Free Deliver Us from Evie by M. E. Kerr

big joke. Once, when he’d gone to St. Luke’s with us and we were all saying The Lord’s Prayer, he said in this loud voice, “Deliver us from Evie,” instead of “Deliver us from evil,” and he laughed and nudged Evie, who gave him a sharp elbow in his ribs, her face flushed for a moment.
    Dad was heartbroken, I think. This was an Evie he didn’t know, and the two of them together were always on edge. It got worse in March, when Mom went down to Little Rock to visit her folks. Every year at that time she spent a few days at the Parrs’, but this year it seemed longer because of what was going on between Evie and Dad.
    One Sunday Evie came down to breakfast in new navy-blue pants, a new navy-blue cashmere jacket, and a white shirt open at the neck. Her hair was slicked back and she had the red scarf around her neck.
    Dad said, “I won’t be going to church with you, Evie.”
    “Since when do you miss church?”
    “I got work to do.”
    “Why don’t you relax? You got the loan.”
    “No thanks to you,” he said.
    Evie got herself some coffee and sat down at the table with us.
    “Is she buying you clothes now?” Dad asked her.
    “I got a birthday coming, remember. So we went shopping yesterday.”
    Evie’d been going to Jefferson City every Friday night for weeks. She’d come back late Saturday night.
    According to Evie, Patsy Duff would meet her for lunch on Saturday, they’d go to a movie, then Evie’d drive home.
    Dad never talked any of it through with Evie, but he made cracks, and he kept his distance from her. In fact, if he could help it he didn’t spend any time alone with her.
    I knew he wished he could control her or throw her out of the house, but he needed her too much. I heard him complain to Mom they were sitting on a tinderbox—it was just a matter of time before Mr. Duff got wind of it.
    Mom just kept saying, “They aren’t doing anything, Douglas.”
    He’d say back, “We don’t know what they’re doing and not doing!”
    Evie didn’t let up on him that Sunday morning.
    She said, “Come on and go to church, Dad. This is the Sunday Parr’s going to The Church of the Heavenly Spirit, remember.”
    “You don’t need to say remember after everything you say. I’m not dotty yet, despite your shenanigans.”
    “I’ll be all alone in our pew,” said Evie.
    “You made your bed,” Dad said. “Anyway, it’s going to rain cats and dogs. I got to get a fence in before it does.”
    “Do you know how you can tell if it’s rained cats and dogs?” Evie asked.
    “No and I don’t care,” Dad said.
    “How can you tell?” I asked her.
    “You step in a poodle,” said Evie, grinning.
    I laughed but Dad just grunted and got up from the table. He took his cup and plate over to the sink.
    He said, “Parr? Are you having dinner with the Kidders?”
    I said I was and he said to call him when I was ready to come home.
    Then he said, “You’re too dressed up for church, Evie, if you know what I mean.”
    “What do you mean?” she said.
    “Those aren’t farm clothes, they’re serious clothes. Be different if it was Doug wearing them home from college.”
    He left the room before Evie could answer.
    I was used to talking with her about Patsy Duff. We never got on the subject of homosexuality, or even how they felt about each other, but she’d tell me things Patsy’d say and stuff they did together.
    Patsy was teaching her to dance, teaching her a little French, getting her to eat things she’d never tasted like calamari and steamed mussels.
    On the way to Floodtown she asked me if I thought her clothes were “too much.”
    “I wouldn’t mind having them,” I said. I felt the buttery texture of her jacket with my thumb and first finger. “They even feel rich.”
    “Maybe Dad’s right and I shouldn’t wear them to church.”
    “Wear what you want to wear,” I said.
    “Patty spent a fortune on them!”
    “She’s got it to spend.”
    “That’s what Patty says. She