The Last Days of Summer

by Vanessa Ronan

  He keeps his voice calm. ‘I’d like a word with God is all.’

  ‘God don’ talk back.’

  Jasper reaches for the door handle. ‘He don’t need to.’

  ‘Are you lookin’ for forgiveness, Jasper?’ Her words stop him, door half open, one foot nearly to the ground, hand still on the handle. His eyes meet hers. ‘ ’Cause folks round here ain’t ready to forgive just yet.’

  He hesitates a moment. ‘Mama would have liked this. Us all comin’ here.’

  She closes her eyes. Tilts back her head, hands still on the wheel at nine and three o’clock. ‘All right,’ she says, ‘let’s do this,’ and she opens her door and climbs down onto the grass outside.

  It’s a beautiful summer morning. He can’t help but notice that. Sun high and hot in the sky. Not a cloud in sight. The heavens that perfect blue July hue so huge above him. He has to squint when he looks up it’s so bright, the whole sky that is, not just the sun. Feels good to feel the heat on his skin. He closes his eyes. Lifts his face to the sun. Lets its beams fall down upon him.

  There was a chapel in prison. Nothing fancy, but a chapel all the same. One stained-glass window above the altar with a stained-glass Jesus on it, hung and dying on his cross. It was the only splash of colour in the place. Only window in the whole place without bars on it, too. Except it didn’t matter, ’cause the window didn’t lead anywhere, just to a wall behind it. He’d sat in that chapel long hours. Not praying. Just liked the quiet there. The prison’s priest had sat beside him once that first year. Had asked him, ‘Do you come here seeking your soul’s salvation, son?’ and Jasper had answered him, ‘Padre, I have no soul to save.’

  He was younger than Jasper, that preacher, though not by much. He had a flat, moon face. His pockmarked skin was scarred from what must once have been bad acne, scars like moon craters hollowing out his cheeks. His hair was prematurely greying round the temples. He had squinty eyes. And fat full lips, like a woman’s, but dry and cracked, not moist as a woman’s should be. Jasper had stared at those fat, dry lips, enthralled, fascinated by the depth of the cracks that chapped them. The bright soft pink of them contrasted with the sallow moon craters on the man’s skin. ‘Would you like to confess your sins?’ the young priest had asked him.

  ‘I ain’t Catholic.’ He’d been looking at Jesus when he spoke, not at the man beside him.

  ‘I speak in here to men of many faiths.’

  Jasper did not bother to turn to the other man. ‘Confession don’t matter none once you’re convicted,’ he’d said. ‘You still serve the same term.’

  The preacher had nodded, pockmarked skin sallower as his smile fell. ‘And what of your soul?’ he’d said. ‘What of its salvation? Of its sentencing on the day of reckoning when you stand before the gates of Heaven?’

  Jasper had laughed at that, long and low and soft. ‘The day you start worryin’ ’bout your sentence up God’s way,’ he’d said, ‘is the day this shit-hole’s behind you. When your balls drop, Padre, you’ll understand better. You’ll wank one out for God one day and realize you’re still not satisfied. Then you’ll sit in here as I do just to hear the quiet.’

  Jasper can’t help but think of that now, walking up the path to the church of his boyhood Sundays. Can’t help but wonder if maybe that squinty-eyed boy preacher was right and there is another sentence awaiting him in the hereafter. But, truth be told, Jasper’s never fully believed in Heaven, and most of his life it’s seemed to him that Hell and Earth are one. This is his hereafter. He’s come for his reckoning.

  Mama had died the first week of January. Six years ago this coming winter. It hadn’t been a big funeral: a few of Mama’s churchgoing friends, the ladies she played bridge with, what little family there was left. There was no snow that winter, but the ground was still so frozen solid, it took the gravediggers two days to dig her grave deep enough. Like the prairie itself wasn’t ready to take her back just yet. That was how it had felt to Lizzie when Reverend Gordon had called round to say the funeral would need to be delayed a day. It had felt like God teasing her, letting her keep her mama there in that coffin like that for one more day, mocking her prayers, for what is the value of that wished-for one more day with the one you’ve lost, when that one is dead already? The gravediggers poured boiling water on the ground while they were digging. Or that was what Lizzie had been told anyway, that one kept stepping into the church to boil the water while the other dug out the newly defrosted ground. They’d sprinkled clumps of mud on Mama’s coffin, not dirt, and when the mud hit the casket it made a hollow thudding sound, like the gate on the cast-iron fence by Daddy’s old shed slammed shut.

  When they’d found that the cancer in Mama’s left breast had spread, Dr Fieldsmen had given her six months to live and, compliant as ever, six months to the day from his visit, Lizzie had come upstairs to find her mother tucked up in bed, quilt pulled up to her chin, peaceful as though just resting, but cold and dead and lifeless. Lizzie could not untangle the sheets from her mother’s death grip. Fingers stronger in death than Mama’s arthritic hands had ever been in life. Delicately, Lizzie had leaned across the bed to try to shut Mama’s eyes, but rigor mortis had set in there too, and Mama’s eyes refused to close. She stared up and into Lizzie, unseeing. It was then that Lizzie had cried. The girls were home from school by the time she’d stopped, the sun just setting.

  Now, walking across the churchyard, Lizzie can’t help but think back to that cold January morning, grass iced over so that every footstep had crunched. That was the last time she’d come to church. Six years ago this coming winter. She brings the girls to their grandparents’ graves, of course, from time to time, but never on Sundays, and never round a service when the whole town might be gathered. Since Mama’d died, Lizzie’d avoided the townsfolk as much as possible. She couldn’t handle the pity smiles. The whispers only barely masked behind raised hands. She’d grown to dislike crowds. Funny, she thinks now, tearing her eyes from the church’s graveyard, how life speeds up just so we can stand still for all eternity.

  The church bell is ringing, calling all inside. Its clatter drifts loud to soft on constant repeat as wind carries the sound above the graveyard and out across the prairie beyond. A few mockingbirds sing with the bell, imitating it with their harsh cackle. Most folks have made it inside already. Before, Lizzie hadn’t wanted them to be too early, but now, seeing how full the lot is, she doesn’t want them to be the last ones in, either. She glances quickly around the nearly full space, searching for stragglers. A few pickup doors still slam as churchgoers hurry not to be late. Ahead of them, the tiny church glistens white, reflecting the sun’s heat. Reverend Gordon smiles ear to ear in the door before them as he greets and shakes hands with all who enter.

  Picking up her pace, Lizzie glances back at her family. Jasper walks just one step behind her. His eyes down, hands hidden deep inside his pockets. Shoulders hunched a little. Katie is a couple of steps behind her uncle, arms crossed over her chest. A frown, deep-set on her brow, mars the perfect sunshine that usually lights her face. Lizzie doesn’t see Joanne at first. She stops walking, turns and surveys the field they’ve just come across. She raises her hand to block the sun from her eyes. Looks out across the field. Sunlight reflects off car windows and mirrors, making it hard to see. Joanne is halfway back to the truck, squatted on the grass, the hem of her dress trailing in the dirt as she leans over, prodding a crayfish burrow with a stick. ‘Joanne!’ Lizzie snaps. ‘You get over here now, you hear?’ Her voice nearly echoes as it carries.

  Joanne looks up, startled, and drops the stick. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she calls, and starts running.

  Lizzie watches her daughter till she’s reached them, her hand still up to block the sun. Eyes squinting. She grabs Joanne roughly by the arm, and pulls the girl to her. ‘Let me see your dress,’ she scolds, dusting it with one hand as she holds her squirming daughter with the other. ‘Now, mind you keep up,’ Lizzie says, and releases her. She hadn’t meant to be quite so
rough, to grab her daughter quite so hard.

  Joanne says nothing. She steps away from her mother and smooths her dress with both hands. A funny smile plays at Jasper’s lips, and Lizzie doesn’t like it. She can’t quite say why she doesn’t like it, but to her it’s like that smile is the other Jasper, the one trouble finds. She shivers even though the sun’s heat bakes down upon them, tanning, burning all it touches. A flock of blackbirds rises from some distant shrubs, spreading up and out over the prairie, like a dark cloud. Lizzie turns, hearing the birds’ calls as they rise in flight. She watches as they move as one, sweeping over the prairie as they dive and rise and dive again.

  ‘Morning, Elizabeth! Girls!’ The cheer in the reverend’s voice sounds more surprised than joyful. Then, softer, more reserved, his tone changes, ‘Morning, Jasper,’ and he smiles, but his eyes do not, and Lizzie can’t help but wonder why she’s doing this, why she’s agreed to be here. Then she thinks again of Jasper, imagines him all alone inside the church, the congregation around him, like a hungry mob, and she remembers her place again: she knows why she is here. The thought of Jasper alone with the townsfolk chills her insides, tightens her throat. She can’t help but feel that, with her there, she can look over him, can protect him in some small manner. Though from what or whom exactly, she cannot say.

  Lizzie smiles. ‘Morning, Reverend.’

  He matches her forced bright tone. ‘Lord’s blessed us with a fine, fine morning.’

  She glances up at the cloudless blue of the sky above them. ‘Sure is fine all righ’.’

  ‘Reverend.’ Jasper nods to the other man and extends his hand. He’s smiling.

  She sees the reverend hesitate. Hates him for it. Jasper’s hand hangs there between them. Extended. Waiting. Reverend Gordon takes it slowly, with great care, as though he touches something that might stain. The two men’s eyes meet. She can see Jasper’s grip tighten slightly. ‘What’s wrong, Reverend?’ Jasper whispers. ‘You afraid my sins rub off?’

  The reverend releases Jasper’s hand quickly and forces a laugh, no merriment in the sound. He directs his words to Lizzie again, even though Jasper still stands sneering before him. ‘It’s great to see you, Elizabeth. Makes my heart smile to see you ladies come on back to church.’ He nods towards the girls, then turns to Lizzie again. ‘Your mother’d be mighty pleased to see y’all back in God’s house. No doubt her spirit’s smiling down on y’all this fine, fine mornin’.’

  Lizzie pictures her mother laid out in bed as she’d found her all those years back. Cold, dead eyes open wide. She wonders where her mother was then, if she’d bothered looking down or if she’d merely been delighted at the escape that cancer had granted her. ‘Thank you, Reverend,’ is all Lizzie says, and she nods to him once more.

  He turns back to Jasper, opens his mouth to speak. ‘Well, son …’ he begins only to fall short.

  Mrs Gordon hurries out of the church door and rushes across the short landing to her husband’s side. ‘Darling,’ she coos, cutting him off. ‘You ’bout ready to come in and start the sermon? Mrs Hillcrest says she’s in a real hurry this Sunday ’cause little baby Sue got a fever ’n’ she knows Caroline didn’t get one wink of sleep last night, what with the baby cryin’ ’n’ all –’ The reverend’s wife stops abruptly. ‘Oh,’ she says, and stops speaking altogether then, mouth hanging open slightly, eyes wide and dazed as she surveys the family before her. She’s a good few years younger than her husband, but not unseemingly so. While his plump form has passed middle age and sunk into the further declines of maturity, Regina Gordon still has the sharp features of a much younger woman. They’d met in Dallas, over twenty years ago, back when the reverend had first studied ministry. She’d grown up in the city, her daddy’d sold used cars, and it had taken her a while at first to adjust to small-town life, but then, once she did, it suited her completely. She fed off gossip. Lived to tell one neighbour on the next. Small-town life suited Regina Gordon to a tee, and she holds herself now with the confidence of a woman who has power. And she does, Lizzie thinks. The preacher’s wife’s always been respected round here.

  ‘Darlin’.’ Reverend Gordon flashes another smile and puts his arm around his wife’s slender shoulders. ‘You remember Elizabeth? The late Mrs Curtis’s daughter? And her two girls?’

  ‘Oh! Yes!’ Mrs Gordon smiles. ‘Your mother was such a fine woman, Elizabeth. You know, I still remember her in my prayers.’

  Lizzie feels her insides bristle. She’s never liked this woman. The hurtful gossip that she spreads hidden behind that saintly smile. ‘That’s mighty kind of you, Regina, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let my mother rest in peace awhile. She must be awfully tired receiving all those prayers of yours. The way I see it, there’s more livin’ need our help than dead ’n’ prayers just waste our breath.’

  The smile falls from the other woman’s face. ‘That’s a rather unholy perspective, Elizabeth.’ Regina tries to force a laugh, but her smile’s failing. Falling.

  ‘I ain’t had much time for faith.’

  Regina’s eyes narrow above her pointy nose, as though looking down at Lizzie even though Lizzie is the taller woman. Her mouth opens then closes as though in search of words, then her eyes shift slowly to Jasper, who’s been standing silently, patiently waiting to be recognized. He grins. ‘Hi, Regina. I reckon you ain’t aged one day since I seen you last.’ His eyes search her up and down.

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Gordon almost laughs, then stops herself, a nervous sort of giggle escaping her lips before she seals them shut. She smooths down the front of her dress self-consciously. ‘Hello, Jasper.’ She nods. ‘I see you’re … Welcome back.’ She does not take the hand he’s outstretched to greet her. It hangs there a moment, suspended, before he lowers it to his side.

  Lizzie clears her throat. ‘Thank you, Reverend, Regina. We don’t wanna hold y’all up no more.’

  A few other stragglers have crossed the field and nearly made it to the church doors. Lizzie can hear their footsteps slow as they come closer. Glancing over, she is surprised to find she does not recognize the family that approaches. Regina has found her smile again. Fake as her husband’s but with a coldness to it that his most times warms. ‘Will you be stayin’ for Sunday school, girls?’ she purrs, beaming at Katie and Joanne.

  ‘We hadn’t planned on it,’ Lizzie answers for them.

  ‘Oh, but you must! It’ll be such a nice treat for the girls to see their friends a bit, don’ you think, Elizabeth?’ She turns to Katie, smile warm and welcoming. ‘I teach the youth group Sunday school for high-schoolers myself, you know, and we just have a blast! I just can’t get over how pretty you’ve grown, Katie! You were only this high last I saw you. We’d just love it if you’d join us after church for Sunday school. It ain’t all Bible reading.’ Regina laughs. ‘We do have fun, you know!’

  Katie smiles, looks to her mom. ‘Well, maybe –’

  Lizzie cuts her off, ‘Thank you, Regina, Reverend,’ places her palms on her daughters’ backs and gently pushes them through the open doors before them.

  ‘Reverend.’ Jasper nods to the other man, his hands buried deep in his pockets. ‘I must say I sure am lookin’ forward to this sermon. God knows it’s been too long since I been to church.’ He flashes that brilliant grin of his. Playful, teasing. The same grin that in boyhood meant some mischief was to follow. He nods to Regina, ‘Ma’am,’ then turns and follows his family inside.

  Lizzie had hoped they might enter unnoticed. Walking through the wide oak doors past the reverend and his wife, she now realizes that that wish would have taken a miracle. All it takes is Lionel Davies’s little boy whispering into his mother’s ear, too loudly, ‘Who’s that?’ and it seems like the whole congregation rotates as one and notices them. Lizzie wants to turn around right then and there and go back through those big oak doors, across the lawn and into her truck and all the way back up the road, back home again. Far from here as her truck will take her. Instead, she steels herself inside, though
bracing for what exactly, she cannot say. She takes her daughters by their hands. Starts to lead them down one of the back pews. Jasper’s hand on her shoulder stops her. She can feel the roughness of his palm through the thin fabric of her dress. The dryness of his skin.

  ‘There’s seats closer to the front,’ he whispers.

  Her eyes search his. ‘What’s wrong with this? What you tryin’ to prove?’

  ‘I’d like to see is all,’ he whispers, then walks with conviction down the centre aisle, his head held high.

  He walks the same path she walked all those years ago, back on her wedding day, when Bobby had been at the altar, smiling as he waited for her. That was the last time, the only time, Lizzie had walked through a nearly full church and down the aisle. Her wedding day. And on that day, the faces looking back at her had been all smiles.

  The whispers explode as Jasper begins his procession forward. A sound like wind building, growing, gaining momentum, as it swirls round the church. The girls look to her, and Lizzie nods, and they follow their uncle down the aisle. Lizzie trails last behind them. Like some strange wedding procession, she thinks, at a wedding where the bride is hated. Most faces are turned to Jasper and do not even look at her. Most eyes watch his entrance with a sort of silent fury. But then the focus shifts to her as well, to her girls as they follow him, and Lizzie can’t help but wonder if this is what it feels like to be Jasper, to walk among such hatred.

  Jasper nods to familiar faces as he passes them. Finds an empty pew three-quarters of the way towards the front. They sit down, the whispers still growing, growing all around them, howling like wind. It is not a happy sound, not a peaceful sound at all, and Lizzie wonders briefly if their mama is looking down and if she’s howling too. Not everyone remembers to whisper any more, and voices rise, getting louder, angrier all around them.