A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

A crowd filed into the small Episcopal church, even more than I’d expected. Father Max caught my eye and shook his head. It was hard not to be cynical when you saw the likes of Roger Turpin, a tie tight around his bulging neck and tucked behind his Sunday-best overalls. He sat sprawled across the end of the pew, where delicate carvings seemed to cower under the weight of his thighs. Or Wayne Burnett sitting in the front of a church—probably the first church he’d been in since he was baptized. For them, I imagined the service wasn’t much different from the Saturday night auction behind Junior’s Automotive: a spectacle not to be missed.

I took a seat next to Abit and his parents, nodding hello. I almost didn’t recognize Abit—he looked so grownup in his shirt and tie, his hair slicked down with Brylcreem. I was worried I’d been short with him earlier in the day when he’d asked if I needed help with any chores that week. He was beside himself with enthusiasm, looking forward to having honest work, but I just couldn’t talk about the store at that moment.

Billie and her brood were in the row in front of us, and from the row behind, Cleva patted me on the back with that reassuring way of hers. I’d been in the church only three or four times, most of those since The Day, three weeks ago. Of course, the topic of church had been broached ever since I’d moved to the area, whenever I met someone for the first time. In these parts, there were two seasonal questions: “How’s your garden?” (summer) and “Do you have plenty of wood?” (winter) and two perennial questions: “Do you have good water?” and “Where do you go to church?”

Invariably, I’d stumble and stutter until someone said, “Well, you’ll just have to come to Bethany with us” (a Baptist church ten miles south) or “We’ve got the friendliest congregation at New Hope” (a Church of God group that met in the local VFW Hall and seemed to hate everyone, in all likelihood even one another). A couple of times I gave in, but found the sermons and announcements disturbing and decided I was better off staying home with Jake.

As the church filled, someone edged his way into our pew, scrunching in next to me. To make room, I scooted over closer to Abit and gave him a hug to ease any hurt feelings. He gave me that crooked smile that just killed me.

“Della?” the man who’d just settled next to me whispered, placing a hand on my arm.

I turned, then jerked my arm back as though it had been burned. I leaned so close to Abit I was practically in his lap. At first Abit thought I was playing around, but he looked at my face and knew something was wrong. I didn’t dare look over at Mildred. 

“What is it, Della?” Abit asked. I shook my head.

I panicked. I couldn’t get out, I was so squeezed into the pew. I turned back to the man and growled, “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you. Rotten luck finding the girl.”

“How did you even know about the girl, er, young woman? Or this service?”

He shrugged. “I started a subscription to the Mountain Weekly after you moved here.”

God, it was just like him. Alex Covington, my ex-husband, Mr. Hotshot at the Post, once upon a time. I thought about our local rag and felt embarrassed, but he’d had the good grace not to comment. (And I hoped he didn’t know about its wicked moniker). I was getting madder by the moment until I noticed Abit craning his neck so hard he was about to need traction. I almost laughed.

“Abit, meet Alex. Alex, meet Abit. Abit is my best friend at the store.” Abit’s face blushed as he stuck out his hand to shake. He had better manners than the educated prick next to me. The music stopped and Father Max stepped to the pulpit.

I barely heard the service. I kept thinking about Alex showing up, stealing my focus. Just like him to take over. I’d let him do that in our life together—and he was having a go at it in our life apart.

It still stung to think about how critical of me and my writing he’d always been. He became so toxic that I quit showing him my writing and ignored his comments once my articles were published. Eventually, his status was shot all to hell, but that just created new problems. When he started drowning his troubles with drink and other women, I moved out. Alex thought I was being “rash,” which only reminded me of the one I got thanks to his indiscretions.

Lost in my thoughts, I felt Abit nudging me. “It’s over Della. Let’s get out of here and go back to the store,” he said, tugging at his tie. I heard the Doxology. Time to go deal with the living.

As we filed out, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face—or more to the point, an arm. The same tattoo that had peeked beneath the hem of his Madras shirtsleeve in the woods on The Day. He’d cut his hair and shaved his beard, but he was the same guy. I started forcing my way into the crowd, struggling to get through the maze of people. They were pulling back and glaring at me, and I didn’t blame them. I must have looked crazed after seeing Alex, suffering through a funeral, and pushing my way toward Madras Man, aka Tattoo Man. But by the time I got to the front door, he was gone.