The hill folk still took the back benches, the valley folk still reigned supreme in the middle, and those deemed worthiest sat closest to God in the first rows, center aisle, those on the front pews were also those who contributed most to whatever charity or building fund that was currently popular. There, prim and proper, was Rosalynn Wise, staring up at her husband with blank eyes as he stepped up to his podium. His slick, black, custom-made suit fitted him so beautifully he appeared as slim as he had when first I saw him when I was ten. And everybody knew Reverend Wayland Wise had such a gluttonous appetite he gained at least ten pounds each year.
It had been my intention when I entered to stay, as always, in my place, but that was also where it was warmest from the hot blasts of air coming in the door that opened and closed every few minutes. To my own surprise I didn't stay seated. Soon I found myself standing, and in the third row, center aisle, while all eyes riveted on my audacity, I found an empty pew and there I plucked a hymn book from the pocket of the seat ahead, and automatically turned to page 216 and began to sing. Really sing--loud, clear, high. For all the Casteels could sing, even when they had nothing to sing about.
I had gained their attention now, shockingly gained it. They stared at me, open-mouthed, wideeyed, stunned and alarmed, that I, a Casteel, would dare so much! And I didn't try to ignore them. I met each pair of accusing eyes and never faltered as I sang the old familiar hymn that Our Jane had loved so very much. "Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves."
As I sang I could almost snatch their thoughts from the air. Another crummy Casteel had come again into their sanctified midst! Their hostile eyes swept again over my face, over my clothes, sneered at the jewelry I wore in ostentatious excess just to show them what I had now--everything!
A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd, but I didn't care. I had given them all a good chance to look me over in my jewels and my expensive suit.
But those eyes still weren
't impressed, or if they were, they didn't widen with admiration or narrow with surprise. To them a porkbelly had more of a chance of transforming into ten billion bats of gold than I had of becoming respectable.
As abruptly as the heads had swiveled to see me advance to the front, now each and every one of those heads turned away, almost like a fan of faces folding. The hillbillies to the sides of me and behind me did as the valley folk did, and that was to turn slightly from me. I squared my shoulders, sat down, and waited. Waited for whatever cue would come along from whatever sermon the good and holy Reverend chose this particular Sunday night. There was suspense in the air, a silence pregnant with ill will. Perched uneasily in the pew, I thought of Logan and his parents, wondering if they had chosen tonight to come to church. I slipped my eyes around as best I could without turning my head, hoping and fearing to see the Stonewalls.
Then, suddenly, heads were again turning to stare at an old man who was hobbling with a stiffkneed gait down the center aisle. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but I saw him nevertheless in my peripheral vision--coming to sit beside me!
It was Grandpa!
My own grandpa, whom I had seen only two days ago! Grandpa, who had pocketed the hundreddollar bills, promising vacantly to give the money to Tom. And here he was, far from Florida and Georgia, grinning at me shyly, showing the sad state of his toothless mouth. Then he whispered, "Good t'see ya. Heaven girl."
"Grandpa," I whispered. "What are you doing back here?" 1 slipped my arm about his waist and hugged him as best I could. "Did you give the money I gave you to Tom?"
"Don't like flat places," he mumbled in way of explanation, casting down his pale eyes that seemed to shed tears, though I knew they often watered.
"What about the money?"
"Tom don't want it."
I frowned, not knowing how to pursue something in the brain of an old man who didn't know how to separate reality from fantasy. "Did Pa ask you to leave?"
"Luke's a good boy. He wouldn't do that."
It made me feel good to have him at my side, lending support just with his presence. He hadn't turned away as had Keith and Our Jane. Tom must have told him I was coming to Winnerrow and he had managed to get here to give me moral support; and no doubt, Pa had the money I'd meant for Tom.
Church members turned in their pews to glare hard at us, putting cautionary fingers before pursed lips, causing Grandpa to slump down in the pew so he ended up on the end of his spine in his efforts to obediently disappear. "Sit upright," I hissed, elbowing him sharply. "Don't let them intimidate you." But Grandpa stayed where he was, clutching his worn-out old straw hat as if it were a shield.
Reverend Wise stood silent and tall and impressive behind the podium, looking directly at me. The distance from him to me was about twenty feet, still I thought I saw in his eyes something like a warning.
Obviously he'd opened the service earlier, for he didn't begin with one of his long-winded prayers that went on forever. He began in a smooth, conversational voice that was rich and compelling:
"The winter has ended. Springtime has come and gone. We are well into another summer, and soon autumn will brighten our trees, and then the snow will fall again--and what have we accomplished? Have we gained ground, or lost it? I know we have suffered and we have sinned since the day we were born, and yet our Lord in his infinite mercy has seen fit to keep us alive.
"We have laughed and we have cried, and we have fallen ill and we have recovered. There are some of us who have given birth, and some of us who have lost loved ones, for that is the way of our Lord, to give, to take, to exchange losses with gifts, to restore only to destroy with the whims of nature.
"And always, no matter how great our travail, the stream of His love carries us through, so we can gather together in places of worship like this, and celebrate life even when death is all around us, and tragedy is tomorrow's certainty, just as today and this hour and minute is our time of rejoicing. We are all blessed in hidden ways, and cursed in other ways. To hate and to harbor grudges, and to pass judgment without knowledge of circumstances is an evil comparable to murder. And though no one may know our secret hearts, there are no secrets from Him above."
Why, he was like the Bible--ambiguous--and his words could be construed to mean anything. He talked on in a chanting, sing-song tone, never taking his eyes off of me, but I had to shift my gaze or be paralyzed from pure awe, for he had that kind of mesmerizing power.
Then, out of the blend of many furtive stares I encountered the blazing rage of two hard, green eyes beneath the narrow rim of a green straw hat--glaring at me in a contemptuous way was Reva Setterton, the mother of Kitty Dennison!
Icewater trickled down my spine. How could I have come back to Winnerrow without giving a single thought to Kitty's family? Only then did I overtly glance around to see Logan, or his parents. They weren't here, thank God. My hand rose to my forehead, which grew alarmingly hot, aching and throbbing. An onrush of sensations unfamiliar to me was making me feel dizzy, unreal.
Grandpa suddenly sat up, then rose shakily to his feet, reaching for my hand so he could tug me to my feet. "Ya don't look so good," he murmured, "an' we don't belong up here." I was weak to allow him to defeat my purpose in this way, and yet for an old man his grip on my hand was strong, so strong the rings on my fingers bit into my flesh. I followed him to the back of the church, and there we again sat. An overwhelming memory of how it used to be swept over me. I was a child again, awed by the fine folks in rich new clothes, impressed by the church with its tall stained-glass windows, made humble by the God who ignored our needs and catered to those who dropped in dollars instead of small change.
The throbbing pain in my head stabbed sharply. What was I doing here? Me, a nobody, a nothing, come to do battle with the man who had to be the champion gladiator in the Winnerrow's Sunday coliseum. I glanced with some dismay around the crowded church, hoping to find one pair of friendly eyes . . . and what was it the Reverend had said to make all of them turn to glare at me?
Faces smeared into one giant blob with huge, hostile eyes, and all the security Troy's love had bestowed peeled off like new paint applied to wet wood. Trembling and weak with the hate I saw everywhere, I wanted to stand and run and drag Grandpa out of there before the lions were let out of the cages!