To Helen Back by Susan McBride Page B

Helen said, joining in with the congregation’s dutiful reply.
    He shuffled the notes he’d set to the side of a Bible stuffed with bookmarks. “I’d like to thank you all for coming on this particular Sunday morning. I know the past several days have been hard on all of us, so it’s especially good to see you here.” He nodded his head, but Helen saw no trace of a smile. “I’d also like to thank my daughter, Madeline,” he added, gesturing at the girl. “She’s agreed to play for us again, as Emma’s still not up to par, though she’s certainly in our prayers.”
    Helen glanced up from her seat in the sixth row, peering between the heads before her. Madeline Fister did not acknowledge her father’s words; indeed, she sat on the bench at the organ, her hands in her lap, eyes downcast.
    She looked, Helen thought, truly miserable. Her complexion was more sallow than during the funeral service, if that was possible. Her hair hung limply in her eyes without a headband to restrain it. The dark strands fell about her like a half-drawn curtain.
    “I think a most appropriate theme for this morning’s sermon is truth,” Fister said, and paused to clear his throat. Then he gripped the pulpit with both hands. “In these difficult times we live in, it seems that this much-valued quality of truth has become more and more elusive. What we find in its stead is dishonesty. Lies. Empty promises that can never be fulfilled.” His voice slipped into its soothing monotone, the sound of it so lulling that Helen was tempted to close her eyes and nod off.
    Beside her, Clara Foley yawned unabashedly, stirring up the hair on the head of the fellow in the pew before her. Helen gave Clara a nudge, and she covered her open mouth with the palm of her hand.
    “Why is it so hard for us to be honest with each other? Why does it seem so impossible to be our true selves every minute of each day instead of donning masks for different occasions?” Fister asked, and his dark eyes swept across the room. “Can we halt the spread of lies,” he went on, “and instead speak only what is real, what is right?”
    Helen found herself looking down at her hands, and she fiddled with her wedding ring. Clara shifted her rather ample rear end, bumping Helen and muttering an apology before she stopped fidgeting. Helen heard a smattering of coughs and then what sounded like a snore.
    “Mark, Chapter Four,” Fister said, and tapped a finger to the thick Bible before him as he read: “ ‘And he said to them, “Is there a lamp brought to be put under a bushel, or under a bed, and not on a stand? For there is nothing hid, except to be made manifest; nor is anything secret, except to come to light . . .” ’ ”
    Despite how hard she tried to focus, Helen’s mind wandered, and she glanced at those around her. She thought of Milton Grone’s widow and wondered if she’d attended the service. Though she sought out the frizzy blond mop that identified Shotsie Grone, she couldn’t find her. Helen knew she hadn’t seen her upon entering the chapel. Perhaps Shotsie had come in late and slipped into a pew farther back. Or, more likely, she hadn’t come at all. Milton had never been a churchgoer, and Shotsie always seemed to follow his lead.
    Delilah had not lived quite as much in Milton’s shadow. She’d made an impression on the town all her own after she wed Milt several decades before. Before their children were born, she’d tried joining the bridge club for a spell and had once volunteered at the annual bake sale. But her attempt to blend in had been brief and ineffective.
    Shotsie had been more invisible. Many townsfolk had not even known what Milton’s second wife looked like until a year or more after the couple was married.
    Helen tried to recall if Milton Grone had ever attended a town meeting. After a moment’s pause, she nodded as a vivid image came suddenly to mind. On a Thursday night after Gerald Grone had died, Milton strode into