by Amy Sorrells
I walk to Sudie’s and stop at a tall, narrow cage outside her trailer.
“Hey there,” I say to the kestrel perched on a peg. He doesn’t seem to mind the light snow at all, and his beady black eyes follow every one of my movements.
Sudie calls this her elevator cage since the only direction a bird can fly when it’s in there is up or down. Birds in rehab lose their wing strength, the muscles that move them being the most important part of flying. Once they’ve mastered that, they can move on to the flight cage, a long, tall structure behind her trailer that has a cover and shelf on one end and a trapeze that moves like a swinging branch in the wild to test their strength before they’re released.
“If they can fly up, they can fly out,” Sudie says.
The steps of Sudie’s red-stained wooden stoop creak as I try the door and find it unlocked. She doesn’t always pay attention when I tell her to lock her door at night. Maybe working at a cemetery takes all the fear right out of her.
“Morning,” I announce. I hear her in the bedroom, so I check on the turtle, the only other critter she has at the moment, a leftover from last summer. The rest of the tanks and cages lining the shelves and tables and chairs around her cramped front room and kitchen are empty. Winter months are slow since so many animals hunker down or migrate. Now that spring is starting, things will start to happen. Breeding season.
“Did you feed the turtle yet, Sudie?” I call.
“No, I haven’t—worms are in the fridge.”
I find the Styrofoam container of worms between a half gallon of milk and a bottle of mustard in the door of Sudie’s sparsely stocked refrigerator.
This box turtle has been with us so long it feels like he ought to have a name, but Sudie refuses to give names to any of the rescue animals. Says we’re not supposed to be their friends. “Releasing them is hard enough without getting too attached.” Says the hardest part about taking care of the cemetery is seeing the names that go with the babies who died.
The turtle’s red eyes—which is how I know he’s a male—turn up and down as he watches me pull a worm from the cold black dirt of the container. A clay-colored patch zigzags up and across his shell, Bondo we put on to seal the crack he had when he came to us. He was dazed from being hit by a car and knocked clear off the road like a tiddlywink, and I laughed when Sudie said we’d use Bondo to fix him. Sure enough it’s working, though. She says we’ll paint the Bondo to match his shell before we release him.
“Enjoy that worm,” Sudie says to the turtle, emerging from her room. “’Fore long, you’ll be hunting them yourself.”
I watch as the worm disappears into the turtle’s mouth one bite at a time, tail end twitching until the very last gulp.
“There’s treasure in cracks,” Sudie says.
“Mmm-hmm,” I reply, since I know what she’s gonna say next about the Lord being the potter and us being the clay.
“Second Corinthians,” we say in unison.
“Land sakes, if I don’t have some cracks in my old pot,” she says.
“More space for the light to shine through.”
“That’s right.” She wipes down the counters, then plods to the couch, where she sets herself down with a heavy sigh. She pulls on her thick-soled brown tie-up shoes, which she wears with everything, including her Sunday dresses. “Sounds mighty confusin’, but that’s how the Lord works. He makes sense out of things we can’t understand. Uses the foolish—things folks who ain’t lookin’ can’t see. Uses ’em so he gets all the glory. Try and find a perfect man or woman in the Bible,” Sudie says as she gets up and pulls on her coat, her hat, her mittens. “You won’t find a one, besides Jesus.”
It’s as if she knows everything I’d been praying last night.
Riverton Community Church occupies a high corner of a block just north and east of the town square. From its steps, four curves of the Ohio River are visible, the only place on earth that can boast such a thing.
Mama’s done a lot of things wrong, but she always made sure I got to church.
“The Lord gave us his life,” she’d say. “We owe him at least one hour a week.”
And we were sure to give him that, until she started on the pills and then the smack and Jayden came and then he died.
I’ve never been so tired. But coming here, hearing a hymn, mouthing the words to the Apostle’s Creed, keeping my eyes on the black-robed pastor speaking big words like almighty and affliction, judgment and resurrection, all while promising something vast and wonderful beyond woebegone Riverton, well, that’s sure helped get me through the weeks. I know some folks don’t believe the stories of men saved from fires and lions, of oceans parting and bushes bursting into flames, of rescued slaves and a baby born to a virgin, of cities crumbling to a trumpet blast, sticks turning into snakes and water turning into blood or wine, of manna from the sky and talking donkeys, of withered hands being healed and loaves and fishes and Jesus coming back to life. But if I can’t believe in all that, there’s not much left I can believe in.
The words from Mama’s letter haunt me, though. What kind of God would want a woman who’s done the things I’ve done?
Believing all that is one thing. Whether it still applies to me and the trouble I’ve gotten myself into, well, that’s something else altogether.
Sudie parks on a side street and as we walk toward the church I fix my eyes on the sidewalk, concrete slabs jutting and slanting from the force of great tree roots growing thick beneath them. The gauzy blanket of snow is blinding under the early spring sun. Naked tree branches creak above us in the wind, and the sky is a deceiving blue, as if it is questioning the frigid cold of the morning. Will it ever be warm again?
Up ahead, a half-dozen hunched, white-haired congregants shuffle as children giggle and push by them. Spade-shaped leaves of crocuses and hyacinths poke up through the snow near the church entrance, and the square brick tower of the church’s vestibule casts a long shadow on us.
“Every year, I think it’s too early for the bulbs, but every year, they prove me wrong and do just fine.” Sudie nods. The pearl necklace she wears every Sunday looks especially splendid in the sun. The pearls are the nicest thing she owns as far as I can tell, and she only brings them out to wear on the Lord’s Day or for funerals.
“Sudie! There you are.” Veda Spradlin hollers and waves from across the street. “There’s a covered dish after service. Will you be comin’?” She and Trina Bishop and their covered-dish Sundays are something to behold.
“I’m headed to the cemetery today. Can’t let this sunshine go to waste, or the frozen ground,” Sudie says as the two ladies meet up with us. A couple weeks back when there was a warm streak and days of heavy rain, her mowing tractor got stuck in the low back section. By the time Shorty got it chained up and pulled free, they and their vehicles all looked like they’d been mud bogging at the county fair.
“Good mornin’, Jaycee.” Carla offers us a program as we enter the oak-laden sanctuary, fresh with the faint scent of lemon oil. She leans over and whispers in my ear. “Gabe’s here. Sitting over there by himself.”
“Stop,” I say and roll my eyes. The last thing I need is her matchmaking. The last thing I need is a man. The last thing a guy like Gabe needs is a girl like me.
Thankfully Sudie heads the opposite direction and takes the spot in the back pew where we sit every week. Gabe’s sitting in Shorty Smith’s spot, and he’ll figure that out soon as Shorty gets here. Everyone at Riverton Community has assigned seats, even if this is an unspoken rule. If a visitor happens to come and unknowingly sit in one of them, the whole morning is thrown off, the organist hitting sharps when she should’ve hit flats, the elder stumbling over the Scripture reading, even the Lord’s Prayer off-kilter if the visitor doesn’t know they are supposed to say debts instead of trespasses.
The wood pew feels cold through my stretch pants, which I insist on wearing despite the fact Sudie says I ought to wear a dress. I figure the Bible means what it say
s in James about folks all deserving the same seat, whether dressed fancy or not.
In front of us sits Mr. Crawford, a plump man whose lower lip is always shaped in a pout. I imagine this is because he is both the town lawyer and accountant. Ahead of him are Hersch and his wife. I’m glad Hersch is facing forward so I don’t have to make eye contact after last night. In front of him are the usual families, little girls in frilly dresses and little boys with clip-on ties, teenage boys slouching in their seats and teenage girls staring and giggling into their smartphone screens.
One girl, her dark hair in long braids, peeks over the top of the pew and stares at me. I wave to her and giggle when her face turns bright red and her head disappears quick. After the children’s message, the kids will all shuffle off to Sunday school to nibble on animal crackers and sip fruit punch and listen to the same stories I did when I was their age.
I squint to read the hymn numbers on the board above the pulpit and notice Bryan’s mother, Elizabeth Blair, staring at me. I try my best to pretend not to notice and pray my cheeks don’t turn red like the girl with the braids. Mrs. Blair likes to remind me as often as she can that I am not worthy to date her son. Well, she can stare at me all she wants now since we’re through.
Except for the fact that I’m carrying her grandchild.
Ida Lambert, the organist, belts out the first chord of the call to worship so loud the windows rattle. Reverend Payne stands, and when Ida’s playing quiets down, his voice booms across the sanctuary. “I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord, forever.”
“With my mouth I will proclaim your faithfulness to all generations.” We follow along with the words in the program.
“I declare that your steadfast love is established forever.”
“Your faithfulness is as firm as the heavens! Praise the Lord!”
Reverend Payne is a large man with shoulders so broad it looks like he’s wearing football pads under his robe. Folks like to take bets on which is older, Reverend Payne or the church. There isn’t a soul alive who can remember anyone who’s preached here but him.
When peace like a river attendeth my way . . .
The first hymn’s a favorite, but though I’ve sung the words a hundred times they stick out to me today, especially after thinking on my baptism. I think about all the times I’ve knelt along the edge of the Ohio River, the grit of the sandy shore stinging my bare knees, the smooth, cold feel of the currents against my hand, currents that can kill and have killed plenty of people who weren’t careful in it. If my life were a river, it’d be full of waterfalls and toppled trees and muddy marshes where water snakes and leeches slither wild.
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
It is well.
With my soul.
Lord, let it be well with this baby inside me.
I was quiet on the drive here, and Sudie’d asked me more than once what was wrong. I didn’t want to tell her about Bryan. Didn’t feel like hearing an “I told you so.” But here in the middle of church, with Ida ramping up for the offertory, seems as good a time as any since it’ll be tough for her to lecture me over that and the sermon to follow.
I lean over and say, “Me and Bryan broke up last night,” as Ida pounds out the chords.
Sudie’s eyes widen and meet mine; her soft mouth and cheeks turn into an O.
Ida releases the keys and Reverend Payne bellows from the pulpit, “This is the day the Lord has made!”
“We will rejoice and be glad in it,” the congregation replies in unison.
“Amen!” Sudie hollers, so loud everyone around us turns and stares. She grins and grins and I can’t stop my cheeks from glowing since I know her witness is about the fact me and Bryan are through.
“Today’s reading is from Exodus, chapters 5 and 6,” Reverend Payne continues. “We’ve been studying the life of Moses, if you’ll recall. And this week, we’ll learn how the Israelites were so broken by their circumstances it was difficult for them to trust God.”
That’d be me.
“But we’ll see how when life gets hard, God remains faithful, even when we doubt him.”
I rest my hands across my belly. The baby hasn’t moved much during the service, but a fullness lingers there, a warmth. A presence. The children are excused and leave for their Sunday school classes, and Reverend Payne starts into his sermon. He talks about Moses and his mother, the woman who hid him and put him in the river.
“She loved that baby with all her heart,” he says. “She gave him up not because she didn’t love him. She gave him up because she did love him. She gave him up to protect him from the Egyptians, to save his life. Sometimes God shows his faithfulness not by what he brings to our life, but by what he takes out of it; not by what he gives us, but by the joy we receive from what we let go of and give to him. Like he says in Isaiah chapter 43, verse 16, ‘I am the Lord, who opened a way through the waters.’”
Reverend Payne pauses, and the sanctuary is thick with quiet except for someone clearing their throat.
“What is the Lord asking you to give up today?” he says, looking left then right across all of us, before finally saying, “Let’s pray.”
I am glad to bow my head, to cross my arms over my belly, to close my eyes and hope he hears.
Dear Lord, this baby doesn’t stand a chance with me. I want children someday. But I want to do it right. I want them to have a daddy and a roof over their head. I want to be able to buy them clothes that aren’t used and toys that come new in a box. I want them to not have to go to sleep hearing ambulance sirens or the sound of babies crying from withdrawal in the next trailer over.
Maybe this baby is what I need to give up. He sure would be better off with someone else. It’s just that . . . well, Lord . . . this baby’s starting to feel like all I have.
I jump a mile high when, right in the middle of the prayer with my eyes closed and everything, Sudie rests her hand on my belly.
When I open one eye to look at her, she leaves her hand there and stares straight at me.
“You know?” I mouth, hot tears filling my eyes.
“Let’s stand and sing together.” Reverend Payne’s voice booms across the sanctuary.
I’ve never been so glad for Ida’s organ as when she sits and begins to play, the organ pipes heaving out heavy chords for “The Old Rugged Cross.” When we stand, Sudie puts her arm around me and pulls me close. Her powdered cheek is soft against mine as she whispers, “Of course I know, child. I’ve known for weeks. Been a struggle not saying something ’til now.”
“Why didn’t you?” I whisper back.
“I was waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For the Lord. And for you to be ready. No sense talking about it if you ain’t ready.”
Of course she’s known, just like she knew what I needed every time I ran to her place in the middle of the night without saying a thing. The worse things got with Mama, the more Sudie was ready with a batch of scotchie dough in the fridge waiting to be baked and a spot on her couch with a blanket and a pillow in a clean pillowcase.
My chin trembles from the relief of someone else knowing, like all I’ve been holding inside can’t wait to get out. The service ends and folks start standing and gathering their things to leave the sanctuary. I turn so they can’t see the tears running down my face.
When I do dare to meet Sudie’s eyes, the blue of them is clear as the sky, the creases and wrinkles around them offering kindness like the folds of a bird’s wings over a nest. “What am I gonna do, Sudie?”
“Don’t you worry, child. We’ll figure this out together, and with the help of the Lord.”
12
* * *
I wait until the sanctuary is mostly empty and I’ve collected myself before heading out to the gathering space where Sudie’s talking and laughing with Walter Crawford about something that’s evid
ently particularly funny, the way they’re both carrying on. This surprises me, since he does not seem like the sort of man to find much of anything funny.
I manage to avoid Gabe, but avoiding others is impossible since going to church is like gathering with family in Riverton. Diner regulars and my former schoolteachers, Sunday school teachers and Mama’s old friends, and what friends of mine haven’t left town yet all want to say hello, and I can’t just walk by them no matter how red my face and eyes must be. They brought meals to me after Jayden died and after Mama went to jail. They came to the funeral and took up a donation so we could give Jayden a proper burial. Bud and Larry, the handymen, still come by the trailer every now and then, tweaking the plumbing and finding whatever odd jobs they can insist on taking care of since they know I am alone, and even though I know how to fix most of it myself. Like Sudie’s hand on my belly, the people of this church continue to find me when I don’t even realize I am lost, even when I try to refuse them.
“Hey, Jaycee.”
I turn around to see Gabe with Carla standing right behind him. She’s beaming, of course.
I try to pretend I don’t notice that. “Hey, Gabe. Did Carla make you get out of bed this morning and come to church?”
He furrows his brow. “Not at all. I’ve been looking for a church. Carla told me this one’s pretty good.”
I nod, annoyed at the butterflies starting up in my chest and the fact that I cannot think of a single thing to say to save my life.
“Reverend Payne gives a good sermon. I hadn’t heard anyone talk about Moses like that before,” Gabe offers.
“Mmm-hmm.” I scan the room for Sudie. Surely she’s about ready to go.
“Do you go to lunch after church?”
“No . . . I mean, sometimes. . . . I’m going to the cemetery—”
“Welcome to Riverton Community Church!” A woman’s arm reaches between us. “I’m Veda Spradlin. Noticed you’re new. Did you sign up to get a pie?”