Free Prayers and Lies by Sherri Wood Emmons Page B

she repeated, sighing softly and raising her eyebrows at me. Daddy often didn’t hear us when he was watching the news.
    “Hmmm,” he said. Then silence, until Walter Cronkite’s grand-fatherly face was replaced by the Hawaiian Punch man floating on a pineapple in a pool of red punch. Daddy finally turned to Mother. “My guess is, he’s there for good. If Cleda Rae hasn’t come for him by now, she’s not coming.”
    He shook his head and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “That whole family is a mess, and it all boils down to Noah. That man ought to be horsewhipped!”
    “Jimmy, not in front of Bethany, please.” Mother frowned.
    “Oh, Helen, she knows Noah ran out on his family. And she ought to know it’s wrong. Just plain wrong for a man to do that.”
    “Is that why Cleda Rae’s got a sugar daddy?” I asked.
    “Bethany Marie!” Mother’s shocked face stared at me over knitting needles frozen in mid-stitch. “Where in the world did you hear such a thing?”
    “Reana Mae says that’s what Jolene calls Mr. Ephraim Turner,” I murmured, knowing I shouldn’t have told. Then I heard my father snort. Abruptly he rose and walked into the kitchen. A moment later, we heard him laughing.
    “Jimmy,” Mother called to him. “Will you take the trash out, please?”
    The back door swung shut and we couldn’t hear the laughing anymore.
    “Bethany, that is not a term I ever want to hear you use again. It’s crass and rude and inappropriate for a young lady.”
    “But Reana Mae said …”
    “Reana Mae doesn’t know any better. She hasn’t had the advantages you do, and she hears Jolene talk like that. Jolene ought to know better, too, but then she’s had such a hard life.” Mother sighed heavily. “But you, miss, you do know better. I will not tolerate that kind of talk from you. Do you understand me?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said meekly.
    She smiled then, so I knew I was forgiven. “What else does Reana say?”
    “She said thank you from her for getting me the stationery. She never had a letter before.”
    “Well, you’ll have to write to her again.”
    “Yes, ma’am, I was just going to do that.”
    In fact, I had my box of stationery in my hand and was looking for a quiet place to write. Tracy was upstairs with her friend Lynette, so that was out.
    “Would you like to use my desk?” Mother asked.
    “Yes, ma’am!” I could hardly believe my ears. She never let us use her desk, or even touch the things on it. It was in her room—the one she shared with Daddy, of course, but we always called it Mother’s room. And that room was off-limits, unless we were sick. Then we slept in Mother’s bed and she brought us 7UP and potato soup and Ritz crackers with cream cheese.
    She cleared a place on the desk for me to write, turned on the small hurricane lamp, and left me alone, closing the door behind her. For several moments I simply sat and looked around. It was strange being in Mother’s room when I wasn’t sick in bed. I rose and walked to the vanity. I stared at myself in the mirror, pulling my hair up on top of my head and sucking in my cheeks, the way I’d seen Nancy do. I touched Mother’s jewelry box, wishing I had the nerve to open it.
    I picked up a lipstick and opened it, screwing the pale peach waxy stick up and down, up and down. Then I opened all of the perfume bottles and sniffed them, one by one. I knew by smell which ones she wore for what occasions—White Shoulders for church, soft lilac for home, and Chanel No. 5 for special nights out with my father. I wished I could put some Chanel behind my ears, the way my mother did. I imagined myself sitting at this vanity, putting on the peach lipstick and the Revlon powder and dabbing Chanel on my throat and wrists.
    I heard Tracy and Lynette clomping down the stairs into the kitchen, Tracy calling to Mother that they were going to Lynette’s and she’d be home for dinner. I sat down at the desk and started writing