Damage - A. M. Jenkins [19]
But when you sit down the smile is already trying fade. You prop up the corners of your mouth and look around the sanctuary; you’ve sat here every Sunday you can remember. The sun comes in through tall stained-glass windows on the side walls, making patches on the floor like pieces in some colorful puzzle. When you were little you’d tell Mom you wanted to sit on the side aisle, just so you could stretch a hand out in the dim light of the sanctuary and spread your fingers to feel the warm colors pouring over your palm.
But you’re not sitting on the aisle now. And you’re not little anymore. The pews are hard, and dark with age, and the air is musty with old varnish.
The only thing that’s light is the thought of Heather. You’re pretty sure the two of you have something common, something about having seen underneath the skin of the world while most other people think the outside is all there is. Although, to be honest, it’s hard think about Heather without thinking about her outside since she comes wrapped in so fine a package.
Very fine.
But this is not the place for those kinds of thought Time to stand and sing. Becky holds the hymn book so the two of you can share. You don’t sing, just read along with the words.
Did we in our own strength confide
Our striving would be losing;
Were not the right Man on our side,
The Man of God’s own choosing….
Curtis and his mother are sitting two rows up. They don’t look much alike, even from the back. Gayle Hightower is short and faded and homey looking, while Curtis takes after his dad, tall and whip thin. He’s got on his usual sports shirt. No tie. His mom’s probably just glad he doesn’t wear jeans to church.
You’ve tried not wearing a tie, but you’ve never made it out the door without getting caught, nagged, and harped on. Mom wouldn’t care if the preacher himself declared casual day—to her it’s bad enough you don’t wear a suit. She says dressing up is a sign of respect to God. You believe God looks inside people, not at what they’re wearing, but you don’t figure He’d appreciate you arguing with your mother about it, either.
He also wouldn’t appreciate the way your mind keeps hearing Heather’s voice, saying the two of you the perfect heights for sex.
So you make yourself notice how Becky is singing under her breath. That’s what she does lately. Must be some girl thing, like throwing a fit over who gets to use the phone, or screeching when you accidentally pull a box of girl stuff—supplies—out of the grocery bag. You kind of miss her singing. There was something light and sweet about her voice. Plus, when she doesn’t sing, everybody can hear your mother that much better. Mom never could carry a tune, but that doesn’t make her lower her voice one decibel. She just stands there singing in her trademark half croak, half bleat, wearing her Sunday dress that Becky picked out for her because she says Mom shouldn’t wear a suit to church, but Mom won’t make time to shop for dresses.
That word above all earthly pow’rs,
No thanks to them, abideth….
Everybody but you and Becky is singing. The words rise straight up around you, faithful and unblinking. You’ve completely lost your place on the page now. With nothing to nail your eyes to, it’s hard not to remember how Heather kissed your finger last night—well, not kissed, not exactly. To be accurate, you’d have to call it sucking. No—more than sucking, actually, because you are fairly positive that Heather used her tongue. Fingertips are very sensitive, and there was definitely a split second where something more than sucking was going on; something soft and fluttery and wet.
Of course, it’s not right—thinking about sucking. Not here.
So you look at Curtis’s back and think about the Hightowers. Used to be, Mr. Hightower stood on the other side of Mrs. Hightower. Not anymore; five years ago he ran off with that intern.
You met her once. Her name