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malice they were.
    “ Where’s Lizzie?” Deena
asked suddenly, scanning the pews for her sister.
    Emma shook her head. “Didn’t
come home last night.”
    Deena sighed. How many
nights would a teenage girl have to disappear for it not to give
her grandmother cause for alarm anymore? Whatever the number, she
didn’t want to know.
    Lizzie’s descent into
anarchy began with adolescence. To Deena, it seemed that budding
breasts and a menstrual flow brought with it an exponential madness
that worsened each year. At eleven, her sister was suspended for
wearing a transparent tee with the phrase Pay for Play on it to school, at
thirteen it was for offering sexual favors to her math teacher in
exchange for a passing grade, and at fifteen, it was for giving
fellatio to a waiting line in the boys’ restroom. How had two
sisters, so similar in appearance and upbringing, made such drastic
departures? One regarded her virginity as indisputable proof
against their grandfather’s claims of inherent whoredom, while the
other sought to authenticate his accusations with a
come-one-come-all attitude. Still, Deena held out hope that her
sister could be rehabilitated.
    “ You wasting your time,”
Caroline murmured, shifting in her dress to reveal the puckered
thigh that matched her cleavage. “Lizzie is who she is. Anthony was
who he was, and you are who you are. End of story. No damned
sequel.”
    Deena frowned. Indeed, she
could only be who she was. But the statement only begged a
question. Who the hell was she?
    She turned her attention to
the pulpit.
    Lenora Howard, the pastor’s
wife, was a dark and thick woman with ample curves. She sauntered
to the podium in a golden knee-length dress and broad-brimmed hat
of satin and organza. With a gracious smile and a voice of
theatrical formality, First Lady Howard welcomed the church’s
visitors before diving into announcements.
    The youth group was selling
raffle tickets, Thursday night’s choir practice was cancelled and
Sister Laura Marshall’s niece was being added to the sick and
shut-in list.
    “ Also, as you all are
aware, the Fellowship Hall is in need of renovations. The church is
requesting a volunteer to spearhead the organization and to plan
these much needed improvements.”
    Grandma Emma struggled to
her feet.
    “ I would like to volunteer
my grandbaby, Deena Hammond, for the job.”
    “ What!”
    Emma gave Deena a look of
warning before turning her attention to First Lady
Phillips.
    “ As I’m sure the church
knows, my grandbaby be in charge a building them big ole buildings,
what you find down there on the rich folks part a town. So I ‘spect
this would be nothing to her.”
    Nothing?
    “ Well praise the Lord,”
Lenora Howard crooned.
    “ Praise the Lord!” the
congregation echoed.
    Deena balked.
    She wanted them to stop
praising the Lord, but the words wouldn’t come.
    “ Amen! Amen! Deena Hammond,
Emmanuel Rises own certified architect, is going to bless us with a
new Fellowship Hall,” Lenora continued.
    “ I can’t—I don’t have the
time—” she mumbled.
    Deena sunk into her seat,
horrified as her pleas were muffled by applause.
     
     
    When the family arrived at
Grandma Emma’s place after the eleven o’clock service, Deena washed
her hands and went to work prepping Sunday dinner. Her grandmother
labored next to her in silence, coating catfish with cornmeal and
chicken with flour so both could be fried. Afterwards, she would
dice the boiled chitterlings.
    Chitterlings.
    Deena could remember the
first time she laid eyes on the pig entrails—in fact, most of her
family could. She’d sampled the offal without knowledge of what it
was before spewing it into Grandpa Eddie’s face. He’d wanted to
beat her, he always wanted to beat her, but the family laughed
until it would’ve seemed as though he were a poor sport for hitting
her.
    Eventually, Deena grew to
like chitterlings, or chittlins as they were called, boiled in a
broth and served up