Aunt Beulah was the only one she would miss seeing, but she could call her whenever she wanted. As for all those others, she was more than glad to be rid of them. She would never again have to walk inside that little box of a house that held all the echoes of all the arguments she and her grandmother had ever had and all the collected smells of all the bad cooking, or hear the clucking tongues of all her other aunts, or drive past her old high school and remember the droopy faces of her disappointed band director and other teachers, or glance out the front door of Grandmother’s house and see the little steeple of Bethany Hills Bible Tabernacle down the road. She wouldn’t have to plan her errands around town so as to avoid the road leading out to the old rock quarry, or the street where Ansell’s parents still lived, or the cemetery where Grandmother was buried.
And she would never have to look into those disconcertingly blue eyes of Denise Davidson again and hear her ask nosy questions such as the one she had asked last Sunday night after the evening service, which Celia still couldn’t figure out why she had attended when she had been so glad to escape that morning. Celia had been in even more of a hurry to leave that night, to get back to her motel room and wind down, maybe get a bite to eat and watch something on television to help her relax and drive today’s sermons out of her head. If she was lucky, she might be able to get some sleep later on, and if it was too long in coming she had her pills with her. She had two busy days ahead of her, and she was most eager to finish it all up so she could get out of this sorry little town once and for all.
When she had tried to slip past Denise that night, however, she felt a hand on her arm. “Wait, Celia, let me walk you out to your car,” Denise said, and though Celia thought of a dozen ways to decline, none of them came out of her mouth. “Newt and I are going up to see his mother for a few days tomorrow, so I probably won’t see you again,” Denise said behind her as they threaded their way past the people crowding the aisles and heading toward the door, and Celia had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “Well, I certainly hope not.” Someone called to Denise, asking her if she’d heard how somebody’s surgery had gone, but she answered, “I can’t stop right now, but I’ll be back in a jiffy to talk to you!”
Out in the parking lot Denise kept up a steady trickle of talk as they walked toward Celia’s Mustang, mostly predictable platitudes about how happy and fulfilled she always felt on Sunday night after the blessings of the Lord’s Day and how thankful she always was when people visited their church and how especially glad she was that Celia had come to both services today. But she dropped the trivia and got down to business when they finally arrived at Celia’s car. It was not quite seven o’clock yet, so it was still light outside. And besides the light, Denise and she were almost exactly the same height, meaning that Celia got the full effect of Denise’s eyes when they turned on her, a straight-line view right into the heart of those two hot, steady blue torches.
“I can’t let you leave without asking you something, Celia.” Denise clutched her Bible against her as if afraid someone was going to try to steal it. “I owe it to your grandmother to do this. She was so worried about you before she died. She couldn’t talk about anything else those last couple of days.” She looked down at her feet quickly, then looked back up and took a deep breath. Celia was tempted to open her own mouth and recite the words along with her, so sure she was of what was coming. But she would have been wrong, for Denise put it a different way from the old standard “Are you saved?” Instead, she said, “Have you ever truly trusted in the blood of Jesus to wash away your sins?”
Perhaps it was the way she always approached people when casting her net for lost souls, or maybe she used a different line every time. Maybe this particular cliché was inspired by one of the hymns they had sung in church tonight: “What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.” The song leader had gotten creative, directing the women on the first stanza to sing the question and the men to respond with the rousing answer, then reversing it on the second stanza, urging the women to “really raise the roof” on the repeated phrase: “Nothing but the blood of Jesus!”
It had struck Celia that the sound of women’s voices alone had a sadly empty, shallow sound—nothing that came anywhere close to raising the roof. She remembered the way her high school band conductor used to complain when the low brass played too timidly: “I don’t hear any bottom!” he would bellow. But the song leader at Bethany Hills hadn’t seemed to notice. He had even given the children a special stanza all their own, which sounded even more bottomless and tooty, like a little choir of flutes and piccolos.
But now, to answer the question. Denise’s blue eyes were boring into hers, glowing with concern, waiting for a reply. It was a sticky night, thick with humidity, and Celia suddenly felt so closed in that she wasn’t sure she could even frame a complete sentence. Some children were playing chase nearby, and their squeals and laughter filled her with sorrow. How many of them would have heavy hearts by the time they were her age? How many of them would stumble and make horrible decisions they would regret for the rest of their lives? She felt like running over to them right now, shaking them one by one and saying, “Listen here, be good! Don’t do anything stupid! Think a good long time before making important decisions!”
But the question—it was still hovering in the air, and Denise was still waiting. Celia’s mind spun around and around. She glanced to the left of the parking lot, at the little white house that served as the parsonage. Put a steeple on that roof and it would be a miniature of the church itself. She looked back at Denise, holding her Bible in front of her like a shield against fiery darts. So many pictures and allegories in this religion. Pastor Davidson—wasn’t he a picture of God shepherding his little bleating flock of stupid, compliant sheep? And here was Denise, stepping into the role of the Holy Spirit, trying to stir up Celia’s conscience with her probing blue eyes like tongues of fire.
If Celia answered no, then an earnest invitation to let Denise take her Bible and show her the plan of salvation would follow. If she said yes, she’d be treated to a sermonette about backsliding, getting right with God, rededicating her life, manifesting the fruit of the Spirit, and all those sorts of things. And if she said, “I don’t want to talk about it, and it’s really none of your business”—well, she might think that, but it would be awfully hard to actually say it.
Denise reached out imploringly with one hand. It was such a little hand, no bigger than a girl’s. “Jesus can make you white as snow, Celia.”
“Oh, precious is the flow,” said Celia.
Denise cocked her head and came a step closer. “What? What did you say?”
Celia shook her head. “Sorry, I was just thinking of that song.”
Denise still looked puzzled. “Well, I’m not—”
“You know, ‘Nothing But the Blood,’” Celia said. “The one we sang tonight.”
Denise’s face cleared. “Oh. Why, yes. That’s a wonderful old song.” She smiled. “And it’s so true! ‘No other fount I know, nothing but the blood of Jesus.’ We can try all kinds of different ways of getting to heaven, Celia, but the fact is, there’s only one way, and that’s by believing in Jesus’ shed blood on Calvary. I know you must have heard all this before, but I just feel like I have to say it anyway. Sometimes the things you’ve heard all your life are the hardest to believe.”
Celia felt a little shudder go through her. “You know, there’s an awful lot of blood in that hymnbook,” she said. She wasn’t trying to be a smart aleck. The words just popped out. “I wonder how many songs there are about blood.”
Denise’s forehead wrinkled. Her blue eyes were still fastened on Celia’s face. “A lot,” she said. “A whole lot, Celia. And there’s a reason for that. It’s the whole foundation of everything we believe. Jesus’ death wasn’t a pretty one. He didn’t just close his eyes and die peacefully at home in his sleep one day. It wasn’t quick and easy, either. He didn’t have a heart attack where he was alive one
minute and dead the next.” She shook her head. “I’m not meaning to be disrespectful, but I just want you to see how God had it all planned out. You see, there had to be blood spilled, like all those animals sacrificed in the Old Testament. The Crucifixion shows us just how much Jesus loved us—that he was willing to go through the most horrible, gruesome kind of death for us. The wounds of his hands and feet testify to that great love.”
Celia should have interrupted her, but at the same time she was thinking of what she could say to stop her, she was also thinking about how clearly and convincingly Denise Davidson spoke. No doubt she taught a Sunday school class, probably a ladies’ Bible study, also. Maybe she had even been a schoolteacher at some point.
“I bet you homeschooled your kids, didn’t you?” Celia said, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Usually she measured every word so carefully before speaking, but here she stood, saying anything that sprang to mind.
Denise’s eyes flickered away from Celia’s for a moment, but she looked back quickly. “No,” she said. “I would have loved that, but, well . . . Newt and I never had any children.” Though she was trying for a light tone, there was no mistaking what was underneath. Celia was angry at herself. She never ever brought up the subject of children with other people, always fearful that the questions might be turned back on her, so why had she done it with this woman she hardly knew? She felt reckless and, now, altogether unkind and lowdown.
Neither one of them seemed to know what to say next. So part of that deep ocean blue in Denise’s eyes was sadness, Celia thought. For the first time, it came to her that maybe she had something in common with this woman besides being short. They were both childless, sure, but it wasn’t just that. She didn’t know the circumstances behind Denise’s childlessness, and she certainly had no plans to open it up for discussion, but as the seconds passed, the thought grew stronger that maybe the sadness she felt over what she had done all those years ago was in some small way similar to what Denise felt about having borne no children.
You would never dare say such a thing, though. She could well imagine this soft-spoken, low-key woman flying into a rage at such a suggestion, slapping her right across the cheek. How could a woman who had gotten rid of a child she had considered an inconvenience ever in a million years understand the sorrow of a woman who wanted children and couldn’t have them? No, Denise Davidson would never be able to sympathize with somebody like Celia. If she knew what Celia had done, she wouldn’t be standing here asking her if she was washed in Jesus’ blood. She wouldn’t want anybody like Celia having a chance to go to heaven, as if there were a chance of that anyway.
“Well, anyway, all this talk about being washed in blood doesn’t make sense to me,” Celia said. The thought had come to her that maybe she could find her way out of this by walking straight into it head on. Maybe she could distract Denise with an argument Ansell used to have fun with. “I mean, all these songs that talk about being clean after being dunked in a fountain of blood,” she said, “well, think about it. Does that make sense to you? Would you feel clean if you had a bucket of blood poured over your head?” A look came into Denise’s eyes that was hard to describe—some combination of puzzlement and horror, with a touch of wonder.
All of a sudden Celia heard a tapping on glass and realized how stuffy the inside of her car was getting. Bruce, the man who lived next door, was standing outside her window knocking with the knuckle of an index finger while holding up the other hand, from which was streaming . . . blood.
How eerie. She had just been thinking about all those hymns about blood and Denise Davidson’s words about the Crucifixion, and now here was her next-door neighbor showing her his bleeding hand. She felt her stomach lurch, and she looked away quickly. What would he do, she wondered, if she got sick to her stomach right here in front of him? The thought of him trying to touch her with that bloody hand to help her impelled her to open the door at once and get out. She made sure she kept her eyes away from his hand, though.
“I’m glad I saw you pull in,” Bruce said. “What great timing. You got a Band-Aid? I’ve torn the house apart trying to find where Kimberly keeps them.”
Men and their ineptitude—their total dependence on their wives for the simplest things! He ought to be humiliated to admit that he didn’t know where his wife kept the Band-Aids, but, in fact, he looked quite amused by it. “I was ripping out some old chair rail in the dining room,” he said by way of explanation, “and I completely forgot it had nails in it when I picked it up to carry it out. Dumb, huh?”
It had to be a nail wound, of course, and right in the palm, just to make it match up all the more. Celia turned and headed for her front door, fingering through her keys to find the right one. “Were they rusty?” she asked, then scolded herself. She didn’t want to prolong this any more than she had to. Get him a Band-Aid and send him on his way—that was her goal right now.
“Yeah, I thought about that,” Bruce said, “but I washed it out with soap and peroxide. Plus, I had a tetanus shot a year ago when my foot ended up inside a dog’s mouth. An old stray my sister dragged home.” He laughed. “Lousy little mutt. I was just playing with him, but he couldn’t take a joke. They put him down after that out of respect for my pain. Ever had an animal attack your bare foot? It hurts, let me tell you.”
Celia unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Bruce followed her. Another weird coincidence—they had both suffered foot injuries from other people’s pets. But she wasn’t about to tell him the story of Smoky, the devil cat. She just wanted to get rid of this man so she could get on about her business. “Stay here,” she said, then worried that she sounded a little too curt and distrustful, she added, “I’ll get it and be right back.”
As she headed to the bathroom, it came to her that Bruce must have changed jobs recently. She distinctly remembered Kimberly saying he traveled a lot, but it seemed to Celia that he had been home most of the summer so far. And at all hours of the day, too. Maybe he had started some kind of business he ran out of their house. She wondered if he was going to keep coming to her door with strange needs. Why couldn’t he go to another neighbor for help?
Frankly, he made her feel uncomfortable. He seemed a little too friendly for a married man. She thought back to the day when he had tried to intercept her between her car and apartment to engage her in a conversation about the Norman Rockwell exhibit coming to Atlanta. She had cut him off, hoping to send a clear message, and he hadn’t bothered her again until the toilet plunger incident.
But here he was again. She wondered where Kimberly was right now. Maybe she had gotten tired of Bruce and his bumbling ways and had taken baby Madison and gone home to her mother’s. That would be easy to understand.
* * *
When Celia came back, Bruce was stooped down over by the cedar chest. He had his hurt palm against his mouth, as if he was sucking on his wound, and with the other hand he was touching her grandmother’s patchwork quilt. She imagined little droplets of blood on the patches—something a man wouldn’t even be aware of. She wanted to call out, “Don’t touch that!” but couldn’t think of a nicer way to say it. “Here,” she said, “I brought you a couple of extras.” She handed him three Band-Aids.
“Hey, good deal,” he said. “Thanks. Now I can go hurt myself in two other places.” He tucked two of the Band-Aids into his shirt pocket, then started to unwrap the other one. “Rats,” he said, holding his hand out toward her. “There it goes again.” A bright new bubble of blood was swelling up. He clamped it back against his mouth.
Celia swallowed hard and looked down. She had never once touched her tongue to blood. If the sight of it sickened her, she could only imagine what the taste of it would do.
“Would you mind?” Bruce said, his words muffled as he handed her the Band-Aid. And though every part of her resisted the thought of touching a bleeding person, even if it was just the palm of a hand, she took the Band-Aid and peeled off the backing. Bruce removed his hand from his mouth and f
lattened his palm against his jeans to dry it off, then held it out. The tiniest little veins of red were already appearing as Celia quickly applied the white pad to the wound and then pressed the sticky ends down firmly. She wanted to shoo him out the door and say, “There now, go on out and play.” She also wanted very badly to go wash her hands.
“Good job, nurse,” Bruce said, examining his palm carefully. “How about we put on another one to be extra sure—you know, cross them like an X.” As if she couldn’t figure that out. He fished another Band-Aid out of his pocket and held it out to her. Not seeing any other choice, she took it, ripped off the wrapping, and, not quite as gently this time, put it over the other one.
With his other hand Bruce patted all around the circumference of his palm, making sure the Band-Aids were secure. “Guess I’m going to have to keep it stretched out like this for a while, huh?” he said cheerfully, holding his hand out flat. “’Cause if I cup it, the Band-Aids buckle up, see?”
Oh, he was a quick one, he was. Kimberly ought to keep this man leashed and muzzled, Celia thought. Standing as close as she was to him, Celia could see the burn scars on the back of his hand. At least, she assumed they were burn scars. It could be seen as a scary-looking hand, actually—with the skin all tight and shriveled. It wasn’t a uniform color, either, but a mottled pinkish red. She wondered all of a sudden how the skin would feel if she touched it.
And then she had a horrible thought of Kimberly walking up to the door and looking in on the two of them, seeing them face to face, watching Celia reach out to touch Bruce’s scars. She stepped back quickly and bent to gather up the little bits of wrapping from the Band-Aids. She dropped them into the trash can, then walked to the door, hoping Bruce would take the hint and leave. He did follow her out, all right, but unfortunately, his plan was to repay her great kindness in giving him a Band-Aid by helping her carry all her things from her car.
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