A Misty Mourning by Rett MacPherson

and why my grandmother seemed fairly intent on not discussing it.

Eleven
    G ert and I sat in the third pew from the front on the left-hand side of the church when facing the altar. Shiny hardwood floors reflected everything from the rays of sunlight filtering through the long garden-style windows to my feet, tapping lightly to the sounds of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” The walls were plain and brilliant white, and there was no overexhausted ornamentation anywhere within the church walls. The podium was wooden with a cross carved into it, situated just slightly to the left on the altar and a large pine cross hung from the ceiling above the altar. That was it. No other decorations or distractions.
    The preacher was a jolly-looking man, with round wire spectacles and a head that was semibald except for the ring of white cotton that started at one temple and wound around the bottom of his head to the other temple. It looked as though somebody had shaved the entire top portion of his head and buffed it until it shined, then glued cotton balls along the bottom portion. As if that weren’t enough puffy stuff, his beard was also full and cottony, his pink lips supplying the only color, peering out of the cotton. His voice was raspy, but pleasant, and he shook his jowls when emphasizing a particular word or phrase. He kept his thumbs hooked in his belt,and every now and then he would rub his belly, which could rival my third-trimester belly.
    Today’s sermon was about the temptations of the flesh. Gluttony, alcohol, and sex seemed to be his primary focus. He talked about taking only what was yours and not borrowing your neighbor’s and how it wouldn’t hurt for us, as Americans, to give up some of our comforts for those less fortunate in other parts of the world. I agreed with him on all of it, but I couldn’t help but wonder how many meals he’d given up for the sake of starving people the world over. It had long been a source of great guilt for me, the things that my family and I had, and yet. . . just over the horizon was always something else that we wanted. Was it that we were never satisfied, or was it that our goals changed? Or was that the same thing?
    Also in attendance this morning was Lafayette Hart, seated in the very front pew on our side. Susan Henry, the cook, was seated on the right-hand side halfway back. “Brother Hart,” as the pastor kept calling Lafayette, would raise his hand every now and then, and he always led the congregation in singing.
    â€œBrother Hart,” the pastor would say, “lead us in song.” And Lafayette would stand and begin the song by himself until everybody else recognized the music that he’d chosen and joined in.
    â€œAnd the sanctity of the physical relationship,” the pastor said, “of man and wife. . . is the greatest gift two people can give each other.”
    I thought about Rudy and was amazed at the overwhelming desire I had to see him. I’d only been gone two nights, and I really and truly missed him. I also thought of the girls and how they were probably sitting on the couch in their pajamas, eating Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and watching Pokémon. Suddenly I wanted to go home.
    â€œBut never should you take that sacred act beyond the walls of your marriage,” the pastor said. “And consume not the wickedness of alcohol. The spirits. Booze.”
    It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn therewere a few people squirming in their seats. The pastor slammed his hand down on the podium so hard that the microphone nearly toppled over.
    â€œIt is pure evil. The root of everything bad,” he said. “Brothers and sisters, when you feel the need to drink, open your Bibles. Turn to God. Brothers and sisters, the alcohol you have in your house— that six-pack of beer. The half a fifth of whiskey or gin. That bottle of wine you keep saying that you use for cookin’ those