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tobe arguing,” Ma tells her, reaching over to shove Becky’s cup of milk back a little farther from the edge of the table.
    What brought the discussion on this time is that Ruthie, according to Dara Lynn, claims her daddy don’t let nobody touch his Bible when it’s open. Can never set anything on top of it, and never, ever set it on the floor. Dara Lynn gets going good and next thing you know she’s telling us that if you ever do touch his Bible when it’s open, you got to walk three times around it saying the Lord’s Prayer. She’s almost got David Howard beat when it comes to exaggeration. We got to divide everything she tells us by half—half true, half story. And don’t none of us believe the part about Ruthie having to walk three times around the Bible saying the Lord’s Prayer.
    â€œEither you or Ruthie’s got an imagination as big as Nebraska,” Dad says to Dara Lynn. “And I don’t think her mama would like her telling stories about her daddy every day on the school bus, ’cause we’ve been hearing a lot of them lately.”
    Ma told me once that Dara Lynn acts like she does—first-class pest and storyteller—is because she’s the middle child in the family. Hasn’t got the privileges of the oldest or the advantages of being youngest, andthe only way she can figure to get attention is by acting out.
    Can’t say how many times I’ve made the vow to be kinder to Dara Lynn. Even promised Jesus once I’d give up quarreling with my sister for Lent. Maybe once I get me a room of my own, we’ll make peace again.

five
    I DIDN’T NEVER HAVE TO bring up that question about hell, because my sisters did it for me.
    All Sunday morning, Dad and I work on that new addition. Ma takes the girls to church, while I’m all sweaty clear down to my underwear. Wouldn’t care if the sky opened and drenched me good.
    I hold up big slabs of plywood while Dad nails ’em in place. We got the frames for the windows ready, but there’s a whole lot of work ahead. I stick by Dad every minute, though. Hand him tools, bring him a Pepsi, pick up any nails he drops, hold the boards while he saws . . .
    Even though the drought’s still on, Dad lets me use the outside pump for a couple seconds to cool down and clean up before Ma and the girls get home. I stick mywhole head under—hold my mouth open and gulp the cold water while Dad works the pump handle. Then I pump for him a second or two.
    We sit down to Sunday dinner—Ma had a ham in the oven—and we dig in. All but Becky.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Dad asks her, as he shovels in the scalloped potatoes.
    Becky just turns her fork over and over, but I see her bottom lip tremble.
    â€œShe’s worried about hell,” says Dara Lynn.
    We’re not allowed to say that word unless we’re talking about religion, which I guess we are.
    â€œHell?” says Dad. “Is that what the pastor was preaching today?”
    â€œEverlasting torment,” says Dara Lynn, the drama queen, and there’s something bright and snappy about her eyes. She lowers her voice and imitates the preacher: “It’s real, brothers and sisters. You reject God, God rejects you. Think of eternal fire, eternal pain. . . .”
    â€œDara Lynn,” says Ma in her stern voice.
    Becky suddenly bursts into tears and Ma says, “Oh, sweetheart, come here. . . .” And Becky slides down off her chair and buries her head in Ma’s lap.
    Ma gives Dara Lynn a look to hush her up, then glances over at Dad. “I miss Pastor Evans,” she says.
    â€œWhy did he leave?” I ask, only vaguely remembering him. I weren’t that much older than Dara Lynn when he left.
    â€œHe retired,” says Ma. “But he was so wise.”
    â€œI don’t want to burn up,” Becky whimpers.
    â€œYou’re not going to burn