Or maybe this doomy feeling of suffocation is left over from last night, from this whole week.
My voice falters. I look down at my hymnbook to find my spot, happy it’s not my turn at the piano, then look back up, singing more loudly. My eyes fall on Roy, his parents, and my family, in the same pews as always. Ma’s tired. Probably ’cause of me. Roy’s face is complacent, like I don’t know if he’s happy or unhappy. ’Cause of me?
“Repent, and set yourself free,” I sing in an uneven voice. Old Woman Myers glances at me from the corner of her eye. I ignore her, my practiced gaze returning to my family.
This time, Roy’s attention is on me. Heat travels down my neck, like I’ve been caught doing something bad, like I got caught not being at the diner. Between breaths, I force a smile, willing him not to be upset with me. He tugs on his collar, looks away.
I sing louder, staring at the clefs and notes on the page. I belt out the last word, forcing my voice stronger. When the hymn comes to an end, I sink into my seat, welcoming the reprieve from the feeling like I’m standing in a trial box instead of a choir box.
Pastor Frank offers the congregation his parting words, signaling the service’s close.
Right now, I know a few things ’bout this afternoon: Ma is working. Buster is hunting ducks with friends, though I can’t understand how he can do that but not work. Billie is going to a friend’s. Roy is off to the plant. None of them are expecting to see me after church.
I look over my shoulder toward the chapel’s back door, knowing something else: the line at the front door will be a mile long. That line could mean bumping into Roy and having to lie—in a church—’bout why I wasn’t at the diner last night. All thanks to Blanche and her big mouth.
I frantically weave through the crowd, toward the back exit, knocking into people and muttering apologies as I go. I’m relieved that the town’s largest oak tree stretches over the church, when I burst outside into its comforting shade. I quickly slip from one tree’s cover to the next, hugging the edges of properties to stay out of sight. I nearly roll my eyes at my own dramatics.
You’ve lost it, I tell myself. Doggone crazy for escaping like that today.
I shake my head, ’cause really I’m doggone crazy for escaping every day this week. Doesn’t matter who it’s from—my ma, Little Billie, Buster, my nagging thoughts—I’m acting like a loon. The destination is always the same: Roy’s and my one-day home.
Being that Roy’s normally at my side, he’s the only person I can’t escape. I stop, hand on the doorknob of our house. ’Til this here very moment, I never allowed myself to think it … that Roy is someone I’ve wanted to escape, too.
Shame escorts me inside the four walls.
My hand flies to my chest. “Roy, what’re you doing here?”
“I’m here every day,” he says coolly, his expression unreadable.
“But … I thought you had to work?”
“Yeah, well, I thought you had to work last night.”
I choose my words carefully. “And that’s nothin’ but the truth. I was just done at the diner by the time you came by.”
Roy crosses his arms and I fight the urge to tug at my neckline.
“Look, Blanche has had a rough go of it lately with her daddy.” I pick up a brush from a bucket and mindlessly rub my hand over the bristles. “She’s been sleeping on my couch all week. Guess my ma didn’t tell you that part.”
His headshake is subtle, but his annoyance is not. “I don’t like you spending so much time with that girl.”
Blanche. I groan internally and squeeze the brush’s handle. Her shenanigans yesterday certainly ain’t helping me now. “She’s harmless, you know that.”
“Do I?”
“Roy, come on.” I soften my voice. “You ain’t mad, are you?” I promptly bite my bottom lip.
He stares into the bucket as if he’s searching for something to say. But I count my blessings when he only says, “I’ll get you some water.”
Off he goes with the bucket, the type of boy whose actions are stronger than his words. Chances are, he’s still running things through his head as he brings back the bucket and heads to work, but at least I ain’t in his crosshairs while he’s doing it. Bet ya Blanche is.
Can’t blame him. As I’m scrubbing the floor, I keep grumbling her name, too.
Blanche, who put me in the position of having to sneak ’round and lie to my ma in the first place. Blanche, who not only makes me question my passion for—and really, my whole relationship with—Roy, but also puts me in situations where I have to keep secrets from him. Secrets she almost blabs, making Roy feel the need to stop by the diner, to do what? Check on me? Then here he was, minutes ago, ambushing me for answers. Blanche, who uses stupid words like blotter and dab, dab, dab.
Her big, nonsensical mouth once proclaimed how I blot, only going surface deep.
Life needs some elbow grease, a good scrub to get the dirt out, she said.
Well, lookie here, Blanche, I’m going to speakeasies. Speakeasies! And here I am now, literally on my hands and knees, practically rubbing the grain out of Roy’s and my hardwood floor. I scrub harder, proving it.
From all my recent acts of escape, our fence: perfectly white, picketed and everything. The porch: looks good as new. The old wallpaper: stripped clean. Would a blotter be able to do all that, in a week?
And, and, would a blotter agree—no, volunteer—to do an illegal pickup for an illegal establishment? I don’t think so.
Okay, maybe my brown-nosing words slipped out before I could stop them, to get on Mary’s good side and keep my job, because my moron brother got himself hurt. And maybe I’m dreading going on that alcohol run. I throw my brush into the dirtied, soapy water, sending suds everywhere.
If all of that ain’t the definition of going more than surface deep, then I don’t know what is. With the back of my arm, I wipe my wet face. So there, Blanche. I nod curtly, not feeling a single bit foolish for my one-sided, disorganized, slightly irrational, grumbly rant.
I drop my head into my hands. I’m losing my mind. I blame stress. And Blanche. I blame Blanche, clearly.
But that’s stupid, and I roll my eyes at myself, letting out a slow, calming breath. I examine my one-day living room. This helps, staring at the barren walls and empty room, imagining the possibilities, reminding myself why I went to Doc’s in the first place. So I can line my pockets with money. So I can live in a house with elegant wallpaper, polished floors, crown molding, and elaborate, ritzy draperies. It’s for Roy and me, sitting in matching armchairs, getting off our feet after successful days of teaching and reporting, reminiscing ’bout being young and stupid. It’ll be perfect.
Even Blanche will admit how perfect it is.