Free Meteors in August by Melanie Rae Thon Page A

meant by professionals . I pictured all the officers of the church dressed in red robes, led by Reverend Piggott in his violet frock. I saw them marching down Main Street, a band on parade without their instruments. They’d cut down Fifth Avenue and stride along Wyoming Way, straight to the steps of Freda Graves’s front porch. Those good men of Willis would batter down her door and drag her off to a tower where they could torture her with talk and rebuke her into reason.
    But from what I’d seen of Freda Graves, it would take more than human force to stop her. She was the kind of woman who could walk across a flooding river, a child on each shoulder, a newborn calf cradled in her arms. She would be the last person to flee a burning house, and the first to brave a blizzard to search for children who hadn’t found their way home.
    As we left church I caught sight of Miriam Deets walking arm in arm with her husband, Lanfear. He was a heavy man, soft and thick, with rounded shoulders and stubby hands. He had a simple look: his features small and unfinished, his mouth and eyes like slats in his fleshy face, his nose a mere bump. His hair had no particular color at all, like sand or dust. But Miriam gazed into that face with adoration.
    Father watched them, seeing Miriam’s simple love for a foolish man. He grabbed Mother’s arm roughly. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
    The town buzzed with tales of Freda Graves. Reverend Piggott’s sermon stirred up a frenzy of curiosity: he won her more converts in a day than she would have been able to snare in a month. Even so, people were afraid. With all that speaking in tongues and laying on of hands, Freda Graves would have as many followers possessed as she had saved.
    We heard of candles and wailing, chalices of wine dark as the blood of a lamb. We didn’t know what to believe, but one thing was sure: we knew exactly who attended these prayer meetings. A woman doesn’t have neighbors for nothing.
    Joanna Foot was one of the faithful. Elliot had returned from Arizona. Olivia Jeanne Woodruff rolled her dusty Winnebago into his driveway one day and gave him a boot in the butt. Joanna took him back—on a trial basis. He had to prove he’d mended his wicked ways before he got any idea about slipping his shoes under her bed. She told Elliot he’d have to show her and the Lord and “that holy woman” that he could live as a righteous man. Public humiliation demanded public repentance. She promised that if he could do right by her for a full year, she might consider letting him sleep somewhere other than the couch.
    Minnie Hathaway belonged body and soul to Freda Graves. Over the years Minnie had lived up to Freda’s expectations, trotting across the street after church to wait for Elliot to open the doors of the Last Chance. Once when Elliot dawdled too long, she pounded on the glass so hard it shattered, and Dr. Ben had to put eight stitches in her hand. Now she was on the wagon and drinking down the preaching of Freda Graves for courage.
    â€œThat’ll never last,” Arlen said. And Mother answered, “Give the woman a chance.”
    Minnie had even talked one of the other boarders at the rooming house into attending the meetings. Lyla Leona, the Fat Lady of Willis, was shaking and praying. For the time being, she was out of business and living on her savings, which accounted for the unusual hostility a certain group of men harbored toward Mrs. Graves.
    Myron Evans was among the first converts. “Well, at least we know there’s one night a week when we won’t have to worry about him jumping out of the bushes,” Arlen said.
    In all, Freda had fifteen or twenty people coming to her house every Tuesday night, and the crowd swelled each time Reverend Piggott warned of her evil ways. Some loyal Lutherans talked of breaking her windows or setting her garbage on fire. “Jews live in the East and Baptists