Sarah by J.T. LeRoy

they all flock down here to borrow our divine manifestations!’ Lymon snapped.
    ‘Well, there’s enough miraculous occurrences here to share, even with Yanks,’ Le Loup said while patting his wallet.
    And as those Yanks sat in the diner, no one pointed out to them the new menus printed up with triple the prices. And nobody offered the teary-eyed Yanks a lemon wedge or a blessed spray of the healing mist for their burning eyes, except for a small courtesy fee, which was neither small nor extended with much courtesy.
    As I gaze at the Yankee truckers lined up on the other side of the bog, I notice all of them swabbing frantically at their wet eyes. But whether that’s from the moving fervent adoration of Le Loup’s oration or the open potato sack full of fresh-cut ramps, which lies hidden in the cotton grass behind them, is anybody’s guess.
    Gasps rise from the audience as I move more into view.
    Le Loup had finally settled on putting me in a charming little German dirndl with matching red velvet bows in my hair. Mary Grace did my makeup using her new Mary Kay products. I felt the pride a trucker must feel in taking a virgin, watching Mary Grace’s finger leave its prints on the unblemished pressed powder’s surfaces, the plastic protective shields cast to the ground.
    Le Loup invites the truckers to toss heavy rocks attached to fishing lines into the water to prove there is no hidden platform beneath the surface of the water.
    The rocks splash, cast in at various depths of the water. We all watch in silence as the reels spin out after the rocks until the spindles are emptied.
    ‘Gentlemen, as you can see…’ Le Loup announces.
    ‘There is no platform under there,’ one of the northerners certifies and they all murmur agreements.
    ‘Maybe that little girl should be wearing a lifejacket,’ another one of them says.
    ‘That would take out all the fun…’ someone grumbles back to him.
    Lymon hits the play button on the cassette deck and blasts ‘Hallelujah, Praise Jehovah!’ which is my cue to raise my arms straight up and allow Stella and Petunia to lift me into the air.
    I wiggle my bare toes and feet as if in a devout fervor, which also serves the dual purpose of authenticating there are no rafts or other flotation devices set upon my feet.
    The music lowers and Le Loup starts reading the scripture.
    I am going to walk, I tell myself, and place my toes into the murky, cold water.
    ‘Whatever you do, just keep moving,’ Petunia and Stella whisper in my ears.
    ‘You keep moving,’ Le Loup had also advised. ‘You sink, no one is coming in after you…’
    I stare out at the men across the bog. They’ve got their arms spread out to me, like fathers encouraging their baby to take his first steps into their arms.
    My body jerks involuntarily at the sense memory, of once having taken those steps into somebody’s arms…
    I let go of the hands holding me and take a big step farther out into the cool musky water, and I slowly start to sink.
    ‘Walk to me, walk to me,’ I hear echoing under the praises to Jesus.
    I quickly take another wobbly step as the water climbs to my ankles. I lift my feet high and step again … and I hear the round of gasps as I start to sink and panic begins to take hold of me.
    ‘Keep moving!’ I hear from behind me.
    The gnarl of mosquitoes buzzing in my ear and the excitement in the truckers’ voices grow as the water rises to my knees.
    One of the truckers twenty-five feet in front of me squats down and spreads his arms out to me wider.
    I raise up my bare right foot and take another step.
    He nods at me and smiles warmly, as if he were willing me the raw determination to reach him.
    I follow with my left foot and to my surprise, I am buoyant. I feel a soft cloud beneath me. I take another step and I am walking. I am walking on the water. And I am heading toward him, the man wiggling his fingers at me.
    The music blasts louder as I coast across the surface of the water. Some