The Last Days of Summer (9 page)

The reverend pales. He opens his mouth to speak, but words fail him and he sits, mouth gaping wide, as though his jaw, long overworked, has finally broken down. Jasper's eyes sparkle as he watches the other man's discomfort. He pulls a chair out from the table, letting its legs screech as they scrape across the floor, and seats himself beside the reverend. Sips his coffee, smiles, blows once on the brew, then places the mug on the table to cool. To her surprise, Lizzie finds words have left her, too. She rises quickly, and a burst of blood shoots up into her head, dizzying her. She blinks to steady herself. To regain vision. Crosses the room and reaches across the counter and grabs the dish towel and comes back to the table and wipes up the coffee the reverend spilled. Coffee stains right through the fabric as it soaks it up.

Jasper pushes his chair back from the table so he can stretch his legs out long. Leans his weight back so that the chair's two front legs rise up off the floor. Just a little bit. He crosses his arms behind his head, the fabric of his flannel shirt pulling up a bit to partially expose his stomach. Dark hairs twist and curl out of the gap between it and his jeans. Mama would have been ashamed seeing him sit in front of the reverend like that. And, for Mama's
sake, Lizzie feels her own blood begin to simmer, even as another part of her can't help but share in Jasper's amusement at the reverend's open trout-mouthed stare. As she walks back to the sink and wrings out the towel, Lizzie imagines smacking Jasper, like Mama would have. Imagines the sound the chair would make as the wooden legs hit the linoleum. Wordlessly, she rinses, then twists the towel dry. Shakes it.

‘Yessir,' Jasper says cheerfully, at the table behind her. ‘Sure has been an awful long time since I heard a proper sermon. Can't exactly say the services inside were inspired.' And he chuckles softly, almost to himself. ‘What's Sunday's topic, Reverend?'

The reverend's mouth closes sharply. Reopens. He looks down at the table where the coffee had spilled. Blinks as though expecting it still to be there. Glances around quickly, uncertainly, as he struggles to regain his composure. No joy in the false cheer of his voice when he answers, but then again, Lizzie thinks, for once no falseness either.

‘Forgiveness.'

A fly brushes past Lizzie's cheek, buzzing loudly in her ear, and she fumbles and almost drops the dish towel mid-fold. She lays it down flat on the counter and irons it with her hands till the wrinkles spread and dissolve smooth. Shakes it once and hangs it back up on the rack, then turns, walks back to the table and sits down. Back straight.

‘Forgiveness.' Jasper rolls the word off his tongue slowly, as though trying it, tasting it, for the first time. ‘Forgiveness.' He nods slowly, looking down towards his
feet. Unhooks his hands from behind his head and leans forward in his chair, elbows on knees, head down, hands entwined before him in a single clasped fist. Almost like praying. Almost.

Lizzie takes a sip of her coffee. Holds the mug to feel the heat of the brew relax into her palms. Glances at the reverend. His face still unnaturally pale. Tries to force her own voice sweet. ‘More coffee, Reverend?'

He looks at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. ‘Oh …' Looks back down into his mug. Still half full. ‘Uh, no, Elizabeth, uh, thank you, no …' and his words fade as his eyes drift back to focus on the man beside him.

‘Forgiveness,' Jasper says again. And then he nods. A solid, definitive nod. He sits up straight and meets the reverend's eyes. ‘That's a mighty fine topic for a sermon, Reverend.'

‘Why … uh … thank you, Jasper.' The reverend looks awkward there in the kitchen sitting in that chair. Too stiff. Straight-backed when his frame seems more accustomed to slouching. Oversized. Uncomfortable. Somehow it never seemed so strange to see him sitting there back when Mama was alive. But that was a long time ago now, over cups of coffee long since rinsed and dried.

‘ 'N' what was your sermon on last week, Reverend?'

Lizzie can guess how much it costs him, can see the stress slowly etching into the reverend's sweaty brow, but he meets Jasper's stare, his own gaze steady, firm. Despite herself, Lizzie respects him for that. Just a little.

‘Being kind unto one's neighbour.' His voice does not
crack. Does not falter. It's the voice from the pulpit on Sunday mornings. The voice she used to tune out when Bobby would brush her fingertips in the pew.

Jasper smiles. ‘ 'N' next week, Reverend?'

‘Well … I haven't yet decided. One week at a time, son, one week at a time.'

The two men regard each other in silence for a moment. Jasper's eyes do not leave the reverend's face. ‘I reckon that's an important lesson to learn. Forgiveness.'

‘Well, yes, Jasper. Forgiveness is a fine thing. A powerful thing. Something earned.' His eyes shift, sizing Jasper up. Taking him in. ‘Though all Jesus's lessons were important.' He smiles. ‘I would hope you've remembered that.' He forces a chuckle, the sound a hollow echo in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

From outside another burst of Joanne's laughter drifts in, only to fade as quickly as it came, leaving the kitchen once more still. A chill creeps down Lizzie's spine and makes her shudder, though the room itself cooks oven hot. Not much of a breeze blows in the open window and, though early, the day's already a scorcher. Lizzie wonders at the chill.
Maybe it's just me.
A fly buzzes and settles on the press and Lizzie watches it a moment. Its front legs rise and rub together, then touch its face. She waits to hear its buzz, but even the fly seems silent.

The reverend clears his throat. Shifts his large frame in his chair. Lizzie's eyes move from fly to reverend to brother and back again. And again. Gaze unable to settle. To rest.

At length, Jasper reaches forward and grabs hold of his mug and takes a long, slow sip. ‘Oh, I remember,
Reverend, I remember.' Words soft as a breeze. As gentle. He smiles. ‘Jesus said to turn the other cheek, didn't he?'

‘Yes …'

‘ 'N' he said repent, 'n' he'd forgive. Ain't that right?'

The reverend's cheeks pinken, though whether from discomfort or heat, Lizzie cannot be certain. He pauses a moment, weighing his words. His options. ‘That's right.'

Jasper nods. Smiles slightly. ‘And what do you think, Reverend? Do you think God forgives?'

‘If you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins. Matthew six: fourteen.' Spoken in that pulpit voice. Unwavering.

Lizzie looks at her brother. His face is soft. The softest she's seen it since … well, since long before.

As she watches, Jasper nods again. No rush to his action, as though his movements operate suspended in some sort of uncertainty. He says, ‘Now I don't mean no disrespect, Reverend, but I was hoping for your thoughts on this, not words straight from the Bible.'

‘The Bible is God's word, son. I was under the impression it was His forgiveness you were enquiring about.' Cold words despite the plastered-on smile. Cold eyes above it.

‘It was your sermon I asked after.'

The reverend picks up his coffee, then sets the mug down without taking a sip. He opens his mouth to speak again, that same trout-mouthed pause. Says nothing.

To Lizzie's amazement, Jasper smiles. No malice in his eyes, no anger hidden in his lips. It's the warmest smile
Lizzie's seen cross his face these last few days. The warmest she's seen since long before the trouble started. She wonders why he hasn't smiled like that at her. At her girls.

‘You know,' Jasper says, ‘I always liked that thought – turning the other cheek. That's forgiveness, ain't it? Reckon that always made sense to me somehow.'

She puts her mug down too hard on the table and it rattles against the wood as it spins for balance. Loud. Too loud in the quiet of the kitchen. Both men turn to her, startled, as though they had forgotten she was there. She gets up from the table fast, cheeks burning, anger rising, though she's not sure exactly why.
It's that smile. That goddamn smile.
That smile that is not hers. The scrape of her chair against the linoleum as she rises from the table startles her. She snaps, ‘Doesn't work no more once you've turned both cheeks.' Then she turns and walks to the sink, empties and rinses out her mug.

‘Elizabeth …' Confusion in the reverend's tone.

She cuts him off. Turns back to face the men. Can't hold back. Doesn't try to. Feels herself crumble, dissolve, melt before them, and even as the words slip off her tongue, she already regrets them, regrets being so raw. Being seen so raw. ‘Reverend, I appreciate your faith. I appreciate your new-found, overbearing Christian concern for myself and my daughters. I can appreciate that you've come here with all your best Christian intentions. But God turned His back on this family long ago. 'N' it don't matter none how many cheeks are turned. The slaps just keep on comin'. So I'd kindly appreciate it if you 'n' all your moral concerns regarding myself 'n' my brother 'n' my family would kindly leave us the fuck alone. Sure as
heck we need help. We need healin'. I ain't too proud to admit that. I ain't sayin' we's OK 'n' things out here is perfect. But God ain't gonna patch us up, Reverend. He ain't been out here listenin' to none of our prayers. 'N' I won't have neither of you puttin' such ideas in my girls' heads. What we got out here is each other. 'N' God got nothin' to do with that. Not any more. Far as I see it, not ever.'

Silence thick in the kitchen as her words fade out. Not even a drip from the faucet. Not even the buzz of a fly.

Then Jasper's voice, cotton soft. Softer. Goosedown soft. Feathers flying. She feels the fire leave her eyes as she meets his. Her brother's eyes. Sad and lonely and understanding. ‘God still listens.'

Silence between them.

Silence around them.

She turns back to the sink.

Behind her the reverend clears his throat. Voice forced cheery. In this moment, she hates him. For his happiness. His selfishness in their hard times, his self-righteousness. The judgements. For all the gossip she can guess he's spread around the town. Years and years of hurtful gossip.
Mama trusted you.
She can feel the falseness of his smile in his words. Doesn't turn.

‘Well, thank you for the coffee, Elizabeth.'

Jasper stands beside his sister in silence as they watch the reverend's shiny red pickup reverse down the drive. At the gate the reverend pauses and tips his hat to them before pulling out onto the road and easing back towards
town. Jasper raises his hand to the other man in farewell, though does not wave. Lizzie stands in silence, arms crossed, unsmiling. They watch the pickup till it reaches the horizon, becomes a dot and disappears. Fluffy white clouds slowly drift south-east, no sign of rain inside them. The scent of roses drifts up from the garden only to fade as the breeze drops and dies down. Heat sticky on their skin. Far off, across the prairie, burned grasses meet the blue of the sky, like golden sand stretching into a waveless sea.

Lizzie saw the ocean once. Eighteen years ago. With Bobby on their honeymoon. It frightened her. The crash of the waves. Their froth and foam. And the crabs that nibbled at her toes underwater. They drove to Galveston in darkness. Windows rolled down in the pickup the whole way, and when they neared the coast, she could taste salt in the breeze. They stayed in a motel right on the beach. Three nights, four days. All they could afford. A dream come true. She heard the ocean before she ever saw it, on that dark, windy drive. A roar she could feel inside her that was like nothing on the prairie. Not even the hollow, desperate roar of winter winds that sometimes shook the house. Bobby carried her from the pickup that night right into the motel room and laid her on the bed, and that was all that mattered that first night. All that ever mattered.

Sometimes, oddly, the prairie takes her back to those sandy days. Sometimes sea and sky seem kin, and Lizzie can imagine sand between her toes again and Bobby's lips on hers. Back then, though, gazing out at different shades of blue met on the horizon, she had felt lost and
small, and had craved the comfort of the prairie around them again. She didn't tell Bobby that. She never told Bobby that. When he turned to her and said, ‘I could stay out here for ever,' she had smiled and taken his hand, and said, ‘Me, too.' But those words were lies.

Today is one of those days. One of those sea-and-sky days that bring her back. But she doesn't want to go there. Not now. Not today. She doesn't want to see the ocean again. Not without Bobby by her side.

Jasper's words bring her crashing back. To the heat. To the reverend's truck just now out of sight far off across the prairie. To her shame and pride, all tangled up and mixed together. And tangled up some more.

‘Did you mean all that in there?'

She leans against the railing of the porch, considering his question. Stares down at the rail before her. Picks a fleck of paint off it with her nails.
House could use a new coat soon.
‘Yeah, I meant it.'

Jasper nods. Silent.

She smooths a peeling fleck of paint down with her fingers, pressing it into the wood, but it does not reattach. Pops right back up the instant her finger leaves it. Softly, ‘Do you really intend to go to church on Sunday?'

He turns to her, eyes trying to read her face, but the hard, masked profile that will not meet his gaze offers up no secrets. ‘I do.'

Silence between them as they both look out over the prairie. Standing on the shaded porch, the heat is not so bad. Sticky still, but less burning than in the direct sun.
Too dry for mosquitoes, though, and that's at least somethin'.

At length, he asks, ‘Will you drive me?'

‘To church?' She turns to him, and they regard one another in silence, her body braced, his at ease.