Chapter 8
2658words
Her mind wandered far and vast as she played the familiar hymn. She had felt out of her body since yesterday, still reeling from Grace's public miracle. The boy, mute since birth, uttered a word. Not just one, but a sentence of gratitude. To Grace for granting him speech. It was impossible. But she thought again to the unspoken prayers that Grace repeated back to her, the flutter of wings of the once lifeless mockingbird. It all seemed impossible, couldn't be. Yet here Grace was, accomplishing the improbable. It wasn't a trick of her eyes, a flash of heat in the sun. These were all real burning, bleeding miracles. Grace was the miracle.
She remaining notes to the hymn hung in the air, quivering slightly as she brought her hands into her lap. Ezekiel was already at the podium, flipping open his Bible to a sticky noted page. He looked up, his eyes scanning the crowd with a ferocious glare. He didn't begin with any morning greetings, any kindness. Just stared, empty silence ringing violently. The congregation adjusted, sitting straight, some fans stopped moving. He then shut his Bible and held the podium on each side. He cleared his throat.
"It's easy to be fooled by a soft voice. By pretty eyes and soft tongues," he barked, not moving an inch from the podium. He didn't pace, just held the wide eyes across the church. "The Devil don't come with horns or pitchforks. He comes the way you want him to: wrapped in light. Walkin' barefoot through the fields, whisperin' comfort where truth should be spoken."
Mary stared ahead, fists clenching and unclenching in her lap. The back of her neck flushed. A few hesitant amens were scattered along the pulpit.
"But the Devil don't give," he continued. "The Devil takes! He builds you up to cut you down. He charms you while he's drawin' his knife."
The room felt hot. A woman in the congregation waved her fan faster, sweat dripped onto the pews. Mary felt like her skin was too tight on her body.
"Beware false prophets," Ezekiel said coldly. "Beware those who tell you love is free when they plan on enslavin' your souls."
Mary felt something crack in her chest. He was talking about Grace. He was damning her. And not one person rose or said a word. The congregation simply sat in a hot silence.
Mary rose. A few heads turned.
The sermon continued. Ezekiel kept going, his voice raising, his knuckles turning white. "And their end shall be according to their works!"
She walked. Straight down the aisle, her church heels clicking like gun shots across the wooden floors. She didn't speak, didn't tremble. But her breath burned against her throat.
At the doors, she paused. For half a second. Then she pushed them open. The chapel behind her was still, hushed. Sunlight spilled across her face, hot and golden, like a baptism.
She stepped into it.
The chapel doors shut behind her with a soft thud. She stood on the steps for a few heartbeats, eyes squinting against the sun. She looked at the road ahead, the trees shimmering in the summer breeze, at the world that somehow breathed the same. Her hands trembled slightly, and she curled them against her side.
Behind her, she heard the congregation lift voices into another hymn. Her throat ached, her ears rang, but her chest felt heavy and full. Like something had finally cracked open and began to bloom, unbearable and holy all at once. She lowered herself onto the step, pulling her knees tightly to her bosom.
The quiet outside felt dishonest after hearing the words uttered inside. The sermon still throbbed in her ribs. The Devil don't give, the Devil takes... false prophets... enslavin' your soul. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream all at once. But nothing came. The heat pressed harder onto her skin, and she suddenly grew aware of her body taking the space. Her skin. Her heartbeat. Her breath.
She had kissed Grace underneath stars that felt like candlelight. She had seen a dead bird flutter to life in Grace's hands. She had seen a boy speak after years of not uttering a breath. And now she was damned. By her father, by the church. Maybe by the whole town.
She closed her eyes. Breeze tussled her hair, kissed the sweat on her collarbone. She thought of Grace's hand on her's and the way she said "Don't let anyone tell you this isn't real."
Mary opened her eyes.
Then she stood. She didn't pause again. She walked down the church's path to the road. She started walking faster, then faster, until the church's steeple disappeared from view like a bad dream.
She didn't even realize that she was crying until she reached her front porch. Her face was hot, wet, and burning.
She pushed open the door, not stopping until she reached her room.
She swung open the bedroom door.
She paused for a moment, catching her breath. Her eyes caught the crucifix over her bed. Christ was silent, watchful. She met his pained gaze before she started to move.
The suitcase underneath her bed scraped the floorboards as she yanked it out. It was old and scuffed, the lock rusted with years of abandon. Her hands worked fast as she flung open drawers and pulling clothing out in thick handfuls: underwear, slips, the soft cotton nightgown her mother had given her before she passed.
She hesitated, then shoved it all in.
She didn't bother folding. Neatness didn't matter. Not anymore.
Her heart thudded rapidly in her throat. Her mouth tasted like rust.
She ran to the bathroom, grabbing her hairbrush, her hand mirror, the small ceramic cup that held her mother's thin gold wedding band. A twinge in her gut stopped her. She stared at the ring as if it might leap from the cup. Her hands softened lightly. She grabbed the ring delicately, placing it on her finger. Tenderly, gently, like a prayer.
Then the fury came back.
She ripped off her Sunday dress and kicked off her heels. She grabbed her jeans and T-shirt, violently shrugging them on. She threw her Sunday ware into the suitcase, shoving them between the folds. She packed with a strange rhythm, sometimes hurled in, others placed gently like relics. Grace's name hammered pulsed in her bones the whole time, like a bell, like a promise. Grace. Grace. Grace. She finally slammed the suitcase shut. No time or room for the Bible that waited patiently on her nightstand. She didn't even look at it.
She stood up, the glancing at the mirror. Her face was flushed with heat and fervor, her eyes bright and wild with purpose that was caught in grief. But not regret. Never regret.
She looked over her shoulder, back at the crucifix. Christ stared forward, away from her.
She turned and swung open the door.
Her suitcase thudded against the wooden floor as she stormed down the stairs, fist clenched, eyes blazing like twin fires. She didn't expect to see Ezekiel at the foot of the stairs, jaw clenched, arms tight across his chest, and eyes thundering.
"Where do you think you're goin', girl?" His voice was low, hard, and it carried a girlhood shock through Mary's bones.
She swallowed, fury twisting in her gut. "I'm leaving. I'm done."
Ezekiel’s mouth curled into a bitter smile. “Done with what? The church? Your family? The only thing keeping you from fallin’ into the pit?”
She spat the words back like venom. “Done with the lies you preach. Done with your sermons that burn like acid.”
“Watch your mouth, Mary.” His voice sharpened, a whipcrack in the thick air.
“I’m done with you.” She stepped forward, suitcase dragging behind her.
Ezekiel shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing into slits. “You think you know better, don’t you? Think you’re better than me, better than this place. But you don’t. You’re blinded by that… that Montgomery boy.”
Mary’s breath hitched, her fists trembling. “She’s not who you say she is.”
“Beau. Beau Montgomery.” Ezekiel spat the name like bile. “That filth is the devil in a dress. You’re throwin’ away your salvation for a whore and a liar.”
Mary’s eyes darkened with ice. “Don’t you dare speak her name like that. She’s the only one who’s ever been real to me.”
Ezekiel took a step forward, his shadow swallowing her in its darkness. “You think he’s real? You think that devil’s plaything ain’t gonna drag you down? You don’t belong with him, Mary. You belong here. With your family. With your God.”
She laughed bitterly, a sound broken and raw. “My God? Your God? You don’t know Him. You never did.”
“Don’t you dare talk about the Lord that way.”
Their voices rose, crashing against the walls like a storm. Words laced with years of unspoken hate, regret, and fear. Ezekiel’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.
“You’re choosing him over everything,” he hissed. “Over me, over this church, over yourself.”
Mary’s lips curled in a snarl. “Better to burn with love than freeze in your damn hypocrisy.”
Ezekiel’s hand shot out before she could blink. The slap landed, sharp, brutal, echoing through the silent house.
Mary reeled back on her heels, her breath caught in her throat. She placed her hand on her reddened cheek. She tasted blood in her mouth.
Ezekiel’s face twisted, horror flooding his eyes for a fleeting second. “I... I didn’t mean—”
But she was already turning away, tears streaking her cheeks like rivers of fire.
She didn’t look back. The door slammed behind her, a thunderclap that shattered the fragile silence. In her bedroom, the crucifix fell off the wall.
Mary didn't remember walking to the boarding house. She was just suddenly facing the chipping red paint of the door. She carefully traced the fading black number "4", before she rapped a gentle fist on the door. Music and smoke oozed from the cracks in the door, the faint scent of incense curling into her nose. She knocked again, just as the door swung open. Grace stood in her cotton slip, a cigarette hanging from her lips and a glass beer bottle in her hand. She looked startled, confused, then realization crossed her face once her eyes settled on Mary's tear streaked face. She didn't say anything, just stepped aside.
Mary walked in, setting her suitcase on the floor. She sat on Grace's unmade bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest and sobbed into her thighs.
Grace stood motionless for a long moment, the record’s low drone filling the room like a slow heartbeat. She drew a long, deliberate drag from her cigarette, eyes fixed on the subtle rise and fall of Mary’s trembling shoulders. The smoke curled lazily around her fingers, as if it knew secrets it wasn’t ready to share.
“You look like somebody told you God’s not comin’ back,” she said, her voice low and roughened by years of bitter truths, the words drifting out with the smoke and hanging between them.
Mary’s sobs shuddered through her body but she didn’t lift her head. Her hands trembled where they clutched her knees, face buried deep in her arms, the weight of it all folding her inward like a broken thing.
“I didn’t—” she tried to say, but the sound caught. A fragile whisper swallowed by the heavy silence.
Grace moved slowly, crossing the room and settling beside her on the bed without breaking the distance. The mattress dipped beneath her weight; the cotton slip clung damp and cool against her skin. The faint scent of smoke and something dark, grief perhaps, drifted off her like a shadow.
She set the beer bottle down on the nightstand, the muted clink sharp in the quiet. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just two broken bodies tangled in a room thick with sorrow and something dangerous. Something like hope.
“You did,” Grace said finally, voice rough but not unkind, “or something close enough to set your whole chest on fire.”
Mary’s eyes, rimmed raw and shimmering, finally met hers. “He hit me,” she whispered. “Ezekiel.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of anger, or maybe something sharper, passing through her gaze. “What?” The single word was a question, a statement, a warning.
Mary wiped her face on the back of her hand, the movement small and desperate. “He called you like you were filth. Said your name like it was poison. Then he slapped me. And I keep thinking... he still believes he’s right. Like he’s the one with the truth.”
Grace’s stare held hers, long and steady. A storm settled behind those dark eyes, something fierce, something tired, something utterly broken. She could’ve screamed, could’ve laughed, could’ve collapsed right there beside her.
Instead, she reached out. Her fingers curled around Mary’s hand, tight and sure. The touch wasn’t soft, it was a lifeline thrown in rough waters, a promise wrapped in steel.
“You’re safe here,” she said, voice firm and certain. “But you don’t get to fall apart. Not yet. Not until I do.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the music humming like a fragile heartbeat beneath the weight of everything they couldn’t say.
Mary's body stilled, and she slowly unfolded herself. She stepped down from the mattress, walking to her suitcase that lay waiting. She opened it with a silent click. Carefully, she pulled out her hairbrush and mirror, setting them delicately on the vanity at the foot of the bed.
Grace had moved to the windowsill, watching her silently has cigarette curled around her like a halo. She flicked into the ash tray before leaning down to adjust the turntable's needle to a different track. Mournful music poured out through the speakers, and she turned the volume knob up slightly, the room filling with a man's croon.
Mary moved to the windowsill, sliding a finger from the ledge up Grace's arm. She leaned forward, cupping her face with both hands. Grace gave a lopsided smile, and the two leaned in.
A knock sounded on the door, shattering the fragile moment peace. The women froze, Grace dropping her cigarette on the floor with a silent curse. Her eyes sharpened as she walked to the door.
When she opened it, not a soul was there sans a small jar of jam and a wrapped bundle of bread. She kneeled, scooping up both. She turned inside, flipping open the note that was laid on top that read
“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. -Ecclesiastes 3:1"
