Revival Season - Monica West (recommended ebook reader TXT) 📗

I turned quickly, running on the path that led back to the main tent. When I blinked in the brightness, I couldn’t see Ma at all. I could see only the man motionless on the ground, his eyes searching, the deacons’ circle swarming him until he couldn’t fight anymore, the red streaks of blood on Papa’s hands.

FOUR

In bed that night, I waited for the cones of Papa’s headlights to cut through the darkness. All sound had been wrung out of the air; even the crickets seemed to have gone silent. Hours must have passed, but I was still awake when sunrise crept across the horizon’s threshold, scattering its rays through the slatted blinds.

Papa had never spent a night away from the house during revival season.

Across the room, Hannah was in the middle of a deep sleep, not even stirring at sunrise, when Ma would have normally been making breakfast. I rose on sore limbs, my neck a knot of nerves, and passed the closed bedroom door where Ma had slept alone. In the kitchen, early-morning sunlight caught the teardrop-shaped glass pieces on the gold chandelier, refracting its brightness into prisms on the walls. My hands, desperate for something to do, opened cupboards that revealed unopened boxes of cereal, packets of hot chocolate, and pancake mix, but my stomach lurched at the thought of eating.

As I sat down at the table empty-handed, Ma walked into the kitchen, a few pink foam curlers askew beneath her multicolored scarf. She walked past me, nodding slightly, and turned to the front door where the lock hadn’t budged since we entered last night.

“Morning, Miriam.” She was usually chipper in the morning, but this greeting was clipped and emotionless. A minute later, Caleb wiped his eyes and yawned as he came from his bedroom in a ratty secondhand T-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. If Papa had been back, Caleb would have already been dressed in his suit, ready to prepare for another day’s service.

“Where is he?” Caleb asked as he began rooting through the cupboard doors that I must have forgotten to close. Ma cleared her throat, preparing an answer for him. What could she say? It was obvious that she had no idea, especially as she kept touching the screen of her cell phone that hadn’t pinged since she’d been at the table.

“I’m going to see about Hannah,” I said before Ma could open her mouth to give Caleb some unsatisfactory answer.

As I walked closer to Hannah’s bed, she stretched her arms overhead. Scooping her out of the tangle of sheets, I lowered her body to the carpet before opening the duffel bag and scattering a few toys around the room. I held Tiger’s floppy body several feet from where she was splayed.

She closed her slack mouth and pursed her lips. One arm was pressed against the gray carpet, and the muscles in her neck tensed as she brought her right arm up to meet her left. Her limp legs spread out behind her as her arms did all the work. Between her grunts, scattered pieces of Ma’s conversation with Caleb were audible. Something about thinking time and space. I realized she knew nothing about why he was still out, what had happened behind the tent.

Hannah made her way to a block and brought it close to her face. Her eyes widened in wonder. Part of me wanted to see the world her way: each ridge in the block the crag in a mountainside, the carpet fibers sea anemones. I wanted to be able to forget last night too—the blood on Papa’s hands, the thunk from his fist hitting the man’s jaw. As Hannah reached me, I tried to smile as I handed Tiger to her.

As Hannah stroked Tiger with her flattened palm, I heard a rumble through the bedroom window. Papa. Crawling to the windowsill, I parted the blinds with my finger. The knot on his formerly perfect tie was loosened; it hung in the middle of his chest like an anchor. His suit jacket dangled from his index finger, and the knees of his new pants were darkened with a thick reddish-brown substance that could have been mud or blood. A thunderstorm percolated behind him on the horizon as he inched closer to the house. He took slow steps toward the front door and rang the bell like a stranger.

At any moment he would be at my bedroom door with an explanation for what had happened. A failed healing could be the result of a faith issue. As for the violence, maybe the man had even attacked him and I hadn’t seen it. And even though Papa was a minister, he was a man first, and men needed to defend themselves. There had to be an explanation, and once Papa gave it to us, we could help him string together the right combination of words so that the congregation could understand why he had yielded to the temptation of violence. There was a litany of lines that other preachers had used over the years: I ask for your forgiveness. I, too, am a sinner saved by grace. Pray for me, all ye gathered here, because the devil is busy.

I left Hannah in the middle of the floor and rounded the corner just as Ma threw open the front door. Trailing Papa inside the house, Ma caught his suit jacket before it hit the ground and quickly straightened until she was upright. Yesterday, Ma had ironed his clean dress shirt into pristine pleats; now, flecks of blood like polka dots were on his chest and sleeves. His right hand hung limp by his side, his knuckles bandaged with threadbare gauze. Ma must have seen it as soon as I did because she gasped and grabbed his hand.

“Where were you? And what happened to your hand?”

“Nowhere. Nothing.” He snatched his hand from her and winced as it snapped back