Free All the Finest Girls by Alexandra Styron Page B

teacher at my school, plays the organ. Louise has gotten on her knees and is praying silently. As she does so, a man in the row in front of us turns his thick neck and peers over his glasses at her. When his eyes catch mine, he twitches his mouth and turns quickly away.
    Across the aisle ahead of us, I see Mrs. Chisolm, who owns the market, in a yellow suit and a giant green hat wreathed in fake flowers. Her daughter Amy baby-sat for me a few times before Louise arrived, but I’ve never seen Mrs. Chisolm herself outside of the store. When I go shopping with Dilly, she presses the buttons of the cash register and asks me questions about my family — how my mother is feeling, what big travel plans we have coming up — but when I’m with my mother, she sneaks glances at her over her half lenses and says nothing. Since Louise has come, Mrs. Chisolm lets her glasses dangle on their chain and leans her elbows on the worn linoleum counter.
    “She treat you good? She sure got the money to, right?” I heard her ask Louise one day, her voice low like they were sisters.
    Louise nodded just barely and began to scoop up the grocery bags.
    “God bless you,” Mrs. Chisolm said, leaning back and patting her breastbone. “Suits me fine my Amy not working up by there anymore. She says that house is a godalmighty wreck.”
    Now Mrs. Chisolm is sitting next to her husband near the front of the church and she is waving at me with a hand up tight by her shoulder, like the wing of a wounded bird. Mr. Chisolm, out of his bloody apron, is bending his bald head awkwardly over his shirt collar as he peruses the program. While Louise prays, Mrs. Chisolm continues to watch her, craning her neck to get a view between the shoulders of the people behind her.
    A man in a white robe, his waist cinched with a length of rope, emerges from a side door and walks up to the platform. His face is round and flat and white. Like a dinner plate. Everyone rises at once, including Louise, who touches my arm.
The minister,
she whispers. Mrs. Chisolm turns around again, breaking into a broad, lip-sticky grin when Louise finally returns her gaze. Arm still close to her chest, Mrs. Chisolm is flapping her hand now.
Hi, Louise,
she silently mouths, then nudges her husband. Mr. Chisolm turns his shiny head and nods once, then looks away.
    While the music from upstairs continues to play, the minister stands with his hands clasped, looking out at all the people. Two girls older than I, also in robes, stand behind him holding candles on brass poles. A boy carries a gold cup to a table. The minister’s eyes land on me and Louise, and stay there. When the music ends, the people shuffle their feet against the wood floor and sit down.
    “Good morning,” says the minister.
    “Good morning,” respond the people, all together.
    “And what a good morning it is,” the minister continues, his voice simple and clear. “We are truly blessed by this beautiful day, a gift of God’s creation.”
    He smiles, his teeth like cubes of yellow cheese.
    “I want to welcome you all here today, those from our parish, as always, and most especially warm greetings to visitors from other parishes, as well as new members of our flock.” He spreads his arms wide and casts his eyes about the room. “Welcome to you all.”
    As if they were responding to a loud sound or flash of light, the churchgoers turn toward Louise and me. More eyes than I can count, some friendly and others wide with wonder, look out from faces I don’t recognize. Louise stares straight ahead and holds a handkerchief tight in her hand. The minister raises his voice and the people turn back around and face him.
    “As I took my morning walk an hour or so ago, I noticed, as most of you likely did, that the fields of Coldbrook are particularly ripe with promise this spring.” The minister’s voice fills the church and fastens the people’s attention. I lean forward and watch their quiet, upward-turning faces.
    “I