BEFORE SUPPER, AFTER PINNING UP MY HAIR, WHICH finally felt dry, I snuck into the living room and pulled my grandfather’s pipe-scented old copy of the family Bible off a middle shelf of the bookcase. I’d always loved the grainy feel of the black leather cover sliding against my fingertips and the crinkle of the gilt-edged pages, as thin as onion skin. I placed Babbitt down on the rug next to the armchair and put the Bible in its place on the end table. With the quietest of movements, I peeled back the cover and flipped through the fragile pages to the Second Book of Samuel. While holding my breath, I secured a pencil from my dress pocket and underlined one of the passages involving Bathsheba, the widow of the man whom David sent to his death.
And when the wife of Uriah heard that her husband was dead, she mourned for him.
After the time of the mourning was over, David had her brought to his house, and she became his wife . . .
Supper ended, and Mama and I washed dishes over the wide apron sink in the kitchen. Uncle Clyde wandered upstairs to replace his gray work suit with a tweed vest and comfortable trousers, and he gargled with hydrogen peroxide to clean his throat of bacteria. Our usual evening routines.
I dried a plate and poked the tip of my pinkie through a small hole I discovered in a bottom corner of the dishcloth.
“It’s awfully quiet in the house this evening,” said Mama, her hands submerged in water and bubbles.
I raised my head and listened. She was right: an unnatural hush had descended over the house. The hairs on the backs of my arms stood on end. My hands slipped and squeaked on the china.
“Are you all right, Hanalee?” asked Mama, her mouth taut.
“Of course.” I nudged the plate onto the drying rack with a shakiness that rattled the rest of the dishes.
My stepfather reached the living room and the Bible before we did—I know, because I heard my mother’s name cried out in a sudden roar that made me jump a foot in the air.
“GRETA!”
Mama and I exchanged panicky looks. Her face blanched to the color of death.
“What is it, dear?” she called back.
Uncle Clyde marched into the kitchen, slippers whooshing against the floorboards, face boiling red, and he held up the opened pages of the Bible. “She replaced Babbitt with the story of David and Bathsheba.”
Mama drew her eyebrows together. “I beg your pardon?”
“Hanalee laid out a passage in the Bible”—he turned his gaze toward me, skewering me with his clear blue eyes—“for me to see.”
Mama handed me the last washed dish. “Is there something wrong with that? She and Hank often read Bible passages together.”
Uncle Clyde’s fingers whitened beneath the gold lettering on the cover. His chest heaved, and he glared at me through his spectacles.
I folded my dish towel over the edge of the sink. “I don’t entirely remember the story of David and Bathsheba.” I peeked up at the both of them from beneath my lashes, remembering the way Joe had employed that technique to soften me. “What’s that one about again?”
“You know the story,” said Mama. “David fell madly in love with Bathsheba, who was married to Uriah the Hittite. David seduced her and arranged for Uriah to get killed in battle, and then David took Bathsheba as his bride . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she froze in place, blinking at the empty space in front of her.
Uncle Clyde kept his eyes fixed upon me, staring and frowning as though he longed to dig beneath my skull and excavate the thoughts hiding away inside my head.
I untied my apron and laid it over the back of a nearby chair. “May I read the passage aloud?”
Mama turned her face toward me, hurt welling in her eyes.
I reached for the book. “May I? Shall we go out to the living room so you can get more comfortable?”
Uncle Clyde slammed the Bible shut and threw it onto the countertop.
I jumped. “What’s the matter?”
“Stop it!” He clamped down on my left wrist and yanked me toward him. “Where is he, Hanalee? Is he in this house?”
“No. Let me go!”
“Where is he?”
“Clyde!” cried Mama.
My stepfather wrenched me out of the kitchen and half dragged me to the front door at the end of the entry hall.
“Where are you taking her?” asked Mama.
“Call Reverend Adder. Tell him to drive over here immediately.”
“But—”
“Lock all the windows and doors. Make sure Joe can’t get inside.”
Uncle Clyde threw open the front door and tripped me down the porch stairs. My feet missed the last step, and my right ankle twisted with a shock of pain.
“Stop!” I said. “Stop—you’re hurting me.”
Uncle Clyde pulled me toward the darkening road in front of the house. “Joseph Adder!” he called out to the empty highway. “You come out here and face me yourself. Come out here and face me like a man, not a cowering little boy who hides behind girls.”