I stop momentarily, regarding the physical proof of her presence with an inflating sense of happiness. “Wow, it really is her.”
“I told you!” Benny says, jumping up and down. “I told you!” He yanks on my hand, nearly dragging me down the rest of the hill. “Hurry up, Ags! She’s waiting!” We break into a dead run, but as we approach the Great Door, I reach out and pull Benny back.
“I know. I know,” he says irritably, shrugging me off.
Weighing close to a hundred pounds, the Great Door is a thing of beauty. Carved from the trunk of a maple tree fifteen years ago by two of the Believers, it is meant to slow whoever approaches with its intricate carvings of suns, moons, and stars. Etched along the top of the top, like an enormous banner, are the words “Glori Patri,” which is Latin for “Glory to the Father.” Benny and I drop to one knee beneath the watchful phrase, crossing ourselves in a somber genuflection. Then it takes both of us, straining under our full weight, to push open the door. When I lean against it, the scent of old sap fills my nostrils. It creaks and moans and then seals shut with a gasp behind us.
The inside of the Great House is one gigantic, long room. It is filled with blue-robed Believers sitting at the long wooden table doing any number of things. Because this is Ascension Week, most of the men who work in town are here instead, getting ready for the feast day. Mr. Murphy, Iris’s father, is in the corner a few feet away, polishing the life-sized crucifix on the wall. His cloth lingers reverently over the exposed rib cage and the blood-mottled skin. Over in the corner, Beatrice, who is one of the head kitchen women, is giving instructions to other women who are peeling potatoes and onions and chopping celery. Lynn Waters, who paints beautiful portraits of Emmanuel, is in the midst of a deep discussion with four women who are holding hand-painted Ascension banners. Four more men are washing the floor-to-ceiling windows, which line the length of the far wall. Despite the amount of activity, no one speaks above a hushed whisper. Emmanuel himself resides in the rooms at the very back of the Great House and must not—under any circumstances—be disturbed.
“There she is!” Benny points to the left side of the room where three leather couches are arranged neatly around a dead fireplace. Nana Pete’s signature braids, pinned tightly across the top of her head, gleam like a silver moon above the soft leather. Mom and Dad are seated on the couch opposite her, their robes fastened tightly under their chins. Mom’s face is set tight, the way it always is when she is in the same room as Nana Pete. Dad looks as though he might faint. Although it is forbidden, Benny breaks into a run down the length of the Great House, his sandals slapping the black-and-white checked linoleum floor.
“Benny!” I hiss. “Walk!” But he is too fast for me. I watch with dismay as he barrels headfirst into Nana Pete’s soft lap.
“Ooof!” She laughs delightedly. “Benny! My word, darlin’!” She holds him at arm’s length, gazing up and down. “Look at how much you’ve grown!”
I walk up slowly, my arms tucked into the opposite sleeves of my robe.
“Mouse!” She uses the name she gave me after my nose started doing that wiggling thing. “I was wondering when y’all would get here!”
I close my eyes as she encircles me tightly and inhale the familiar, lovely scent of her: Wrigley’s peppermint gum, Nina Ricci perfume, and the slight tang of sweat. But a rustle of material makes me open my eyes again. Mom and Dad stand before us, erect as soldiers, their silk cords swaying from side to side. Loose hairs from Mom’s bun cascade softly along her shoulders and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“Sit. Down.” Dad’s voice is as faint and threatening as thunder. “Both of you.” His mustache twitches, and his nostrils flare white. Nana Pete stares up at Dad and then over at us. I wonder how long it is going to take this time for an argument to explode between them.
“Oh, Leonard,” my grandmother says, waving her hand. “Don’t start on the children. I just got here—”
Mom cuts her off. “Petunia, please lower your voice. And please stop calling him Leonard. You know that’s no longer his name.”
Nana Pete winces, either at Mom’s use of her full name, which she despises, or the fact that three years ago, after Dad was received into Emmanuel’s inner spiritual circle, he was rechristened Isaac. Nana Pete’s not too happy about it, but this is pretty common at Mount Blessing. Mom’s name used to be Samantha, but Emmanuel renamed her Ruth at her inner-circle ceremony. Most of the Believers have new names. It’s a symbol of their willingness to shed their old life and start a new one. Someday, if I’m ever so blessed, Emmanuel will bestow a new name upon me, too.