by Amy Sorrells
James wasn’t sure what he expected, just something a little more than the facts. They could have mentioned that the church had been the site of celebration for so many births and deaths and marriages, that it was built in 1857 by some of the original settlers of the town, and that it was the very first church building to be erected in Sycamore. They could have written about the floors, trim work, and pews, hand-hewn by a local carpenter who’d cut down ancient oaks from his own land to make them.
From her other work, James knew Shaw was a shrewd woman and no doubt wanted the story for the front page no matter how she had to get it, with or without fluff. He also knew there would be no feature article to come later. To her credit, she’d written the same way about the other six area churches that had closed in the last five years in the tri-county area, so it was an unbiased story. He could argue that few of those had the long-established history of Sycamore Community Church, but then again, a lack of history would not have lessened the pain of those congregations.
James slugged down the last of his grounds-laden coffee and flipped the newspaper to the sports section, which featured a story of two local football players—Cade Canady not one of them—being recruited by Indiana University and the University of Illinois. Hank would have something to say about why neither was looking at Purdue. A cross-country runner signed with Indiana State. The high school had big plans for this year’s homecoming festivities. An editorial lamented the recent pay-to-play sports decision of the school district, and the threat of increased property taxes. Again.
Shelby, black curls sticking out all over, yawned as she padded into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator halfheartedly, then rummaged through a cupboard. “Don’t we have any Pop-Tarts left?”
James pulled the front section of the newspaper over the top of an empty silver wrapper that had held the last of the Pop-Tarts, which he’d eaten. “Add them to the grocery list?”
Shelby groaned, shoved a couple pieces of bread into the toaster, and slunk into the chair next to him. She straightened when she saw the front-page headline. “So now everyone knows.”
“Yep.”
“So we have three more services?”
“Yep. I thought George Kernodle would let us go till the end of the year, but he’s done giving us breaks. The building goes to auction—”
“Monday, September 5.” She pushed the paper back toward him and tucked her rumpled hair behind her ears. “What are we gonna do? I mean, what about my senior year?”
“You can finish your senior year here. The house is paid for thanks to the in-laws . . . thanks to your grandparents. And I’ll find whatever work I have to do, to keep you from having to leave. Who knows, I may join you at the Tractor Supply.”
She frowned and toyed with a strand of her hair, twisting a piece around her finger. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Me too.” James felt tears prick his eyes.
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. Not for him. Not for Molly. Certainly not for Shelby. He’d done the best he knew how with her, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible for the way she hunched herself against the world as if bracing herself constantly for another tragedy. She’d been strong-willed long before the accident. He often wondered whether her most recent rebellious streak was the typical stance of a self-conscious teenage girl or the result of Molly’s absence. Or was it the result of his ministry, which often left him preoccupied and unintentionally unavailable to her? There were undoubtedly a thousand ways he should or could father her better, but he hardly knew where to start. He hoped and prayed that his love—that God’s love for her—would be enough, though he knew full well neither had been enough to sustain the church.
He tried to change the subject. “Working today?”
“Yeah. I gotta go pick up Eustace in a few.”
“How’s he been doing?”
“He’s holding his own at the store. Does a fine job stocking. People come to expect him there now, so he doesn’t bother anybody.”
“Nice of Brock to give him the opportunity. Say, I saw Noble last night. He was playing at the Purple Onion.”
“Yeah?”
It might’ve been his imagination, but he thought he noticed her face redden. “What ever happened between you two?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Noble. You used to be pretty close, didn’t you? Before . . . Well, anyway, I know the boy-girl thing can get awkward sometimes, but he’s such a nice kid. Hard worker.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She didn’t look at James and instead focused on the newspaper. “Guess we’re both busy, is all.”
“By the way, thank you for being home at a decent hour last night. I appreciate that.” She’d been home by ten thirty, early for a change. He’d been watching the news when she came in, and she’d hurried past him and said good night before he could ask her about her evening.
Shelby didn’t reply as she grabbed her toast from the toaster.
“What sort of plans does Cade have for next year? Has he heard from any colleges about football?”
“I don’t know. It’s still early, I think.”
“Look, Shelby, I know I’m not any good at this dating thing. I just want you to be safe.”
“You’ve said that before. I’m fine.” She kept her back to him as she stood at the counter and slathered chocolate hazelnut spread over the toast.
“I’m glad to hear that.” James paused, trying to find the least controversial way to say more. “It’s just that . . . well . . . whoever you choose to date should treat you with respect.”
She nibbled the crust off the toast before eating the middle.
“And I know I’m a guy, but if you have questions about physical boundaries—”
Shelby jerked her head toward him. “Dad!”
“Okay, okay. But if you want or need to talk about stuff like that, I’m not embarrassed. And I won’t get mad.”
“Cade’s not like his father, you know. He’s nice.” She glared at him now.
“His father . . . yes, well . . .” He felt himself losing whatever composure he had. “I guess I don’t know that. Especially since he hasn’t even bothered to come to the door once to shake my hand or meet me or walk you to the car. I don’t know a thing about him except that he drives that truck and gets an occasional write-up in the paper about a football game or traffic ticket. That, and what I hear about him in town.”
“What’d you hear about him? Talk in town’s gossip anyway, and you know what the Bible says about gossip. ‘A gossip goes around telling secrets, so don’t hang around with chatterers.’ Proverbs 20:19, right?” She threw the rest of her toast and the butter knife hard in the sink and started out of the room. “Besides, I told you, he’s shy.”
“‘A wise child accepts a parent’s discipline. . . .’ Proverbs 13:1.”
“Cut it out, Dad.”
They’d gone around and around many a time throwing Bible verses back and forth at each other. She always had been good at memorizing Scripture. Maybe better than him. “Oh, and, Shelby, one more thing.”
She continued to stomp toward the stairs without turning around.
“You might want to wear a scarf to work today.”
She stopped and put her hand over a round, raspberry-colored bruise on her neck the size of a quarter and blushed bright red before pulling her hair over it and taking the stairs two at a time to her room, slamming the door behind her.
14
Noble poured the last of the syrup over his stack of pancakes and kicked Eustace playfully under the table.
“Hey. Chew with your mouth closed, ’kay?”
Eustace chewed louder, stuck his tongue out, and grinned. A half-chewed piece of pancake fell out and landed on the paper towels bunched up and stuffed in his collar like a bib.
“Yeah, I know. See-food. Good one. But if you look outside, you’ll see we ain’t nowhere near the ocean. So close your mouth.”
It was the same conversation they�
��d had every day for years. Same joke about “see-food” he’d learned from some kids’ cartoon. And he never did close his mouth.
Mama leaned down and gave Eustace’s white ball cap a tug down farther on his head and pulled him close to her. He kept poking at the game on his phone screen as Laurie wrapped him in her arms and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You be good at work today, Eustace. Mama’s proud of you.”
Sounds of Mama clearing the table came from the house while Noble and Eustace sat on the front porch steps waiting for Shelby. Eustace sat like a schoolboy, feet together, hands folded in his lap. The job was good for him, even though it took time away from him helping with the farm. The hours allowed him time to help with the morning milking and left plenty of time for Noble to help him get ready, and for Mama to make sure he’d showered with soap since he had a hard time with hygiene. She made sure his pants and shirt were ironed and that his shoes were free of mud and manure since he never paid much attention to where he stepped.
Eustace suddenly fixed his attention to the spot on the porch where the railing was missing a couple of spindles that had rotted away. Noble realized Eustace was focused on a butterfly, blue and not too large, lying so still it had to be dead. Noble knew enough about Eustace’s collections to know there weren’t too many blue butterflies in this part of Indiana, and that there was one particular endangered species he’d been trying to find for years. He even had a label already made above the spot he was saving for it.
“Is it a Karner blue?”
Eustace looked at Noble, then back at the butterfly, then back at Noble again, and he nodded.
Noble caught his breath. It was a small thing to most, but he knew it was an extraordinary discovery for Eustace and that extraordinary was rare and to be celebrated. “That’s great! Keep your eye on it while I go get you a jar.”
When he returned, Eustace was holding the butterfly in the palm of his hand. The Karners were small, only a little wider than a quarter, and it wouldn’t have been right to capture a live one and kill it since it was already on the verge of dying out. But since this one had already spent its life, it would be perfectly acceptable for Eustace to add it to his collection. Together, they tenderly scooped the creature into the jar and tilted the glass slowly upright until it came to rest on the bottom of the jar.
“I’ll take it in for you, since Shelby will be here any minute.”
Eustace was already distracted from Noble’s assurance and moseying toward the side of the barn where a patch of dandelions grew. He stooped down and began to pick them.
“What are you doin’?” Noble called, but Eustace didn’t pay him any mind. “Don’t be getting your pants all grass-stained. Mama just pressed them.”
Eustace went on picking dandelions. When he heard the engine of Shelby’s old truck, he ran to her, holding the pitiful bouquet out in front of him, his face deadpan except for rosy patches of bashful on his cheeks.
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing, Eustace! Thank you.” She held her arm out to take them and smelled them as if they were a bunch of long-stemmed roses.
“Go on and get in the truck now, Eustace,” Noble said. He turned to Shelby. “Sorry about that.”
“Sorry about nothin’. Don’t you apologize for him. Your brother’s the sweetest man around these parts.”
“If you’re comparing him to Cade, then my manure-covered boot’s sweeter than him, too.”
“Noble Burden, could you be jealous?”
He raised his eyebrows at her and stepped back, crossing his arms. “That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“Look, Noble, I know what you’re trying to do here. But I don’t need protecting.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me, him yanking you offstage like that.”
“We’d all had too much to drink.”
“Shouldn’t have had anything at all. You’re far from twenty-one. Besides that, ain’t your father been through enough?”
She sat back and slammed her hands against the steering wheel. “My father? What about me? Haven’t I been through enough? I think if I want a little drink now and then, why, God’ll forgive me for that.”
Noble took his red Chevy hat off and scratched his head, searching the horizon for clarity, for something wise or smart or even halfway charming to say to her before she took off. “Your father tell you he asked me to sing these last few Sundays at church?”
Shelby’s countenance softened. Her voice was barely audible. “Yeah.”
“I haven’t sang at church since—”
“I know.”
“Since we sang together on that Gospel Sunday.”
“I said I know.”
“Be nice if maybe—”
“Buckle up, Eustace.” She threw the truck into reverse and floored it out of the driveway, kicking up dirt and gravel so Noble had to shield his face. “I know what you’re gonna say, and I ain’t singing with you again, Noble Burden. You can forget that! I ain’t never singing again!” She hollered at him and kept hollering at him until he couldn’t see the truck anymore.
Noble had once enjoyed playing his guitar for the youth group and occasionally the whole congregation back when he and Eustace and Mama still attended. He’d loved playing while Shelby sang, too, watching the way the old hymns roused even the most elderly or inattentive person in the sanctuary. Besides that, there was something about knowing those same chords had been echoing across the same ceiling for so many generations, the way even Eustace’s head bobbed steady to the mostly quarter- and three-quarter-time rhythms.
When they were little boys, Mama’d taken great care to straighten his and Eustace’s bow ties, tears streaming down her face as Dad slept on, unwilling, as always, to go. The Sunday school teachers told stories of ancient, robed heroes, the droopy felt characters straightening to life as they smoothed them into place on felt boards. He’d been so eager to stick the baby Moses in the felt weeds along the felt river, or felt palm leaves on the road into Jerusalem, or Jesus onto the smiling donkey. It had been a safe place for Noble, the ritual of fruit juice and animal crackers, Mrs. Bennington and her nylon hose and dress and the smell of drugstore perfume , and the paste on sticks as they made their crafts, which Mama stuck on the refrigerator in vain. Sometimes her efforts to make the lessons stick with them worked, the ones Noble felt mattered anyway, about not stealing or killing and honoring your mama and caring for the least of these like a broken brother when all you want to do is leave. And the part about not committing adultery, which in a strange way helped ease the sting of their father leaving, since he’d broken that commandment clean through. At least God would be mad at him too for that one.
The Gospel Sunday Noble’d mentioned was the third of its kind at Sycamore Community Church. He and Shelby and a handful of other kids from the youth group had gone to a summer camp a few years back and learned a bunch of old gospel songs. There was something about the old-fashioned harmony and the vintage lyrics of songs like “Down to the River to Pray” or “I’ll Fly Away” that made them want to share what they’d learned with the congregation. No one else had her voice, the ability to harmonize with Noble without either of them having to try. He doubted there was an eye that wasn’t glistening when she sang, her voice rivaling Carrie Underwood’s, in his opinion. Everyone enjoyed the event so much they decided to make Gospel Sunday happen more often, every couple of months, in fact. And the last one had been the Sunday before Shelby’s mom died in the wreck.
Noble had stood across the casket from her and Reverend Horton at the graveside service, seen the tears on her face, her shoulders shivering from the cold rain falling around the tent. He had vowed that day to always look after her, but their friendship had grown awkward after that. Instead of pulling closer to the ones who loved her most, she’d started distancing herself from most anything that resembled her life before the accident. No more singing, no more of her old girlfriends. She’d started dressing in tight clothes that were too revealing
. She’d started running around with Cade and his group of losers. It was as if she wanted to pretend like her life with her mama around never existed. The only thing she seemed to still have room for was making sure Eustace got to and from work.
Back inside, Mama sat at the table with a fresh cup of coffee and an unfolded copy of the Sycamore Daily Ledger. She read out loud the headline about the closing of the church. “Wow. I didn’t know it was getting that bad.”
“Yeah. Reverend Horton was at the Onion last night and told me a little about it. Asked me to play at the last three services.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with her.
“Did he now?” She looked over the newspaper at him.
“Figured I’d help him out. Must be rough, losing everything you’ve worked for. Raising Shelby without his wife. I feel bad for the guy.”
Laurie sighed and refolded the paper, then gazed out the window in the direction of the Hortons’ place. “Me too. . . . Speaking of which, how are things with you and Shelby?”
“Same, I guess.”
“Give her time. She’ll get back to her old self.”
“I don’t know. She seems so . . . out there.” Noble shook his head and turned the cup of coffee in his hands. He looked into her eyes. “Pain changes people so. Changed her. Changed the reverend. Changed you.”
She ran her hand through the hair she used to use to hide the bruises Dad left on her face, pushed back her chair, and went to the kitchen sink. “Yes, I suppose it has.”
“Why?”
Noble watched his mama wash a white bowl she’d used to make a cherry pie the night before. She rubbed and rubbed at the rosy stains. “Time doesn’t always heal things, ’specially when someone dies . . . or leaves. Makes you feel like you can’t go back to the way things were. And you can’t, really. Like trying to get creek water back that’s already run on past.”
“Reverend Horton sure won’t have much left now that his church is shuttin’ down.”