Page 33 of The Bootlegger’s Bride
T he congregation filed from the First Presbyterian Church. Despite the chill gray day many lingered on the concrete steps and sidewalk chatting and shaking hands. A number of women wore flat sailor hats—the latest fashion, Helen had read—for Easter bonnets.
Day of joy! He is risen! Yet Hazel remained in the grave, lying in perpetuity within her pricey maple coffin (thanks to their dear father, who had spared no expense in putting on a good show, though with Hazel’s insurance money).
And there he stood in his pinstriped suit, white carnation pinned to its lapel, glad-handing and smiling.
She walked down the block between Raymond and A.J.
to their car parked at the curb beneath a towering sycamore.
Raymond opened the door for her as A.J. jumped into the back seat.
Purse in her lap Helen sat staring straight ahead, not seeing the leafing trees that lined Delmar Avenue.
When Raymond got in and started the engine she blurted:
“I can’t.”
He looked at her. “You can’t do what?”
“Wait here.” She threw open the door.
Helen strode down the street and crossed over to the church where her parents were conversing with an elderly couple, the Popovskys. When they moved off, she stepped forward. Without preamble she said:
“We’re not coming to brunch.”
Her mother’s jaw dropped. “Why not, sweetie? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that my only sister is fresh in her grave and I don’t feel like celebrating anyone else’s resurrection. Your daughter’s dead,” she spat, turning to her father, “thanks to you.”
He stared at her agape.
“What are you talking about?” Roy Robinson said. “Get a grip on yourself, child. Your sister had some serious problems that led to her accident. You know that.”
She took a step towards him. “What I know is that you wouldn’t lift a finger to help her with her problems. Wouldn’t even talk to her when she needed her father to stand by her.
You’d rather swallow the gossip whole than extend to your own daughter some fatherly understanding, some Christian charity and forgiveness.
Furthermore, it was no accident, you self-righteous old fool.
She killed herself and your grandchild along with her. ”
“Grandchild?”
Her mother reached out to her. “Oh, Helen… Please, Helen…”
“I’ll send you the autopsy report if you don’t believe me.
Yes, she was drunk. And also four months pregnant.
But she couldn’t tell you. She couldn’t ask you for guidance or comfort or even just your prayers because you shunned her just like all the other good Christians.
Why do you think she stopped coming to church?
You don’t have to be God almighty to see into the hearts of these folk…
” She gestured, swinging her arm in an arc. “…These hypocrites.”
The handful of congregants who had remained in the churchyard visiting had quieted. Now they looked away and slunk off.
The nippy air hung still and quiet except for the distinctive call of a chickadee. Her mother had tears in her eyes. Her father’s ears burned red. He stood stiff, as if at attention, grinding teeth.
“I think you’ve said enough, Helen.”
She took a deep breath, stared at the ground, and nodded. “Exactly. I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”
She turned and marched down the street.
Back in the car she told Raymond, “Let’s go home.”
He looked at her. “I thought we were going out to brunch with your folks.”
She took Raymond’s hand then turned and reached over the seat to grasp A.J.’s as well. “You two guys are my folks. My family. That’s who I want to be with today.”
The only family she now had left, her thoughts drifting back to Hazel in her grave. She prayed to God to understand and forgive her sister after all he had put her through, to embrace her now, finally.