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way she carried herself, like some fragile
    treasure was balanced on top of her head.
    Whatever it was that people saw when they looked at her, they obviously weren’t
    prepared to let go of it. I sighed and let my eyes sweep the room. The benches were filling fast.
    Lorrie Beth jabbed my ribs with her bony elbow. “Look,” she muttered, her scrubbed
    face glowing. “The Potters are back. This makes three weeks in a row!” I craned my neck toward
    the door as a tattered gang of children trudged in behind their sullen-eyed mother.
    The Potters were the poorest family in Warren County. The oldest, Molly, was in my
    section at school and, to my knowledge, had never eaten a single bite for lunch. Kids shied away
    from her, claiming she smelled like a chicken coop. Those weren’t empty claims, as everyone
    knew the Potters kept their chickens in the house with them. Hogs, too, I’d heard. Rumor had it
    their daddy left one morning on a hunting trip and didn’t bother to come back.
    “They’re wearing the same clothes they had on last week,” Lorrie Beth whispered. “I
    remember that big hole in Denver’s shirt.” She kept fidgeting, kicking, winding stray curls
    around her finger. I knew what had her so edgy—her ever-present fear of Caleb and Sue Lee
    Jacobs showing up. I could’ve put her mind to rest, as those two had never darkened the door of
    any church.
    “Lorrie Beth,” I said, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice, “in case you haven’t
    noticed, we’re wearing the same thing too, you little twit!” I was more interested in seeing what
    Denzilla Fouts wore. Her daddy owned the drug store in town, and she was the only woman who
    came to church wearing make-up, or in Daddy’s words, “face-paint.”
    With her stately tread, Denzilla entered the room like the Queen of England in her store-
    bought suits and matching heels. To complete her ensemble, she sported a small, boat-shaped hat
    with a stiff veil which stuck out over her forehead.
    The best part of all was Denzilla’s hair. Never before had I seen hair that color. Naturally
    wavy, it clung to her head in a solid, blue-black mass, like an alien helmet. Convinced she
    must’ve rubbed soot or a can of shoe polish through it, I marveled at her extraordinary creativity.
    As I watched, she perched herself on a bench next to Thelma Bates, her gossip partner.
    Thelma favored tent-sized dresses in patterns of daffodils or roses in screaming colors. Her two
    chins wobbled as she chattered, her carnation-scented cologne, stifling enough to call funeral
    parlors to mind.
    Thelma’s husband was Sheriff Bates. Once, I’d heard Daddy refer to Sheriff Bates as a
    “whoremonger.” I’d no clue what that meant, but it made me think of a droop-faced hound dog
    with a lolling tongue. Whatever a whoremonger was, I knew it wasn’t nice.
    Black Diamond Church of God was at maximum capacity. All our neighbors were
    present, as were my classmates and their parents. Near the front row, Charlotte Hughes sat
    primly in a slim skirt and snowy blouse, her shapely calves on display in sleek, seamed
    stockings. No one sat with Charlotte. People rarely spoke or even glanced her way. It was
    because of the baby she’d given away.
    Whenever Charlotte’s name was mentioned, people spoke in whispers, raising their noses
    ever so slightly. None of it made any sense to me. I couldn’t understand why anyone would give
    away a baby who didn’t have a daddy at home, or why people were so upset by that.
    Behind Charlotte, Everett Hobbs shifted on the hard bench beside his daughter. Next to
    Wonnie Dean, he was the oldest man we’d ever known, and had gone “soft in the head.”
    Sometimes, instead of shouting “Amen” during the service, he’d holler “No, Myrtle!” Myrtle
    was his dead wife. I’d overheard our mail carrier tell Momma that Everett had been so mean to
    Myrtle, she’d just up and died to spite him.
    Without warning, Momma suddenly reached over