Song of Silver Lake

By Rod Mills

Song of Silver Lake, Book 1 Ruth

A young woman, searching a way out of an abusive home in Seattle agreed to become the surrogate mother to a wealthy, childless couple. A change of heart compelled the woman to keep the infant and escape to Silver Lake, Idaho. Still, six years later, racked with consuming guilt over her monetary theft, and fearful of the legal reprisals of abducting her own child, the young mother resigned herself to being a fugitive the rest of her life. Then she met the truck driver, Clay.

Song of Silver Lake, Book 2 Audrey Frustrated with her life as a single, 28 year old woman, Audrey joined a Christian online dating service in Silver Lake, Idaho. Using the e-name Flower Girl, she met White Knight. White Knight was the man shed been looking for like forever! He shared her religious and family values and, when Audrey poured out her heart, he seemed to listen with all of his heart. I love you, White Knight.

Audrey met another man, Dan Echo, a clerk at the local Ace Hardware. Everything went wrong when she needed to buy a simple chair bolt for her broken desk chair. Poorly versed in hardware terminology, Audrey tried describing the bolt which only confused Dan. Maam, sounds like you really need a nipple. Does your bolt have male or female threads? Audrey concluded that Dan Echo was crude, rude, and condescending. She learned later that Dan Echo was pastor of a small church and suspected he had a problem with pornography. Dan Echo was definitely bad news. Best to steer clear. Audrey and Dan didnt know that Flower Girl and White Knight were the same persons.

Song of Silver Lake, Book 3 Grace 17 year old Grace only knew one profession, prostitution. Her mother, Veronica, taught her well. After Veronica was arrested on drug charges, Grace, and her 21 year old mentally retarded sister, Fanny, were taken to the Pocatello Juvenile Dependent Unit. Fearful the authorities would split up the sisters, they escaped to Silver Lake, Idaho.

Hiding in their grandparents abandoned travel trailer at the lake, Grace provided for her and Fanny by soliciting drivers at the truck stop. Hi, like some company? Providence changed the sisters lives forever when Grace knocked on Clays truck.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479781430

Book preview

Song Of Silver Lake

Rod Mills

Copyright © 2013 by Rod Mills

Library of Congress Control Number:      2013901254

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4797-8142-3

            Softcover      978-1-4797-8141-6

            Ebook         978-1-4797-8143-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 4/1/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

Book One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Book Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Book Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Also by Rod Mills

*   Father Myron—All he wanted was a diploma. He learned servanthood instead.

*   The Bishop of South Park—Sequel to Father Myron.

*   Deborah Awake—The biblical story of Judge Deborah in modern times.

*   Ruth Jones—The biblical story of Ruth in modern times.

*   The Biddy Sparrow—A young blind girl’s pursuit of God.

Song of Silver Lake

Book One

Ruth

Chapter One

Denver, Colorado

More coffee?

The man looked up. Sure. His fingers, thick and calloused, interlocked around the warm cup, almost like he was praying. He stared into the shimmering black pool as vivacious bubbles, translucent and twinkling from the overhead lights, suddenly burst and succumbed to ignobility.

She’s been gone a month. Miss her.

He brought the cup to his mouth, caressed the ceramic rim with his lips. He could be kissing someone. The trucker was lost to another world.

Not coming back, won’t see her again.

Eyes closed, he let steam waft over his face like a shroud.

But I see her everywhere, catch her smell—she smelled good, pretty, hear words she talks, the way she walks, her own footsteps.

Coffee moistened his lips, and he swiped his hand across his mouth.

That dream last night was too real, can’t get over it. I wish I could hold her again, take her hand, walk along the lake, ride in the rig, everything we did.

He shook his head.

Just like before.

The café was a symphony of sound—silverware clinking against china, the thud of glassware against tabletops, and the sizzle of food frying in the kitchen. There was also a loud cacophony of unintelligible conversation, save, of course, for the clearly intelligible curse word that occasionally punctuated the room.

Country music played from the corner jukebox while the wall-mounted television showed CNN news. Several patrons ate with tilted necks, watching the sexy anchor-chick move her lips, apparently not caring that the volume was off, so was closed-captioning.

Directly behind the register, a posse of local demolition derby drivers posted a gallery of autographed photos of them posing by their multidecaled and circus-colored automobiles.

Waitresses crossed paths, baring three, sometimes four, plates of food en route to tables. Lone truckers seated in booths used smart phones to call dispatch, hunt down loads, or talk with family. Older truckers surfed the web for young Philippine brides.

I’m going off duty, the waitress said to the trucker. She laid the ticket upside down near his cup. The other girl, Kayla, will be your server. Just pay at the register whenever you’re ready.

Earth to man. He snapped his head up and blinked. Huh? What?

Feeling ignored and sounding irritated, the waitress repeated herself. My shift is over, sir. Your check, I set it there. If you need anything, your waitress will be that girl over there, Kayla.

Oh, the trucker said, relieved that he wasn’t called upon to think or perform something productive. Thank you, ma’am.

The clearly abused waitress never said, You’re welcome.

He placed his hand over the cup; the warmth felt good. A steamy tingle traveled up his arm while screwing his hand back and forth over the rim. I figured the hardest night would be the first. They’re all long. It’s worse now, seems.

The trucker jerked his head up and whirled the stool around. No one was there.

Sounded like her, the way she walks.

He faced the counter again and inadvertently touched his face. Condensation from his palm dampened his cheek, so with a couple of strokes he dried the wet spot with the back of his fingers and then brushed his hand on his pants. He returned his fingers to the coffee cup, his fingers embraced the cup, and his eyes focused again into the glassy sea of black.

Lord, I wish you hadn’t taken her. It don’t make sense, don’t make sense to nobody, not even the reverend, and he’s supposed to know about them things.

His wallet-size family portrait was askew on the counter. The trucker tilted it forward to diffuse the glare from the fluorescent light. He rubbed the picture, lightly sliding his index finger across her face.

Just two of us now. I reckon, Lord, you know best. Don’t like it none.

Out the corner of his eye the trucker caught sight of a family sitting at a booth—a mother, father, and daughter. The woman had pushed the plates to one side and was dabbing the middle of the table with a napkin.

Reckon the little one toppled sump’m. The trucker smiled. Mama’s do that good, clean up and such.

Aromatic waves of peach pie drifted up to the trucker’s nose. He broke off a piece with his fork, scrambled it to an indistinguishable mass, and then abandoned his late-night snack.

Not hungry.

He glanced at his watch.

Best get back to the rig, lie down awhile. Early delivery in Aurora.

One year ago…

Chapter Two

Silver Lake, Idaho

More coffee?

The man at the lunch counter looked up and pushed the cup a little closer to the woman with the glass carafe. Obliged, ma’am.

The waitress felt a tug on her skirt and looked behind. Mama, can I do it? The skinny little girl with wire-frame glasses put her hands on her mother’s hips and peeked around at the trucker. She didn’t say anything, just looked.

The man gripped the edge of the counter, leaned to one side, and peeked back at the girl. Howdy, the trucker said with a trace of shyness.

Howdy, the little girl repeated, equally shy.

The waitress set the coffeepot down. Ruth, run along. You can’t be out here.

The girl moved from behind her mother. I won’t spill.

Ruth, no! Go back to the office and color, do something. I’ll be off work in a couple of hours. Then with familiar ease, she picked the coffeepot up and tipped it into the trucker’s cup. Are you ready to order, sir, or do you still need a few more…

He’s not listening to me.

You a waitress too, like your ma?

Uh-huh. She glanced at her mother. Huh, Mama?

The owner lets Ruth be here after school if she doesn’t get in the way. I can’t afford day care. The woman put her hand on her daughter’s back, nudging her along. You’re a very good waitress, dear. Now say bye-bye to the nice man.

What sort of waitressing you do?

Lots of stuff.

Fetch coffee?

Uh-huh.

Wanna fetch me some coffee?

Uh-huh. Want me to?

Sure, the trucker said.

No, the mother said. Go back and color, now.

The trucker pushed himself away from the counter, yanking the napkin from his shirt as he stood up. He looked at the napkin and then crammed it into his pants pocket. Ma’am, he whispered, I really don’t mind if the girl fetches me some coffee. Fact is, I’d like it, if it’s all right with you.

The waitress sighed. You’re being very nice, and I know that Ruth appreciates the attention. She glanced down at the man’s cup. I’ve already poured your coffee. Maybe Ruth can do it another time.

I’ll buy another cup. The trucker flipped an adjacent cup over on its paper doily. I’m partial to two cups at a time, ma’am.

The waitress grimaced. She turned the cup back over and then emptied the trucker’s full cup in the sink. Don’t sit too close. She splashes.

Yes, ma’am, the trucker said. He returned to his stool.

The woman shot a furtive glance around the room and then set the pot on the counter. Please be careful, Ruth.

I will, Mama.

The little girl lifted the pot with both hands; fingers wrapped the handle like a Vardon grip on a golf club. More coffee, sir? Ruth giggled. Mama always says that.

The trucker nodded. This has been a powerful hard day, little girl. I was hankering for a cup, just what I need.

With several short jerky tips, the little girl sloshed coffee into the cup until it was about half full. She set the pot down, rested her hands on the edge of the counter, and looked up at her mother.

You did that very well, dear, the woman said while dabbing her towel where the girl had spilled. Now run along to the office.

The little girl turned her head and stared at the trucker, who was wearing a broad grin.

That was a fair bit of waitress work, little girl. He took a sip. Jesus Christ! That’s good coffee.

Ruth’s mouth flew open, and she spun toward her mother. Mama, he goes to church like us! She rotated back to the trucker. Do you know about Jesus at church too, mister? Me and Mama go to church all the time.

The smile dropped from his face. He crossed his arms and looked up at the waitress. Ma’am, I don’t understand.

Great, that’s all I need. He’s going to tell my boss that he was religiously harassed. I’m very sorry about this, sir. My daughter misunderstood you. We attend a church where the name ‘Jesus’ is used, well, uh… differently than the way you used it. She didn’t mean anything, just a little confused.

Why’d he say ‘Jesus,’ Mama?

I’ll explain later, dear. Run back to the office.

The girl turned to the trucker. Why’d you say ‘Jesus,’ mister?

He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Well, uh… uh…

Ruth, her mother said, some people say ‘Jesus Christ’ instead of ‘wow’ or ‘holy smoke.’ That’s all this nice man was doing. Run along now, please.

The girl leaned in close to the trucker. Her expression was stern, her cobalt-blue eyes wide open behind her thick wire-rim glasses. Was that what you was doing, mister? Just saying ‘wow’?

Reckon so.

Don’t you know ’bout ‘wow’ or ‘holy smoke’? Them’s good words to say.

Hadn’t given it much mind, the trucker said.

Don’t say Jesus’s name, mister. Only when you’re talking about him, say it.

The trucker looked up. I won’t.

The girl looked back at her mother. He won’t say it no more, Mama.

She put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, turned her around, and pushed her in the direction of the office. It’s none of our business how this man speaks. Now scoot.

Halfway to the office the girl turned. Just say ‘wow,’ mister.

I will.

I’m terribly sorry about this, the waitress said. It’s that Ruth enjoys her church so much that she goes overboard sometimes. I hope she didn’t embarrass… you. He’s not listening to me. She looked behind and saw that her daughter had stopped in front of the soft-drink fountain and was smiling at the man.

Little girl, wait a minute, the trucker called.

Ruth skipped back to the counter. Yeah, mister?

I forgot to tip you for your waitress work.

The mother put her hands on her hips. That really isn’t necessary, sir. My daughter should be tipping you for all the attention you’ve given her.

Good service deserves a good tip, ma’am—if it’s all right with you. He set his worn brown wallet on the counter. I’d really like to give her something, ma’am.

The waitress released a long breath. All right, but you don’t need to.

Thank you, ma’am. It means a lot to me. He pulled two bills from his wallet, clutched them between his fingers, and absentmindedly kneaded them over and over in his hands as he spoke. I hope you buy something that you really like, something that’s lots of fun for you. He smiled. Thanks for being such a good waitress. He stretched his closed fist toward the girl. Here, you earned it. When he opened his hand he exposed a tiny wadded green ball. Oh, I sort of messed the money up.

Nimbly the girl pulled the ball apart and flattened the bills on the counter. Mama, two bucks!

The waitress leaned over her shoulder. That’s forty dollars.

Is that a lot, Mama?

Yes, Ruth, that’s a lot of money. She looked up at the trucker. That’s too much money.

Not for a good cup of coffee, ma’am, it’s not.

The waitress slipped her fingers under the two bills, folded them, and flicked her wrist at the trucker. Really, this is way too much money. Ruth would be happy with a quarter.

It’s not too much for me, ma’am. Please let her keep it. He took a deep breath. It’s not just for the coffee. He averted his eyes. Please, let her keep it.

For a moment the woman was silent. All right, she said. Thank you. She stretched her arm toward her daughter. Looks like you’ve got yourself a pretty good tip, Ruth. What do you say to the man?

I know what to buy with the money, Mama.

Ruth! her mother shouted, accentuated by a loud stomp on the floor.

I’m going to get the man something.

Don’t go and do that, the trucker protested. It’s for you. He turned to the woman. Ma’am, don’t let her buy me nothing. Make her use it for herself.

The waitress smiled and shrugged.

I know what I’m going to get you, mister. The angel just tolded me the thing to buy.

Your angel again, Ruth?

Yeah, Mama. He talked right now to me.

The girl laid her hand on the trucker’s rough knuckles. His hand tightened nervously into a ball. When you coming again, mister?

Don’t know exactly. I’m taking a load to Boise. Can’t say where I’m headed after that. Could be they bring me back to the yard. Maybe three, four, maybe five days.

Get back real fast, mister. Me and Mama is at her work all the time. We’ll be here when you come.

I’ll come back soon as I can, the trucker said. But don’t go and buy me nothing. Spend the money on you, on something you really want.

You’re going to like the present a lot, mister. I know what to buy.

The front entrance opened, and the waitress saw a large party walk in. I’ll be right back, she said.

The girl slapped her other hand on the man’s knuckles and smiled at him. His fist slowly unraveled to a loose curl; one by one his fingers stretched out on the counter. I really wish you’d buy yourself something, not me.

Uh-uh, mister. The angel said what to buy you.

I don’t understand about your angel, didn’t see nothing.

Uh-uh, the little girl said with a shake of her head. The angel isn’t like the one in a picture. The angel talks to my insides. You don’t see him, mister. He just talks.

He told you what to buy me?

Yes, mister.

Wow, the trucker said.

‘Wow’ is a good word, mister.

The trucker nodded.

The girl nodded back. You got any kids, mister?

He laughed and shook his head. No, I’m not married. No kids, no wife.

Me and Mama don’t got a wife too.

You mean a husband. A man is a husband.

Mama says we don’t need a man. She says we’re happy, just me and her.

Oh, the trucker said.

A man’s just a peck of trouble, that’s what Mama says.

After several minutes the waitress returned, put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, and spun her away from the counter. It’s time to say good-bye, Ruth. The dinner crowd is coming in, and I’m going to be busy.

Get back real fast, mister.

I will, he said. Next week sometime.

The waitress guided her daughter by the shoulders, but before steering her behind the counter, Ruth called over her shoulder. Just say ‘wow,’ mister.

I will.

A moment later the waitress returned and filled the trucker’s half-filled cup. I think you made yourself a friend.

That’s a right fair little girl you have there, ma’am.

Thank you. She looked up and saw two couples enter the restaurant. I’ve got to go seat those people, and it looks like that other party is ready to order. Is there anything I can get you while I’m here?

No, ma’am. I’m doing just fine, thanks much.

The trucker leaned forward against the counter and rested his weight on his outstretched forearms. He cradled the warm coffee cup in his hands. Powerful nice family, the woman and the girl. Wish I had something like that.

He glanced at the far end of the dining room. He saw the waitress carry a large tray of food in one arm while holding the coffeepot in the other.

She’s handy at toting food. Looks hard. I couldn’t do it.

He lowered his head and found himself mesmerized by the multitude of colors reflecting off the coffee surface.

The angel told the girl to buy me something. Wonder what it is.

He let the warmth of the coffee cup penetrate deep into his rough hands, and then he lifted it to his lips. Good coffee, powerful good—the little girl’s coffee.

Chapter Three

She took the two bills from her pocket and studied them carefully.

Put those back in your pocket, Ruth, before you lose them.

Okay, Mama.

The woman put the car in reverse, looked over her shoulder, and backed the old Corolla from the parking space at the truck stop. I’ve got one of my headaches coming on, and I’m really tired. I’d like to go home and just read tonight. How about if I heat some tomato soup in the microwave for dinner? I can make us some bologna sandwiches.

That’d be good, Mama. Can I listen to Uncle Charlie when I eat?

Sure. I imagine you’re anxious to hear those new tapes.

The little girl nodded.

Ruth removed the money from her pocket again and flattened the two bills on the dashboard. You got to take me to the store, Mama.

The mother had one hand on the back of her neck, digging her fingers into the muscles and wincing. I know, dear. We’ll try to go tomorrow.

The girl’s mouth flew open, and she shook her head. Now, Mama.

Now? She put both hands on the steering wheel. The man won’t be back for a week.

The angel tolded me they only got one thing left at the store. I got to get it now.

What is it that you have to buy?

I don’t want you to know, Mama, until I give it to the man. I want you to be surprised.

Oh, Ruth, can’t we wait?

There’s only one left.

With one hand the woman fished the floorboard for her purse. She unsnapped it and dug out a small green bottle of Excedrin. Steering the car with her wrists, she pried the cap off the bottle and dropped two tablets into her hand. She worked up a wet mouth and swallowed the pills. What store do you need, Ruth?

Walmart.

All right, but that’s all we’re going to do. We won’t spend time looking at Barbie clothes.

Okay, Mama.

They walked hand in hand until they reached the long row of lawn mowers and bicycles outside the store. The little girl skipped ahead until the electric eye opened the automated door. The mother caught up and took her hand again.

Where are we going, Ruth?

Toys.

Toys? I don’t think the man wants a toy.

Uh-huh, Mama. She slipped her hand away. You wait here, Mama. I don’t want you to see.

She took her daughter’s hand again. We’ll walk to the toys together. I promise I won’t look. Here, we’ll even take a shopping cart, and I’ll cover the gift with my sweater.

Okay, Mama.

Health aids and sundries were across the aisle from the Walmart toy department. I remember a few things we need at home. Find your gift, then meet me here at the cart, and don’t dawdle.

A few minutes later the woman returned. She removed the two boxes of chocolates she had borrowed from a shelf to mark her shopping cart—people always steal an empty cart—and placed a few other items in. I’ve given her plenty of time. Hope she didn’t wander off looking for me. She called in the direction of the toy department. Ruth?

Yeah, Mama?

Are you about ready?

I can’t find it.

Do you want me to help you look?

No, Mama.

I’m running over to toilet paper. Wait for me at the basket.

Okay, Mama.

She set the twelve-pack of toilet paper in the cart and called over to Ruth’s aisle. Let’s go, dear.

I can’t find it.

Are you sure you’re looking in the right section?

This is where it was at before, Mama.

They probably sold it, Ruth.

Uh-uh, the angel said there was one more.

I’ll help you look if you tell me what it is.

No, Mama. I want you to be surprised.

I’ll give you a few more minutes, and then we have to go home. The woman stood by the cart and glanced around. Toothpaste, I forgot toothpaste. Wish I hadn’t left my list at home.

Still no luck, dear?

No, the girl said, her voice pitching. Mama, it’s supposed to be here. I can’t find it.

Somebody probably bought it. Get the man a nice card. I’m sure he’ll appreciate a card as much as anything.

No, Mama, the angel said to buy the thing.

The woman pushed the cart into the toy aisle. She saw Ruth on her haunches, arms and head buried deep inside a shelf.

It was here before, Mama. I seen it… now I can’t see it.

She slipped her hand under the little girl’s elbow and eased her up. Let’s go home, Ruth. We’ll think of something. When her daughter looked up, her mother saw two red eyes staring up at her. Don’t be too disappointed, dear.

The angel said there was one more, Mama.

It was a glum hike to the cash register.

I thought the ten-or-less register was the fast lane.

The woman took in a long slow breath and released it.

It’ll be good to go home and rest, won’t it, Ruth?

The little girl was silent as she held on to her mother’s skirt and looked from side to side. Suddenly she let go of the skirt, took a step back, and stood on tiptoes. Her eyes grew big as moons. She tugged on her mother’s skirt. Be right back, Mama.

No, her mother said. Stay with me. It’s almost our turn.

But, Mama, I seen the thing for the man.

Her mother smiled. You do? Oh good. Where is it?

In that lady’s basket. She pointed to a harried-looking woman in the next aisle tending to her toddler. Ruth took a step toward the other cart but was stopped by her mother’s lassoing arms.

Young lady, you weren’t going to just meander to that shopping basket and snatch something from it, were you?

Yeah, Mama.

The mother bent over; she looked her daughter squarely in the face. Let me get this straight—you saw nothing wrong with taking something from someone’s basket? Did I understand you correctly?

The girl nodded. The angel said it was for the man. I wanted to get it for him.

The mother’s jaw dropped. She blinked several times. I can’t believe I heard you say that. She tipped her head back and moaned. I don’t know where you learned such bad manners. She put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. No, this is beyond bad manners. It’s… it’s… well, I don’t know what it is, but that’s not how you were brought up to behave.

The angel said it was for the man.

I don’t care what the angel said. You don’t behave that way. You don’t take things from people’s shopping carts. The woman paused. Ruth, I think you can forget about ice cream tonight. You need to think long and hard about this. She stood up, put her hands on her hips, and stared up at the ceiling.

The girl continued to watch the cart in the next aisle. She tugged on her mother’s sleeve. Mama, look. She pointed to the cart. Together they watched the woman reach for something in her basket.

What the heck is this doing here?

Ruth and her mother saw the woman hold up a little rag doll. It was a stuffed toy with bib overalls and a blue denim cap that had Little Chum embroidered on it. They also saw her discard the doll with an underhand toss to the candy rack.

Was that your gift, dear?

Yeah, Mama.

Her child probably grabbed it when she wasn’t looking.

Go get it, Ruth.

"Real people don’t bump out like Barbie, do they, Mama?"

No, dear.

"You don’t bump out, do you, Mama?

Not like Barbie.

The soup bowls having been washed and put away, the mother melted into an overstuffed pillow on the sofa while burying her nose in a paperback. Ruth sat cross-legged on the floor of their one-bedroom apartment, her dish of ice cream half eaten. She rummaged through a Rubbermaid box of Barbie clothes and listened to Uncle Charlie and the kids from the Children’s Bible Hour on the cassette player.

Mama?

Hmmm?

Do you like the man?

Man?

The man from today, Mama, at your work.

Her mother pulled the book away from her face. I don’t know. He was a nice man. He showed you lots of attention. She brought the book back up.

Mama?

Yes, dear?

Can I pour the man coffee again when I see him?

The woman sat forward and laid the book on the sofa. I wish you would understand something. The restaurant is a business. I’m sure my boss does not want kids pouring coffee for the customers. I let you do it today, but that’s enough. Don’t bring it up again. Do you understand me? She threw her back against the pillow and snatched up the book.

Let’s bring the man home, Mama. I can pour his coffee here.

She snapped the book flat on the coffee table and stood up. The little girl angled her neck to see her mother.

In the first place, Ruth, I don’t think we’ll ever see that man again. He was a trucker. They don’t stick around. I doubt that he has any intentions of returning. In the second place, we don’t invite strangers into our house. It’s not a very smart thing to do.

The woman went into the kitchen, filled a coffee cup with water, and placed it in the microwave. After setting the timer she got down on the floor with Ruth. Don’t be too disappointed if that man doesn’t come back. You were able to pour him coffee, and you had a nice visit with him. I don’t think we’ll see him again. I’m sorry, but that’s the way this world is. Not everybody does what they say. Be a big girl and try to understand.

The timer on the microwave sounded the end of two minutes. The woman opened the jar of Nestlés Classic from the kitchen table and mixed a spoonful in the cup.

Ruth put her Barbie doll in the Rubbermaid box and covered it with the lid. Mama, let’s bring the man to church, to potluck supper. I can pour his coffee there and get his food too.

The mother puckered her mouth. The last place that guy would be seen in is church. She returned her gaze to her daughter. All right, Ruth, we’ll ask him to potluck. Promise me though you won’t be too disappointed if this doesn’t turn out the way you wanted.

Chapter Four

The restaurant door swung open. The little girl stepped in and panned the counter area first and then shot a glance at the tables. She saw her mother in one corner of the dining room with a wet towel in her hand.

Hi, Mama. Was the man here?

"You ask that same question every day. The answer is still no, and it doesn’t look like he’s coming."

Ruth skipped back to the office to look at the present. The metal folding chair was still centered under a wall-bracketed bookshelf, exactly where she left it the day before, and the day before that. She climbed the chair and felt for the doll. While clutching it with one arm, she jumped off the chair.

The gift was decorated with the only paper her mother had at home, Christmas wrap. Ruth sat down and stroked along the contours of the package, feeling for the eyes, the nose, the mouth. She pinched along the brim of the cap and then pressed across the cap’s front, feeling the embroidered letters—Little Chum. Several days of this ritual caused sections of the Christmas paper to look tattered.

She put the doll back and skipped out to her mother. Can I have something to drink, Mama?

Not before I get my hug. The woman crouched and opened her arms. Ruth threw her arms around her mother’s neck. Sit down at the counter. I’ll bring you something. Like a sandwich too?

The girl nodded.

The mother stood beside the soda fountain, scooping ice into a glass. What would you like to drink, Ruth?

My favorite, Mama.

The woman winced. "I don’t see how you can stand those Suicides—mixing every flavor together is disgusting."

The little girl had a mouthful of egg salad sandwich when she heard the door open. She turned. Mama, the man’s here. Mulched egg and bread peppered the air with every word.

The woman looked from across the room, raised her hand like a Boy Scout, and wiggled her fingers at the man. The trucker raised his hand back at her and motioned like he was washing a window. He sat down next to the little girl.

I knowed you was coming, mister. Mama said you wouldn’t come cuz you’re a trucker, and a trucker don’t do what he says. But I knowed you’d be here.

Couldn’t come no sooner, the man said. When I hauled that load to Boise, the company deadheaded me to Seattle. I had to fetch a load and haul it to the yard. Took a couple extra days.

The waitress approached the counter with the coffeepot. Instinctively he turned his cup right side up on the paper doily. Like to see a menu?

Yes, ma’am.

She removed a menu from the rack and set it in front of the man.

Mama, can I give him his present?

Let him order first, then you may.

He pointed to an item on the bottom of the menu. Can I have this, ma’am? The meat loaf?

All right, she said. The woman took the pen and pad from her apron pocket and wrote the order. Soup or salad? We have split pea.

I’ll have a salad, ma’am.

Dressing?

Italian, please, ma’am.

We only have creamy.

That’s fine, ma’am.

Baked potato, mashed potato, or french fries?

Mashed, please, ma’am.

Brown gravy or white?

Brown, ma’am.

White bread, wheat bread, or Texas Toast?

White bread would be fine, ma’am. The waitress flipped the menu closed. She slipped her fingers under the menu and cradled it in the crook of her arm.

Can I get the thing for the man, Mama?

Yes.

With a thud, both feet landed on the floor as the girl pushed off from the stool and ran back to the office. The waitress turned from the trucker without saying a word and pinned the order to the stainless-steel carousel. She whirled it around to the kitchen and walked off into the dining room.

Ruth set the present on the counter and used both hands to pull herself on the stool. Open it, mister.

He held the present in front of him. You went to a lot of trouble for me, fixing it so proper and all in this paper.

Mama helped put the paper on. All we had was Christmas stuff. Open it, mister.

The trucker examined the package, looking for the seam of the Scotch Tape. He didn’t want to tear the Christmas wrap.

Wait, mister, stop.

Why?

Mama has to be here. The little girl jumped to the floor and ran over to her mother, who was pouring coffee at a table. Mama, Ruth said, tugging the arm that was holding the coffeepot The man’s taking the paper off his present, the girl said. You got to watch.

I’ll finish this table, be right there.

An archeologist exhuming a mummy couldn’t be more meticulous than the trucker was in removing the rag doll from the wrapping paper. When the paper was folded back and the man caught his first glimpse of the present, he drew his fingers across the embroidered letters. Little Chum, he read. He looked down at the girl, who was smiling like a jack-o’-lantern. Little Chum, he said to her.

The girl nodded. I like the hat, mister. I didn’t know what it said at the store. Mama tolded me the words at home.

The trucker held the doll so that it faced the girl. This is what your angel said to get me?

The girl nodded.

The trucker cupped the doll between his huge calloused hands. Motionless, he rested his elbows on the counter, just looking at the rag doll. Ruth took hold of the doll’s hands and held them like reins of a pony. He smiled at the girl and then propped the doll up against the salt and pepper shakers. That’s a powerful nice gift you got me. It’s going to ride with me in my rig.

The waitress crossed her arms. He’s enchanted with that rag doll.

Mama said you wouldn’t like it, mister.

Clay raised his eyebrows.

A blush came over the woman’s face. What I meant, Ruth, was I didn’t think your friend would enjoy a toy, since he’s a grown man. That’s all I meant.

Reckon it’s more than a toy, ma’am. Don’t know why, just is to me.

The waitress smoothed a wrinkle on the doll’s overalls. She is cute.

What’s your name, mister?

My name’s Clay.

The little girl said the name. Clay, she repeated his name, practicing the sound on her tongue. Clay.

I’m Clay until I rile my ma or my sister a mite, then I become Clayton right quick. Mostly I’m Clay.

The girl looked at her mother. It’s Clay, Mama.

The woman nodded.

I’m Ruth. That’s Mama.

The woman, tucking her chin in, focused her eyes on her name badge. Then she rotated her shoulder until the trucker could see the name badge.

Greta, the trucker said. Hello, Greta, ma’am.

She acknowledged him with a slight nod. Suddenly she gasped and covered her mouth. What an idiot I am. I completely forgot to bring your salad. I’m sorry. I’ll get it now. She turned toward the kitchen.

Before she could take a step, the trucker took hold of her arm and stopped her. Ma’am, Greta, you’re not an idiot.

The woman bit down on her lip. She looked at Clay for a moment and then pulled away and quickstepped to the kitchen.

Ruth folded her hands, set them on the counter, and stared straight ahead. Mister.

He turned.

The doll’ll ride in your truck?

Yes.

Sometime, mister, can you pretend it’s me in your truck?

I was figuring to do that.

The chilled salad plate was piled high with lettuce and garnished with cherry tomatoes, sliced cucumbers, and croutons. The trucker scooped several spoonfuls of dressing from the small serving dish and stirred them into the salad. He plucked out a cherry tomato, dipped it into the dressing dish, and popped it into his mouth.

Can I ask him, Mama?

Refresh my memory, her mother said. Ask him what?

You remember, Mama, about me being a waitress at church.

Let me ask him, dear.

The trucker stabbed his salad several times until no more would fit on the fork and put it in his mouth. He lifted his eyes toward the woman.

Ruth has been hounding me. She wants to play waitress for you again. She came up with an idea, all on her own, to invite you to our church potluck. She was hoping to serve your food.

He bit a cucumber slice in two. You’d like that?

She nodded.

When is it, ma’am, Greta? I’ll fix it with Chief, my boss, to get the time off.

There’s a potluck this Sunday, after morning service, about noon.

I’ll be there, ma’am, Greta. The trucker paused. Don’t have any church duds.

Don’t worry about that. Hardly anybody dresses up at our church. The pastor will have a suit on, maybe one of the deacons, but that’s about it. What you have on is perfectly fine.

As the waitress was speaking, she suddenly jerked herself rigid. She snatched up the nearly empty dish of salad dressing and lifted it to her nose. You ordered Italian dressing. I gave you Thousand Island. She reached for the trucker’s plate and tried to pull it away. I’ll bring you another salad.

Clay also gripped the edge of the plate and pulled in his direction. Ma’am, Greta, what you brought was real good. I plum enjoyed that salad.

I won’t charge you for it, of course, the waitress said. It’s not what you ordered.

But I ate it, and I’m glad I did. It was good.

Ding-ding. The waitress looked up at the sound. She saw that Cookie had just placed the trucker’s meal under the warming lights at the service window. Then she looked at the empty salad plate. You’re finished, I assume?

Yes, ma’am, Greta.

When she picked up the plate, she tossed her head back. I can’t even bring you the right salad dressing. You must think I’m a real doofus.

No, ma’am, Greta, I don’t. I can’t rightly say that I know what a doofus is, but when I look at you I see a princess.

A princess.

The waitress set the meal in front of him. Ruth, we’d better let the man eat in peace.

The little girl waved her half-eaten egg salad sandwich. "Can I finish my snack out here with the man, Mama?

The waitress looked at the trucker.

Be obliged for the company, ma’am, Greta.

That’s fine, Ruth, her mother said. But don’t talk his head off.

I won’t, Mama.

Greta looked up at the door. I’ve got to go seat those customers, and then I’ll give you directions to our church. She turned and walked away.

A princess.

Mister, the little girl said, can you come to regular church too?

What’s that?

When we sing and put tide in the tray—that’s money, mister—and hear the pastor talk awhile.

Who’s the pastor? the trucker asked.

The boss, but he’s real nice.

It won’t ruffle him if I sit in? Reckon he only wants his own church people at them meetings. He might get riled if I come.

The little girl thought for a moment. Do you cry a lot, mister?

No, the trucker said. Why’s that?

If you cry the pastor will make you go to the cry room. It’s where the babies go. But he don’t get mad.

I can keep a lid on my crying, if that’s all that riles him.

The girl nodded. Can you come, mister?

We’ll ask your ma. If it’s all right with her, I’ll be there.

Chapter Five

The bathroom mirror was only inches away from the woman’s face as she leaned over the sink to apply finishing touches of makeup. Ruth soaked in the bathtub and played with a boat.

Mama, why does the man want to come to our church today?

I don’t know, Ruth, her mother said. Now please put your boat down and wash, or we’ll be late. I’m going to check on the casserole.

Okay, Mama.

I should have baked it last night. All I’d have to do is nuke it at church.

Use soap, the woman called from the kitchen.

This casserole is not baking fast enough. Hope it doesn’t burn if I turn up the heat. Should have started it earlier.

Gingerly, the girl made short swipes with the bar of soap across her arms.

Mama?

Hmmm?

Do you think the man is coming to church because he likes me?

Yes, Ruth. I’m sure that had a lot to do with it.

The girl launched the bar of soap like a rocket when she squeezed it between her hands. Mama, do you think the man likes you?

What a question. I don’t think he hates me, if that’s what you mean. The woman stepped back from the sink to open the cabinet. Let’s wash your hair, Ruth, so we can get you dressed for church.

My hair’s okay, Mama. It don’t need washing.

Her mother unscrewed the cap and set the shampoo on the bathtub ledge. We go through this every time. Just lean your head back and the water won’t run into your face. I don’t know why that bothers her so much. She scooped water with a glass and poured it over the girl’s head. See? It worked. Just keep your head back, eyes closed, and water won’t go in your face.

Okay, Mama, but hurry. I can feel the water coming down. The little girl hooted a few times and flailed her arms.

I’ve got your clothes laid out on the bed. Let’s see how fast you can put them on.

The woman opened her purse. She set her checkbook on the dresser and wrote out her church offering.

Mama?

Hmmm?

Why for can’t you marry the man? He don’t have a wife too.

Oh, Ruth, just get dressed.

The woman gripped the check and tried to yank it from the checkbook along the perforations. The check tore in half.

Wonderful. She threw the checkbook on the floor.

Ruth, I don’t want to get married. A man would just be a peck of trouble for both of us. She retrieved the checkbook from the floor and began writing a new check.

Great, I just wrote the dollar amount on the pay-to-order line.

The woman went back to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and swallowed two Excedrins with a glass of water. When she knew, just knew, that two wouldn’t be enough, the woman popped a third.

Perched in front of the bathroom mirror, Clay glided the razor across his face. Powerful nice of the woman and girl to have me go to their church.

The trucker rinsed the lather off. He studied his image in the mirror, pursing his lips and shifting his mouth sideways and back. Still looks sort of black. Think I’ll soap it up again, cut more whiskers off this time.

Clay used a washcloth to remove the lather from the second shave. That’s a powerful bare face. I like it. Wonder where I put that bottle of smell-um stuff.

The trucker remembered that two years ago his sister had given him a bottle of Old Spice cologne for Christmas. Finding the holiday gift box still unopened, he removed the bottle and poured a generous amount into his hand. He rubbed his hands together and then slapped his freshly twice-shaven face on both sides. Ooo-eee, that burns. He waved his arms wildly. You’d think grown folks would have more sense than to do that to themselves on purpose.

As the alcohol evaporated, the stinging eased up. Finally, all the trucker could detect was the sweet lingering scent of spice. He poked his nose into the mirror. I look good and I smell good.

Clay’s best clothes were spread out on the bed. He glanced down at his freshly washed pair of work pants and work shirt and at his boots that had just been cleaned with Pledge furniture polish. He smiled. Then he rummaged in the dresser for his bolo tie. That should dude me up.

The rag doll stared up at Clay. It was sitting upright on the dresser when he walked over and rubbed his fingers across the embroidered letters. Hello, Little Chum, he said before sitting down on the bed.

The trucker chuckled. The girl wants me to pretend she’s Little Chum in my rig. Special. Never had that before.

Clay slipped his shirt on and snapped the front closed. Then he snap closed the cuffs. He pulled his pants on, stood up to tuck his shirt in, and buttoned the fly and waistband.

He took a deep breath and looked over at the rag doll. I don’t know anything about angels or Jesus or God or church goings-on. The little girl does. I seen it in her.

Chapter Six

I see the man’s truck, Mama. Hurry. They were still two blocks away.

The corner lot, void of trees, shrubs, even grass, was a dull acre of gravel and a sad tan stucco building. Filtering through a blanket of clouds, the sun’s rays camouflaged the fifties-era church campus with spotty shadows of gray and black. Greta discovered that if she was daydreaming, the church was easy to miss.

Ruth unbuckled her seat belt and leaned against the dashboard, rocking herself forward and back.

You’ll put that seat belt back on, young lady, until this car comes to a complete stop.

Okay, Mama.

Surrounded by five or six vehicles and blocked inescapably into a corner, Clay’s Peterbilt towered over the smaller cars like Gulliver to the Lilliputians. Greta parked the Corolla in her usual spot near the front, and the moment Ruth heard the ratchety sound of the parking brake being set she bolted out the door and ran up the steps into the foyer.

She poked her head between to the two swinging doors that opened into the sanctuary and searched. The minister’s wife looked up from the piano and waved at her. Ruth tossed a quick wave back.

Moments later Greta entered the foyer. She placed her hand on her daughter’s back and escorted her into the sanctuary. Ruth’s eyes continued to roam. Mama, I see the man. She raised her hand over her head. Hey, mister, mister, hey! Ruth called across the sanctuary. She waved at the man like a marooned castaway.

They walked over to him and Greta extended her hand, following the custom of her church. It was nice of you to come, Clay. I know it means a lot to Ruth.

The trucker reached out to receive the woman’s greeting. His large grip swallowed Greta’s hand in one gulp.

Oh my, strong hands.

I apologize for arriving at the last minute, Greta said, but my casserole for potluck wasn’t cooking as fast as I had planned. I hope you didn’t have to wait long.

The trucker grinned. I just drove up myself. Didn’t have to wait no time.

I saw how his truck was parked, all boxed in. He must have been the first one here.

Greta nudged her daughter. Shake hands with Clay, dear.

The little girl’s hand shot up at a forty-five-degree angle. When the trucker took it, Ruth slapped her other hand against his. His knuckles were sandwiched between her hands. Hi, mister.

The trucker crouched down. Hi there, Little Chum.

The minister had stepped on the platform and was standing behind the pulpit. Good morning, the minister said. If you would all find a seat, we’ll begin our morning service. It was a sparse congregation. Seating didn’t take long, not long at all.

Ruth and I usually sit in the second row, over there. The woman pointed to the left side of the church.

That’s fine, ma’am, Greta. Reckon we can see everything from there.

Clay and Ruth followed the woman up the aisle and to the second pew. The little girl scrambled in first to sit down, but her mother held her back by the arm.

Let your friend go in first, dear. She motioned for Clay to take a seat. Now you may sit down, Ruth. I thought you would enjoy sitting next to your friend. She put her hands on the girl’s shoulders to steer her into the pew. Then the woman sat down.

With Ruth between us, nobody will think he’s my date.

The minister cleared his throat. Would everybody find a songbook and turn to page 250.

The small church echoed with the swish of hymnals sliding from the racks and the rustle of pages turning.

Sister will lead us in that grand old hymn of the faith, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy.’

Greta leaned over her daughter and whispered to Clay, Sister is his wife. That’s what he calls her.

The trucker nodded as he lifted the hymnal to his face. But the little girl pulled his arm down, leaned against him, and peered onto the trucker’s hymnal.

Still facing the front, Greta shifted her eyes for a sideways glance. I’ve never seen Ruth be such a charmer.

The minister’s wife played the final stanza with increased intensity and crescendo. After the final word was sung, she concluded with an ascending four-step arpeggio, followed by an index finger on low E. It was very dramatic.

The minister closed his hymn book and let it lie on the pulpit. I’d like to give everyone an opportunity to introduce their guests. Do we have any first-time visitors?

Greta whispered to Clay, He knows you’re the only visitor, but he always acts like he doesn’t know. I think it’s cute.

The trucker smiled and nodded.

Greta nudged Ruth with her elbow and, with-a-louder-than-normal speaking voice, said, "Would you like to tell everyone who your friend is, dear?"

The little girl sprung to her feet and wore a broad smile. This is the man from Mama’s work, Ruth said. I got to pour the man coffee, but Mama tolded me I can’t do that no more at her work. I said to Mama we could bring the man home, and I could give him coffee there, but Mama said she don’t want the man in our home. I asked Mama if I could be a waitress for the man at church, and Mama said okay. So we brung him.

Greta heard stifled laughs throughout the sanctuary. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Please finish, Ruth.

The little girl continued. I asked Mama if the man liked me, and she said yes. I asked Mama if the man liked her, and she said the man don’t hate her. I asked Mama why for she don’t marry the man, and she said a man is a peck of trouble and we don’t need one.

Greta fastened her fingers around the little girl’s waist and, with a strong pull, forced Ruth to lunge backward into the pew. You’ve told them enough, dear. Sit down, please. The woman wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the floor. Why did Ruth have to say those things? It’s nobody’s business.

The stifled snickers had become an uproarious communal laugh, and the woman withered.

The minister was looking directly at Greta. He was the only one who could see the expression on her face. He raised his palms toward the congregation, and the laughing subsided. Then he looked at the trucker. Sir, the minister said. He spoke in a soft voice and wore an easy smile. I didn’t catch your name?

It’s Clay, Reverend.

Clay, the minister said, I want you to know how honored we are that you visited with us today. Did I hear Ruth say that you would be joining us for potluck supper?

Yes, Reverend.

That’s wonderful, Clay. I hope you enjoy yourself.

Thank you, Reverend.

The minister stepped away, took a deep breath, and returned to the pulpit. Greta remained crestfallen and stony faced in her pew.

Greta, Ruth, the minister said, I want to thank both of you for inviting Clay to service this morning. I believe that is the highest compliment you can pay your church. I want you to know that Jesus sees your heart, and he thanks you too. Then he encouraged the congregation to extend a hand-clap welcome to Clay.

The little girl raised her hand.

Yes, Ruth? the minister said.

Don’t the man get a Jesus pencil for coming to church?

Thank you, Ruth. I almost forgot. He reached behind the pulpit and brought out a rectangular fruitcake tin. He pried the lid off and walked to the edge of the platform. Would you like to pick one out for your friend, Ruth?

Oh, Ruth, why did you have to talk so much? Why didn’t I just introduce Clay? Hope nobody asks questions. They don’t need to know anything.

Greta felt her daughter crush against her ribs, and then she felt a tap on the shoulder. She looked. The trucker was pressing Ruth into her, trying to get close enough to whisper in her ear.

Ma’am, Greta, I’m powerful glad I came to your church today. I needed to be here, should have been in Sunday meetings all along. Thank you, ma’am, for having me.

Greta acknowledged the trucker with a nod and then focused her gaze toward the pulpit. Though her eyes saw the minister’s mouth move, her ears failed to hear any articulate speech. Whatever he was saying had no more meaning than the buzz of a fly.

I’ve worked too hard to come across to these people as normal. If this church ever found out about Ruth, about me, we couldn’t come here anymore. They wouldn’t want us.

Greta willed her mind to return to the service when she saw the minister give the ushers the two shiny silver offering plates. I’ve got my tithe check in my purse. She nudged her daughter. Ruth, have you got your offering?

While the woman fumbled with her purse, the little girl shoved her offering envelope into her mother’s face. See, Mama, I drawed a picture of Jesus on the cross for the pastor.

Greta pulled her head back and tried to focus her eyes. What she could make of Ruth’s sketch looked more like a tic-tac-toe game. Very nice, dear.

After what seemed like only a few minutes, the woman glanced down at her empty hand. Did the plate come by already? Must have. Then she drifted back to her private world, to a place in her mind controlled by many haunting memories.

Clay wouldn’t be so taken with Ruth if he knew the truth. He would run so fast. And me? A princess? Well, that would go. She threw her head back and sighed. It doesn’t make any difference anyway. I don’t want a man in my life, don’t need one. Ruth and I are happy just the way we are. The woman’s lips tightened. My father caused all this, that awful man. I hate him. If it wasn’t for him, none of this. She shook her head violently. Better listen to the sermon. Ruth might ask me about it.

She blinked a few times to clear her vision. Oh good, the pastor is doing one of his magic tricks, a sermon illustration. He’s done this one before. I think he only knows a few. Wonder how he gets those handkerchiefs together? She shot a glance to her side. She saw Clay and Ruth sitting on the edge of their seat, mouths gaping and eyes like hubcaps. The minister had just crammed three silk hankies into a transparent plastic tube. When he put his mouth on the tube and blew, the three hankies flew out the other end, all magically tied together. She saw Clay and Ruth look at each other and laugh.

Two peas in a pod, those two.

Greta draped her sweater across her lap and fiddled with a button. He called me a princess, no one’s ever done that.

The next thing Greta heard was the minister’s concluding prayer.

And, Father, we thank you for your unconditional love and for sending your son, Jesus Christ, to the cross, who became sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God. We pray these things in the precious and holy name of Jesus. Amen.

The minister opened his eyes and unfolded his hands. Don’t forget, he said, potluck downstairs in the fellowship hall. God bless and shake hands as you leave.

Several people shook the trucker’s hand. One of the ladies gave him the church schedule and a membership application. Clay put the literature in his pocket with the Jesus pencil.

I’m going with Sister, Mama, to help fix up potluck.

Don’t leave me alone, Ruth. She stabbed for her daughter’s hyperactive hand. Clay and I will go with you, dear.

The trucker tapped the woman on the shoulder. Can I talk to you, ma’am, Greta, alone?

Oh great.

Sure, Clay. She ceased her pursuit of her daughter’s hand. Run along, dear. Clay and I will be downstairs in a minute. We won’t be long, not long at all, just a minute or two.

The trucker and the woman were the last to remain in the sanctuary. Everyone else had either found their way to the basement fellowship hall, stepped outside for a secret smoke, or had gone to the convenience store for chips because they forgot to bring something for potluck.

Ma’am, Greta, what I want to say is, please don’t fret about the girl’s words. The trucker smiled. She’s just a girl. The church folks weren’t laughing at you. They were tickled because the little one was talking so easy, so simple. They knew she didn’t understand her words. I can tell these church folks think a lot of you. So please don’t fret.

I wish it was that simple. It’s all so complicated.

I only hope that Ruth didn’t embarrass you, Clay.

There’s no way on earth the little girl could shame me. He cupped his hands behind his head and shuffled his feet. The little one has caused me to take sight of some things I hadn’t given no thought to before.

The woman raised her eyebrows.

I really hurt your girl back in the café. I seen it in her eyes.

What? Greta’s mouth flew open.

"I saw her face, ma’am. She was hurt when I said ‘Jesus Christ’ the wrong way. He must be powerful important to her. I reckoned he should be to me too. Pretty near tore me to pieces, ma’am, the way