Through a Glass, Darkly

by Charlotte Miller

  The children started a chorus of “Silent Night,” one of the angels almost shouting the words, making Elise smile as she watched the mother, sitting a few rows away, at first grin proudly, then squirm noticeably as the loud singing continued—then another sound overlaid the singing, the sound of giggles and stomping feet as someone ascended the stairs, coming up from the basement into the sanctuary at one side of the pulpit.

  Iona Walsh and Abby Poole were giggling as they reached the top of the stairs, but were quickly shushed by a third girl, Cassandra Price, as the three made their way to sit on a pew in the little side wing of the sanctuary. Elise saw Abby’s eyes move over the congregation, coming at last to rest on Sissy, Tim, and Wheeler James. Abby placed one hand over her mouth, as if to stifle another giggle, which brought Cassandra Price’s elbow back into what appeared to be sharp contact with her ribs as if again trying to make her be quiet.

  Unease moved through Elise. Over the past months that Sissy had been attending church with her, she had watched Helene Price’s only daughter at first ignore the girl, then growingly become jealous as Tim Cauthen’s attention moved from Cassandra to Sissy. Elise had seen the whispered words Cassandra had exchanged with other girls in the church during the first weeks, and she had known immediately what was being said; after all, it was not that long ago that she herself had been fourteen, and she knew very well what girls that age could be like. She could also remember her own reaction to Sissy when they first met—Janson had told her that most people considered Sissy to be “simple.” At first that knowledge made Elise uncomfortable around the girl, for she had never been around anyone who was thought to be slow—but, as she had gotten to know Sissy, what she had begun to see instead was a goodness within her that was so complete there seemed no room left for anything else. It was true she could not read or write, but, then again, Janson could do little better, a fact that Elise herself had only learned back in Georgia at the cost of his pride in the first months she had known him.

  Sissy had been raised by her grandparents, and had spent almost her entire life in their home in the country, her father having died shortly after her birth and her mother not long after her second birthday. Deborah Sanders was so protective of her that it had taken a great deal of pleading on Sissy’s part just to be allowed to spend one night in the village, and it had taken the combined efforts of Sissy and her grandfather, and Janson as well, to convince Deborah that she should be allowed to move in with them. Sissy had started attending the village school, and had made friends with several girls, especially with Lynette Pierce, who lived at the far end of their street. Boys her age and older had immediately taken notice of her, for she was undeniably lovely, with long blond hair in curls down her back and a figure already developing well for fourteen. Tim and Wheeler James both spent time with her at church—but that was what had changed Cassandra’s disinterest into obvious jealousy.

  Elise watched Cassandra now where she sat in the side pew, watched her as she pushed her pale, bobbed hair back from her forehead and then settled a stare on Sissy that did not waver.

  Once the play ended, the congregation moved downstairs to the Christmas tree that had been set up in the church basement. Elise took a cup of punch from a table the WMU ladies had set up in a corner, then went to sit down on one of the chairs lined against the far wall. She bounced Henry lightly on her lap, watching the six-month-old’s eyes go to the colorful mound of presents piled beneath the tree. She knew at least one of those would be for him, and one for herself as well, for the Sunday school classes had drawn names weeks before to make certain no one would be left out when gifts were exchanged.

  One of the two outside doors into the basement opened and Santa Claus came in wearing a thread-bare red suit and a beard made from cotton, “ho-ho’s” coming from the tangled mass of white across his lower face as he made his way toward the tree. Elise smiled, recognizing him as one of the deacons, the only man in the church who could fill the suit with a minimal amount of padding.

  Dorrie came to sit beside Elise. Sissy was sitting not far distant, Tim on her one side and Wheeler James on the other, both boys having gradually moved their chairs out and turned them inward so they could better see the girl as as they talked.

  “Lord, but one ’a them’s gonna be hurtin’ when she chooses between ’em,” Dorrie said. “Tim’s a good boy, but I’m pullin’ for Wheeler James; that boy ’a mine ain’t been able t’ see straight since he first laid eyes on her.”

  Elise laughed, watching the exaggerated hand motions Tim made as he talked, and the disappointment that came to Wheeler James’s face as Sissy’s attention focused for the moment on Tim—maybe it was a good thing that Janson slept on Sunday morning and never would come with her to church on Sunday evenings. Elise might enjoy watching the two boys vie for Sissy’s attention, but Janson was almost as protective of Sissy as his grandmother. He had told Elise that he did not trust Tim or Wheeler James either one, saying that he knew what “fellas that age” were after, as though he were an old man instead of seven months past his twenty-first birthday.

  Dorrie took Henry onto her lap as Elise unwrapped the present for him that had been brought to her by Viola Ann Pierce, the little girl helping Santa to hand out presents. The gift went into his mouth the moment she handed it to him, and she sighed—everything seemed to go into his mouth, whether it was meant to go there or not. She kept listening for her own name, and was surprised when she heard Sissy’s name called for a second time, then turned to watch Viola Ann hand Sissy another gift, this one more ornately wrapped than the first, which had turned out to be a hairbrush from the girl who had drawn her name in their Sunday school class.

  Sissy looked first at Tim and then at Wheeler James, but both boys only shook their heads and looked at each other. She then turned her eyes toward Elise, but Elise shook her head, having no idea who might have brought the gift. She watched Sissy untie the bow and pull the ribbon aside to lay it across her lap, then unfasten the tape and fold the paper back to reveal a box inside. The girl put her thumb under the edge of the lid, a smile on her face as she glanced up at the two boys—but that smile was quickly replaced by surprised disgust. She threw the box down, causing something to fall out of it, Elise realizing that it was animal feces—

  Wheeler James quickly gathered up the box, scooping its contents from the floor, and took it out the side entrance, his father, Clarence, following close behind. Tim was bent over Sissy, patting her hand, the girl’s cheeks now scarlet with embarrassment. There was a nervous tittering in the room, hushed words, and some much louder—and, above it all, Elise heard the unmistakable sound of laughter. She looked quickly toward the rear entrance just before the door closed on Cassandra, Abby, and Iona, all doubled over with laughter.

  The preacher was standing in the middle of the room now, sputtering and indignant, his face red. Elise rose and made her way past him and toward that rear door, wanting to strangle the persons who had done this.

  The girls were laughing so hard they did not notice the door opening or Elise standing there. The Walsh girl and Abby Poole leaned against each other as Cassandra Price gave a mock gasp and brought both hands out in an exaggerated imitation of Sissy throwing the box down. Cassandra was laughing so hard she could barely stand, but her words were unmistakable: “Oh, it was worth every minute of picking up that dog shit.”

  Elise started forward, but suddenly Tim Cauthen was there and then past her, and the girls saw him a moment before they saw Elise, all trace of amusement leaving their faces in an instant as they realized that he had seen and heard everything.

  “You—how could you do something like that!”

  “We didn’t do anything,” Abby tried, but fell silent as Tim turned on her, his fists clenched, and the girl looked afraid that he would actually strike her.

  “I heard you—if you didn’t do it yourself, you knew about it and didn’t put a stop to it!”
/>   “It was only a joke,” Cassandra said, looking more angry than afraid as she glared at him.

  “You rotten little brats!” Elise heard her own words and was surprised at their vehemence, but proud of the look of surprise they drew from Abby and Iona. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, every one of you—and you just wait until I tell your parents. You just wait—”

  She was surprised to see Cassandra Price start to smile.

  If only Elise Sanders had talked to her mother, Cassandra told herself days later, then everything would have been all right. Instead, Janson Sanders had talked to her father at the mill, earning Cassandra Price the first whipping she had gotten in years. Cassandra had known that she could handle her mother, for Helene Price would never believe a word anyone else said over what her daughter might say—but her father could be a different matter altogether. Usually Bert Price gave in to his wife’s every whim, but even Helene could not save her this time—it had been only a small whipping, a few licks with his belt, but it had been enough to make Cassandra hate the entire Sanders family.

  She did not think they should be attending the Baptist church in the village anyway, for Janson Sanders was not white; he was half Cherokee Indian. He should be attending one of the colored churches on the other side of town, his wife, their part-Indian brat, and his dim-witted cousin with him, and the fact that he hardly ever attended church with his family did nothing to alter Cassandra’s opinion.

  Cassandra expressed that opinion to her mother—after all, her mother was one of the leading members of the church, a long-standing member of the choir, and the wife of a deacon. Helene should be able to see to it that the Sanders family attended church where they should—but Cassandra made the mistake of expressing that opinion before her father, and got another whipping for it. She would never forgive the Sanders—never.

  And it was Sissy Sanders she hated most of all. Not only had Sissy been the cause of the whippings Cassandra had gotten, when she was fourteen years old now and rightfully should be beyond such things, but she had also cost Cassandra the attention of Tim Cauthen. Tim was one of the best-looking boys in the mill village, and he had been interested in Cassandra until Sissy had started attending church with her half-breed cousin’s wife and their baby—and now Tim would not pay Cassandra any attention at all. Cassandra, Abby, and Iona had only been having fun at Christmas—and Sissy deserved it in the first place for being so vulnerable and so dumb. Sissy was too pretty, and too simple to know it—and best of all, she was so innocent it was easy. It had been nothing but fun.

  But now Tim had become the self-appointed protector of that dim-witted girl. He sat with her in church, and even during lunch break at school when no one but fat Lynette Pierce would sit with her. He could have chosen any friends in the church or school, yet he chose to spend his time with Sissy Sanders—she should not be going to school with normal people anyway, Cassandra told herself, for the girl could not even read or write.

  It was a chilly day in late February when Cassandra reached the point where she could take no more. There had been months of seeing Tim with that pretty little halfwit, when he would speak to Cassandra only enough not to appear rude. She had tried to behave as if it did not bother her, as if she had not lost out to a girl so poorly equipped to compete with her, but, on that day, walking home from school with Abby and Iona, with Tim and Sissy just within sight ahead of them, it was impossible to conceal her feelings. She glared at their backs as they walked, filled with anger and jealousy as she saw Tim take Sissy’s books to carry with his own—surely he did not really like that dimwit, Cassandra told herself. There had to be some other reason he paid so much attention to her, why he would prefer her company over—

  “You’re gonna stare a hole through them,” Iona said, breaking into her thoughts, and Cassandra turned to see a smile play across her face. Iona stood a head taller than she did, with long, gangly legs and breasts that were already developing well when Cassandra’s chest was still as flat as a ten-year-old’s. “You’re absolutely green—”

  “I am not,” she snapped, angry that her feelings showed so clearly on her face.

  “You are, too. You’re jealous and it shows.” There was a twangy, nasal tone to Iona’s voice that reminded Cassandra of the Northern peddler who had come through the village a few months back. That tone grated on Cassandra’s ears, today even more than usual.

  “Everybody knows you’ve been stuck on Tim since he moved here.” Abby was grinning openly in her face. She tossed her short, dark hair, obviously liking for once that she had the upper hand—she would never have dared to tease Cassandra if Iona had not started it.

  “I am not.”

  “And he’s sweet on Sissy now.” Iona stared pointedly at the two walking ahead as Sissy stopped to pet a puppy that had run out from a yard they were passing. Tim stopped and watched her, bending to pet the puppy as well, and again Cassandra wondered—

  “She’s got him wrapped tight around her little finger. They’ll probably even end up getting married—Tim and Sissy Cauthen,” Abby laughed, making Cassandra writhe all the more within.

  She glared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge that she had even heard the taunts, much less that they had struck a nerve. She watched as Tim and Sissy began to walk again, the puppy now yapping at their heels. The sunlight played on Sissy’s long blonde curls—she had no right to be so pretty and still so dimwitted, Cassandra told herself. She had no right to thick blonde hair when Cassandra’s was so thin, pale, and lifeless. She had no right to a pretty smile and blue eyes to hide a mind as dumb as an ox, and no right to breasts that made her look like a woman already when Cassandra was still as shapeless as a child. The longer Cassandra stared at her, the more she hated her, and the more she hated her the more she swore that she would fix her.

  “Everybody knows how sweet you were on Tim, and that he’d rather be with Sissy now than with—”

  “You know why he spends so much time with her, don’t you—she’s so dumb she’d let a boy do anything—” Cassandra said, continuing to stare straight ahead as she enjoyed the silence that followed her statement, then—

  “You mean she—” Abby began, then fell silent as she turned to stare at the two ahead.

  “Of course, just look at her.”

  “You think Tim would—”

  “What else would he want with somebody like her?”

  “She’s slow,” Iona said, “but I don’t think she would—”

  “I saw it myself.” There—so easily said, and Cassandra felt a moment of triumph at their joint gasps of surprise.

  “Tim and Sissy—?”

  “Really—?”

  Cassandra nodded, but did not turn to look at either of them—there, that’ll fix her, she thought, although she resisted the urge to smile.

  The first time she told the lie it had been on a whim, but the second time it was done deliberately. It worked so well with her friends—if her mother thought Sissy was trashy, then Helene might be able to stop her from coming back to the church again, her and that entire family of hers. She watched her mother’s crimson face as she finished the story that same afternoon, celebrating inwardly as she saw the look of shock turn into righteous indignation—oh, yes, that’ll fix her, Cassandra thought.

  The rumors spread like wildfire. Within a week, almost every female member of Pearlman Street Baptist “knew” that Sissy Sanders was fast and loose. Her lack of morals became the primary topic of discussion on porches and over afternoon visiting from house to house the village over. Ladies said that in “their day” a girl who was “not quite right” would have been kept home and away from other people, so that no one would ever even have known that she existed. A few even said that Janson Sanders was “not quite right” either, and that “mixed blood never resulted in anything good.” Several said Sissy should be “fixed” before she could get into trouble and find her
self in the family way, and that the world certainly did not need any more “dimwitted people.” Quite a number said she should not be living in the village, and they looked at their husbands and sons with distrust, because as the rumors spread first one, and then another, was being named as having been seen with her.

  Bert Price was aghast that his wife should mention such a subject to Reverend Satterwhite, the preacher, but he was unable to stop her. Helene told the preacher that Sissy Sanders should be barred from attending services, and her entire family with her—after all, Janson Sanders was Holiness, and Elise, though supposedly baptized a Baptist years before, never really fit in at their church in the village. She was just as Holiness as her husband, Helene claimed, and Pearlman Street Baptist did not need any “Holy Rollers” in the congregation. Elise’s child was not white, and neither was her husband—and Janson Sanders smelled, Helene claimed, though she had only seen him once, and then at a distance. She told the preacher that “such people” should attend the “colored churches” on the other side of town, because that was where “such people” belonged—and she also thought, though she would never dare speak of it in public, that Janson Sanders should not be working in the mill right alongside white people, that the Easons should never have hired him to do anything more than scrub toilets or wash windows with the very few black men the mill hired. She would not dare to say that outside her own home, and then only within the hearing of her own husband and daughter, for she knew they would never speak a word of it. After all they were not the sort of people who would ever spread gossip, and it was not the sort of thing one could do openly, to second-guess the Eason family.

  The poor Reverend Satterwhite could do nothing but listen and nod, for he knew he could not ask the girl or her family not to attend the church on the basis of rumor and patent dislike. He had heard enough backbiting out of Helene Price in the little more than a year he had been in the village; he well knew the woman could be set off by any little thing. He also knew that whatever she heard she would quickly spread through all the other women of the church.