"They are better than you think," she said.
"They are better than they think," he told her. "Why are they satisfied with so little?"
"This is their home; mine too. Home is not a little thing."
"I'm not saying it is. But can't you even imagine what it must feel like to have a true home? I don't mean heaven. I mean a real earthly home. Not some fortress you bought and built up and have to keep everybody locked in or out. A real home. Not some place you went to and invaded and slaughtered people to get. Not some place you claimed, snatched because you got the guns. Not some place you stole from the people living there, but your own home, where if you go back past your great-great-grandparents, past theirs, and theirs, past the whole of Western history, past the beginning of organized knowledge, past pyramids and poison bows, on back to when rain was new, before plants forgot they could sing and birds thought they were fish, back when God said Good! Good! — there, right there where you know your own people were born and lived and died. Imagine that, Pat. That place. Who was God talking to if not to my people living in my home?"
"You preaching, Reverend."
"No, I'm talking to you, Pat. I'm talking to you."
The final clapping began when the children broke the circle and lined up for their bows. Anna Flood rose when the audience did, pushing her way through to where Pat and Richard stood, animated, eyes locked. Both women had been subjected to speculation about which one the new and young and single and handsome preacher would favor. Anna and Pat were the only single women of a certain age available.
Unless the new preacher liked them much younger, he'd have to choose between these two. Two years ago, Anna had won-she was sure of it-hands down. So far. Now she moved toward Richard smiling broadly, hoping to freeze the tongues of anyone who might think otherwise seeing him prefer Pat's company to hers during the Christmas play. They were careful in their courtship, never touching in public. When she cooked supper for him they made sure the parsonage blazed with light, and he drove or walked her home by seven-thirty for all Ruby to see. Still, no date having been set, tongues might get restive. More than seemly behavior, however, was on her mind: Richard's eye light. It seemed dulled to her lately. As though he'd lost a battle on which his life depended.
She got to him just before the crowd surged out, pressing toward the food tables, chatting, laughing.
"Hi, Pat. What happened to you, Richard?"
"Sick as a dog there for a minute," he said. "Come on. Let's stand outside before it starts up again."
They said goodbye and left Pat to decide whether she wanted to talk to happy parents, mind the food table or leave. She had decided on the last when Carter Seawright stepped on her foot. "Oh. Excuse me, Miss Best. I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Carter, but please calm yourself down."
"Yes, m'am."
"And don't forget. Right after the holidays, you and I have a makeup lesson. January sixth, you hear?"
"I be there, Miss Best."
"Is that 'I'll'? 'I'll be there'?"
"Yes, m'am, Miss Best. I will."
In the kitchen heating water for tea, Pat banged the cupboard door so hard the cups rattled. It was a toss-up as to whose behavior had annoyed her most, Anna's or her own. At least she could understand Anna: protecting her stake. But why had she defended people and things and ideas with a passion she did not feel? The deep weeping pleasure the audience took from the play disgusted her. All that nonsense she had grown up with seemed to her like an excuse to be hateful.
Richard was right to ask, why seven and not nine? Pat had seen the play all her life, although she had never been chosen for any part other than the choir. That was when Soane taught school-before she even noticed the singularity of the numbers. It was some time later that she saw there were only eight. By the time she understood that the Cato line was cut, there was another erasure. Who? There were only two families who were not part of the original nine but had come to Haven early enough to have a kind of associate status: the Jurys (although their grandson, Harper, had married a Blackhorse original-good for him) and her father's father: Fulton Best. They didn't count as originals, so it had to be-who? Surely not the Floods if Anna married Richard Misner. Wouldn't that count? Could Richard save the Flood line? Or was it the Pooles, because of Billie Delia? No. There were shiploads of males in that family. It would be proof of Apollo's or Brood's dalliance, but if that were a deterrent, the Morgans themselves had been in grave danger until K. D. married Arnette. And if Arnette had a son rather than a daughter, how much safer their position would be. The Fleetwoods' too. Since Jeff and Sweetie had not measured up, Arnette was critical to both families.
The tea was ready, and Pat leaned over it, frowning, and so intent on puzzling the problem out that she did not hear Roger enter until he stood in the doorframe.
"You left too early," he said. "We caroled some."
"Yes? Oh. Well." Pat dredged up a smile.
"Missed some good cake too." He yawned. "Took up a good collection for Lone afterwards. Lord, that's a crazy woman." Too tired to laugh, Roger shook his head and smiled. "But she was good in her day." He turned to leave, saying, "Well, good night, baby. I have to squeal tires early tomorrow."
"Daddy." Pat spoke to his back.
"Uh huh?"
"Why do they change it? There used to be nine families in the play. Then eight for years and years. Now seven."
"What're you talking about?"
"You know."
"No. I don't know."
"The play. How the holy families get fewer and fewer."
"Kate does all that. And Nathan. Picking the children, I mean.
Maybe they didn't have enough for the usual size."
"Daddy." He must have heard the doubt in her tone.
"What?" If he did, it didn't show.
"It was skin color, wasn't it?"
"What?"
"The way people get chosen and ranked in this town."
"Aw, no. Well, there might have been a little offense taken-long ago. But nothing hard."
"No? What about what Steward said when you got married?"
"Steward? Oh, well, the Morgans are very serious about themselves.
Too serious sometimes."
Pat blew in her cup.
Roger met her silence and then returned to a less uncomfortable topic.
"I thought the play was pretty nice, myself. We have to do something about Nathan, though. He ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer anymore." Then, as an afterthought, "What Reverend Misner have to say for himself? Looked awful serious back there." She didn't look up. "Just… talk."