Copyright 1993(c)
                   The First Assembly of God 
                    by Jacqueline M. Jones  
 
     "Dad, I'll flip you for it." 
     "You nuts? You've never lost a flip in your life." 
     Peter looked with longing at the last piece of chocolate cake.
"C'mon, Dad. I'll flip you anyway. If I lose, I'll wash the 
car." 
     Peter Winston, Sr. fetched a coin. "I have no idea why I'm 
doing this," he said, and tossed it. "Call it." 
     "Heads" 
     "Heads it is. I knew it. One of these days, you and I are 
going to Atlantic City."  He was more than half serious. "We'll 
make a fortune." 
     Peter, Jr., dug into the cake. He wasn't at all surprised at 
the results of the coin toss. The law of averages was always on 
his side. 
     "Peter, for heaven's sake. Cake for breakfast? If you 
don't hurry up, you'll miss the bus. Get a move on." Mom 
sounded cross today -- seemed to happen a lot lately. Peter 
finished the cake, taking his time but watching his mother 
slamming around the kitchen. 
     "Peter! Move, damn it, the bus was due five minutes 
ago," she snapped. Peter moved. He was ten minutes late now, 
but unconcerned. As he expected, his friends were still waiting 
when he got there. 
     "Bus is late," said Sandy, his best friend. "Boy, are you 
lucky. Did you finish your Science project?" 
     "Nope," replied Peter. "I'm not sure what it's going to be 
yet." 
     "I'll bet you get it. It's due today. Mrs. Anderson said no 
excuses." Sandy grinned. Peter always got away with stuff 
Sandy would never think of trying. 
     At school, a substitute teacher was replacing Mrs. 
Anderson. No one knew when she would return or why she was 
out. The substitute didn't ask for homework assignments. She 
told them to hold all assignments until Mrs. Anderson's return. 
The day was a piece of cake, in Peter's opinion. In Sandy's 
opinion, Mrs. Anderson wouldn't return until Peter's project was 
ready. 
     Peter's mother was waiting for him when he walked 
through the door. "What's this?" she demanded, holding a 
package out to Peter. "UPS delivered it this morning. What did 
you order? How do you expect to pay for it?" A box, wrapped 
in brown paper, was addressed to Peter. Peter took it, puzzled, 
and tore off the paper. Inside the wrappings, the box had the 
words "The First Assembly of God" printed in block letters on 
the top. 
     "I don't know what it is," he said. "I didn't order 
anything. It looks like it's from the church down the street." 
Peter passed a church of the same name every day. 
     "Well, somebody did, and it wasn't me," snapped Mom. 
"Let me see the invoice." 
     Peter checked, looking inside the box. "I don't see one, 
Mom. Maybe they'll bill me for it later. Anyway, I didn't order 
it. Honest." 
     Mom's frown seemed a permanent adornment. She set her 
lips in a tight line and walked away from Peter, saying "I'm not 
going to pay for it," over her shoulder. 
     Peter took the box with him into his bedroom. Mom would 
probably forget about it. She had other interests -- like the 
bottles under the sink that she thought Peter didn't notice. 
     He tossed the box on his bed and wandered over to his
computer. He knew he wouldn't be disturbed for a while. He 
flipped the switch and watched the machine come alive. There 
would be time for him to read his mail, post a few replies, and 
maybe even play a few games before Mom started yawping 
about homework and chores. 
     Peter had been addicted to bulletin boards ever since he 
received a computer and a modem for Christmas. While he was 
at school, his computer robotically called other computers, 
gathered up his electronic mail, and had it all waiting for him. 
     He read his mail without having to tie up the phone line. That
made Mom real mad. On the boards, he was a different person. 
He had friends all over the country; in fact, all over the world.
Most of them had no idea Peter was only twelve. He had no 
intention of disillusioning them. He settled in happily for an 
hour or two of peaceful chatting. 
     A banging on his door pulled him from the monitor screen. 
"Peter!" his mother called. "Turn that damn thing off and come 
to dinner. You'd better have your homework done, young man. 
If not, you're sitting at the table until it's done. I don't care
if it takes all night." 
     Peter noticed the slight slur in her words. With a deep 
breath, he turned off his computer, and took the short journey 
into a world he just plain hated. 
     Dinner was as bad as usual, the food cooked to mush, the 
tension making it taste like bile. Dad refused to look at Mom, 
answering her in monosyllables. Her agitation rose rapidly until
she jumped up from the table and removed Peter's plate. 
     "You're finished. You're finished when I say you're finished,
and I say you're finished now." 
     "But, Mom, --" 
     "Stop arguing. Just stop it! Do your homework," she 
snapped. "Do it now!" She stormed into the kitchen where 
Peter could hear dishes clanking as she scraped his unfinished 
meal into the sink and ran the disposal. Dad looked at him, 
shrugged, went into the living room, and turned on the television. 
     For the next hour, Peter obediently did his homework, 
though he paid little attention to it. Mom was muttering in the
kitchen. He heard ice cubes clink against glass, and the gurgle of
liquid being poured. His eyes were blurry. He knew it wasn't from
tears, couldn't be. He probably needed new glasses. At 
last, he closed his books and said goodnight. No one answered 
him. 
     Still hungry, Peter flopped on his bed with a sigh. The box,
forgotten until now, nudged at his ribs. Curious, he lifted the
lid and took a better look. Maybe there was something to eat. He 
was surprised at the contents -- a sprig of fern, the feather of
a bird, a twig -- strange things. There was also a frame at the 
bottom of the box, a sort of empty shadow box. Peter supposed 
he was to place the various articles from the box inside the 
frame, artistically. He pushed it away. Right now, he wasn't 
feeling too artistic. 
     He undressed and put on his pajamas, rebelling against 
brushing his teeth. There was no way he was leaving the safety 
of his bedroom tonight, not with the argument raging in the 
living room. If they saw him, he would become a part of it -- not
tonight, no way. He turned out his light, climbed into bed, and
shut his eyes. He listened. The sound of angry voices, some- 
times rising to shouts, would go on for hours. 
     Peter woke with a start. He had no idea when he fell 
asleep, but there was silence. He pushed back his blankets, 
slipped from his room. It was dark, quiet. Relieved, Peter went to
the kitchen, made himself a peanut butter sandwich, and took 
it back to his bedroom. He didn't dare bother with a light. 
     As he returned to his room, he noticed a dim glow coming 
from the corner. Had he left his computer on?  Doubtful, but he
better check. Peter walked toward the glow, then realized it 
wasn't coming from his computer. It came from the box he'd 
tossed off his bed. The box was outlined on the floor by a soft,
blue-white light. The words on the cover, "The First Assembly of
God," stood out, almost rose away from the top of the box. Curious,
Peter lifted it onto the bed. He hadn't noticed a light inside; he
must have missed it. When he removed the cover, the glow
disappeared. Peter pulled his flashlight from under the pillow. 
     The contents of the box took on a magic. Gently, Peter pulled
the shadowbox frame from the bottom and placed it on his desk. He
rummaged for a moment, chose the twig and inserted it into a 
slot. It fit nicely. Peter smiled with pride. He could go back to
sleep now. 
     As he settled in bed, the image of another slot next to the
twig came into his mind. Sleepily, Peter wondered what he 
should put in there. 
     In the morning, the first thing Peter noticed was the 
shadowbox on his desk, next to his forgotten sandwich. He 
tossed the sandwich into the wastebasket and looked at the 
frame. Yes, he needed to find something to fit in the slot. A 
vague memory of a dream reminded him of the tree on the front 
lawn, the one he and his Dad had planted last spring. The poor 
thing never had done very well; in fact, you could say it was 
dead. Dad mentioned digging it up once in a while, but kept 
putting it off. Dad was good at putting things off. Peter decided
to add a branch from the tree to his shadowbox. 
     Breakfast was quiet. Mom was still asleep and Dad didn't 
want to talk. Peter hurried through his cereal, grabbed his 
books and ran out the door. On his way to the bus stop, he 
paused to look at the tree. Dead, all right. He snapped a small
branch off and put it in his pocket. 
    "Sandy!" he shouted. "I decided on my science project. 
It's going to be a sort of nature thing, I think. I started it last
night."  For the rest of the day, Peter planned his shadowbox. He
knew it would turn out well. Besides, Mrs. Anderson showed 
no sign of coming back. She would be gone for just as long as 
Peter needed. His luck was always with him. 
     When he got back home, his Mom grabbed him by the arm. 
"Not today, young man," she said. Her eyes were red-rimmed 
and teary. "You have chores. Then, your homework will be 
done before dinner. No computer until everything is done, do 
you hear me? And no excuses, either!" Mom pushed him 
toward the garage. "Cut the lawn. Now." 
     An age later, Peter finished the lawn. As he worked, he 
examined the tree. Dead. In fact, the lawn looked pretty bad, 
too. Patches of dirt showed in several areas. What little green
there was seemed to be mostly weeds. At least, Mom wasn't insisting
he pull the weeds. 
     He could hardly stay awake through dinner, another 
silent, uncomfortable meal. Mom and Dad weren't speaking. At 
least, Mom forgot about his homework and let him go to bed as 
soon as he was finished. He heard their argument begin as soon 
as his bedroom door closed behind him. 
     As tired as he was, Peter almost forgot about the twig in 
his pocket. It fell out as he tossed his pants into the hamper,
reminding him of his idea to add it to the shadowbox. Just as he
thought, it fit nicely beside the twig from the kit. He hesitated,
then added the fern from the contents of the box. Satisfied, 
Peter went to bed and was instantly asleep. He never woke until
morning. 
     "Petey! Get a look at this!" woke him from a sound sleep. 
His Dad sounded excited as he pushed open Peter's door. 
"Hurry up, come in here and see. I went out to get the paper 
this morning, and there it was! Good Lord, it reminds me of a 
fairy tale!" 
     Peter jolted awake at the sound of his old nickname. Dad 
hadn't called him Petey since he was about five. Rubbing the 
sleep from his eyes, he joined his father. 
     Dad was standing at the window, nearly jumping with 
excitement. "Look, Petey!" he said. "Did you ever see anything like
it? Good Lord, I keep looking for Jack, even though I know it's
not a beanstalk." He flapped his hands at the window, 
encouraging Peter to look. 
     In the middle of the lawn was the tallest, fullest, most 
fruit-laden apple tree Peter had ever seen. It stood exactly 
where the little dead tree had stood. Peter stared, then ran 
outside to check the ground around the tree. It had to be a joke.
Someone dug up the dead tree and planted this one. That's the 
only thing that could have happened. 
     He stood before the trunk and looked at the ground. An 
enormous root system traveled through the dirt, a root system 
that had to have taken years to form. The grass grew, 
undisturbed, around the tree. Years, yes. The tree had been 
there for years. Confused, Peter returned to the house. 
     His mother was awake, her mouth open as she stared at 
the tree. His father giggled like a child at Christmas. Peter 
walked past them and back to his bedroom. The shadowbox 
drew him. 
     Peter lifted it from the desk; he nearly dropped it when he
saw what had happened. Where two dead twigs had been was 
now a picture of an apple tree. It was a part of the frame, 
carved and painted into the wood. Peter touched it -- it felt 
warm. Beneath the tree was the sprig of fern he placed there 
last night; beside it was another slot. 
     Peter ran outside and pulled a hunk of grass from the 
lawn. He stuck it in the new slot, pushed the box away from 
him, and dressed for school. Breakfast was out of the question.
His stomach felt locked. He was certain it wouldn't let even 
water get in. His parents were too awed by the tree to notice as
he left for school. 
     The day passed slowly, leaving Peter absent-minded and 
forgetful. He couldn't wait to see the tree again, couldn't wait
to see if anything happened to the lawn. He ran home from the bus
stop, ignoring the shouts from Sandy. He'd talk to Sandy 
tomorrow. 
     The tree was still magnificent, though the lawn looked 
about the same. Peter peered closer; nothing different there, 
except a blue jay feather. Peter picked it up. Maybe the 
shadowbox had nothing to do with the tree, after all. It was still
going to be his science project, and he thought the feather would 
be a nice touch. He scooted into his room before his mother 
could catch him and checked the box. He thought he 
remembered a feather included in the contents. Peter snatched 
it out of the box and added it to the frame with the feather from 
the front lawn. It was strange, how the two new slots just 
seemed to appear. He must not have noticed them before. 
     Mom didn't nag at him at all. Both she and Dad were 
quiet, so Peter made himself a peanut butter sandwich and took 
it to his room. For the rest of the evening he answered his mail 
and played Solitaire. When he felt sleepy, he went to say good-
night to his parents. They were in bed, leaving the house dark 
and silent. The lock clicked shut in Peter's stomach. 
     He was up before dawn, with the memory of yet another 
dream. His desk glowed, a light shining from the shadowbox. He 
had felt peaceful in the dream, secure. Peter crept from his 
room as silently as he could and slipped out the front door. 
     He stepped into a jungle. As Peter stared, the sun began to
rise, shining through the fronds of the tallest ferns he had ever
seen. A sweet smell drifted around him. Peter touched the petal of
a rose as big as a melon, its softness rivaling the feathers in
his down pillow. He giggled. 
     Stepping carefully so he wouldn't crush a flower, Peter 
moved into the jungle. The apple tree stood tall and stately in
the center. He noticed the birdsong all around him and the 
flashes of color as they flew. Birds, dozens of them, all kinds
and colors and full of song, flew around him. A parrot sat on 
one of the apple tree's limbs; a peacock spread its tail beside the
trunk. 
     "Oh, my God..." whispered Peter, Sr. from the doorway. 
His wife headed for the kitchen where she pulled a bottle of 
vodka from beneath the sink. She started to pour it into a glass,
then simply raised it to her mouth and drank. 
     And the sun rose on the most glorious garden the world 
had seen since time began. 
     A short while later, the family sat at the dining room 
table, staring out the picture window. Mom had added tomato 
juice to her vodka. Dad avoided looking at her. 
     He had made his own exploration of the jungle. "From the 
street, all you can see is a big hedge. It's full of thorns and
about eight feet high right now. I watched it. It's growing about
an inch every minute or so. It's filling in pretty fast, too. I
was almost stuck when I pushed my way back in. I figure, about now,
no one can get in here and we can't get out." Dad paused, 
then looked at Peter. 
     "Petey, I don't know why, but I think you know what's 
going on here. In fact, I think you had something to do with it.
How 'bout filling me in? Like, now!" 
     Peter balked for a moment, then decided to show them the 
shadowbox. He ran to his room to fetch it, explaining over his 
shoulder as he went. 
     "... and the last thing I put in it was a feather and a bunch
of grass... ." he finished, as he returned with the frame in his 
hands. He held it out to his father. 
     The shadowbox had changed, the scene within reflecting 
the garden. It was all carved in bas-relief and colored with 
marvelous shades and hues. His feathers and grass were gone, 
replaced by ferns and plants and glorious birds. 
     Peter grinned. "See, Dad? Like it says, The First 
Assembly of God." 
     Peter, Sr. stared, mouth agape. "How did you do this?" he 
asked. As Peter explained, he turned the frame in his hands. "I
don't see any more slots in here. It looks like it's all filled
up." 
     "I think I've used all of the stuff that came with it. Where
do you think it came from, Dad?" 
     "I have no idea, but I can think of a few things we can do 
with it. First, I need to find the hedge trimmers and see if I can
cut us a way out of here. No. First, I think I want to try this."
With a grin, he dropped a dollar bill into the shadowbox frame. 
     "Gee, Dad. I don't think that's a good idea," said Peter. 
"All of the other stuff was alive, you know? Money is dead." 
His father hushed him and returned the frame to its place on 
Peter's desk. 
     "You say it only works at night while we're asleep, huh?" 
Dad asked. "Well, it looks like we'll be busy today, anyway. 
Just leave it be and see what happens." Peter was frowning as 
he followed his father back to the dining room. 
     The top half of Mom was sprawled on the table, unconscious,
her hand still wound around the empty vodka bottle. 
"Damn," said Peter's father. He grabbed her under her arms 
and dragged her to the couch. As he did, the bottle slipped from
her hand and broke; her leg was nicked by a piece of glass. Mom
whimpered. Peter grabbed a paper napkin and blotted her 
ankle. 
     "Never mind, she's ok," snapped his father. "I want you 
to stay in your room today, understand? I have work to do. 
Don't be underfoot. And I don't want you wandering around out 
there. Who knows what's out there, anyway." 
     Obediently, Peter returned to his room. He still clutched 
the napkin, smeared with his mother's blood. Thoughtfully, he 
plucked a bit of the stained paper and inserted it behind the 
dollar bill. At least it was from something alive. 
     The day passed slowly. A vine or something had tangled 
in the wires to the house. There was no electricity, no phone, no 
computer mail. Dad hacked his way through the hedge, which 
was pretty easy. It was coming back inside that was hard. The 
hedge grew faster once you were on the outside. It was there to
keep people out, not to keep them in. Mom woke long enough to 
get sick and find another bottle of vodka. Dad left her on the 
couch. 
     When night came, Peter had no trouble falling asleep. 
With his windows open, he could smell the  flowers. The breeze 
stroked his head like a loving mother. He slept. 
     At some point, he woke to see a faint light around the box.
He went to it and saw a small key inside. The key fit nicely in a
slot that appeared as he watched. Smiling, Peter went back to
sleep. 
     He woke to see his father standing at the foot of his bed. 
"Peter. Get up," his father said in a dull  voice. "I was wrong."
      Following his father, Peter was aware of the silence. 
"Dad?" he asked. "What's the matter?" Peter, Sr., only 
gestured at the window. 
     As Peter stared, his father began, "I should have known 
the touch of money would kill it. I should have known. I see it
every day, all around me. Look, Petey!  Just look at what I've 
done." 
     The wonderful jungle was gone. All of the plants, including
the tree, were dead. No birds were to be seen. Peter stared. 
     From the kitchen came a ticking sound. "Breakfast, 
darlings!  Hurry, now, before it gets cold!" cooed a sugary voice.
His mother held a heaping platter of pancakes, dripping with 
butter and syrup. She wore an apron over a high-necked dress 
of flowered fabric. Her hair was tied in twin tails, framing her
face in a riot of curls and ribbons. Her eyes glittered, reflecting
the light but seeing nothing. Mom smiled, her cheeks plumped out
and red with circles of rouge. As she set the plates on the table,
her body clicked. She paused, then with a jerk, bent from the
waist. Mom stood, her head tilted, grinning up at Peter and his
father. They listened to the ticking as it slowed, then stopped.
She didn't move. 
     Peter ran to the shadowbox on his desk. He stared at the 
black interior, its depths seeming to go on forever. Nothing was
there except a tiny piece of paper and a small key. Behind the 
key flashed the words 
     BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED. 
                               END