After dinner, Fan and Jean direct me upstairs. It’s time to light incense and pray for protection from the ghosts, they tell me. As we approach the top of the stairs, a red light reflects on the floor and the walls of the second story. They lead me around the corner and up to an altar covered with figures of gods and goddesses all covered in a red light that glows from behind a huge statue of Buddha. He sits in the middle of the altar, his eyes peacefully closed with his right hand raised as if ready to send a blessing out to whomever comes near. Fan reaches for a box of incense and pulls out three sticks, one for each of us to burn. Jean teaches me to hold the incense between my palms, clasped together in the same position I was taught to hold my hands when praying in Sunday school. I watch as their mouths begin moving, uttering prayers too quietly for me to hear. Their bodies bend repeatedly before the altar, and I’m relieved to see their eyes closed, not watching to see if I follow.

As the fiery glow makes its way slowly down my piece of incense, my brain swims with Scripture. “I am the Lord your God,” the first commandment echoes in my head in my parent’s voices. “You shall have no other gods before me.”

My incense stick is about to burn out, the red ember nearing my hands. I close my eyes and bow, leaning into the sandalwood scented smoke. Soon, Fan and Jean move to place their sticks in an incense bowl on the altar. I set mine upright beside theirs. We watch the glow of the embers fade out in succession.

 

Jean takes something off the altar and puts it in my hand.

“For protection and good luck,” she says. I look down and see that she’s given me a tiny green version of the glowing Buddha on the altar.

“Hold while you walk back home. The ghosts won’t find you,” Fan says.

“Thank you,” I say rubbing my thumb against the hand-carved jade figurine.

I hold on to the Buddha as I walk down the stairs to leave, thank Mr. and Mrs. Tan for dinner again, and put my flip-flops back on. Once outside, more scared to be alone in the dark than I expected, I run home, gripping the Buddha tightly, and slam the door behind me.

The slam startles my parents. They turn away from the TV to look at me, and Mama asks me if I’m okay.
“Yeah, sorry,” I play it off. “I didn’t mean to slam it.”

“What’s in your hand?” Mama asks. She never misses a detail.

I try to make up a quick lie, but nothing comes to mind. “Just a little gift from Fan and Jean,” I say.

“Oh! What did they give you?” Mama says.

“Come here and show us,” Dad says.

I walk over, holding my breath for their response. I know Dad won’t like it, and Mama will probably say something about how beautiful the stone is in a somehow disapproving way. I open my hand to reveal the pocket-sized Buddha. They’re both silent for some time. Then, without saying anything, Dad gets off the couch and walks to the storage closet near the front door. He pulls down his toolbox from the top shelf, opens it, and grabs a hammer.

“Come to the table,” he says. Mama sits paralyzed on the couch.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“I said come.”

I walk over to the dining room table, the same one that’s been in every house we’ve lived in, and wait.

“Sadie, you know the Bible. Do you remember what Ephesians 6:12 says?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “‘For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.’ I cannot allow the powers of the enemy to reside in our home. We have to destroy that idol right now.”

“Dad, it’s just a piece of–“

“Put it on the table.”

“I won’t let you do it.” I say, my voice and body starting to shake with anger.

“Okay, then you will.”

He hands me the hammer and stands beside me. My arm drops with the transference of its weight. I clench the Buddha fiercely before putting it on the table. Dad starts praying out loud, demanding darkness to leave, declaring Jesus as Lord of the household. I want to sprint upstairs, but I know if I do, he’ll make me come back. I hold the hammer with both hands and slam it down hard on the Buddha’s head. Chunks of jade and green dust shoot in all directions. A crack, caused by the hammer’s blow, runs down the middle of the dining room table and splits the surface between us.

 

Sara Grace Salley recently graduated with a BFA in Creative and Professional Writing from Converse College and now lives in Portland, OR. Her fiction explores the themes of home, transience, and outsiderhood, often drawing from her childhood experiences growing up overseas. She has been published in Concept Literary Magazine, Lowcountry Journal, and Spartanburg Herald Journal.