old green station wagon coming in the opposite direction took advantage of George’s decreased speed and turned left in front of him to pull into the church’s parking lot.
George told himself he would be back in the cabin again soon, and that made him feel a little better. He never felt safe anymore, but he felt much safer up there locked in his fortress than he felt here in the streets of Big Rock, a town that was no longer peaceful and serene.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Church
When the white pickup truck slowed, Bob took advantage of it and turned left into the church parking lot. He eased the car into a slot.
“Stop that, Michael!” Rochelle snapped in the back seat. Bob glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his brother-in-law Mike chewing on a fingernail. Mike sat by the window, with Rochelle beside him and Grandma next to her. Bob’s eleven-year-old nephew Peter sat in the rear of the old stationwagon. Rochelle slapped Mike’s hand away from his mouth. “He won’t stop, Mom. What’s that stuff you put on fingers to keep kids from biting their nails?”
“Just clear nail polish,” Mom said distractedly. “Bob, couldn’t you find a space closer to the church so I don’t have to walk so far?”
Bob was about to kill the engine, but stopped. “You want me to move?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “What did I just say , Bob?”
Sighing, he pulled out of the spot and found one closer.
“I ought to put some of that stuff on your fingers, Mike,” Rochelle said. “It’d serve you right, wearing nail polish like a girl. Nail biting is something nervous children do.”
“Nervous adults do it, too,” Mike muttered. He muttered a lot, almost as if he didn’t want to be heard. He was a short, bullet-shaped accountant with a bald pate, a fringe of short-cropped brown hair that was starting to grey, and a trimmed beard.
“Nervous, who’s nervous ?” Rochelle said. She’d inherited Mom’s shrill voice and manner of speaking, but she had Dad’s long face and height—she stood a full six inches taller than Mike. Her blonde hair was long, but she usually kept it pinned up, as it was now. She’d never lost the weight she’d gained while carrying Peter, but still had a figure in spite of her thickened waist, it was just broader than it used to be. “What have you got to be nervous about, Michael?”
Grandma said, “He’s probably nervous about losing what little hair he’s got left.”
Bob looked at Peter in the rear of the car. The boy sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out the window, lost in thought. He looked like his father—pudgy, same round, flat face, same dark hair and sad brown eyes.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Mom said, opening her door.
“Peter,” Rochelle said, “get the macaroni salad and go on ahead of us. Go through the multi-purpose room into the kitchen and put the salad in the refrigerator.”
They piled out of the car. Mom always insisted that they all drive to church together—”Like a family ,” she often said—so it had become tradition for Rochelle, Mike, and Peter to come to the house for breakfast on Sabbath morning before the six of them piled into the stationwagon to drive across town.
Bob helped Grandma out of the backseat, then walked slowly between her and Mom to the church. He felt warm and itchy in his charcoal suit from the Men’s Warehouse in Eureka—it was one of two, the other navy blue.
Rochelle complained about the poor state of the parking lot’s pavement, Grandma complained about her swollen ankles, and Mom complained about the fact that they were complaining so much on the Sabbath. Bob and Mike walked silently with them up the front steps and into the church while Peter went ahead with his arms wrapped around the big foil-covered bowl of macaroni salad Rochelle had made for the pot luck lunch after the church service.
They stopped in the foyer so Mom and Grandma could chat with their old-lady friends
George told himself he would be back in the cabin again soon, and that made him feel a little better. He never felt safe anymore, but he felt much safer up there locked in his fortress than he felt here in the streets of Big Rock, a town that was no longer peaceful and serene.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Church
When the white pickup truck slowed, Bob took advantage of it and turned left into the church parking lot. He eased the car into a slot.
“Stop that, Michael!” Rochelle snapped in the back seat. Bob glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his brother-in-law Mike chewing on a fingernail. Mike sat by the window, with Rochelle beside him and Grandma next to her. Bob’s eleven-year-old nephew Peter sat in the rear of the old stationwagon. Rochelle slapped Mike’s hand away from his mouth. “He won’t stop, Mom. What’s that stuff you put on fingers to keep kids from biting their nails?”
“Just clear nail polish,” Mom said distractedly. “Bob, couldn’t you find a space closer to the church so I don’t have to walk so far?”
Bob was about to kill the engine, but stopped. “You want me to move?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “What did I just say , Bob?”
Sighing, he pulled out of the spot and found one closer.
“I ought to put some of that stuff on your fingers, Mike,” Rochelle said. “It’d serve you right, wearing nail polish like a girl. Nail biting is something nervous children do.”
“Nervous adults do it, too,” Mike muttered. He muttered a lot, almost as if he didn’t want to be heard. He was a short, bullet-shaped accountant with a bald pate, a fringe of short-cropped brown hair that was starting to grey, and a trimmed beard.
“Nervous, who’s nervous ?” Rochelle said. She’d inherited Mom’s shrill voice and manner of speaking, but she had Dad’s long face and height—she stood a full six inches taller than Mike. Her blonde hair was long, but she usually kept it pinned up, as it was now. She’d never lost the weight she’d gained while carrying Peter, but still had a figure in spite of her thickened waist, it was just broader than it used to be. “What have you got to be nervous about, Michael?”
Grandma said, “He’s probably nervous about losing what little hair he’s got left.”
Bob looked at Peter in the rear of the car. The boy sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out the window, lost in thought. He looked like his father—pudgy, same round, flat face, same dark hair and sad brown eyes.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Mom said, opening her door.
“Peter,” Rochelle said, “get the macaroni salad and go on ahead of us. Go through the multi-purpose room into the kitchen and put the salad in the refrigerator.”
They piled out of the car. Mom always insisted that they all drive to church together—”Like a family ,” she often said—so it had become tradition for Rochelle, Mike, and Peter to come to the house for breakfast on Sabbath morning before the six of them piled into the stationwagon to drive across town.
Bob helped Grandma out of the backseat, then walked slowly between her and Mom to the church. He felt warm and itchy in his charcoal suit from the Men’s Warehouse in Eureka—it was one of two, the other navy blue.
Rochelle complained about the poor state of the parking lot’s pavement, Grandma complained about her swollen ankles, and Mom complained about the fact that they were complaining so much on the Sabbath. Bob and Mike walked silently with them up the front steps and into the church while Peter went ahead with his arms wrapped around the big foil-covered bowl of macaroni salad Rochelle had made for the pot luck lunch after the church service.
They stopped in the foyer so Mom and Grandma could chat with their old-lady friends
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