“What might one say about Milton Grone?” he asked rhetorically, though the question merely stirred up another round of whispers. “Was he a giving man? Was he filled with compassion? Was he well-loved?”
A smattering of coughs erupted, and Helen was afraid someone might shout out, “Hardly!” But no one did, and the coughing finally stopped.
“No, my friends,” Earnest Fister said, shaking his head and clutching at the edge of the pulpit. “Milton Grone was none of those things. Yet above all, above everything he might have appeared to be, he was a human being with faults and foibles just like the rest of us. He was one of God’s children, as deserving of our Good Lord’s saving grace as you and me.”
As the pastor droned on, Helen kept an eye on Shotsie, who lifted her trembling chin and stared hard at the pastor, clearly affected by his words.
Helen turned her focus to the minister as well, taking in the bearded face, cheeks flushed with passion, his eyes as fiery as she’d ever seen them. Beyond him hung an enormous wooden cross, the shape seeming to mimic his own form as he lifted his arms, his robe falling gracefully from each limb, his head and neck as straight as a shaft.
The whine of the organ cranking up sounded not unlike a mournful cry as a subdued Madeline Fister set her feet again to pumping, her fingers poised above the yellowed keys, waiting for the right moment to start up.
The girl hadn’t donned her uniform of tight skirt and navel-baring shirt this morning, Helen noticed. Indeed, Maddy was dressed demurely in a plain navy shift. Her dark hair wasn’t sticking up from her head as though she’d stuck her finger in a socket. Instead, it had been pulled away from her face with a headband. Without an inch of makeup, she appeared younger than her seventeen years and less world-weary, fragile even.
Helen knew the girl had been through a lot in her young life, losing her mother and being raised by a single father, a minister to boot.
Helen wondered how Earnest had managed to keep Maddy under control, what with her penchant for dressing like a hooker. But then, Helen had seen enough TV to know that girls these days sorely lacked for decent role models. It was no wonder, she decided, that so many of them were acting out and having sex before they’d acquired their driver’s license.
“Amen,” Fister said, his voice a deep rumble, and Helen shook away her thoughts, making an effort to pay attention.
The pastor signaled to Madeline, who pumped her feet faster, her fingers tiptoeing their way through “Nearer My God to Thee.”
It was the same tune the band had played when the Titanic was sinking, Helen mused with some irony as she picked up her hymnal to sing along with the others.
When the hymn had reached its final chorus, Fister came down from the pulpit and walked up to Shotsie, taking her hands.
“Bless you, my dear,” he told her, his bearded countenance so solemn. “Someday you’ll see that what’s happened was for the best. Let God take care of him now.”
“Sure, he can take care of him,” Shotsie said, and her voice shook. Her eyes were fixed on the coffin, her fingers clutching nervously at her purse.
She looked like she wanted desperately to escape, Helen thought.
But Shotsie would have to wait a while longer to do so, as she was soon surrounded by a swarm of townsfolk, whispering words meant to comfort and patting her back.
Helen eased away from the huddle, making her way through the pews to the aisle on the chapel’s far side.
That’s when she noticed that Madeline Fister had risen from the organ bench to take a hesitant step across the dais toward the casket. One foot moved forward and then the other. Her hands brushed at her wrinkled dress then laced together at her belly.
“Be brave, Shotsie . . . If you need anything, please call . . . It will get easier, I promise . . . Time heals all wounds, you know . . .”
Helen listened to the singsong
A smattering of coughs erupted, and Helen was afraid someone might shout out, “Hardly!” But no one did, and the coughing finally stopped.
“No, my friends,” Earnest Fister said, shaking his head and clutching at the edge of the pulpit. “Milton Grone was none of those things. Yet above all, above everything he might have appeared to be, he was a human being with faults and foibles just like the rest of us. He was one of God’s children, as deserving of our Good Lord’s saving grace as you and me.”
As the pastor droned on, Helen kept an eye on Shotsie, who lifted her trembling chin and stared hard at the pastor, clearly affected by his words.
Helen turned her focus to the minister as well, taking in the bearded face, cheeks flushed with passion, his eyes as fiery as she’d ever seen them. Beyond him hung an enormous wooden cross, the shape seeming to mimic his own form as he lifted his arms, his robe falling gracefully from each limb, his head and neck as straight as a shaft.
The whine of the organ cranking up sounded not unlike a mournful cry as a subdued Madeline Fister set her feet again to pumping, her fingers poised above the yellowed keys, waiting for the right moment to start up.
The girl hadn’t donned her uniform of tight skirt and navel-baring shirt this morning, Helen noticed. Indeed, Maddy was dressed demurely in a plain navy shift. Her dark hair wasn’t sticking up from her head as though she’d stuck her finger in a socket. Instead, it had been pulled away from her face with a headband. Without an inch of makeup, she appeared younger than her seventeen years and less world-weary, fragile even.
Helen knew the girl had been through a lot in her young life, losing her mother and being raised by a single father, a minister to boot.
Helen wondered how Earnest had managed to keep Maddy under control, what with her penchant for dressing like a hooker. But then, Helen had seen enough TV to know that girls these days sorely lacked for decent role models. It was no wonder, she decided, that so many of them were acting out and having sex before they’d acquired their driver’s license.
“Amen,” Fister said, his voice a deep rumble, and Helen shook away her thoughts, making an effort to pay attention.
The pastor signaled to Madeline, who pumped her feet faster, her fingers tiptoeing their way through “Nearer My God to Thee.”
It was the same tune the band had played when the Titanic was sinking, Helen mused with some irony as she picked up her hymnal to sing along with the others.
When the hymn had reached its final chorus, Fister came down from the pulpit and walked up to Shotsie, taking her hands.
“Bless you, my dear,” he told her, his bearded countenance so solemn. “Someday you’ll see that what’s happened was for the best. Let God take care of him now.”
“Sure, he can take care of him,” Shotsie said, and her voice shook. Her eyes were fixed on the coffin, her fingers clutching nervously at her purse.
She looked like she wanted desperately to escape, Helen thought.
But Shotsie would have to wait a while longer to do so, as she was soon surrounded by a swarm of townsfolk, whispering words meant to comfort and patting her back.
Helen eased away from the huddle, making her way through the pews to the aisle on the chapel’s far side.
That’s when she noticed that Madeline Fister had risen from the organ bench to take a hesitant step across the dais toward the casket. One foot moved forward and then the other. Her hands brushed at her wrinkled dress then laced together at her belly.
“Be brave, Shotsie . . . If you need anything, please call . . . It will get easier, I promise . . . Time heals all wounds, you know . . .”
Helen listened to the singsong
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