Suddenly a hush descends and, like an enormous wave cresting, the room surges to its feet. Mom and Dad close their eyes and bow their heads, solemn looks on their already solemn faces. Benny hops up next to me, squeezes his eyes shut, and begins tapping the front of his legs with his palms. I look nervously out of the corner of my eye at Nana Pete. She is not standing.
“My children!” the familiar throaty voice calls out. “Good evening! Bless you all on the first sundown of the holiest week of the year.”
Dad opens his eyes briefly, frowns, and then pokes Nana Pete in the arm. “Get up,” he hisses. But Nana Pete just stares straight ahead.
I turn back around quickly, moving sideways and then forward until I can see Emmanuel through the throng of people. Fear flashes through me for a split second as I get a glimpse of the top of his head. His thick silver hair is meticulously groomed, brushed to one side in a deep swoop. When he talks, his yellow teeth glitter behind his beard, and his eyes seem to settle on every single person in the room. But it is his voice that finally causes me to drop my eyes, a deep baritone so full of assurance and authority that sometimes my knees feel as though they will buckle out from under me.
“Tonight as we begin our evening meal, let us remember who it was that gave up his own body and his own blood for us so that we might live forever.”
“Amen,” the room says collectively.
“And let us always be mindful of the fact that we are sinners of the worst kind, unlovable in every way, if not for the love and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Amen, alleluia!” the room chants, a little more enthusiastically than before. I bow my head.
“And like Jesus Christ, I love each and every one of you,” Emmanuel continues, lowering his arms slowly. “You are all my children, and as your father, I am not only aware of, but understand, your most repulsive weaknesses. Despite that, I love you even more, just the way you are.”
I pretend not to hear the low grunting sound behind me over the awed murmuring of the crowd.
“Thank you, Emmanuel!” someone cries.
“Oh, Emmanuel!” says another. “Bless you! God bless you!”
Emmanuel looks over and smiles at Veronica, who is standing next to him. She reaches out and takes his hand. Cords of green veins stand out against her forehead and her pink lips look like a bow on a Christmas present. Even with her robe on, I can see the sharp angles of her collarbone sticking out, and when she lifts her hands to smooth her hair back, one of her heavy gold rings, a gift from Emmanuel, glitters on her fingers. She is so beautiful. I turn back around slowly and put my napkin in my lap, trying not to think about the word she wrote on Honey’s back.
Across the table, Dad is whispering angrily in Nana Pete’s ear. But she doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to whatever it is he is saying. Soon the women who work in the kitchen are moving in and among the rows, spooning ladlefuls of thick yellow broth into our bowls. My heart sinks as I realize that it is one of my favorites, a hearty corn chowder, dense with potatoes, celery, and fresh corn. Slowly, I close my hands over my bowl as the woman lowers her ladle over my shoulder.
Nana Pete frowns as the woman moves on, filling Benny’s bowl next to me. “Not eating, Mouse?”
I shake my head. “I’ve decided to fast for a while,” I answer quietly. “For the … sins I’ve committed today.”
Dad nods his head slowly and smiles. I wonder if that means I am back on his good side.
Suddenly there is a commotion on the other side of the room.
“I told you, I don’t want it!” Iris Murphy yells. “I feel sick! If you make me eat it, I’m going to throw up!”
I roll my eyes. Just last week, Iris threw herself on the floor at dinner and screamed about having a headache. Emmanuel hadn’t been eating with us, but it had still ended badly, with Emmanuel taking her into the Regulation Room. Why doesn’t she learn? All heads turn in her direction.
Mr. Murphy yanks his wild-eyed daughter to her feet. “Shut your mouth!” He is shaking with rage.
Iris tilts her head back and wails. “But you’re not listening to me! I just—”
Emmanuel cuts Iris off before she can finish her protest. “Bring her here, Samuel!”
The room is deathly quiet as Mr. Murphy drags the crying girl over to Emmanuel’s table. Next to me, Benny’s legs stop moving. Iris, who is in his age group, is one of his best friends. As she struggles and twists against her father’s grip, his lower lip begins to tremble. I lean over and take his little hand in mine. He knows as well as I do that Emmanuel has no qualms about disciplining someone in public—he says a lesson for one is a lesson for all. Now, as Mr. Murphy and Iris stand quivering, Emmanuel wipes his mouth, pushes back his chair, and stands up.