Norman concludes by thanking the congregation for its massive and continuing support for Leigh. He reminds them of the trial date and asks for everyone’s prayers. Leigh probably sits down front with her mother to keep an eye on her. I wonder if Pearl lays off the sauce on Sundays in deference to her husband. I have no hope of speaking to Leigh even if she is at this service.
Surely Chet has told Norman how uncooperative she is being. If I had to place a bet right now, Leigh shot her husband in a fight over the church, and the guilt is eating her up. She doesn’t want to hurt her father’s ministry, so she is claiming innocence. Unless somebody (and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be one of her lawyers) wakes her up, she may be facing a long stretch in Pine Bluff. If she would come clean, I have no doubt that considering how much Jill Marymount, the prosecutor, fears Chet, we could whittle this down to manslaughter in a plea bargain and get her back on the street in less than three years. As it stands right now, Leigh’s clinging to an obviously false story is ridiculous.
I can’t imagine that Chet hasn’t had a come-to Jesus meeting with her, and she is too smart not to get the point. Something weird is going on, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out.
After a few announcements, the collection plates appear.
(Dan Bailey said that the only good thing about weddings and funerals is that they don’t put the bite on you.) This church doesn’t need my money, but with Rainey and Sarah flanking each side, I feel pressure to give something, and drop in a five-dollar bill. Rainey tears off a check, but I can’t see the amount. Looking around the vast structure I marvel at the number crammed in here and don’t see an empty seat. I wonder where Chet and his family are sitting. Probably in the front row. There had been a service at eight-thirty as well, which Rainey said was also full. They are considering adding a third Sunday service. Rainey whispers, “You didn’t have to give anything.”
“It won’t break me,” I mumble against her ear. The music alone was worth five bucks. While ushers move the plates from row to row, a woman with hair down to her butt sings a couple of solos. She is accompanied by a guy on acoustic guitar and is dynamite.
Sarah, who has been motionless throughout, punches me with her elbow and says softly, “Isn’t she incredible?” I nod, as usual amazed at the level of talent in Blackwell County. We’ve got musicians who could make it anywhere.
After another prayer, Norman asks that anyone who feels moved to profess that Jesus Christ is his or her personal Lord and Savior should come forward at this time. As the band plays “Amazing Grace,” I feel myself tensing up. If Sarah wants to go, I can’t very well drag her out of the place kicking and screaming. She watches closely as a couple of women in their twenties walk quickly down the aisle. The song played on guitar is electrifying. Maybe it is the atmosphere, but this version is even more moving than the one sung years ago by Judy Collins. The emotion in the place is over whelming as she warbles, ” ‘… that saved a wretch,” ” and then when notes go up high during ” ‘like me,” ” a chill runs down my spine. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Sarah turns and says, “I have to go. Daddy.”
For an undeniable instant I am tempted to get up with her, but I know I won’t.
“Don’t you want to think about it?” I say more loudly than I intend, but she shakes her head and pushes up from her seat.
Rainey grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“She’ll be okay” I watch forlornly as Sarah walks quickly down to the front. I don’t doubt the sincerity of her feelings, but this is so obviously simply naked emotion. Damn these people! They’re slick as politicians. If you’re psychologically vulnerable at all, they suck you right in. This is like some boy trying to get in her pants. Come on, baby, I love you, and it’ll feel so good if you’ll just come on down. Hell, I know she’s searching for something.
You’re supposed to be, if you’re her age and not brain dead. But this is the kind of act she’ll regret sooner or later when she wakes up and realizes what happened.
Yet who am I to say? My life, since Rosa died hasn’t been such a success. What answers have I given her?
She doesn’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to figure out that this country’s culture is long on form and short on substance. An attention span of thirty minutes is more than enough to get you by. If you’re lucky, you can make a nice living and worship the free enterprise system but Sarah better not get too excited about it because it’ll make her sick at her stomach when she really sees how much humanity has fallen between the cracks.
The truth is, I haven’t got anything to offer her but my own anxieties. Death and taxes, you can count on them, Sarah. Wow, Dad, did you make that up? My love for Sarah will be worth at least a couple of lines on a Hall mark card at Christmas when she’s grown up and got a family of her own but is pretty cold comfort right now to a seventeen-year-old girl who admits to lying awake at three o’clock in the morning wondering why she’s alive and her mother is dead. Down front there must be twenty-five men, women, and children. Norman says a prayer, and asks them to remain after the service for a while.
“If you want to go on home,” Rainey says kindly, “I’ll wait for her and get us a ride.”
“What is he going to do?” I ask, feeling more morose by the moment. We are on our feet for the last song.
“She’ll probably come home with a cross branded on her forehead,” I say pathetically.
Rainey giggles at such nonsense.
“He’ll ask if they want to begin participating in a family that meets here a couple of times a week. If she does, one of his assistants will take some information from her, and they’ll match her up by Monday and give her a call.”
I strain to catch a glimpse of Sarah, who has been moved off to the side with the rest of the group. They’ll probably want her to turn over her paycheck from her part-time job.
“Maybe I should wait, too. I need to introduce myself to Norman, anyway.”
As Norman gives the benediction, Rainey shakes her head.
“I wouldn’t try to approach him now. Call him to morrow.”
Why? I wonder. It seems to me he would be more accessible in the afterglow of bagging converts, especially the child of one of his daughter’s lawyers. Still, Rainey has a better feel than I do for the way business is done around here, so I nod, glumly resigned to seeing Sarah only a couple of more times the rest of her life. I stare down the aisle again trying to find her, but with the service over, my view is blocked by the hundreds of people heading for the exits.
“Gideon!”
In the parking lot I look up and squint in the direction of the bright noon sun. I can’t believe it.
“What are you doing here, Amy?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“What are you doing here?” Amy Gilchrist asks, a smirk on her elfin face. Amy is an old friend from law school who made it into the prosecutor’s office and was on her way to trying major cases when she became pregnant and had an abortion, incurring the disfavor of her boss. She is now in private practice with a group of lawyers almost as motley as our crew in the Layman Building. Lively, sarcastic, and humorous, Amy is scrapping for clients as hard as I am.
“God only knows,” I say, surveying Amy’s figure.
“I’m really just visiting because a friend invited me.” I am embarrassed to admit I came with Rainey and that my daughter is still inside getting hot boxed by the head cheese. Amy seems always on the verge of carrying too much weight for her compact frame. Still, perhaps because she is so likable, the total effect is pleasing to the eyes. Dressed in a knee-length black-and-white-checked skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse, she seems more chaste and modest than usual.
“Being seen at Christian Life isn’t an indictable offense,” she says, giving me a frank once-over, too.
“As you can see, some of the best people in town are members.”
From time to time, I had thought about violating my self-imposed pledge not to date women so much younger than myself and asking Amy out. I can’t imagine it now. Why is she coming out here? Yet why shouldn’t she be? It hasn’t been that long since she admitted to me she’d had an abortion in the last year. As traumatic as that must be, that would definitely get you to wondering if your compass was pointed toward north.