God Help Him
by Nathan Geeting
As the hell-hot summer blistered on, Tommy died again and again. He and Simon had started playing war in the woods behind their homes, near the pond and mosquitos. Simon always led the missions since, as he explained, it was his grandpa’s stories they were reenacting, but they used their collective imagination to fill in the details that were, apparently, “too much” for nine-year-olds.
His favorite scenario was Rescue Mission—going into all the woods with an air of authority to save his fellow man. The game was simple. Early in the morning, as the blood sun was creeping above the trees, he would run a G.I. Joe to a secluded place in the forest, tuck him neatly behind some twigs or in the crook of a tree, and dash to Tommy’s door where he’d rap on the wood until his knuckles bruised. When Tommy opened it, bouncing like a pogo stick—about as skinny—slipping his shoes on, Simon would look him in the eyes and tell him they'd lost a good soldier behind enemy lines. "Not on my watch," Tommy would say, and they’d sprint off the porch.
From Tommy’s house, they'd pass through a thin run of trees before the woods parted in a near-perfect circle around the pond. As they neared the water, Simon would slow down and open his eyes wide, their deep brown holding the reservoir’s color. He let his jaw hang a little as he looked towards Tommy and whispered, "the Rhine." It was something he had heard his grandfather say—and he’d always listened closely to his grandfather. Together they’d wade through the warm water, trek into the deeper woods where Joe was held hostage, and bring him back to the pond for evac. That’s when Tommy would die a hero's death.
It was always his idea, the dying. Simon was leery of death since his grandpa’s passing. But because Tommy never got to carry Joe, he figured that his grave would be his heroism. That’s what he told Simon, at least, though not in so many words.
It was always his idea, the dying. Simon was leery of death since his grandpa’s passing. But because Tommy never got to carry Joe, he figured that his grave would be his heroism.
He was shot in the pond the first time he died. He jerked his shoulder and let himself fall face first into the brown muck. He managed to shout, "I'm hit," before going down. Simon turned and screamed Tommy’s name in reply. The birds that were nestled around the pond shot off in streaks overhead. Simon stared for a moment, unable to move. He saw Tommy's shag black hair clawing across the dark water. When he finally shook himself free from the daze, Simon ran to his friend, stooped under his armpit, and started dragging him to shore, feet squelching the muddy bottom of the pond along the way. When they reached the land, Tommy sprawled out like starfish and whispered to Simon. "Save Joe. Bring him home."
"I can't leave you behind," Simon said.
Tommy coughed a little, his small chest breaking from the earth, his limp arms flapping against the ground. "It's too late." Then, with fading strength, Tommy turned to Simon and looked him in the eyes. "Go on without me," he said, before dropping his head and letting his eyelids fall.
Simon heard the wind in the woods, but all around him the pond was still. The sky above him was growing dark with a summer storm, clouds blotting out the sun. Simon screamed and beat the earth. Then he dragged Tommy's body to the edge of the woods and said, almost reverently, “God help him.”
As the boys replayed this scenario, day after day, Tommy's death became a ritual. Tommy died near the stillness of the pond. Simon returned home heavy-hearted. The cause of death was always different—Tommy seemed to have a knack for coming up with exotic ways to die: grenades and trip mines, bullets and booby traps—but the dying was the same.
"Go on without me."
"God help him."
***
On Sundays Simon would go to church. An only child, his clothes always fit, and his crisp white dress shirts only heightened his summer tan and accentuated the bold, sharp features of his face. He always pulled at the sleeves and untucked his shirttails from his trousers. During the service, Simon would usually ask his mother for a cough drop or notepad or pick through the pages of the hymnal, but, after his grandpa died and Tommy started dying, he started listening. Tommy’s family never went, but he was always in Simon’s mind—his salvation troubled him even more than his ceaseless death.
… after his grandpa died and Tommy started dying, he started listening.
One Sunday, as he entered the sanctuary, he saw a small baptismal pool set up in the front near the pulpit. He listened intently as his pastor spoke of Jesus’ baptism and introduced a young girl, Mary, who would “that very day become their dear sister in Christ.” At the end of the sermon, his pastor encouraged the congregation to go out into the world and “be baptizers for the Lord, empowered by the Spirit.” Then Mary and the pastor stepped into the pool.
Simon watched, captivated, as the man held her underwater. Her fingers, so small in contrast to the pastor’s, were wrapped around his forearm, ruffling the short dark hair. Simon had never noticed it before, the hair. But today, his pastor's white sleeve, normally so crisp and clipped at the end with a small golden cufflink in the shape of a cross, was rolled up in a bunch near his elbow and Simon couldn't stop staring. From his arm hair to her fingers, then to her long hair, floating up in the water, sprawling over the surface like Tommy’s did that day in the pond—Simon couldn't stop staring. He looked at the pastor's eyes, next, not on the little girl but above her. He seemed to be watching the water above her face, watching the small bubbles slip from her nose, through the tangles of her hair, and waiting for them to pop as they reached the surface. Maybe he was waiting for the Spirit to come down like a dove, like it did for Jesus. Maybe he was waiting for the light to break through and hover over the water. He seemed to be waiting a long time. After Mary had been down for what seemed to Simon like an eternity, the pastor began to talk. "Buried with Christ in death," he said, followed by another excruciating pause. How long could she hold her breath, Simon wondered. Thirty? Forty seconds? How long had it been? He stared intently at the preacher, watched his lips closely, curved with the same smile Simon’s cat kept plastered along his face. He heard the pastor's words echo in his head—"Buried with Christ in death"—and wondered if he was actually trying to kill the girl, the way his cat killed the mice that wandered into their home. "And raised to walk in newness of life," his pastor said. A crash of water stopped Simon’s thoughts. The cascade fell from Mary’s hair and shoulders and t-shirt, water rushing towards the pool from her risen body. She coughed a little as she emerged, choking but smiling and pulling her hair from her face and mouth, from her eyes.
During Sunday supper, Simon asked his parents about the baptism. His father had just loaded his fork with a mound of mashed potatoes. He took a bite as Simon spoke.
"Why did pastor Tim say that that girl was covered with Christ in death?"
"Buried with Christ," his father replied, mouth smacking. "Buried with Christ in death. The words matter."
Simon looked down at his plate, then back up towards his father, swallowing hard. He repeated his question, his voice softer. "What does it mean to be buried with Christ?"
"It means that you're killing your flesh—dying to your sinful self."
"In Sunday school they say everyone's sinful," Simon said, rolling his carrots across his plate with the prongs of his fork.
"That's right."
"Does that mean we all need to die?"
His father replied slowly and let the words hang in the air after he had spoken. "It does."
"Is that why grandpa died? Because he was a sinner?"
His mother put her fork down. She pulled the napkin from her lap and ran it through her fist until it looked like a tissue fresh from the box. She dropped it near her fork and stood for the kitchen. Simon looked to her, watched her long sun dress jerk and jump around her legs as she walked, and turned to his father, to his eyes.
“Your grandpa died because he was old, Simon. He was old, and the war finally caught up with him.”
"So he never got baptized?"
"Being baptized doesn't keep you from dying. It just saves you from true death."
Simon stared blankly at his father as he stabbed the carrot through.
His father sighed and continued. "He was baptized a long time ago, during the war. He found Christ over there."
"So he died twice?"
"What?"
"He died again, after he was baptized?"
Simon’s father smiled a half-smile as he pulled a white lump from his plate. "Sure. You could say that." He took a bite and smacked on. "Once to his flesh and once to the world, I suppose."
"Did he go to heaven when he died? The second time?"
"He did."
“And the first time? He just… came back?”
“When he was baptized? He was breathing straight out of the water.”
“Raised in a new life.”
“In newness of life.”
Did Mary die that morning? Was she new? Simon sat, puzzling out his potatoes and playing with his carrots. The table was quiet except for the soft sounds of metal tapping ceramic and his father's chewing. Eventually Simon’s mother returned carrying a bubbling cobbler. Deep reds and blues were breaking through the top layer of oats and sugar, and Simon could smell the sweet, sharp scent of berries and citrus. It was complex. She held it through mittened hands and placed it in the center of the table. As she sat down, Simon looked at her eyes and saw that they were larger than they had been, and the skin around them was puffed and red. He felt her pain, then, saw it on her face and in her hands and even in the cobbler.
"Now Simon," she said, "are you thinking about getting baptized? I could call pastor and have him come over to talk with you about it. He'd be happy to, I'm sure. He always talks with children before he baptizes them. Wants to make sure they understand what's going to happen and what it means."
“Never leave a friend behind,” grandpa had told him. He looked him dead in the eyes with the command. “No matter how scary it is, you do what it takes to save them.”
As Simon wondered how to respond, he could feel his dinner settling heavy in his stomach. He pictured his grandpa—tried to imagine what it must have been like for him to be baptized, what it must have looked like when he died that first time. Then he remembered the girl from that morning and thought back to the baptismal. He saw her small hand around the pastor's arm, the dark hair ruffled, sleeves rolled up, and he could almost hear the air bubbles popping like the crack of a gun. His grandfather had told him about gunfire in the war. Just that year, in fact, just before he died for good; he described a dark battlefield exploding with light—like the stars were balloons bursting. In the black-distance his squad mate had fallen to a bullet in the gut. “Never leave a friend behind,” grandpa had told him. He looked him dead in the eyes with the command. “No matter how scary it is, you do what it takes to save them.” It’s what his grandpa did, praying through a blaze of bullets that he could carry his friend to salvation. Simon realized that was why his grandfather never celebrated with the family on the fourth of July. He just stayed home in his chair, which was where they found him, afterwards.
Simon could still see it: his thin arms sunk into the wide leather armrests, mouth open and askew, eyes open. He was the first one in the door, excited as he was to tell grandpa about the fireworks display, excited to describe the lights and hear, once again, stories from the war. He ran around from the back of the chair and nearly stumbled at the sight. He screamed, then cried. His parents rushed in behind him as he whispered, “grandpa?” but he barely registered their presence. They were shadows alone. Mumblings started to spill forth, but the sounds were dull. Beneath the blanket of noise, through the shadows, he reached for his grandfather’s arm. Still warm. His heart pulsed in his fingertips. What if he’d just missed him? He asked himself this question through the night, through the next days, through the ceremony, which was also vivid in his mind—a dazzlingly bright affair. He squinted through his pastor’s sermon; in it, he’d said that Mr. Ferrell was a brave soldier for Christ and that he’d fought the good fight. Simon wondered then what he had meant, but he understood now. He’d faced death for his friends. He fought and killed and died, like a good soldier. He was baptized.
“Simon?” his mother asked.
“Sorry,” he replied. “I was thinking.”
“Well, are you interested?”
In his mind, Simon saw his grandfather’s casket being lowered into the earth, and he heard the words of his pastor from earlier that day: “Buried with Christ in death.” He remembered the thumping sound of the dirt being dropped onto the long black box. He wondered how many souls their pastor had preached to death; how many people had he buried for Christ? “Maybe,” Simon said.
“Just think about it, then.”
The next evening he drew himself a cold bath and stayed in the tub until the water turned lukewarm. He was dressed in jeans and a clean white undershirt—like his pastor—while around him his army men were scattered, their clothes strewn across the floor. Green and black camouflage dappled the linoleum. As he dunked the small men, one after another, he began to find an uneasy comfort in the ritual. There was pain in the act. Simon could feel that much. But war was painful. Violent. A kind of hell that you have to pass through before reaching the promised land. It’s what his grandfather experienced on the battlefield; trudging through a spray of bullets to save a soul. Or even—taking a life to save one. And it’s what Christ did, too, passed through hell to save everyone. Maybe that's what it meant to be buried with Christ. Maybe hell was the only way to heaven. The difference was that Christ carried you through baptism, through hell, like the poem said.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk with pastor Tim about baptism?” his mother asked him after he’d crawled into bed. “He can answer any questions you have.”
Simon’s fingers were pruned. They’d been shaped by the waters until even his fingerprints were changed, and he stared at them like they held an eternal truth. “I’m sure.”
***
After church the next Sunday, as Simon and Tommy were playing war and the late summer heat was drawing sweat like dew from the boys’ bodies, Tommy was shot in the gut. They were running along the thin patch that connected the woods and pond when he was hit, and Tommy tripped into a dramatic somersault before landing in a patch of dandelions. The force of the impact released a small puff of white into the air. Dirt settled around his body.
It had been a particularly tense mission, with hordes of enemy soldiers close by, and before Simon could return for Tommy, his friend was being carried away by the invisible enemy. His spindly legs kicked and squirmed in the dirt as he propelled himself along with his elbows. He screamed, "It’s been an honor," and when he was another ten feet back he added, "Go on without me."
Simon’s own gut sank like a rock, his mouth and eyes fallen with his friend. As he carried Joe away through the small run of trees, he could hear Tommy's cries. He knew that the enemy was torturing him, ripping flesh from muscle, pressuring his wounds, and all he could do was listen. In the back of his mind, his father's words played over and over. Being baptized doesn’t keep you from dying. It just saves you from true death. Then his pastor: Be baptizers for the Lord, empowered by the Spirit. He slowed slightly. From Tommy’s direction, he could hear twigs cracking like fireworks, like guns. Sun bursts broke through the green sky of leaves and flashed before his eyes. He squinted and, finally, stopped running. In the stillness of the moment, he could feel his heart beating in his neck, and he thought of his grandpa. His voice in Simon’s memory was warbling steel: anxious and urgent. Never leave a friend behind, he’d said. Simon wanted to cry, but he swallowed hard instead. Do what it takes to save them. If they’d only come home sooner, maybe he could’ve. “Do what it takes,” Simon said to himself. “Don’t be late. Don’t be afraid.” He repeated this like a mantra as he thought about his soldiers in the tub and the painful purpose in their baptisms. War was hell, but Christ carried you. Empowered by the Spirit. The words echoed in the small woods. And again: Do what it takes to save them.
Simon breathed deeply before sprinting towards Tommy, kicking up dirt and sticks behind him and leaving Joe in the dirt.
"Tommy!" he shouted, then repeated it. "Tommy!"
"Don't come here!" Tommy cried. "It's not safe."
Simon was panting now. "Tommy, get up!"
Tommy sat up on his elbows and strained his eyes at Simon as he grew closer. When Simon finally reached his friend, he rested his hands on his knees and breathed deeply.
"What's wrong?"
“You’ve got to get baptized.”
"What?"
“I can’t lose you. Not for real. Not again. You need to be saved."
Tommy just sat and scratched his head. He looked towards Simon’s feet, then back up at his friend, standing straighter now, his breathing slowing.
Simon spoke again. "We’re all dying, Tommy, but Christ can carry you through. He carried my grandpa when he was a soldier.”
"Didn't your grandpa die?" Tommy asked.
Simon’s eyes grew damp. "He didn’t die in the war. Not for real."
"I don't understand."
“He died to the flesh so that he could live forever. That’s what baptism is—a first death, a way to kill someone so when they really die they don’t die.”
“I don't get it,” Tommy repeated, jaw quivering.
“A person kills their flesh with Christ, and he raises them up. Then, when they get old and die, they're just dying to the world, not their flesh. They go on to where the flesh can't touch you. It's pre-dying, Tommy.”
“Oh come on, Tommy.” Simon was crying now—short, slim drops. “A person kills their flesh with Christ, and he raises them up. Then, when they get old and die, they're just dying to the world, not their flesh. They go on to where the flesh can't touch you. It's pre-dying, Tommy. Do you see it? That's why soldiers do it. My grandpa did it that way. He came so close to death—told me what bullets sound like whizzing by—pew pew pew." Simon made quick flashes with his fingers, the tips exploding from his palm. "And he needed some protection, so he got himself baptized. Then, when the war finally got him…” His tears slipped faster as his words slowed. “I can’t lose you for good. We need to get you baptized so you'll be safe when you die. It’s what friends do. No matter how scary.”
"Don't we need a pastor?" Tommy asked.
"There’s no time! You're out here dying every day. God wants you saved. Do you want to be saved?"
“I don’t know…” Tommy stared at the pond, saw the wind rippling its surface.
"Stand up!" Simon said as he turned towards the water. “Be brave! If I don’t save you—right now, out here—who will?” Simon ran and jumped off the short ledge into the water, breaking the surface with a splash. “I won’t be late again.”
Tommy watched, then followed Simon’s footsteps. The loose earth was soft there at the edge, and it shifted slightly under his feet. Simon waded further into the water; the pits of his shirt were dark pools, and his upper chest was riddled with watermarks like bullet holes, or tear drops. There was an excitement like fear in Simon’s eyes. It was different than the fear that bubbled up when they were playing soldiers. It was real and hot. The whites of his eyes seemed to glow in the sun, and his pupils grew deeper in the reflection of the pond.
"It'll be over before you know it," Simon said from the water. "It's hard, but it’s right."
"Does it hurt?" Tommy asked. He was picking at his pants with one arm, the other was strapped across his chest.
Simon stopped for a second, unsure. He thought back to the girl that Sunday. He saw her small hands wrapped around the pastor's arm, his dark hair ruffling, but she wasn't fighting him. Then he remembered the pastor's golden cuffs, shaped like a cross.
"No," he finally said, "not when Christ's with you."
“But how do I know he's here?”
"You’ll know when there’s no pain, not before. That’s faith."
Tommy looked down at the water as Simon’s wading waves broke against the dirt, and he stepped in. He moved towards Simon, the water reaching up to his hips, his gut, his chest. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran backward down his temple. When Tommy reached him, the air around them stilled. Not even the trees that lined the pond were moving. The earth held her breath expectantly. In the stillness they could feel the sun's heat running down their bodies, drawing the sweat from their skin, beating down. There was no sound until Tommy spoke, but even that was barely a whisper.
"It's pretty deep out here."
"It has to be."
"Will I be under long?"
"Just long enough."
"And when it's done, I'll be safe?"
"You'll be safe, Tommy. Now cross your arms."
Tommy set his arms into a crooked cross around his chest. He looked to the sky and saw a single cloud cut in front of the sun. It glowed at the edges, and through its center a small bridge of light unraveled.
Tommy set his arms into a crooked cross around his chest. He looked to the sky and saw a single cloud cut in front of the sun. It glowed at the edges, and through its center a small bridge of light unraveled. It grew wider as it fell, and it seemed to break the world into thirds: blue and gold and blue again. The end of the bridge settled on the pond, splitting its banks like the Jordan and turning the water golden red, offering a path forward.
“Are you ready?” Simon asked.
Tommy closed his eyes so tight that Simon could see the veins purpling his skin. When Simon grabbed his shoulders and shoved, Tommy tried to shout, “Wait!” but only swallowed a mouth full of water.
He was under for five seconds before he started to squirm. At the movement, Simon held his shoulders tighter, clamping down with his palms, and began to speak. "Buried with Christ in death," he said. The body of his friend was moving, still, under the murky water. He could feel his muscles tensing and flexing. He felt the ripples, too, and saw them pushing out from his body. After ten more seconds the bubbles grew bigger and began to burst. As they reached the surface, he could hear the muffled echoes of a scream. It’s only a first death, he told himself. His shoulders were heavy as he struggled to hold Tommy down amidst the thrashing. He counted, "23, 24, 25..." And as he counted, Simon felt the nails of his friend scratching at his wrists, then reaching for his sides. "31, 32..." The movement stopped. Simon could feel his muscles loosen, but his hands were still tight around Tommy's shoulders. He counted on. "37, 38, 39, 40."
When he reached the number, he let go and watched Tommy's body rise to the surface. Simon jostled his shoulders, but there was no movement. He looked up. The trees around him were quaking now. He watched the wind roll along the water and scar its face. He looked down at Tommy and pushed his hair aside. His skin was a subtle blue.
Simon could taste his heart, and his skin pimpled in the breeze. He started to cry.
"Tommy," he said slowly, then faster. "Tommy?"
Water exploded upward as Simon dropped his fists to the pond. A loud splash rang through the woods. "Tommy!"
He drew Tommy deep into his arms—cradling him—and repeated his name like a ritual, over and over, his tears a storm.
When the crying continued for longer than it should've, longer than normal, Simon’s mother went out to the pond to check on the boys. She had grown accustomed to Simon’s war cries—and Tommy’s, for that matter—but this time was different, prolonged. When she saw Tommy in the water, cradled in her son’s arms, she fell to her knees and cried for someone, anyone, to help. Simon barely recognized her on the shore. Tommy’s mother came out of her house, then, dashed through the woods, and screamed. Near delirium she rushed to the water, towards the boys, and practically fell into the pond, reaching for Tommy's small body as she went. On the bank, Simon’s mother was crying. "Oh God, oh God, oh God." The words floated towards the blue like a prayer. The cloud above them moved and the sun unfolded over the murky surface. Simon felt Tommy’s body drift weightlessly out of his arms, into his mother’s. As he passed Tommy on, Simon saw his own wrists, where he had been scratched, red and marked in the shape of a cross. Drops of blood, thinned by the pond, ran down his flesh. In front of him, Tommy’s mother mumbled something unintelligible and Simon looked up, almost choking when he saw her. Her dark hair was stuck to her face where the water had splashed, and through the split strands Simon saw the face of Mary, small and gasping. He stumbled backward, then, away from the figure and into the sun-stained water. As he fell, the pond opened its mouth, swallowing him whole and smacking shut. Droplets like spit shot from its face. In the warm darkness below, Simon felt the sting of the cross on his wrist, and he prayed silently, almost reverently: God help me.
When Nathan Geeting can pull himself away from the kitchen (where he cooks for family and friends), the dining room (where he puzzles with his wife), or the living room (where he plays with his red-headed poodle, Brûlée), he spends his time writing. His nonfiction has been featured in the Englewood Review of Books.
