women; a family of four boys poking one another, their parents turning to quiet them with a slap or whispered warning; an old woman and her husband, eyes upturned to Reverend Beck, attentive. Near the front on the left side sat a boy with short black hair, with a tall man and woman and a little girl.
As if feeling heat on the back of his neck, the boy rubbed there with his hand, and then he turned, looking up at the organ loft. His eyes went, wide. He mouthed a word, staring for a moment until the tall woman, sitting beside him, said something to him and laid her hand on his arm, gently turning him around. The boy glanced behind him again, up at the loft, but now it was empty.
Billy descended the steps and crossed the hallway to the side entrance of the church. He opened the door and went out. He stood for a moment looking at the sky; the sun was high now and it looked as though autumn would hold off for at least another day. It would be warm later, the advent of Indian summer in this late September.
He felt in his pocket where his cigarettes were and found they were missing. His matches, too. The other things he kept in there—loose change, a tiny pocketknife on the end of an empty key chain he had bought in a vending machine in a gas station washroom in Virginia—were still there.
Suddenly he was very tired. He thought of the bed he had left, the unaccustomed, soothing softness of it. He had to sleep. He knew that, before long, he would grow used to sleeping in a soft bed again, just like he would grow used to all the other things that went with staying in one place with other people. In time, he would grow used to the routine of daily living again, and his back, which had slept on the ground for these past months, would conform to the curve of a soft mattress.
At least while he was here. While he did what he had to do.
He walked back to the empty house.
11
She was back in the tent.
In the house, empty while Jacob conducted service next door, in the dark, in the bathroom with the door locked and the light off and her eyes closed, with her hands clenched and her back against the door, even with her eyes screwed so tight that tears were drawn from them with her mind screaming, Mary Beck was back in the tent.
God, tell me what to do!
She heard the sounds, and even smelled fresh-cut sawdust on the tent floor. She heard wooden folding chairs being creakingly sat upon. Coughs. The sound of spitting. Moaning and, from somewhere in the back, sobbing and the sound of a soothing voice. The sound of chant-like reading. An errant laugh, quelled. The close-by, crushing press of human flesh and spirit.
"Go on," her mother said to her.
She didn't want to go. She never wanted to. She would hide back here with her fear and they would all go away. She would be alone in a grass field, lying in the grass like that girl in the painting called Christina. She would be that girl, alone with only herself, and God somewhere way up there above the clouds, above the moon even, like He was supposed to be. He wouldn't be here next to her, in her mother, putting His hand around her heart and pulling the bottom out from her stomach, telling her what to do. She would be that girl, she would be Christina . . .
"Mary, go."
The stern voice, the stern face. God's conduit.
She opened her eyes.
"Please, Mother."
The look: the blazing deep certainty on her mother's face that stretched down to her very fingers, the nails hot, the flesh sinewy as cooked meat, the blaze of glory itself . . .
"Go."
Had her mother's face always been like that? The thin long lines, set mouth, sharp bony chin and thin-fleshed cheeks. Gray hair, always pulled back, knotted in the back with a rubber band. The thin body, the frame of a scarecrow, the look that knew what the world was and accepted no other way but her own.
No. Not always like that. The hardness had not always been there; the face and body were the same but the hardness had been added that day in
As if feeling heat on the back of his neck, the boy rubbed there with his hand, and then he turned, looking up at the organ loft. His eyes went, wide. He mouthed a word, staring for a moment until the tall woman, sitting beside him, said something to him and laid her hand on his arm, gently turning him around. The boy glanced behind him again, up at the loft, but now it was empty.
Billy descended the steps and crossed the hallway to the side entrance of the church. He opened the door and went out. He stood for a moment looking at the sky; the sun was high now and it looked as though autumn would hold off for at least another day. It would be warm later, the advent of Indian summer in this late September.
He felt in his pocket where his cigarettes were and found they were missing. His matches, too. The other things he kept in there—loose change, a tiny pocketknife on the end of an empty key chain he had bought in a vending machine in a gas station washroom in Virginia—were still there.
Suddenly he was very tired. He thought of the bed he had left, the unaccustomed, soothing softness of it. He had to sleep. He knew that, before long, he would grow used to sleeping in a soft bed again, just like he would grow used to all the other things that went with staying in one place with other people. In time, he would grow used to the routine of daily living again, and his back, which had slept on the ground for these past months, would conform to the curve of a soft mattress.
At least while he was here. While he did what he had to do.
He walked back to the empty house.
11
She was back in the tent.
In the house, empty while Jacob conducted service next door, in the dark, in the bathroom with the door locked and the light off and her eyes closed, with her hands clenched and her back against the door, even with her eyes screwed so tight that tears were drawn from them with her mind screaming, Mary Beck was back in the tent.
God, tell me what to do!
She heard the sounds, and even smelled fresh-cut sawdust on the tent floor. She heard wooden folding chairs being creakingly sat upon. Coughs. The sound of spitting. Moaning and, from somewhere in the back, sobbing and the sound of a soothing voice. The sound of chant-like reading. An errant laugh, quelled. The close-by, crushing press of human flesh and spirit.
"Go on," her mother said to her.
She didn't want to go. She never wanted to. She would hide back here with her fear and they would all go away. She would be alone in a grass field, lying in the grass like that girl in the painting called Christina. She would be that girl, alone with only herself, and God somewhere way up there above the clouds, above the moon even, like He was supposed to be. He wouldn't be here next to her, in her mother, putting His hand around her heart and pulling the bottom out from her stomach, telling her what to do. She would be that girl, she would be Christina . . .
"Mary, go."
The stern voice, the stern face. God's conduit.
She opened her eyes.
"Please, Mother."
The look: the blazing deep certainty on her mother's face that stretched down to her very fingers, the nails hot, the flesh sinewy as cooked meat, the blaze of glory itself . . .
"Go."
Had her mother's face always been like that? The thin long lines, set mouth, sharp bony chin and thin-fleshed cheeks. Gray hair, always pulled back, knotted in the back with a rubber band. The thin body, the frame of a scarecrow, the look that knew what the world was and accepted no other way but her own.
No. Not always like that. The hardness had not always been there; the face and body were the same but the hardness had been added that day in
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