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It took one or two hours for Grandpa to make the descent into the valley, and that meant four of us were out in the cold that long just to keep him company. The fifth, Fanny, was snug inside the church long before we got there, hidden in some dark cubbyhole, enjoying forbidden adult delights. Tom hunted her up immediately, smacked the boy she was with, dragged Fanny away, made her straighten her skirt, and we all arrived late, as usual the last to enter, and were the objects of the all-over scrutiny that told us again we were the worst of the hill folks, the scummiest of the scum, the Casteels.
But to go to that small white church with the high steeple gave us hope. It was born in us to believe, to have faith, to trust.
As arduous as these Sunday excursions were for all of us, going to church gave us not only pleasure but much to talk about during our long lonely times. To sit in the back pew and look around and see all the prettily dressed people, to feel just a small part of the human race for a few hours, helped us to endure the tortures of the rest of the week.
I tried to avoid Miss Deale, who didn't always come to church, but this particular day she was there, turning to smile at us with relief in her pretty eyes, welcoming us with her gestures to sit next to her. Sharing the hymnbook with me, in glorious
celebration of life Miss Deale raised her beautiful voice and sang. Our Jane lifted her small face and gazed at Miss Deale with such rapt adoration it made tears come to my eyes. "How ya do that?" she whispered once we were seated and Reverend Wise was at the podium.
"We'll discuss singing after church," whispered Miss Deale, leaning to lift Our Jane and hold her on her lap. From time to time I'd see her gazing down at Our Jane, touching her silky hair, tracing a delicate finger over Our Jane's sweet cheek.
To stand and hold the hymnbooks and sing was the best part of all. The worst came when we had to sit still and listen to all those frightening sermons about deeds that were so sinful. Christmas was just around the corner, inspiring Reverend Wayland Wise to be his most fervent, which meant his fire-and-brimstone sermons that gave me nightmares as bad as being in hell.
"Which one of you hasn't sinned? RISE UP and let us stare in awe, in admiration--and disbelief! We are ALL sinners! Born from sin! Born through sin! Born into sin! And we will DIE in sin!"
Sin was all around us, inside us, lurking in the corners, in the dark side of our natures, sure to catch us.
"GIVE AND YE SHALL BE SAVED!" yelled Reverend Wise, pounding his fist on the podium and making it shake. "Give and ye shall be delivered from Satan's arms! Give to the poor, the needy, the beset and bereft . . . and from the river of your gold all goodness shall flow back into your own lives. GIVE, GIVE, GIVE!"
We had a little change that Tom had earned doing odd jobs for valley wives, but it sure was gonna hurt giving up any of it in hopes of that river of gold flowing uphill to us.
Sitting on Miss Deale's lap, Our Jane coughed, sneezed, needing someone to help her blow her nose, to go to the bathroom. "I'll do that," I whispered, leading her out to where she could again be held in thrall by the pretty ladies' room with its row of pure white basins, its liquid soaps, its paper hand towels. She entered a tiny compartment where she could sit and not smell "bad" odors, and then had the pleasure of flushing the toilet. A real compulsion she had to keep dropping in paper so she could watch it go down, flushing and flushing. When we returned, I refused to let her sit on Miss Deale again and wrinkle that pretty suit. Our Jane complained her feet hurt in shoes that were too small, and it was too cold in here, and why did that man up there yell and take so long to finish talking? And when did we stand to sing again? Our Jane loved to sing, though she couldn't carry a tune.
"Sssh," I cautioned, lifting my sweetest little one up on my lap. "It will soon be over, and we'll sing again, and then we can have ice cream in the store."
For an ice-cream cone Our Jane would have walked on red-hot coals.
"Who's gonna pay for it?" Tom whispered worriedly. "We can't let Miss Deale do it again. And we won't have any cash left if we drop our change into t'collection plate."
"Don't drop it in. Just pretend you do. We're the poor, the needy, the beset and bereft--and rivers don't flow upward, do they?"
Tom reluctantly agreed, though he would have been willing to gamble on God's generosity. We did have to keep what money we had left to buy Keith and Our Jane their ice cream, if nothing else. At least we could do that for them.
The collection plate was passed down our aisle. "I'll pay for all of us," whispered Miss Deale when Tom reached into his pocket. "You keep what you have for yourselves"--and darn if she didn't drop in two whole dollars!
"Now," I whispered when the last hymn was over and Miss Deale was standing and collecting her purse, pulling on her fine leather gloves, picking up her personal hymnbook and Bible, "head fast for the door, and don't hesitate for anything!"
Our Jane resisted, dragging her feet. Quickly I swept her up, and she let out a howl. "ICE CREAM! Hey-lee, ICE CREAM!" And that gave Miss Deale the chance to catch up with us as we slipped by Reverend Wise and his grim wife.
"Stop, wait a minute!" called Miss Deale, hurrying after us, her high heels clicking on the slippery pavement.
"It's no use, Tom," I whispered as he tried to support Grandpa and keep him from falling. "Let's make up good excuses so she won't fall and break a leg."
"Oh, thank goodness," gasped Miss Deale when we turned to wait for her. "What do you mean hurrying off when you know I promised Our Jane and Keith ice cream? Don't the rest of you still like treats?"
"We'll always adore ice cream!" Fanny declared fervently, as Our Jane stretched her arms toward her ice-cream godmother. Like a burr Our Jane clung to our teacher.
"Now let's all go
where it's warm, and sit and relax, have some fun." Miss Deale turned and led the way back toward Stonewall's Pharmacy, with Keith skipping along, din: g to her free hand, and Fanny was almost as childish-acting as Keith and Our Jane . . . and just a few minutes ago she'd been ready to seduce some pimply-faced valley boy if he'd give her a quarter.
"And how is your father?" called back Miss Deale, turning into the drugstore. "I haven't seen him lately."
"He'll come home one day," I said in a forbidding way, hoping and praying she'd never hear about his disease.
"And your mother, Sarah, why didn't she come today?"
"She's home, not feeling so well, just resting." "Tom told me you've been ill; you look fine, though much thinner."
