Cursed Be the Child by Mort Castle

woman with a plain face, round and freckled, that became almost pretty when she smiled. Laura’s incongruously delicate hands were naturally gifted at flower arranging, and, by the end of her second day of work, Vicki had decided that Blossom Time was as much an enjoyable hobby as a financial venture for Laura. Vicki thought it possible, too, that the main reason Laura had hired her was for company in the shop and not because she needed help. Judging by this week, on a good day, business was fairly slow, and on a bad day—business wasn’t!
    When the hands of the antique Regulator clock on the wall pointed to one, Laura said, “Lunch time.”
    “Sure,” Vicki said. “Go ahead.” Ordinarily, one or the other took first lunch.
    Today Laura said, “Uh-uh, let’s both go ahead. My treat.”
    “But who’ll take care of the store?”
    “Anyone needs flowers the next hour, they can go to the forest preserve and pick their own.”
    With a laugh and a “Closed—Back Soon” sign on the door, they went to Milly’s Family Restaurant.
    The question came with the second cup of after-lunch coffee. “Where do you go to church?”
    Vicki felt herself redden, the heat moving up her throat and onto her face.
    “We don’t. Why do you ask?” she said, disliking her brusque reply.
    Laura shrugged. “For the sake of asking, I guess.” She sipped her coffee. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject, if that’s what it is.”
    Vicki smiled apologetically. “No, not really. My husband, well, Warren doesn’t go along with organized religion. I mean, he’s positively hostile toward it.” That was an understatement, she thought. Warren had declared, “Television is the opiate of choice for America’s many mindless. Church is a near second.”
    “Mark never cared about church, either,” Laura said. “Oh, it wasn’t a big deal with him one way or the other. It just wasn’t anything he thought about. Me, I grew up in church, Presbyterian. Had a gold pin for regular Sunday school attendance and everything.”
    I grew up in church, too, Vicki thought, but there was no Sunday school attendance pin. It was wrong to reward children or anyone for worshipping God as He commanded; that was the teaching of the Holiness Union Church.
    “You know how it is. When Mark and I were married,” Laura continued, “I figured if Mark didn’t want to go, okay, we wouldn’t go.” She smiled. “And I told myself I didn’t miss it or need it and that was that. Besides, there was nothing to stop me from saying a prayer anytime I chose, was there? If I was working in my garden or putting together a casserole, God would hear me just as well as if I had an organ providing a sound track.”
    Vicki liked neither this topic or the memories and feelings it was dredging up. But Laura was sharing something personal, something Laura obviously considered important, and Vicki could not try to change the subject. She nodded, encouraging Laura to go on.
    Laura glanced down. Her index finger traced her coffee cup handle. “Then when I lost Mark, it got pretty bad. Dorothy wasn’t even two then. I mean, I was honestly happy, and then, just like that there’s a drunk driver who doesn’t even know Mark or me, and Mark is dead. We were okay financially, Mark had seen to that, but, you know,” Laura’s eyes were thoughtful, “after he died that way, nothing made any sense to me.”
    Laura shrugged. “So that’s when I started going to church again. It helped. I’m not sure exactly how, but it got me through that bad time, Vicki. It was like, well, there’s a special feeling when people gather together to worship God. It’s reassuring. Maybe you have your own doubts, but when there are other people with you, and you’re all believing there’s a powerful Someone who does care about each and every one of us…” Another shrug. “But, okay, even if I didn’t understand that feeling, it was there, and somehow it kept me going