Page 56 of In These Hills

“You are helping! You doing the dishes and cleanup, that’s a good slice of my work gone from me.”

“I meant with preparing. We all know I can’t cook, but I am capable of mixing flour and spices.”

Calla smiled. “Miss Mary made me promise you wouldn’t be coming near her food dishes. But give her time.” She winked. “She’ll soften some.”

“I doubt that.” Josephine lowered her voice. “She doesn’t strike me as a woman who easily changes her mind once it’s set.”

“Oh she don’t, I can promise you that. But she is fair, Josephine. I know it don’t feel that way now, what with all the hurting and grieving over what you been through.” Calla brushed the flour from her hands, her voice dropping. “She got her own reasons for doing things the way she does. And I ain’t one to judge her for them. Same as I don’t want no one judging me for mine.”

Josephine heard more in Calla’s words than what she’d actually said. Exactly what reasons of Miss Mary’s was she referring to?

“And just so you know,” Calla continued, looking up. “She didn’t say nothing about me not being able to teach you to cook. On our own time, if you want.”

Josephine smiled. “I very much want.” Then she noticed it again, the tremor in Calla’s right hand. “Are you sure you’re all right, Calla?” she asked, looking down.

Calla followed her gaze, then made a quick fist and shook it loose. “Oh, I’m fine. Just overdid it. Kneaded two loaves of bread and made biscuits this morning.” She drained her third cup of honeyed mint tea, snipped a couple of leaves from the potted plant on the sill, and popped one into her mouth. She offered the other to Josephine. “Might help your stomach some.”

Josephine hesitated before accepting. “How did you know—”

“Saw you out back, rubbing your tummy.” Calla paused, as if she might say more, then continued to the pantry. She returned a minute later. “You ain’t seen a jar of pickled beets anywhere, have you?”

“Beets? No, I haven’t.”

“Hmmm . . .” Another pause. “Could’ve sworn I had one more. I always serve them with my herbed pork roast—adds a good tang. But today, we’ll just have to do without.”

They talked all the way to church and managed to squeeze into one of the last open pews toward the front just before the service began. To Josephine’s surprise, the congregation was comprised of both colored and white people. Sitting side by side. On the same pews. Growing up, her family had worshipped with a colored congregation in Atlanta, her father staying afterward to offer legal help—always pro bono. And though she would have preferred to avoid yet another familiar sermon, sitting with Calla did much to soften her resistance.

Until she looked around. And saw Dodge Coburn.

22

AS THOUGH SENSING HER ATTENTION, Mr. Coburn turned and looked directly at her, then gave a subtle nod. Josephine would’ve sworn she read distrust in the man’s eyes. Perhaps it was just her guilty conscience, but she quickly faced forward.

The song leader invited the congregation to stand and sing “Blessed Assurance.” Her mother’s favorite. From old habit, Josephine opened her mouth to join in, but the lyrics she’d known by heart since childhood wouldn’t come. Not honestly. So she chose to listen instead. Especially to Calla beside her, the woman’s soprano soft yet vibrant with belief. Calla, too, knew the words without benefit of a hymnal.

“That’s mighty anointed singing this morning, church.”

The middle-aged man leading them lifted hands in praise as hearty Amens filled the gathering. He motioned for them to be seated, then stepped aside as another man took the pulpit. Josephine settled back and braced herself for the duration, grateful for the open window nearby.

She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d stopped going to church. Sometime after her parents died. Though she’d continued attending for a while after Todd’s death, something inside her had already withdrawn. And whatever it was, she couldn’t get it back, no matter how hard she tried. Eventually, she’d stopped trying altogether.

“Our Scripture reading this morning, brothers and sisters . . . Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. Galatians chapter six, verse seven.”

Just outside the window, a tiny bluebird lit on the branch of a maple tree, its vivid plumage striking against the gray morning. Josephine watched as it flitted about.

“Some of you may ask, why are we reading from Paul’s letter to the Galatian church this morning. Aren’t we still studying the Gospel of John? Yes, we are. And we will return to that next week—”

The bluebird hopped along the branch, singing and peering around. Josephine recalled how her students had enjoyed studying native animals with the changing seasons, and bluebirds had always fascinated her. Perhaps because her mother had always kept nesting boxes ready for them each year.

“However, this morning, we have a guest preacher with us. A leader in the National Baptist Convention, and someone I know you will all be blessed to hear.”

As the preacher continued, Josephine watched the bird and remembered racing to those nesting boxes as a girl, searching for twigs or grass that signaled new tenants. And how disheartened she’d been to learn that male bluebirds often carried nesting material only for show—it was the female who did the real work of nest building. Why did that not surprise her?

Calla shifted beside her then stood, along with everyone else in the congregation. And they were clapping. Uncertain, Josephine rose as well, not wanting to appear rude. But why on earth were they—

She glanced toward the front, then looked more closely, not trusting her eyes. A woman? In the pulpit?

Josephine scanned the room to see if anyone shared her surprise. From her peripheral vision, she sensed Mr. Coburn look her way, but she deliberately averted her gaze. “Thank you, my faithful brothers and sisters in Christ,” the young woman said, her voice strong and assured, filling the one-room church. “Pastor Taylor was generous with his praise. Though I suspect he’s mostly enjoying a Sunday off.”