“No!” I could not prevent the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Satan was winning. Then Mr. Byrd slapped me three times hard in the face.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
It stung like a revelation. I tested my lip, which had begun to swell, and I stared without anger at Mr. Byrd.
“Now you’ll probably sue me for assault,” he said as he ushered me out of his office, with the hand that had smote me holding the door open against its strong spring.
I did not drive directly home after getting slapped by my principal. I visited Sister Morrisohn. A Christian must be valiant, brave. A Christian who has sinned must confess.
“I am saved.”
“By the Grace of God.”
“How, then, did I let go of His unfailing hand?” She forced my palms together. “Pray, Elwyn.”
I bowed my head and closed my eyes. A sobering thought prevented me from praying, and I opened my eyes. “You never told anyone what I did that day.”
“There was no point in ruining your reputation.”
“I would have lost my position in the church, like Peachie.”
“You didn’t really sin,” Sister Morrisohn said. “Peachie sinned.”
“I did sin.”
“But you prayed for forgiveness.”
“So did Peachie. And she confessed openly. I didn’t so much as do that. Open confession is good for the soul.”
“God knows the heart. That’s enough, don’t you think? Let your little transgression be a secret between me, you, and God.”
“But the secret is driving me crazy.” I was at a crossroads of faith. I had to either do what the Bible said was right, or not do what was right at all. It was now 4:15. Sister Morrisohn wore a red sundress. A half hour ago she had removed her shoes. I had been there almost an hour.
I had told her the devil had got ahold of me and made me love her. She had raised her eyebrows and then removed her shoes. Another revelation. She had beautiful feet.
“There are many secrets in the church. Those who confess are no worse than the rest, but they suffer for their forthrightness.”
“The Bible says open confession is good for the soul.”
“Everyone will treat you like a backslider. You don’t want that.” She closed her eyes. “Some will even laugh at you.”
“Laugh?”
“You’re so much younger than me. They would find that amusing.”
“Did they find it amusing,” I asked, “when you married Brother Morrisohn?”
This seemed to catch her off guard. Her face underwent a series of quiet transformations, from disbelief to anger to resignation, before she spoke again: “How old are you, Elwyn? Sixteen?”
“Almost seventeen.”
“I’m twenty-six years older than you.” She rose from the couch where she had been sitting for the last half hour and walked in her stockinged feet to the other side of the room and stood beneath the portrait in oil of her and Brother Morrisohn on their wedding day. It was a painting in broad strokes and drab colors: black, gray, a rusty brown, a pasty yellow where there should have been white. “I was married for nearly twenty years to a man close to forty years my senior, and I loved him every second of that marriage.”
“You’re saying it doesn’t really matter, then, the age difference.”
“It matters a little. Oh, there are times when it matters.” She laughed suddenly into her hands. “I’m so flattered. I just can’t believe that at your age—well, just look at me.” Sister Morrisohn lifted her arms like wings and spun in gay circles, revealing herself from all sides.
I gazed unabashedly. She had dancer’s calves, a slender waist, arms that were thin as a young girl’s.
“I see nothing wrong with you.”
“Look at me again.” Now she grabbed her hem with both hands and raised it above her dimpled knees. “All of these imperfections that come with age.” She spun. Her sundress spread out like an umbrella, exposing thigh-high garters and the black silk panties of mourning.
I saw no imperfections.
When I looked at my watch, it was 8:00 p.m.
“Elwyn, this is a secret you’d better keep.” Sister Morrisohn rolled over and hid her face in my chest. She laughed out loud and then she cried, soaking my chest with her tears.
I ran my fingers through her beautiful hair.
After that, we scrambled to end it, to get back to our lives. What pieces of our clothes we could find, we put back on, and then we knelt at the foot of the bed to pray for the forgiveness of our sins. But she was too close to me, and Satan won the battle again. My hand went under her dress and touched her.
“Oh God,” I said. “Lord,” she said.
And then we sinned again—me and the woman who smelled like spring blossoms, whose slender waist fit so pleasingly into my palm, the woman who did not weigh much when she fell. Me and the wife of my deceased benefactor and friend.
Afterward, she said, her cheek against my neck, “How are we going to do this, Elwyn? People may begin to wonder.”
“I could be giving you piano lessons twice a week,” I suggested. “Good,” she said. Then: “Only twice a week?”
I called home once more. “I’m still at the mall,” I told my mother. “Witnessing.”
“Don’t forget that dinner is waiting for you,” she said. “Or are you fasting again?”
“I’ll be home in a little while. I’m hungry. My fast is over.” I looked at Sister Morrisohn. She turned her head away.
My mother said, “Well, I’ll keep your plate warm. Bye, Elwyn.”
“Bye, Mom.” I hung my head in shame.
Father, forgive me.
Peachie should have been happy.
She was married now, Praise the Lord, so the baby would have a name. In time the Faithful would forgive her too.
She had a husband, Praise the Lord, so they did not have to sneak around to do it anymore. They could do it anytime they wanted, and they certainly did. This was the honeymoon period, the best part of being married everyone had always told her.
Praise the Lord.
So why was happiness eluding her?
Barry snored beside her contentedly. Peachie touched his shoulder, but he did not awaken.
It was still early, barely past midnight, but Barry would not awaken until morning. In the old days when they were sneaking around, she and Barry would talk on the phone until 3 or 4 in the morning. But now he was an early sleeper, she had come to learn, especially after sex.
During this first week of marriage, she had come to learn many things about Barry, many of which she did not like. For instance, he was a bit on the sloppy side. He only showered every other day. And he had a way of being very condescending when he became angry, and he seemed to get angry for such stupid little things and so often. And he expected her to cook for him, even though his mother was perfectly willing to do it and Peachie was perfectly uncomfortable cooking in a strange kitchen.
“Well, I have a wife now, or don’t I? I sure do remember