Carnival of Atonement

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It was the second Friday in December, and the Carnival of Atonement would begin in less than two hours. A growing mass of dark clouds began to make their way across Cochise County and encircled the town like an ominous, churning wreath. The vibrant lights on the fifty-foot Ferris wheel, the intoxicating calliope music of the merry-go-round, the rushing swoosh of the Tilt-A-Whirl, and the tantalizing smells from the funnel cake and pizza stands were set in contrast against the foreboding ceiling of clouds. The scene was disjointed and rang out like a dissonant chord.

Every year when the carnival came to Atonement it brought with it the richest ironies and clashing emotions, mixing the unbridled enjoyment of the citizens with the harshness of its true purpose. To the citizens who counted down the days to the carnival, it brought raw excitement. To those who would have to atone, the carnival brought with it an incredible sense of dread.

Atonement was a small, unincorporated town of 2,900 people (according to the last census) 80 miles southeast of Tucson, Arizona. People traveling on I-10 in southern Arizona would likely miss it. An exit off Route 191 that reads, "Wilcox Dry Lake Annex", is the only paved access to Atonement, and unless a person was really trying to find it, they would continue east to New Mexico or south to Mexico. The citizens of the town preferred it that way. Visitors are not welcome in Atonement because of the harsh standards they place upon themselves. There is no police department. Even the Cochise County police stay away from the unincorporated town. A small family diner, a gas station, hardware store, and an IGA were the only commerce to be found. There was of course the Atonement Church of God on the very north edge of town. That was the source of all that was just in the small town that most never knew existed.

The middle-aged pastor of the church was a purveyor of fire and brimstone who shook the rafters every Sunday when he delivered his sermon. Revered Clayton Henry was the grandson of the original pastor who founded the Atonement Church of God in 1899. Reverend Clayton had a wild mane of red hair that flowed in curling locks to his shoulders. He was married to his childhood sweetheart, Suzanna, and they had twin teenage sons, John and Peter. Both boys were looking to follow in the Henry family tradition and become preachers themselves.

Reverend Clayton usually wore a wide-brimmed black parson hat, black jacket, neatly-pressed white dress shirt, bolo tie, black slacks, and highly-shined black shoes. No matter how hot it got in Atonement, the reverend was in the same dress he wore on Sunday, every other day of the week. His sparkling hazel eyes and measured tone was captivating to the townsfolk. When the reverend spoke, it was as if they were speaking directly to God.

Since the 1800's with his grandfather, Revered Jonathan Henry, the Atonement Church of God had established a council of three men who were respectable members of the town. When a citizen was found to have done something wrong, they would appear before the council in the meeting room in the back of the church, where judgement would be made and their atonement assigned. The council handled minor infractions that were easily fixed. Last week Ben Shipley was made to pay $250 and three chickens to his neighbor, Diego Sanchez, for accidently damaging his fence when doing some work on his property.

When it came to matters that were beyond minor infractions, Atonement had a truly democratic style of discipline. The citizens would gather at the downtown square and cast paper ballots to vote and decide the fate of the accused. Each person 18 or older was given a ballot to pick guilty or innocent. If the citizen felt the accused was guilty, they would vote for which punishment was a proper atonement. It wasn't often that this was necessary, as the citizens of Atonement were there because they wanted to be. The fear of having to face the wrath of your fellow citizens and the fire and brimstone of Reverend Clayton, was enough to keep most on the straight and narrow. This obedience was ingrained in them from birth, now three generations in perpetuity. They might discuss among themselves that the arcane way of things was stifling progress, but deep down they craved the structure and security that the rules gave their lives. Frankly, they wouldn't know what to do without the rules.