Church Man

When I was nine, the news man said that two people died in a house fire on Maple Street and Mother sat down in shock. The sofa springs creaked and her coffee mug clinked as it touched down on the side table. Father, from his high-backed rocking chair, said that life was a cruel son of a bitch and Brother, from the ground, agreed. They always had the same voice in that way. At some point, Mother turned to me, hand on her chest, and asked the question wormed into my own mind.

It was sad, I agreed. Life was fickle around here and sadness was a word stamped at the end of my tongue.

Dead house cats decorated the long road between my house and the town. Wasn't it sad. Tabby cats, black cats, and calico ones, too. Their gangly bodies stretched out over the gravel and wildflowers or sometimes those yellow lines on the pavement.

My family and I took the station wagon into town once a week for church and groceries. I tallied the cats so that when I folded my hands on the pews and whispered silent prayers, I could include them. There were always new cats for new prayers. Cat Number One, Cat Number Two, Cat Number Three...

But the church man on the street corner outside the store always said that it was so goddamned easy to bring life into this world. He spat dark liquid into a cup and never looked above his grimy brow. Death was not sad to the church man.

Father said he wasn't actually a church man but I saw how he held his hands out like Mary. Nothing much holier than that.

He told me again when I was ten. His big hand clutched the shoulder of my favorite jacket, I paid attention. That man was not a church man, Maisy. He sat outside the wide store windows on Sunday mornings to guilt people into giving him money. And we don't give him money, Brother chimed. He would use it for booze, Mother added as she checked the shopping list. Or chew.

The pastor asked for our money every Sunday.

Father shook his head. The pastor used our church money for the church, for God.

That was the difference, then.

On the way home, I recounted the cats in the gravel and spat like the church man at any crows. I was never any good at it, though. Spit dribbled down my chin until I figured out that you've got to save it up. Save up half a mouthful before you fired it out the window. Mother chastised me from the front seat.

The birds would peck at them if I didn't.

Father explained that they were roadkill. Cats on the side of the road didn't matter. I asked him that question, then. The one Mother gasped all the time with her hand clasped to her chest.

It wasn't sad, the rest of the car agreed. They all had the same voice sometimes. Brother hit my shoulder and laughed. I blinked, rubbed my arm, and put my head down.

It wasn't sad, I agreed.

The next Sunday we went to church, I prayed for the cats, and we went to the store. The church man was out front. A woman walked close to her husband as they passed and the church man lifted those holy hands. The husband kicked out something fierce and hit the church man square in the gut. He spat and sputtered and turned those hands into a gesture not fit for the Lord's day.

Father pushed us behind him. Brother took my hand as the husband rolled up his sleeves. I heard him cuss and I caught a glimpse of Jesus red wine as it sprayed onto the shop windows.

We stood there, on the sidewalk. Silent. I stood at Father's back with my eyes closed until it was over. We got our groceries in crisp brown paper bags and toted them to the station wagon.

The church man was spread out on the sidewalk, rasping, one arm hung in the street. I toed it closer to the curb. A car could hit him if I didn't.

You should have left him, Father said. Let him get hit. He didn't matter, Brother added. We didn't talk anymore about it. I didn't recount my cats.

None of it mattered, I agreed.

When I was eleven, the news man said that the church man died and Mother tutted as she peeled potatoes. Father turned the page in his book and said life was a cruel son of a bitch. Brother said he deserved it.

The sadness creeped up my throat but I swallowed it back down. I found a spot on the creaky couch and rested my head on the arm. I closed my eyes. We all had the same voice sometimes.

Life was cruel.

The cats didn't matter.

We weren't sad for the church man.