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Show in my father's house/ 203 Aunt Sarah heaved a great sigh. "It's a long story and I'm too tired to go into it. Just do as. you're told." Later I learned that my father went by 'Jim Allred' at Wolf's Crossing, so as not to be associated with the 'R.C. Allreds' in Ronan where Aunt Rachel lived with her growing family - an even dozen since the twins were born. The Saturday after our arrival, we walked down to the Flathead Lake. The day was cloudy, and the family somber as they clustered along the beach, my mother clutching her sweater about her as my father and I waded into the chilly, white-capped water. I shivered and my teeth began to chatter. I had a strong impulse to turn around, to go back to my mother. My father had spoken briefly to me about baptism that morning. "A person who has been baptized can no longer blame his failings on Mother and Daddy. He is accountable." Accountable. A word neutral and flat as an airless balloon. Did being accountable mean that I would no longer need to ask him questions? Did it mean that I would be punished for the lies I had told? If so, which lies would I be punished for - the family lies or my own, or both? Would all the lies be washed away, as I had been promised that all sins are washed clean by baptism, and would I no longer feel compelled to tell them? The clouds seemed to thicken with my spirit and I pushed more slowly through the water, my loose-fitting white trousers clinging in the front and billowing out behind. We waded out beyond the pier into chest-deep water. My father stopped and peered at the sky. I was vaguely disappointed that the sun had not shown itself, |