Free Matters of Faith by Kristy Kiernan

shared as children, threw our belongings into our bags, and we were gone. I didn’t dare speak, to her or to him, as we left. It was almost two hours later, after Marshall had cried himself out in the backseat and we were hurtling toward the west coast, that Cal finally spoke.
    â€œWe’re not going back,” he said. “Don’t ask.”
    â€œOkay,” I said quietly. And we did not. I wrote her Christmas cards, and I occasionally sent her photos of the children. But I never responded to her letters, and could never get the chill out of my heart when I recalled her words.
    It was no wonder that Cal worried about Marshall and his interest in religion. It was hard for him to separate Marshall’s more scholarly approach to religion from his own upbringing. I wondered if Cal had heard anything from the kids on his radio, and made him a sandwich for lunch so I had an excuse to visit the workshop, give my peace offering, and ask him.
    He gave me a tentative smile as I entered, a tuna salad sandwich and chips on a plate held in front of me, and it was as though the nasty words had never been uttered. He washed his hands and sat on a stool to eat.
    â€œAnything from the kids?” I asked.
    He nodded, his mouth full, and swallowed, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before he spoke. “Marshall said he figures they’ll be back around six.”
    â€œOkay. I’m going to run out and grab some things for dinner. Need anything?”
    â€œNope. Maybe get a movie?”
    â€œSure. See you in while.” I leaned over to peck him on the cheek. Just a small kiss, nothing memorable about it until much, much later.
    I spent the afternoon doing errands in town. I picked up some summer clothes for Marshall and Meghan, taking care to pass over the childish items Meghan would balk at. After waffling for too long in the underwear department, I also picked her up a bra. I stopped at the produce stand, thinking that the kids would be happy to know I was buying organic and supporting a small, local business. Sandy, the owner, dressed in a long, purple skirt and red tank top, her white hair in long braids, greeted me.
    â€œWell, am I going to see the whole Tobias clan today?”
    I grinned at her. She had to have been approaching seventy, and I aspired to develop her easy style, her assurance that she was always exactly where she should be. She radiated calm and wit, and I always swore that as soon as my hair was more than fifty percent white I was going to strip the rest of its color and emulate her.
    â€œHey, Sandy. Were the kids in?” I asked, smelling the end of a cantaloupe. Sandy pulled it from my grasp, hefted another one, and then handed it to me.
    â€œYep. Marshall’s gal is a little spitfire, hmmm?”
    â€œSeems like it. What did you think?”
    She cocked her head to study me for a moment. This was a small town. She’d been here for years before me, and she knew our family’s history, as did almost everyone else in town. She belonged to the small nondenominational church just down the road from us. The church itself was ancient, but they kept it up beautifully, painting it bright white every year when the rainy season ended. Marshall had attended services for a brief period, but their laid-back style of worship hadn’t seemed to keep him interested, and he’d moved on quickly.
    â€œWell, she’s not a shy young lady, that’s for certain. Told me I needed to stock yak milk and then called the integrity of my flax-seed into question.”
    I laughed and tucked some tomatoes into my basket. “I can’t imagine anyone calling the integrity of anything you touch into question. If it makes you feel any better, she showed me up last night at dinner.”
    Sandy nodded. “It’s good to question, but I seem to have less patience for it in children these days. Perhaps I’m getting old and crotchety.”
    â€œOr perhaps