The Last Days of Summer by Vanessa Ronan Page B

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