Page 13 of People Like Us

While the majority of the regular crowd was made up of dark complexions draped in pastel clothing, Holy Trinity Baptist had only three white families in its congregation.

Mine, the Sinleys.

The Spires family— Andy, his prodigal father:Pastor Spires, and his elegant mother: Catherine.

And then there was the O’Kinzys, though depending on who was gossiping, they were Irish first and white second.

Amy O’Kinzy was already in her pew, compact and delicate in a floral blouse and leggings, hands folded like she was waiting to be buried. Beside her sat Shannon, a boy two grades below me who suffered the misfortune of having a girl’s name and the face of a boy perpetually recovering from one. Apparently Shannon was common in Ireland. So was famine. That didn’t make it appealing.

His older brother never came to church. Rumor said their father had left when the boys were young. Rumor also said the eldest O’kinzy boy sold weed behind the abandoned factory by the power plant and once gave himself a tattoo with a sewing needle. In Woodland, both rumors counted as tragedy.

Sometimes Shannon brought a redheaded girl with him to service. Cousin, girlfriend, hostage—I never knew. But the eight of us were the only consistent pale faces in the congregation.

Adults greeted each other in the aisle before service, voices lifting and overlapping. Women in pastel dresses and structured hats; men in pressed shirts; children scrubbed shiny and restless. Handshakes, hugs, testimonies disguised as small talk.

My father cornered Smiley. Everyone called him Smiley, though I doubted that had ever been the name on his birth certificate. He owned The Grill, our tiny convenience store-slash-short-order kitchen in town. You could buy cigarettes, white bread, motor oil, and a fried bologna sandwich all under one roof.

“Jeff Sinley,” Smiley boomed, gripping my father’s hand. “You still pretending to be young?”

“Trying every day,” my father said.

Smiley laughed, deep and rich as engine noise.

I stood beside them smiling politely, the expression fixed so long my cheeks ached, until Andy finally found me.

He moved through people the way some men moved through water—naturally buoyed by it. Tall, broad, golden haired in that all-American way that looked engineered in a lab. His tie loosened just enough to imply his lingering youth.

“Morning, sir,” he said to my father, extending his hand. My father beamed as if Andy himself were an accomplishment.

“Andy, son. Hell of a game Friday.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Smiley clapped him on the shoulder. “Boy caught that pass like the Lord guided it.”

Andy laughed modestly. “I think our quarterback deserves more credit than divine intervention.” Even his humility had posture. He rested one hand lightly between my shoulder blades, warm against the exposed skin there.

He would make a wonderful doctor someday. Everyone said so because he was handsome, disciplined, and good at apologizing when necessary. Next year he was headed to college to study sports medicine.

“My daughter married a doctor. A preacher’s son.” I could feel the brag ripening within my father as time went on.

We took our seats in a pew with bubbling varnish. At the front stood Pastor Spires behind a wooden podium. His beige sweater was threadbare at the cuffs, elbows thinning to near transparency. A humble little garment. A costume.

Mrs. Spires had inherited money from her father, who’d invented something boring and lucrative. The family lived comfortably, played golf in Charlotte, vacationed in places people here mispronounced. Pastor Spires donated his church salary back into the community, which everyone treated like sainthood instead of accounting theater.

My father praised it constantly. I thought it was suspicious anytime generosity required an audience.

No one questioned Pastor Spires. Not when he thundered about sin. Not when he wept over the poor. Not when Andy came in some Sundays with a split lip or bruising under one eye and claimed football practice had gotten rough.

I knew the look of a hit that came from indoors, even when Andy used to make excuses for it with me. He stopped doing that last year when he sprained his wrist in the off season. I had been on my period and told him I wasn’t really in the mood to be lied to. After that, when Andy showed up to school or church with a new bruise, he didn’t bother giving me an excuse, and I didn’t ask him for one. We both knew the truth.

I think his father knew I knew it too, cause sometimes he’d look at me like he wanted to drown me, and just couldn’t figure out how to get away with it yet. The feeling was mutual.

Pastor Spires opened his Bible, clearing his throat. “James 1:15,” he said the place starter softly, not a command but a forewarning. We all sat up straight, chins raised in obedience. Pages fluttered like trapped birds.

He began preaching on temptation. The devil at the door! The flesh at war with the spirit! The danger of appetites! I stopped listening almost immediately.

Around me, the congregation answered in bursts.