Chapter 1 #2
He doesn't name anyone. He doesn't have to. The congregation has been given a story about something happening that requires their concern, and they've been told that their concern is righteous.
My mother takes my hand at one point and doesn't let go.
She doesn't know what's happening. She knows that something is happening.
My mother’s lived in this town for forty-one years, and she knows what a sermon sounds like when it's being aimed.
I sing the closing hymn from memory because my eyes won't focus on the page.
In the fellowship hall, I stand at the coffee station and pour myself sweet tea I don't want to drink.
Beverly Daughtry crosses the room toward me.
I watch her cross, and there's nowhere for me to go.
Her dress is yellow, her smile gentle and practiced.
She places her hand on the small of my back when she reaches me, the way women do when they want everyone watching to see them being close to you.
"Sophie, sweetheart." Her voice is low and warm. "Is everything all right at home? I've just been so worried about you."
I make myself meet her eyes. "Everything's fine, Mrs. Daughtry. Is there something specific you're worried about?"
She tilts her head. Her smile makes room for sorrow.
"Oh, honey. I just want you to know you can talk to me. About anything. The Lord knows we all stumble."
I keep my eyes on hers. I don't flinch, and I don't ask the question that would make her say what she came to say.
"Thank you, Mrs. Daughtry. I appreciate the offer."
She gives me a small sad nod that says she's done what she could, and then she gives my back two pats and walks away.
I look across the room for my father. He's in conversation with another deacon and doesn't see me.
My mother is talking to Beverly's husband, who's asking her about her tomato plants.
I find a wall to stand against and drink sweet tea I don't want.
Something is going on, and for once, I don’t think it’s about my sister.
Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out eventually.
After church, we eat at my parents' house at one.
My mother has made roast, corn pudding, and biscuits. My sister, Hannah, is here.
She drove down from Tallahassee for the weekend, and she's thinner than the last time I saw her.
Her hands have a small tremor that's sometimes the meds and sometimes the disease beneath them. I don’t know when I started doing it, but it’s always something I watch for.
My father says grace.
We talk about church, weather, and the new flag at the post office.
Hannah tells me about a book she's reading.
My mother is quieter than usual, my father louder than usual. He's filling a silence he can feel but can't name.
I almost ask him.
I sit at his table, and look at his face, and feel the question right there on the back of my tongue.
I don't ask it because I don't know what the question is, and I don't want my father to be the one who tells me what the deacons have been saying about me.
After lunch, Hannah and I do the dishes side by side. She bumps my shoulder with hers. "You're quiet today."
"Long week."
"Anything I should know about?"
I think about everything this week.
Caleb being removed from my classroom, Lizzie Sue's hand on my forearm, Patricia in the dairy aisle, and Reverend Hardin behind the pulpit. Even Beverly with her hand on the small of my back.
"Nothing yet," I say and squeeze the dish soap onto a plate.
By the time I get back to my house, it’s completely dark outside.
I let Hoagie out into the yard, pour a glass of wine, and pull on the soft jeans and the Fleetwood Mac shirt that lives at the bottom of my dresser.
I take the wine, a sweater, and a lighter out to the firepit at the back of the yard.
The kindling catches on the second try.
I sit in the Adirondack chair my father built me when I moved in, and I drink my wine.
I watch the small fire come up. The katydids are loud, and the pines are doing their evening shift in the breeze.
Hoagie collapses across my feet, and I try to pray.
I sit with my eyes closed, open them, and I look at the flames.
I feel a hand against the back of my own head, and I don't know if it's the Lord, or my mind, and honestly I don't know which I'd prefer.
I'm about to close my eyes again when I hear the motorcycle.
It comes up the gravel drive of the rental on the other side of the line of pines.
The engine is deep, low, and unhurried.
It rolls to a stop, the kickstand drops with a small metal click, and the engine cuts.
The porch light snaps on at the rental.
I can't see through the pines, but I can see the lit square of a kitchen window between two trunks.
A tall silhouette passes across it.
Slow, unhurried, the kind of body that doesn't need to move fast for anything.
The curtain falls.
Somebody's home over there.
I watch the dark window for longer than I mean to. Hoagie lifts his head and looks at me.
"Don't look at me like that," I tell him.
He puts his head back down.
The fire crackles, the katydids keep on, and I finish my wine.
I put the fire out with the watering can I keep beside the chair, and head inside.
The second I’m inside, I change into some comfortable pajamas and slip into bed with Hoagie.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark for a long time.
There's something in my chest that's small and watchful, and it's been there since I walked into my classroom on Tuesday morning.
I've been telling myself, for six days, that someone is going around slandering my name.
That it's the combination of Caleb being removed from class, Lizzie Sue, Patricia at the grocery store, Reverend Hardin in the pulpit, and Beverly earlier in the fellowship hall.
I know now, in the dark, that it's not only that.
Something is happening, and sooner or later, it’ll come to light.