “I am just saying that my Momma AND Daddy have said that there’s these folks, that pretend to be Christian, but in the real world, they ain’t so Christian and they’re makin’ God mad. Not these other folks just doing whatever it is that theys do.” 

                “You just an 11-year-old, what do you know about it,” said Nigella, “you don’t know nothin.”

                 “I’m just sayin’ what I heard and that’s what my Momma and Daddy are sayin’,” said Jimmy. His arms were open wide and he shrugged with the innocence of being 11-years-old. 

                Dervin looked at the dry ground and loosened his fists. It was too hot to smack Jimmy anyway.

                 Nigella nudged Luther, who’d been quiet through this whole exchange, on his foot. Luther looked up from the mists of his mind into Nigella’s face.

                 “Whatchu want,” said Luther.

                 “I wanna know whatchu think, why we’s in this drought,” said Nigella.

                 Luther sat forward on his haunches and rested his cheeks on his knees. He played with the few small pebbles still in in front of him. He raised his head up and looked at Dervin, Jimmy, and Nigella.

                 “I think blamin’ the weather on God, or queers, or New Yorks, is dumb. It don’t matter whose Momma or Daddy or some TV News says. It’s all nothin’ anyway. This land. It’s dead and ain’t no amount of floods or rain, or miraculous interventions is gonna bring it back. There’s ain’t no jobs, there ain’t no stores, the school’s a joke and we ain’t been there in months anyway and ain’t no body cared,” said Luther, “so it don’t matter why or how there’s a drought. But I’m pretty sure bein' gay or whatever, that ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

                 Nigella and Dervin nodded as if Luther had spoken to them from a high mountaintop, like an ancient sage blessed with knowledge.

                 “That’s what I was sayin’,” said Jimmy, “but y’all don’t ever listen to me, only to Luther, cause he’s 12.”

                 “He’s more worldly,” said Nigella. She smiled and she nudged Luther with her shoulder to his shoulder.  

                  Jimmy tossed the remaining pebbles in the pile in front of him into the middle of the circle. He huffed and groaned.

                 “Heheh… worldly,” laughed Dervin.

                 The hot dusty wind blew around their young circle. The sun dipped lower in the West.