The Promise of Jesse Woods by Chris Fabry Page B

the medication she’s on.”
    “You want me to keep her company?”
    She pulled my tie tight. “Get in the car, Matt.”
    Red, spine-worn hymnals populated the pew back in front of me. I sat alone in the third row, feeling every eye of the congregation and tugging at my collar. My mother had insisted I have a haircut, so my father buzzed me the day before and stray hairs scratched. The church had not invested in air-conditioning, so the windows were open and the large ceiling fans were working overtime. They did little to quell the heat. As a heavy child, I was used to sweating even in winter. But sweating outside, riding your bike with the wind in your face, was different from sweating in your Sunday best.
    The song leader, Gerald Grassley, was a middle-aged man with a mustache between a prominent nose andjutting chin. He had a car and lawn mower repair shop in Dogwood that gave free oil changes to widows. Though he tried to clean them, his fingernails were always a shade of black and he wore extra Brut to cover up the smell of ether and gasoline that seemed to leak through his pores.
    Gerald’s arm rose and fell the same way to any song he led, no matter the time signature. He had a nasal twang when he spoke and sang, like a younger Grandpa Jones, but his pitch wasn’t bad and he seemed to enjoy song leading. His job was to get everybody started at the same place and everybody stopped when the song was over, but whatever happened in the middle was up to God and the congregation.
    To his right were empty choir chairs in a loft section beside the pulpit. Those would be filled once my mother recruited eligible singers. Behind was the baptistery, a cutout section in the knotty pine walls that looked like an oversize window flanked by velvet curtains. There was a mural on the wall behind it painted by an art teacher from a nearby high school. It was a peaceful scene of trees and hills, and a stream flowed from top to bottom, ending in the baptismal waters. Something was off in the scale, though, because the trees in the foreground were smaller than those on the hills and the sparrow that sat on the limb of a sycamore looked the size of a crow. When you stared at it long enough, you got vertigo.
    I peeked over my shoulder to see if Jesse and Dickie might have arrived, but every head turned toward me,including that of a girl with a pink ribbon in her hair and a dress suitable for Easter Sunday. That had to be Gwen.
    I stared at the bulletin, scanning the names of church leaders. The order of service was printed on a mimeograph machine that made every e on the page look like an o with a faint, crooked line through it. The page had been printed crooked, so you had to hold it at an angle. After the words Introduction of Now Pastor , the name Basil Blackwood was printed.
    Even with the uneven printing I recognized the man who owned the horse. My heart sank and I scooted down in the seat as he stepped to the pulpit.
    “As you all know, we’ve gone and hired a new shepherd. Calvin Plumley grew up here, just down the road from me. He comes from a good family. A little mistaken in their politics, of course.”
    The congregation gave a reserved laugh.
    “He has two children, one still in the nest,” Mr. Blackwood said. “And his wife, Ramona, has graciously agreed to accompany us each week and get the choir started again. Anybody who wants to be in the choir, be here at five o’clock tonight before the evening service.”
    My mother stood at the piano and nodded, then lifted a hand toward me to stand. I was far down in the pew, trying to avoid the gaze of the man in the pulpit, but when my mother didn’t relent, I stood. I lost my balance and grabbed the pew in front of me, nearly rocking it over. It banged with a terrific crack and I waved as I sat. The girl with the ribbon smiled.
    Mr. Blackwood stared at me as if the abomination of desolation had just entered the Temple.
    “We’ve made it clear the reason we’re bringing