bowed heads. That was what I wanted:
what Peter had.
So that I almost missed her, the last to come. And not parading, no, just that leisurely gait I knew immediately, even from
behind. Were her pace faster, Daintry’s arms would swing side to side past her stomach rather than front to back as mine did,
a difference we’d noticed in our shadows one summer evening.
Her black jersey skirt was ankle length, noiseless and fluid as she made her way down the aisle. She wore a hip-length sweater,
hiding, I knew, her short waist, a torso trait she’d despaired of and despised. Daintry knew, too, that I’d have traded my
evenly proportioned but short-legged stature for those long legs of hers. Several heads turned or bent to remark to a partner,
and I sensed the parishioners’ curiosity about this person, the rector’s wife.
Coolness drifted from the rock walls, blending with the mountain scents of wood rot and stray skunk and bitter galax. She
walked down the aisle oblivious of me, just as she had before.
Religious fervor had arrived in Cullen three weeks before I would enter Wyndham Hall as a high school sophomore. Not the revival
energy that annually overtook our Bible Belt community, tented camp meetings advertised on rainbow-hued cardboard placards
in the barbershop window no different from those for stock car races or country bands. It arrived in the form of Up with People,
a roving troupe of young evangelists whose target audience was teenagers. Their medium was an evening show of patriotic and
religious anthems, a clapping, foot-stomping musical presentation held in Cullen High’s auditorium.
I knew the auditorium well, had sat there for lectures, band recitals, Tuesday assemblies when a minister from a local church
would visit to preach. Except our church, of course, mine and Daintry’s. We laughed, a united front pretending not to care.
Still, we felt hopeful every Tuesday morning on the bus and disappointed when an unfamiliar face invariably appeared at the
podium.
The huge high windows were open, and in the low-lit room Daintry and I and six other girls sat where we pleased instead of
alphabetically by class. People jostled and talked as we waited to be entertained, flipping the wooden seats up and down in
excited anticipation. Parents had dropped us off, so we were in charge of ourselves; it was night; it wasn’t school; it was
mysterious. The atmosphere in the auditorium was charged with a carnival air.
I remember it well, that peppy professional presentation, orchestrated and choreographed with quick-step dancing to rapid
tempos and the harmonizing voices of clean-cut performers. A spectacle of pure, rousing fun. But not like I remember what
happened afterward. At the conclusion a sweet-voiced soprano sang “America the Beautiful” and we waited for the houselights
to brighten and signal for applause.
Instead, the born-again choir started swaying hypnotically as they began an unfamiliar song, slow and throbbing. At the microphone,
the leader implored each person present to come forward and pledge their commitment to Jesus. Members of the chorus stepped
down from the risers and wept as they spoke of their transformation, their sins, their beliefs. The lights indeed came on,
and there was no hiding.
Daintry elbowed me. “There goes Laura Hodge,” she whispered. “God! Did you see Jimmy Stoneman
trip
when he went up the stairs?”
“Listen to Becky Yelton,” I murmured in return, giggling as a girl from Latin class tearfully whispered something into the
leader’s ear and he translated for the benefit of us sinners still in our seats. We knew this act. Wasn’t it
stupid?
Could you be
lieve
it?
But our snickering was silenced as one by one, a slow trickle from the audience became a steady stream. Classmates made their
way to the lighted stage and sobbed a personal testament into the microphone. “Jesus loves you!” the leader crooned, moaned,
what Peter had.
So that I almost missed her, the last to come. And not parading, no, just that leisurely gait I knew immediately, even from
behind. Were her pace faster, Daintry’s arms would swing side to side past her stomach rather than front to back as mine did,
a difference we’d noticed in our shadows one summer evening.
Her black jersey skirt was ankle length, noiseless and fluid as she made her way down the aisle. She wore a hip-length sweater,
hiding, I knew, her short waist, a torso trait she’d despaired of and despised. Daintry knew, too, that I’d have traded my
evenly proportioned but short-legged stature for those long legs of hers. Several heads turned or bent to remark to a partner,
and I sensed the parishioners’ curiosity about this person, the rector’s wife.
Coolness drifted from the rock walls, blending with the mountain scents of wood rot and stray skunk and bitter galax. She
walked down the aisle oblivious of me, just as she had before.
Religious fervor had arrived in Cullen three weeks before I would enter Wyndham Hall as a high school sophomore. Not the revival
energy that annually overtook our Bible Belt community, tented camp meetings advertised on rainbow-hued cardboard placards
in the barbershop window no different from those for stock car races or country bands. It arrived in the form of Up with People,
a roving troupe of young evangelists whose target audience was teenagers. Their medium was an evening show of patriotic and
religious anthems, a clapping, foot-stomping musical presentation held in Cullen High’s auditorium.
I knew the auditorium well, had sat there for lectures, band recitals, Tuesday assemblies when a minister from a local church
would visit to preach. Except our church, of course, mine and Daintry’s. We laughed, a united front pretending not to care.
Still, we felt hopeful every Tuesday morning on the bus and disappointed when an unfamiliar face invariably appeared at the
podium.
The huge high windows were open, and in the low-lit room Daintry and I and six other girls sat where we pleased instead of
alphabetically by class. People jostled and talked as we waited to be entertained, flipping the wooden seats up and down in
excited anticipation. Parents had dropped us off, so we were in charge of ourselves; it was night; it wasn’t school; it was
mysterious. The atmosphere in the auditorium was charged with a carnival air.
I remember it well, that peppy professional presentation, orchestrated and choreographed with quick-step dancing to rapid
tempos and the harmonizing voices of clean-cut performers. A spectacle of pure, rousing fun. But not like I remember what
happened afterward. At the conclusion a sweet-voiced soprano sang “America the Beautiful” and we waited for the houselights
to brighten and signal for applause.
Instead, the born-again choir started swaying hypnotically as they began an unfamiliar song, slow and throbbing. At the microphone,
the leader implored each person present to come forward and pledge their commitment to Jesus. Members of the chorus stepped
down from the risers and wept as they spoke of their transformation, their sins, their beliefs. The lights indeed came on,
and there was no hiding.
Daintry elbowed me. “There goes Laura Hodge,” she whispered. “God! Did you see Jimmy Stoneman
trip
when he went up the stairs?”
“Listen to Becky Yelton,” I murmured in return, giggling as a girl from Latin class tearfully whispered something into the
leader’s ear and he translated for the benefit of us sinners still in our seats. We knew this act. Wasn’t it
stupid?
Could you be
lieve
it?
But our snickering was silenced as one by one, a slow trickle from the audience became a steady stream. Classmates made their
way to the lighted stage and sobbed a personal testament into the microphone. “Jesus loves you!” the leader crooned, moaned,
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