The Protest

2nd half of Chptr. 1

In a low, hard pew of The Rathcreek Fellowship of the Holy Bible, Janey fanned herself with a service bulletin. The odors of mold, wood pol­ish, and perspiration hung in the air. Moisture gathered on her neck and dampened the back of her light cotton dress.

She glanced at Jake’s stony face. Was she imagining his moodiness? Uneasiness gnawed at her. The pie ransom? Or the scene outside the church earlier?

That morning, devil’s tails had whipped up dirt in the gravel lot, lifting the hem of Janey’s dress. She was standing in the half-shade of the mighty split oak, which was rooted near The Fellowship of the Holy Bible, and had been there at the time of the building’s beginnings, so that one seemed a part of the other. Lightning had struck the tree, rending it into two trunks. One part had died, but the other trunk had somehow survived. Janey stood in its shade, and the breeze felt good in the eternal heat. She hadn’t resis­ted the skirt’s billowy sail. But Jake had been displeased by her immodesty.

What was so wrong? It was only the wind, and a glimpse of her knee, nothing unnatural about that.

But she should have known better. The slight frown, the way Jake avoided her now. Why was it so difficult to be good? Other wives didn’t seem to struggle as she did. What was wrong with her?

A voice caught Janey. She looked up, and as always, Reverend Logan Churlick claimed her, along with the rest of his followers. The wild black eyes, the voice. No ordinary human, Logan Churlick possessed the cool sense of purpose and towering strength of a giant Nordic god. Even when he had been jailed for an incident involving faith healing gone wrong, the guardianship of his flock was so important, he sent taped sermons back with Mrs. Churlick for each Sunday’s service. Even in jail, he seemed always everywhere.

Like Jonah’s whale, Logan Churlick had swallowed all of The Fel­lowship, and for the most part, they lived happily in his belly. Imposing, not with the bland hair, the watery blue eyes of the Norse, his black eyes reached deep into The Fellowship’s subconscious pool of guilt. Now, clapping, smiling, he sang,

“Satan’s a liar and a conjure, too!

If you don’t watch out, he’ll conjure you . . .”

Mrs. Churlick’s hands pranced over the organ keys, her strident voice above the rest.

When the singing ended, the congregation settled into its seats, revi­talized, full of spiritual juice. Jake and her parents were to Janey’s left. On her right, her best friend, Margie, and nephew, Nathan. In the stale air, the little boy fidgeted.

Margie whispered, “Now you be quiet, honey. Shhh,” and gave the boy her keys. He settled down, then the keys clattered to the floor. Nathan stood on his sturdy two-year-old legs, turned and waved at Mrs. Scanlan in the pew behind. Margie pulled him to her lap. He howled and several heads turned.

“Nathan, the devil’s got into you this morning!” Margie scolded. “Why can’t you sit still?” He struggled, then slipped to the floor, where Margie, unable to quiet the child, left him to whine. She gathered up her belongings and prepared to gather her nephew.

A paper airplane glided past Nathan, a service bulletin folded to a point, wings flaring with church announcements. The little boy looked with wonder in the direction from which the plane had come. Janey waved with a finger.

Then, Jake squeezed her other hand, and she let out a little cry. More than the pain, she felt the sting of her husband’s rebuke. Hers was not exactly church conduct, but she had helped quiet the child, hadn’t she? With Jake, she was to have no mind of her own, no will, no ambition, but to be the perfect wife, with a personality of paste.