Pew(14)

Did it go all right? she asked.
Well, he drew something.
He?
Well—I don’t know, really—
Their voices lowered, nearly vanished. Roger shut the door between that room and this one. The woman with the map was gone, and for a while nothing at all happened on the television. The screen went completely white and still and a smooth, clear silence took over until two men appeared, just as suddenly. Beside them a little girl held a child-size guitar, plucking at it thoughtfully, seeming disinterested in speaking or being spoken to. One of the men said, Play us a little song now, won’t you? She began to strum the guitar, quickly and intently, as if she were a little machine that had just been plugged in, her expression unchanging and sad. The adults clapped along; the girl played her fast music and the camera focused closely on the child’s unmoving face, then cut to her quickly moving hands. Below it, a caption: CHILD PRODIGY STUNS LOCAL MUSIC TEACHER.



ROGER HAS ARRANGED for you to meet with someone out at Monroe Medical Center tomorrow morning, Hilda said after a minute of silence in the car. He’s concerned about what you’ve been through, and he wants to have a second professional assessment. She was quiet again, saying nothing as we drove past several blocks.
I think it’s a good idea, too. A second opinion. People always say that’s a good thing. And they can do an examination out there … just a simple checkup really. Just to make sure everything is OK. Anyway, right now we’re going to see the children’s minister. He asked for a visit. Sonny. Everyone calls him by his first name like that. He’s very casual. He runs the youth group and some other things.
When we got out of the car, I recognized the church where I’d been found and for a moment I wondered if they had decided to put me back in that pew, let me disappear into wherever I’d come from. I followed Hilda through a side door and down a hall covered in thick red carpet. I followed her up a wide staircase and down another hall to a black door on which the words THE CHILDREN’S MINISTER were painted clearly in white. Through the floor I could hear a piano starting and stopping and beginning again, someone practicing chords. Hilda knocked on the door and someone shouted, Come in.
The room was filled with plants, green vines climbing and hanging around a window. In several places around the room there were little bowls of small purple candies. Sonny came toward us, spoke some words, took one of Hilda’s hands with both his hands, and shook vigorously. Hilda turned to me and said, This is Sonny, then turned to Sonny and said, This is Pew.
Sonny smiled.
Well? Hilda asked all of us and no one at once. Suppose I’ll leave you to it, she said, and was gone.
Sonny looked as if he’d just been given some terrible news and was trying to keep it a secret. He took a small handful of candies from a bowl on his desk and pushed them into his mouth while he gestured to me to sit in a plush armchair on one side of the room. He took a seat in one across from it and pushed the bowl of candies toward me.
It’s my weakness. What a sugar tooth I’ve got.
He put another handful in his mouth. The little table between the two chairs held a potted flower, a deck of playing cards, and three thick books, their spines unbent.
You’ve made quite the stir in town, as I’m sure you know. It’s not often we get visitors. Tourism isn’t exactly a business here. He smiled, bent one leg over the other. Below us I could hear the piano starting up again, voices collecting in a room—something sounding almost like rain on a roof—someone laughing, someone else laughing, then everything stopped and one voice was speaking, then singing with a few simple piano chords.
Choir practice, Sonny said. Tuesdays are my favorite. Did you hear them last Sunday? Well, sure you did. Just beautiful. The piano began louder this time and a group of voices began singing in unison. Sonny was listening, his eyes lowered and his ear angled toward the floor. He made silent words with his mouth.
Oh, how great they’re practicing this one today … He leaned back in his chair. How perfect. The voices became clearer and Sonny sang along with them.
He hummed and mumbled along with the piano’s chords. I don’t know the verses by heart. Was never so good with memorizing. But I do remember the story about this one, I think. Was written by some guy in the nineteenth century, I think it was, can’t remember who, but he was a composer, a songwriter, wrote hymns, maybe other songs, too, and one day he gets the news that his four daughters—I mean, four daughters! Could you even imagine—anyway he gets the news that the ship his daughters were taking across to America from England, I think—anyway he gets the news that it wrecked and they’re all dead. I think maybe his wife, too, or maybe she had just died before this and maybe he had one son—I feel like the son was dead, too, but for sure the four daughters all died in a shipwreck and he gets the news and sits down and writes this song—“It Is Well with My Soul.” It’s just all about how no matter how hard things get, no matter if Satan tests you or everyone you love dies or something else, you just have to keep your head up, you have to keep your eyes on the Lord. That’s what I take it to mean anyway. It’s real easy to feel sorry for yourself when bad stuff happens, even really bad stuff. But you can’t—you just can’t. You don’t even have to think about it. Of course, it’s not easy to do this, you know. It takes practice, and it doesn’t always come natural, you know, at least not for most of us.
Sonny nodded to himself for a while, listened as the choir below us sang those lines again. It is well, they sang softly, It is well. The piano stopped. Someone was talking. Sonny took another purple handful from the bowl. The piano began again. It is well, they sang, louder, then again even louder. It is well, it is well … with … my soul!