I Want to Be Good
Jordan Dilley
We glide down Crown Ave, a street probably walked by hookers, on our way to church in an old sedan that smells like body odor during the summer. No one says anything. About the grubby houses with parched paint, or the shopfronts where a constant trickle of men in sweat-stained t-shirts crept around the back, looking for drugs, or prostitutes, or both. The goings-on of the neighborhood are not our problem. We’re not like the lady wearing pink rolled-up spandex shorts shooing a stray away from her can of beer in front of the Royal, a motel whose rusted sign advertises a pool.
Cynthia sits next to me in the back seat and shakes a tie-dyed drawstring sack Mom fills every Sunday with snacks, coloring books—anything to keep Cynthia distracted and quiet during services. It works half of the time, depending on your definition of quiet. I don’t care what she says about the rate of incidence being lower in girls, Cynthia is on the spectrum, no two ways about it. That’s not being insensitive, I’ve told her, that’s plain observation. Most eight-year-olds don’t slap you across the face when you ask them to share their goldfish crackers. Or talk about butterflies obsessively.
“Cynthia,” Mom says, turning around to face us. “You better not be digging into your snacks already. We’re not even at church yet.” The school nurse had a little tête-à-tête with Mom a few months ago about Cynthia’s expanding waistline. “She shouldn’t need juniors’ size pants at nine,” Mom mimed that night at the dinner table in front of Cynthia who had double helpings on potatoes, probably out of spite. Cynthia continues rooting around in her bag, unfazed, and Mom turns back around, satisfied that she’s done her part.
Dad cranks up the volume on the country station the car’s radio is forever set at. I listen, letting the singer’s twangy voice roll over me. We pass the fairgrounds, grandstand looming over the packed dirt, horse stalls, and pig pens that are six months defunct. When the fair comes in September, a ferris wheel a least one hundred feet tall twinkles neon green, yellow, and pink, softening the edges of the grease splattered fry stands and the wannabe gauchos with their silver and turquoise bolos.
I went to the fair once, with my best friend and her family. It was a Saturday night last fall. My friend’s mom offered to let me spend the night; Mom could pick me up before church Sunday morning. But Mom wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t figure out if she thought having fun on a Sunday was bad, or if she didn’t want to get up early to pick me up. Both are equally plausible. Either way, I stuffed myself with corndogs and funnel cakes that night, listening with feigned indifference as my friend described the movie her mom had rented for us.
We pull into the church’s parking lot, always the first to arrive. Maybe it’s because Dad thinks the reverend should be the first to arrive. Maybe it’s so he can glare down from the pulpit at the latecomers who slid into the back pews hoping no one notices their tardiness. He’s never given a reason, it’s just another of the unspoken rules we follow. Like how people give up their seats on the bus to the elderly, or abstain from taking the last roll at dinner, small acts of common decency that let the world know you’re a decent person. I’m not sure what beating the congregation to the pews every Sunday means.
Cynthia pinwheels out of the car, dragging her bag across the blacktop. She drops her bible and scuffs the corner where Cynthia Reagan Williams is embossed in gold.
Mom snatches the bible and rubs the hem of her dress against the scuff. “Cynthia,” Mom sighs, rubbing the hem of her dress against the scuff.
Dad unlocks the tall church doors and ushers us into the dark foyer. The motion detector beeps and the lights flicker to life. Dad quickly keys in the security code. The church voted to have the system installed last year after a panel of stained glass in the chapel was busted with a brick. Mostly the congregation was surprised something like it hadn’t happened sooner. All the houses in the neighborhood have chain-link fences, some with beefy pit-bulls prowling the perimeter. It’s pretty common to have services interrupted by the sound of police sirens, the congregation guessing afterward what had happened this time.
Cynthia takes off for the nursery. It’s more of a glorified play-room with a chest of toys and a floor mat full of shapes, numbers, and the letters of the alphabet. Bright colors envelope the small room whose walls are lined with day-glo rendered illustrations of bible stories, an attempt no doubt to cheer up the mothers segregated here, bouncing their crying babies on their knees during the sermon. In one picture, David leers past Goliah toward the center of the room. Another man of action standing as sentinel, maintaining order.
We all know Cynthia’s too old for the nursery’s 0-3 rated plastic toys, but no one says anything, us or the rest of the congregation. There’s an unspoken pact between our family and the other members. No one is to mention Cynthia’s peculiarities, no matter how glaringly obvious they are. At worst, she is one of God’s special creations, at best, odd. That puzzle piece you jam into place because finding its correct location is just too much work.
Later, as the congregation finishes filing into the chapel, and I’m picking out patterns from the stain-glasses’ reflection on the chapel carpet, Mom shoves a hymnal into my hands. She’s always getting on to me about singing. According to her I have a sweet voice and I should use it to bring glory to God. But when I picture standing in front of everyone solo, belting out a special with the organist following along, I break into a cold sweat. Unless God is a sadist, I doubt watching me struggle to keep my breakfast down brings him much pleasure. I pass a hymnal to Cynthia, who always sits on my left, but she pushes it away.
The choir director tells us to turn to hymn number 44. The choir rises to their feet, burgundy acetate robes swaying around their ankles. This is the part of Sunday morning I enjoy. Lost in the din of voices around me I can’t be heard. I can hold a note too long or sing the chorus an octave too high; it doesn’t matter. I can sing holy in one long breathe, a steady, strong wave that reaches the sacristy, or short and choppy, one that dissipates a few pews ahead. I’m just a part of a mélange, moving and morphing as it suits.
Momentum builds as we head into the chorus. This is one of the upbeat numbers in our retinue, a well-known number whose chorus is ingrained in our minds. Heads lift away from hymnals, no longer stumbling over versus. I take a deep breath and join the swell of voices, rising to a high d before tumbling down to a sorrowful b note. The choirmaster’s hand cuts circles and figure eights in the air, commanding a tempest tossed sea where I, a dinghy, bob unmoored. Even Cynthia rouses and mumbles a few words of the chorus before returning to the butterfly she’s tracing.
After the hymn, Dad climbs the pulpit. “Good morning,” he says, unbuttoning his blazer. Each side billows out as he puts his hands in his suit pockets, an attempt at casualness that fails once you take in his perfectly set hair and highly polished dress shoes.
“If you’d all turn your bibles to second Corinthians…”
I drift in and out during the sermon, like I assume most of the congregation does. Besides, I’ve heard this one before. It’s a part of his rotation. Paul’s defense of himself to Corinth. Basically, a lot of “Hey, I know I had a bunch of Jews murdered, but now I’m a Christian like you guys, so let’s just forget all that stuff I did before. Sound good?” Personally, I’ve always appreciated Corinth’s skepticism. Fool us once, shame on you…
Cynthia picks a lull in Dad’s sermon to scour her bag for snacks. She shoves a fistful of goldfish cracker in her mouth. Orange crumbs tumble down the front of her blue cotton dress, color wheel opposites meeting. The choir director’s wife, small bony face, and beak-like nose shoots my mom a look from across the aisle. Mom elbows me and jerks her head toward Cynthia. I pull my arm away. We both know interference is pointless. It’ll do more harm than good to tell Cynthia to hush-up and have some respect.
Cynthia continues to munch, her chubby fingers caked with cheese dust. Neither I, nor Mom dare stop her. Dad relies on us to keep Cynthia distracted during church. A job at least Mom takes seriously enough to ignore the advice of Cynthia’s school nurse, at least for one day out of the week. Dad also turns a blind eye to the crackers, cookies, or fruit gummies that show up in her tie-dye bag every Sunday. Once, I snuck apple slices into her bag. I spent that Sunday morning before church carefully coring and spritzing the apple slices with lemon juice to prevent browning. When Cynthia found the Tupperware container in her bag, she dumped the apple slices on the floor of the chapel. So much for our bodies being temples.
“And do you know how Paul responded to Corinth?” Dad’s sonorous pulpit voice snaps me back. Mom twitches next to me, the lines around her mouth growing deep. Dad’s quite the Pauline; the Gospels are saved for special occasions like Easter and Christmas. This doesn’t go down well with the congregation; I know his deacons have confronted him about it.
I look away, back toward the patterns the stain glass windows are casting onto the carpeted floor. Ruby red, royal blue, and green the color of zucchinis, turns the dull brown carpet momentarily into something jewel-toned and beautiful. The wind blows, causing the trees near the chapel windows to sway. The patterns ripple across the carpet. I’m old enough to know that even the most conscientious minister interprets scripture to fit their agenda. Maybe some of them have good intentions, but it’s the wrangling I can’t stand. Those long sessions spent surrounded by lexicons and basic grammars, debating small doctrinal points with other members. I once heard a visiting minister tell the congregation that if the majority agreed with him, he wasn’t doing his job correctly.
The rippling jewel-colored patterns on the carpet fade, and I look through the chapel windows toward the sky. Clouds have rolled in, blocking the sun. Dad signals to the organist to start the invitational hymn. The choir rise to their feet one more time to lead us. Dad sways behind the pulpit, lifting his head towards the rafters and singing along. I lean against the pew in front of us, rocking on my heels as I look at the half-dozen congregation members gathered at the altar rail. It’s always the same people, always making a display as they clasp their hands and dab at their eyes with Kleenex. Half a dozen bible verses about Pharisees and sincerity spring to mind, but I just shake my head, hoping I’m not the only one who notices.
Afterwards, when the closing prayer has ended, we pack up. Cynthia dumps an insect coloring book and some crayons into her bag. The empty plastic bag that held her cheese crackers she holds onto. The inside of the plastic is greasy with cheese dust and when she thinks no one is looking, Cynthia turns the bag inside out and licks the grease away. I slouch against the arm of the pew as we wait for Dad who’s still near the pulpit glad-handing the altar rail criers and members of the choir. This jovial back and forth can go on for a while. Dad draws personal news, special prayer requests people are too embarrassed to mention during services, and especially gossip, like our refrigerator at home attracts participation badges and certificates of completion.
But today he doesn’t look so jovial. I can see part of Dad’s face through a gap in the deacons and lay members surrounding him. A frown that started fifteen minutes ago has grown deeper. He’s trying to hide it by covering his mouth with one of his hands, scratching his chin like it isn’t clean-shaven, like he’s considering something important. And judging by the power-stance most around him have assumed, I suppose he is. Mom, her arm draped over the back of the pew, shifts nervously when their voices become raised.
From our position nine pews back from the pulpit I can only hear snatches of their conversation. Things like “led astray,” “indoctrination,” and “subverts his teachings,” reach me. I look at Mom who’s pretending not to notice that things are heating up. Her lips are moving, but no sound comes out. The man closest to Dad stomps his foot and emits what can only be described as a low roar. Dad flinches ever so slightly and his tanned skin goes red at the cheeks. Cynthia takes a break from licking the snack bag to poke her head around the pew. Before either of us can stop her, Cynthia shoots out of our pew. Her arms are rigid by her sides, a business-like carriage we know means trouble on the horizon.
Mom turns a worried face toward me, silently pleading. We all know without being told that in our conservative congregation the pastor’s wife doesn’t interfere with matters such as these, though there aren’t any hard and fast rules against it. It’s just something we do, or rather don’t do. I, on the other hand, am immune.
“Oh, fine,” I say. I speed-walk after Cynthia, trying to catch up (running in the chapel is not allowed), but she has a good head start. Before I can snatch her hand and drag her back to Mom, she’s squeezed through the circle surrounding Dad. I stop near the front row when she starts beating her fists against the stomach of the guy that roared earlier. Her face grows red as her balled up hands pound away, rumpling his button-up. Other members try to restrain her, hands reaching for her shoulders and arms. One person even attempts to grab her ponytail, only to be on the receiving end of an elbow to the hip. Dad doesn’t move a muscle. He just stares, dumbfounded, routed to the spot, with his mouth open. I can tell by the way tears are gathering at the corners of her eyes and by the contraction of her brows, that Cynthia is close to a total meltdown.
I hurl myself through the gap Cynthia’s created. I put my arm around her shoulders and nuzzle her face with my own. Her tears are hot against my face, but she drops her arms and I hold her as we slump toward the ground. We rock silently side to side as the shoes and legs of the deacons and lay members shift awkwardly before disappearing from the chapel. Cynthia stops crying and a deep silence envelope us. She tucks her head into the crook of my arm as I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My heart is beating fast, like it does when we have to run in PE. I concentrate on my breathing, slow in, slow out, filling my lungs with air. My inhales and exhales whistle through my nose, sound waves bounding off the pulpit behind us and the pews in front of us. I repeat the process, concentrating so hard on calming my beating heart that I ignore Mom who’s stalking up the aisle towards us and Dad, half-heartedly trying to insinuate himself into our bubble. His shiny black leather shoes shuffle near Cynthia’s right leg, and he says something about lunchtime, but it’s as if he’s talking through frosted glass, movements and speech muffled, blurred enough they seem unreal.
When my heart is beating normally again, I open my eyes. Cynthia peers up at me, tear tracks glistening, cheese dust crusted around her mouth. She reaches up, and touches my lips with her clammy little hands.
Jordan Dilley
We glide down Crown Ave, a street probably walked by hookers, on our way to church in an old sedan that smells like body odor during the summer. No one says anything. About the grubby houses with parched paint, or the shopfronts where a constant trickle of men in sweat-stained t-shirts crept around the back, looking for drugs, or prostitutes, or both. The goings-on of the neighborhood are not our problem. We’re not like the lady wearing pink rolled-up spandex shorts shooing a stray away from her can of beer in front of the Royal, a motel whose rusted sign advertises a pool.
Cynthia sits next to me in the back seat and shakes a tie-dyed drawstring sack Mom fills every Sunday with snacks, coloring books—anything to keep Cynthia distracted and quiet during services. It works half of the time, depending on your definition of quiet. I don’t care what she says about the rate of incidence being lower in girls, Cynthia is on the spectrum, no two ways about it. That’s not being insensitive, I’ve told her, that’s plain observation. Most eight-year-olds don’t slap you across the face when you ask them to share their goldfish crackers. Or talk about butterflies obsessively.
“Cynthia,” Mom says, turning around to face us. “You better not be digging into your snacks already. We’re not even at church yet.” The school nurse had a little tête-à-tête with Mom a few months ago about Cynthia’s expanding waistline. “She shouldn’t need juniors’ size pants at nine,” Mom mimed that night at the dinner table in front of Cynthia who had double helpings on potatoes, probably out of spite. Cynthia continues rooting around in her bag, unfazed, and Mom turns back around, satisfied that she’s done her part.
Dad cranks up the volume on the country station the car’s radio is forever set at. I listen, letting the singer’s twangy voice roll over me. We pass the fairgrounds, grandstand looming over the packed dirt, horse stalls, and pig pens that are six months defunct. When the fair comes in September, a ferris wheel a least one hundred feet tall twinkles neon green, yellow, and pink, softening the edges of the grease splattered fry stands and the wannabe gauchos with their silver and turquoise bolos.
I went to the fair once, with my best friend and her family. It was a Saturday night last fall. My friend’s mom offered to let me spend the night; Mom could pick me up before church Sunday morning. But Mom wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t figure out if she thought having fun on a Sunday was bad, or if she didn’t want to get up early to pick me up. Both are equally plausible. Either way, I stuffed myself with corndogs and funnel cakes that night, listening with feigned indifference as my friend described the movie her mom had rented for us.
We pull into the church’s parking lot, always the first to arrive. Maybe it’s because Dad thinks the reverend should be the first to arrive. Maybe it’s so he can glare down from the pulpit at the latecomers who slid into the back pews hoping no one notices their tardiness. He’s never given a reason, it’s just another of the unspoken rules we follow. Like how people give up their seats on the bus to the elderly, or abstain from taking the last roll at dinner, small acts of common decency that let the world know you’re a decent person. I’m not sure what beating the congregation to the pews every Sunday means.
Cynthia pinwheels out of the car, dragging her bag across the blacktop. She drops her bible and scuffs the corner where Cynthia Reagan Williams is embossed in gold.
Mom snatches the bible and rubs the hem of her dress against the scuff. “Cynthia,” Mom sighs, rubbing the hem of her dress against the scuff.
Dad unlocks the tall church doors and ushers us into the dark foyer. The motion detector beeps and the lights flicker to life. Dad quickly keys in the security code. The church voted to have the system installed last year after a panel of stained glass in the chapel was busted with a brick. Mostly the congregation was surprised something like it hadn’t happened sooner. All the houses in the neighborhood have chain-link fences, some with beefy pit-bulls prowling the perimeter. It’s pretty common to have services interrupted by the sound of police sirens, the congregation guessing afterward what had happened this time.
Cynthia takes off for the nursery. It’s more of a glorified play-room with a chest of toys and a floor mat full of shapes, numbers, and the letters of the alphabet. Bright colors envelope the small room whose walls are lined with day-glo rendered illustrations of bible stories, an attempt no doubt to cheer up the mothers segregated here, bouncing their crying babies on their knees during the sermon. In one picture, David leers past Goliah toward the center of the room. Another man of action standing as sentinel, maintaining order.
We all know Cynthia’s too old for the nursery’s 0-3 rated plastic toys, but no one says anything, us or the rest of the congregation. There’s an unspoken pact between our family and the other members. No one is to mention Cynthia’s peculiarities, no matter how glaringly obvious they are. At worst, she is one of God’s special creations, at best, odd. That puzzle piece you jam into place because finding its correct location is just too much work.
Later, as the congregation finishes filing into the chapel, and I’m picking out patterns from the stain-glasses’ reflection on the chapel carpet, Mom shoves a hymnal into my hands. She’s always getting on to me about singing. According to her I have a sweet voice and I should use it to bring glory to God. But when I picture standing in front of everyone solo, belting out a special with the organist following along, I break into a cold sweat. Unless God is a sadist, I doubt watching me struggle to keep my breakfast down brings him much pleasure. I pass a hymnal to Cynthia, who always sits on my left, but she pushes it away.
The choir director tells us to turn to hymn number 44. The choir rises to their feet, burgundy acetate robes swaying around their ankles. This is the part of Sunday morning I enjoy. Lost in the din of voices around me I can’t be heard. I can hold a note too long or sing the chorus an octave too high; it doesn’t matter. I can sing holy in one long breathe, a steady, strong wave that reaches the sacristy, or short and choppy, one that dissipates a few pews ahead. I’m just a part of a mélange, moving and morphing as it suits.
Momentum builds as we head into the chorus. This is one of the upbeat numbers in our retinue, a well-known number whose chorus is ingrained in our minds. Heads lift away from hymnals, no longer stumbling over versus. I take a deep breath and join the swell of voices, rising to a high d before tumbling down to a sorrowful b note. The choirmaster’s hand cuts circles and figure eights in the air, commanding a tempest tossed sea where I, a dinghy, bob unmoored. Even Cynthia rouses and mumbles a few words of the chorus before returning to the butterfly she’s tracing.
After the hymn, Dad climbs the pulpit. “Good morning,” he says, unbuttoning his blazer. Each side billows out as he puts his hands in his suit pockets, an attempt at casualness that fails once you take in his perfectly set hair and highly polished dress shoes.
“If you’d all turn your bibles to second Corinthians…”
I drift in and out during the sermon, like I assume most of the congregation does. Besides, I’ve heard this one before. It’s a part of his rotation. Paul’s defense of himself to Corinth. Basically, a lot of “Hey, I know I had a bunch of Jews murdered, but now I’m a Christian like you guys, so let’s just forget all that stuff I did before. Sound good?” Personally, I’ve always appreciated Corinth’s skepticism. Fool us once, shame on you…
Cynthia picks a lull in Dad’s sermon to scour her bag for snacks. She shoves a fistful of goldfish cracker in her mouth. Orange crumbs tumble down the front of her blue cotton dress, color wheel opposites meeting. The choir director’s wife, small bony face, and beak-like nose shoots my mom a look from across the aisle. Mom elbows me and jerks her head toward Cynthia. I pull my arm away. We both know interference is pointless. It’ll do more harm than good to tell Cynthia to hush-up and have some respect.
Cynthia continues to munch, her chubby fingers caked with cheese dust. Neither I, nor Mom dare stop her. Dad relies on us to keep Cynthia distracted during church. A job at least Mom takes seriously enough to ignore the advice of Cynthia’s school nurse, at least for one day out of the week. Dad also turns a blind eye to the crackers, cookies, or fruit gummies that show up in her tie-dye bag every Sunday. Once, I snuck apple slices into her bag. I spent that Sunday morning before church carefully coring and spritzing the apple slices with lemon juice to prevent browning. When Cynthia found the Tupperware container in her bag, she dumped the apple slices on the floor of the chapel. So much for our bodies being temples.
“And do you know how Paul responded to Corinth?” Dad’s sonorous pulpit voice snaps me back. Mom twitches next to me, the lines around her mouth growing deep. Dad’s quite the Pauline; the Gospels are saved for special occasions like Easter and Christmas. This doesn’t go down well with the congregation; I know his deacons have confronted him about it.
I look away, back toward the patterns the stain glass windows are casting onto the carpeted floor. Ruby red, royal blue, and green the color of zucchinis, turns the dull brown carpet momentarily into something jewel-toned and beautiful. The wind blows, causing the trees near the chapel windows to sway. The patterns ripple across the carpet. I’m old enough to know that even the most conscientious minister interprets scripture to fit their agenda. Maybe some of them have good intentions, but it’s the wrangling I can’t stand. Those long sessions spent surrounded by lexicons and basic grammars, debating small doctrinal points with other members. I once heard a visiting minister tell the congregation that if the majority agreed with him, he wasn’t doing his job correctly.
The rippling jewel-colored patterns on the carpet fade, and I look through the chapel windows toward the sky. Clouds have rolled in, blocking the sun. Dad signals to the organist to start the invitational hymn. The choir rise to their feet one more time to lead us. Dad sways behind the pulpit, lifting his head towards the rafters and singing along. I lean against the pew in front of us, rocking on my heels as I look at the half-dozen congregation members gathered at the altar rail. It’s always the same people, always making a display as they clasp their hands and dab at their eyes with Kleenex. Half a dozen bible verses about Pharisees and sincerity spring to mind, but I just shake my head, hoping I’m not the only one who notices.
Afterwards, when the closing prayer has ended, we pack up. Cynthia dumps an insect coloring book and some crayons into her bag. The empty plastic bag that held her cheese crackers she holds onto. The inside of the plastic is greasy with cheese dust and when she thinks no one is looking, Cynthia turns the bag inside out and licks the grease away. I slouch against the arm of the pew as we wait for Dad who’s still near the pulpit glad-handing the altar rail criers and members of the choir. This jovial back and forth can go on for a while. Dad draws personal news, special prayer requests people are too embarrassed to mention during services, and especially gossip, like our refrigerator at home attracts participation badges and certificates of completion.
But today he doesn’t look so jovial. I can see part of Dad’s face through a gap in the deacons and lay members surrounding him. A frown that started fifteen minutes ago has grown deeper. He’s trying to hide it by covering his mouth with one of his hands, scratching his chin like it isn’t clean-shaven, like he’s considering something important. And judging by the power-stance most around him have assumed, I suppose he is. Mom, her arm draped over the back of the pew, shifts nervously when their voices become raised.
From our position nine pews back from the pulpit I can only hear snatches of their conversation. Things like “led astray,” “indoctrination,” and “subverts his teachings,” reach me. I look at Mom who’s pretending not to notice that things are heating up. Her lips are moving, but no sound comes out. The man closest to Dad stomps his foot and emits what can only be described as a low roar. Dad flinches ever so slightly and his tanned skin goes red at the cheeks. Cynthia takes a break from licking the snack bag to poke her head around the pew. Before either of us can stop her, Cynthia shoots out of our pew. Her arms are rigid by her sides, a business-like carriage we know means trouble on the horizon.
Mom turns a worried face toward me, silently pleading. We all know without being told that in our conservative congregation the pastor’s wife doesn’t interfere with matters such as these, though there aren’t any hard and fast rules against it. It’s just something we do, or rather don’t do. I, on the other hand, am immune.
“Oh, fine,” I say. I speed-walk after Cynthia, trying to catch up (running in the chapel is not allowed), but she has a good head start. Before I can snatch her hand and drag her back to Mom, she’s squeezed through the circle surrounding Dad. I stop near the front row when she starts beating her fists against the stomach of the guy that roared earlier. Her face grows red as her balled up hands pound away, rumpling his button-up. Other members try to restrain her, hands reaching for her shoulders and arms. One person even attempts to grab her ponytail, only to be on the receiving end of an elbow to the hip. Dad doesn’t move a muscle. He just stares, dumbfounded, routed to the spot, with his mouth open. I can tell by the way tears are gathering at the corners of her eyes and by the contraction of her brows, that Cynthia is close to a total meltdown.
I hurl myself through the gap Cynthia’s created. I put my arm around her shoulders and nuzzle her face with my own. Her tears are hot against my face, but she drops her arms and I hold her as we slump toward the ground. We rock silently side to side as the shoes and legs of the deacons and lay members shift awkwardly before disappearing from the chapel. Cynthia stops crying and a deep silence envelope us. She tucks her head into the crook of my arm as I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My heart is beating fast, like it does when we have to run in PE. I concentrate on my breathing, slow in, slow out, filling my lungs with air. My inhales and exhales whistle through my nose, sound waves bounding off the pulpit behind us and the pews in front of us. I repeat the process, concentrating so hard on calming my beating heart that I ignore Mom who’s stalking up the aisle towards us and Dad, half-heartedly trying to insinuate himself into our bubble. His shiny black leather shoes shuffle near Cynthia’s right leg, and he says something about lunchtime, but it’s as if he’s talking through frosted glass, movements and speech muffled, blurred enough they seem unreal.
When my heart is beating normally again, I open my eyes. Cynthia peers up at me, tear tracks glistening, cheese dust crusted around her mouth. She reaches up, and touches my lips with her clammy little hands.
