A Small Voice

Chapter Eight

"Is any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oilin the name of the Lord." James 5:14

I sat on the edge of my bed, tying my runners and wanting to walk straight out of the house without saying a word to anyone. The scene from the night before played over and over in my head like a surreal impossibility, but it had happened, and I had to face it. We all had to face it. I took a deep breath to brace myself, opened my bedroom door, and headed to breakfast.

The three of us moved through the kitchen as if some force compelled us to move slowly. We avoided direct eye contact and relied on peripheral vision to know when it was safe to open the refrigerator door, put a slice of bread in the toaster, pour a cup of coffee.

My mother was the first to attempt conversation, pretending the night before hadn't happened at all. "I had the funniest dream that Walter Cronkite was speaking at the church," she said.

I looked up and wished I hadn't. Her eyes were puffy and red. Worry lines creased her forehead as she smiled.

"Who's Walter Cronkite?" I asked.

"Oh, that's right. You wouldn't know." She put her butter knife down. "He used to do the news in the seventies, very distinguished, not like the flashy news people these days."

"Before the liberal left wing and Jews took over the media," my father added. He loved to add his racist opinions whenever he had the opportunity.

He scraped his chair loudly across the linoleum and got up to pour himself more coffee, something my mother usually did for him. She fluttered out of her chair after him.

"I'm sorry, Gunther. I should've been paying attention."

Indignation flared in the pit of my stomach, and I glared at the back of his head daring him to turn around, wondering if I had the nerve to hold my ground. Why should everyone in the house jump at his slightest wish? I took my dishes to the sink, mumbled a goodbye, and left. It was a relief to get into my car and drive away.

I thought of how my relationship with my parents had started to change. I knew my dad was very disappointed in me, yet I was frustrated that he was blind to how abusive he could be, and it shocked me how violent I could become as well. I wasn't looking forward to tonight's Wednesday evening church service. I had an awful feeling that my sins would be impossible to hide.

I spent the day at Charlie's as a patron instead of a barista. I took a corner table by the window and sipped on a latte while I watched the people come and go. The sky began to darken as rain clouds gathered, and I let myself get lost in counting the first raindrops to hit the windowpane. I heard Sandy's footsteps approaching. I knew the clip-clop of the clogs well.

"Hey. What are you doing hanging out at work on your day off?" When I didn't perk up and answer her, she reached out and touched my hand. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right."

She looked at me as if weighing whether to inquire further.

"I'm just a little blue today. Maybe it's this weather," I said.

"Yeah. The weather, that must be it." The mocking tone and the look in her eyes were code for letting me know she knew something was up, but she wasn't going to push it. If I wanted to talk to her, she would be there.

"Well, I've got beans to roast. I'll need you to help me stack the bags on your next shift."

"Sure thing," I said.

Three lattes later, the rain was coming down in sheets, and I toyed with the idea of going home to bed, but I knew I couldn't do that. It was time to head to church.