Pew(29)

I know what you mean, one woman said, and others nodded and said, yes, they also knew what she meant.
Did y’all hear about what those couple of old ladies over at the Glendale Retirement Home said about Pew? one woman asked the rest of them. They think he’s an archangel. Ain’t that something?
The room grew busy with their voices—Ain’t that something—I thought Pew was a she—Shh—They’re even taking bets about it—
Well, couldn’t it be! one of the women said as she carved slices of bright pink meat. Happened in the Bible. Happened in the Bible all the time.
Well. Kitty cleared her throat and exchanged a look with another woman who raised her eyebrows and pinched her mouth in a strange smile. I suppose that is true. Kitty’s back was still turned to the woman with the ham.
The voices coming from the other room had quieted a little and for a moment I could hear the oven groan with heat. The woman with the ham was looking at me the way a mechanic looks down at an engine, quietly laying down years of knowledge.
Well, ain’t this so much fun? Kitty said. I don’t hardly ever get into this kitchen anymore, but I ought to just fire my girl and invite all of y’all over every night—how about that?
A small crash came from the other side of the room. The child at the tiny kitchen was lying on the floor, grinning, surrounded by a splay of wooden blocks.
Jill! You’ve wrinkled up your dress, honey. Kitty rushed to the child and lifted her to her feet. And we’ve got company. Darlin’, the whole church is practically here and we don’t have time to iron it back out, so everyone is going to see you in a wrinkled dress.
The whole church? Jill asked.
What do we do when company’s over? What did I tell you?
Act nice.
That’s right, honey, and what else?
Look nice.
And is a wrinkled-up dress nice?
Jill swayed, looked at the floor with a vague sadness.
Is it nice, honey?
No, the child said, soft as a bird speaking on the other side of a window.
And now you have to wear a wrinkled dress in front of everyone. Now how does that suit you?
Jill looked toward me as if looking through a glass dome.



WHEN I WAS BROUGHT into the other room, voices halted and throats cleared. I kept my eyes down, but felt the gaze of some eyes and the reluctant stare of others.
Three couches and a few armchairs had been pushed against the sides of the room and the center was filled with folding chairs, most of which held people with little plates of food in their laps and hands.
A woman with a great pile of hair gave me a crowded plate—two slices of pie, a thick sandwich, a mess of fruits—then pointed me toward a chair beside a large potted fern. I sat there. Across the room a man carefully chewed the roasted leg of what was once a bird.
Kitty stood at the front of the room clanging an empty wineglass with a knife.
I want to thank you all for coming all sudden like this. Now I know the idea for a meeting was a little, well—there has been some disagreement about what to do about the situation—but I want to thank you all for believing in us, for making it possible for us to take action as a community. To start us out, Harold Grimshaw is going to say a few words.
A short man wearing a pale gray suit stood up, his hands gathered in a large fist just held to his chest.
Now, I think I know pretty much everyone in the room, but for those of you I haven’t had the pleasure to get to know yet, my name is Harold H. Grimshaw the fifth. My father was Harold H. Grimshaw the fourth and my grandfather was Harold H. Grimshaw the third and my great-grandfather was Harold H. Grimshaw the second and we were all named after my great-great-grandfather Harold H. Grimshaw, and he was one of the people who founded this town, brought the railway here, was mayor for a time, did all sorts of good for our community, and my family—the Grimshaws—we still believe in this community—as we’ve always believed in this community—and we work hard to serve our community every day, all of us.
Harold began to pace in the little area he had at the front of the room.
And me in particular—well, anyone can know anything about me—I’ve got nothing to hide. I can tell you where I went to college, what I studied, where I’ve traveled. I can tell you the first time I laid my eyes on Birdie Lee and I can tell you the story of how I proposed to her and the day she became my wife. I can tell you about our children. I could tell you with certainty that I’ve been on the fifth pew back on the west side of the sanctuary every Sunday except for days I was sick and the days my children were born—all of them on Sundays, and ain’t that something?
Amen, a voice in the crowd shouted.
And I would show anyone my calendars, tell you whom I met with on which days, which cases I’ve worked on and how I’ve spent every day of my life. And I would—I would happily share any of this information with anyone in our community who wanted it. This is all because I love this town and I trust you all and I don’t have anything to hide.
A large man in the back of the room said, Attaboy, Harry! Everyone in the room applauded, some whistling, some clapping, and at once it felt like a real place, a real thing, this room, this feeling in this room. Everyone knew everyone and they all belonged to one another. There was a certainty, a clarity, a real joy, that fused them all into one, into one massive entity, the weight of their years all pressed together, thousands of years in the room, all together like that, entwined with one another, no distance between any of them, no loneliness, no solitude—and it was easy to see, just then, how intensely one could want to belong here.
And since I really trust and respect my community, I’m willing to share anything with them. I like to think my community is worthy of trust and care, and though, of course, I do try to take heed of the least of those—care for those who have no one, those who are lost—I know that I have to first protect my community, my children, my family, above all else, which is my duty as a father and man of this community. But we have to hold everyone to the same standard, don’t we? Treating everybody equal. Be fair.