CHAPTER 11
I was in church when the news hit. My toes were pushing against the tight fit of my heels, my eyes on the back of Mrs. Coulston’s head. She had a mole on the back of her neck. A light brown mole. It was horrifically ugly, yet I couldn’t take my eyes away. Couldn’t concentrate on the sermon, which was probably for the best since this was the time of year that it was all about tithing and financial duties to the church. This time of year always made my skin crawl, my opinion of Pastor Dinkon drop, my goodwill to the church faltering in one half-guilty, half-irritated step. I understood that money was needed, to pay the utility bill, to resurface our church’s parking lot. But my money wasn’t needed. Not when Bill Francis had donated five million to this little church just three years ago. Not when we were constantly having bake sales and pancake breakfasts and a hundred other things. Fifty dollars out of my monthly five hundred was a drop in the ocean of the church’s coffers.
Beside me, in my new Nine West purse—a Fortune Bottle splurge—my hand groped, moving past tissues and pens before I finally found my goal: a peppermint. My fingers closed on the plastic-wrapped mint. I had to unzip it further to slide my hand out and Mama stiffened, turning and shooting me a look of disapproval. I withdrew the mint from the red leather and carefully pulled on its plastic twisted end. The process sounded loud, and I held my breath as I eased the candy out, Pastor Dinkon’s guiltfest sermon continuing, uninterrupted. We were about twenty minutes in, which was about halfway, and I popped it in my mouth, returning my eyes to the mole. She really shouldn’t wear an updo. Then again, I tried to remember the last time I saw Mrs. Coulston with her hair down and came up blank. I guess, at her age, women didn’t really wear their hair down, some unspoken rule—the same rule that made most women her age go short. I was glad she hadn’t hacked it all off and gone the updo route instead; her hair really did look beautiful—dark black and silver strands twisting perfectly up and pinned. The mole was really the only problem. Surely she could get it removed. Frozen off or something. The thought suddenly struck me that she might not even know it was there. It was on the back of her neck. I had the sudden, horrible desire to touch her shoulder. Gently, just a nudge. Nudge at her and point. Bring her Sunday morning attention to it.
A horrible idea. I sat on my hands just to make sure it didn’t happen.
There was a commotion three rows up. A shifting, leaning, shuffling. Mayor Frazier was trying to get out of his row. In the middle of the sermon. I watched with fascination as he dipped and weaved, his mouth making regretful motions, his face tight. I elbowed Mama, but she was already watching. Everyone was, a general shift of disapproval at the distraction. Typical Quincy. I knew I wasn’t the only one bored; I knew the disapproving hums were actually happy for some action, something to poke their minds before they headed in the direction of a nap.
When Mayor Frazier’s shoes finally hit the middle aisle’s floor, their black shiny selves moved. Quick, important steps, his hand wrapped tight around his cell phone, and I suddenly realized that this was about more than just an urgent need to urinate. This was something else, something that made his eyes light up, his cell phone at the ready, his feet all but jogging to the exit. When he passed our row, his eyes darted to me, and there was a moment of connection, a moment where I realized that this was about The Movie.
Something had happened. And suddenly, my interest in Mrs. Coulston’s mole and notifying her of its existence was gone. In that moment, with twenty minutes left in the sermon and a sea of bodies on either side of me, I wanted only one thing: to hop over the aisle and follow him.
I didn’t, of course. For one, Mama’s hand settled on my arm and squeezed. A warning squeeze, one that said I know what you’re thinking and Don’t you dare, all at one time. For two, I wasn’t a barbarian. I did have some form of self-control, some respect for our God Almighty and for Pastor Dinkon, even if that day’s sermon was a load of fundraising crap.
I sat there, my nails biting into my panty-hosed knee, my toes pushing against the front of my shoes, and waited. All through the sermon. The offering. All through three songs of worship. Through the closing, and then, with the crowd rising as one polite mass, I grabbed my purse and bolted out, my eyes frantic for the mayor.
“That Bobbi Jo girl never did anything to nobody. And now she’s in an insane asylum after what Summer Jenkins did.”
“An asylum? I thought Bobbi Jo was up in Athens. Dating a doctor up there.”
“Nope. She’s in an asylum. Doped up on drugs all the time. That’s why no one’s heard from her. Her mama made up that Athens story to save face. But Summer’s the one who should be locked up. That’s my opinion.”