They got back on the road and in a few minutes arrived at Friends of Jesus Community Church, a one-room steepled chapel with a neighboring outbuilding. The grounds were neatly kept and teeming with people.
“Here we are,” Eleanor said. The lot appeared to be full, so she pulled off the road and parked in the grass. “I’ve been going to this church since I moved here in ’fifty-two. There’s other churches nearby but they’re all the weirdo sects. The Jehovah’s, the Mormons, the Catholics. A little history for you,” Eleanor said and leaned across the bench. “And you’re not hearing this from me, but originally the Friends was founded by a traveling evangelist, Jimmy D. Buckner. Well, everybody loved him until he was caught fondling one of his teenage congregants. Tom Sutter—that’s our pastor now—he seized his moment and took over for old Jimmy D., who of course left town utterly disgraced. Tom’s a decent man, zealous for Jesus with none of those lurid predilections that got Jimmy D. into trouble.”
Kit took note of how Eleanor lit up at the mention of scandal. It was not an interest Kit shared, and she wasn’t sure how to respond. She got out of the truck and jogged around to help Eleanor, remembering the effort it had taken her to get in. As they made their way across the grass to the buffet, Kit admired the Christmas lights strung out under the canopy of a pair of oak trees. Long picnic tables covered with butcher paper and paper towel rolls. At the far end, a portly, perspiring man with a warm expression stood over a steaming stockpot. He clacked his tongs like a crab.
“Ellie! Come, come—I’ll trade you the first serving for some of the garlic bread I smell.”
Eleanor and Kit carried the half dozen sheet pans of her famous garlic-sesame loaves, made from scratch, to the service table.
“That’s all right, Tom, we’ll wait our turn,” Eleanor said, smiling and angling slightly toward Kit. “I want you to meet my great-niece, Kit Walker.”
Tom hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he took her hand with both of his and shook it in a kindly but overly cozy way. “How do, dear? Are you hungry?”
Kit nodded and quarter-smiled. “I could eat.”
More people arrived. Kids tumbled out of the truck beds and went straight for the jungle gym; parents yelled out rote warnings to play safe and hurried to get a good spot in line; little old men helped little old ladies from their seats, making a patient, glacial trip across the lawn to a special line for seniors and handicapped. Kit shrugged back against a tree, gravely aware that she did not belong. As far as she could tell they all looked white and churchy and straitlaced. They seemed to have roles and rules and some kind of a common understanding of the way things were supposed to go. It was like being dropped in the middle of a foster family again, where everyone knew their place but her. Surely none of them had grown up with a string of strange families, or had robbed people from a young age, or hung out with prostitutes.
When she tried to imagine what it would take to be a part of this group of people, let alone enjoy them, she felt even more alone. She had never been a chameleon. And since she didn’t know how to blend in, she just had tried to disappear. Here, she would be introduced around, she was attached to Eleanor. She wondered what would be expected of her. Would she have to start going to church, or dressing nice, or laughing at people’s jokes? She didn’t know how to be anything other than what she was. Rough, suspicious, quick to anger. She feared it wouldn’t be long before she did something to let Eleanor down or even get kicked out. And where would she go then?
Eleanor turned back and squinted. “You look ill, are you morning sick?”
“No, just . . .” Kit took a breath and tried to shed the worry for now. “I never went to anything like this.”
Pastor Tom looked at his watch and banged the stockpot lid with a spoon.
“Okay, everyone, let’s hold hands and say grace.”
The whole lot of them, a couple hundred or more, found someone’s hand to hold and bowed their heads in prayer.
“Dear, gracious Lord,” he said, his tone conversational and close. “We just thank you for bringing us together tonight and for the blessings of food and shelter, and we just pray that we may be humble and serve you justly, O Lord. In Jesus Christ, Amen.”
“Amen.”
There was a chorus of rowdy hoots from the crowd and people re-formed their line with military responsiveness.
A woman came by with a chicken enchilada casserole and inserted herself in the conversation.
“You’re new,” she said to Kit, with unnerving interest. She shifted the casserole to her left hip and held out her right hand, palm facing down. “Sugar Faye Prentiss, but you can call me Sugar.” She stood nearly a foot taller than Kit and weighed a hundred pounds more. She had cherubic features with spherical chin and cheeks, a beaming complexion, thick blond hair curled and shaped into a halo the width of her shoulders. Kit would later find out she had once been a successful Avon model. A string of handsome modeling checks had bought her a tidy set of ivory teeth, at which Kit stared baldly. Four sons and an absent husband had nearly doubled her catalog measurements and only enhanced her beauty.
Kit touched what was left of her hair, wished she had a hat to cover herself.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” Sugar said, leaning in. “What happened to all your hair? Was it cancer or something?” Kit didn’t know how long she could stick around for this scrutiny. She could feel Eleanor straining to hear the answer and realized she hadn’t told her aunt anything about the events leading up to her arrival, and her aunt had kindly refrained from prodding.
“No,” Kit said. “I guess it keeps my head cool.”
Sugar threw back her head and laughed, and all the sumptuous parts of her jiggled. “You are too much!” She reached over and touched the side of Kit’s face; Kit willed herself not to jerk away and wished Eleanor would bail her out. “You’re so tan,” Sugar said. “Lu-cky. Wish I could get some color on me but I’m just pink as a pig!”
Kit knew a backhanded compliment when she heard one. She knew Sugar and probably everyone else here was going wild wondering how this hairless brown girl could be related to Eleanor. People often thought she was Mexican, and maybe she was, blood-wise. Manny had given them some kind of elevated status on account of his blue eyes and charming demeanor. But she didn’t know anything more about being Mexican than they did, except what it felt like on the other end of a white person’s upturned nose.
“Those are my kids over there,” Sugar Faye said, changing the subject. “We were blessed with four healthy boys.” She pointed a trim, bubble gum pink nail at a scrum of three blond boys between the ages of six and ten, and a broad-shouldered man with a toddler on his shoulders standing watch. They were lighting Black Cat firecrackers in an anthill, scattering with the explosions, batting ants dispersed in the blast from their arms and legs.