Xena rinsed her hands and wiped them on a towel. “I will say, your priest sounds a bit severe. I can tell you this, not all houses of worship are that harsh. It’s not my business to meddle, but it troubles me the way you seem not to be caring for yourself. You can ignore what I’m about to say and tell yourself that Xena’s just being an old busybody, but I spoke to the reverend at my church about you—it’s the First Baptist Church across town. I told him how you were living on your own, and he said you’d be as welcome at our church as any other member of his congregation. His name is Aloysius Klepper, and I think you’d find him to be a gentle man. His services are joyful, nothing like what you described. I could sure use the company if you’d care to join me some Sunday.”
“But I’m Catholic.”
“Reverend Klepper always says that the Lord only sees our hearts and doesn’t much care about the rest of us. He says that anyone who passes through our doors is welcomed to be loved, not judged.”
Emilia Mae liked the idea of not being judged. Even more, she thrilled to the thought of never having to see Father Daley again.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll try it.”
The following Sunday, Emilia Mae dressed up in a pale blue caftan with beige stripes and a pair of beige pumps. She and Xena linked arms against the lacerating wind. As they got closer to the church, Xena said hello to the parishioners. It was a small congregation, and everyone knew everyone else. A stranger was the object of curiosity, and there were stares, not all of them friendly. “Keep walking,” whispered Xena, never dropping the smile from her lips.
The church was like a child’s drawing, with a steeple and double front doors. Inside, it smelled like a moldy attic. The walls were white and spotless, with a stark cross above the pulpit and wooden pews that looked as if they’d been recently stained. Xena led Emilia Mae to the second-row pew. There was a hum of conversation behind them, which switched off the moment Reverend Klepper strode to the pulpit in a long white robe. He was a big man, uneasy in his body and clumsy in his movements. He was pale and had thick brown wavy hair with glints of gray. He had a large nose that seemed to have been broken and a malleable mouth that could stretch into a hymn and fold to a whisper. His bulging brown eyes took you in. No one knew if they were naturally that way or if he had some big-eye disease, but when he preached, the entire congregation paid attention, because everyone thought he was staring straight at them.
Emilia Mae was certain his invocation was aimed at her: “Welcome. Today I am happy to see some familiar faces and new friends. In the eyes of Jesus, we are all one. So, let us come together in this house of worship in friendship and in harmony.” He led the congregation in the hymns “Holy, Holy, Holy” and “How Great Thou Art.” Their voices blended exuberantly and lifted Emilia Mae to a place where she floated above herself. They prayed and read from the scripture in unison. When it was time for his sermon, Reverend Klepper walked among the congregants, nodding at people as he spoke.
Father Daley never left his pulpit, never made his sermons personal. Reverend Klepper’s white robe swayed as he walked. In this sermon he spoke about a difficult time in his life. “Only when I learned to find within myself the love and affection that had been taken from me did I lose my bitterness and gain my strength. Only then did I learn to forgive.” His sermon, about isolation and forgiveness, echoed many of Emilia Mae’s own thoughts—though she was unsure about the forgiveness part.
Before she knew it, he was saying the benediction. People were freely crying out “Hallelujah” and “Amen,” and the service was over. Xena and she waited in line to say hello to Reverend Klepper. When it came their turn, Xena gently shoved her toward him. “This is the child I told you about. Emilia Mae. Emilia Mae Wingo.”
Reverend Klepper took her hand in his. “Emilia Mae Wingo,” he said, “we’re so pleased to have you here today. I hope you enjoyed the service.”
“I sure did,” she said.
“Good, then perhaps that means you’ll join us again.”
“I’d like that.”
“And we’d be honored to have you.”
Three weeks later, on a Saturday night, John from Albany showed up at the Inn, slipped into Emilia Mae’s room, and without words took what he’d come for. In the morning light, as he dressed in his traveling clothes, he saw how she struggled to pull her caftan over her distended stomach. Such a dark expression came over his face she thought he might hit her. “Gee, you look…different,” he said.
“Nope, it’s still me, I’m fine.”
He must have noticed the putty lines under her eyes and how the act of pulling on her caftan put her out of breath. “Well, you certainly don’t seem all that fine.”
She looked at John, at his smug face and expensive clothes. He was a successful businessman, but so what? He was also a cheater and a liar. She wasn’t movie-star gorgeous, but she was okay-looking, and everyone always told her how smart she was. Emilia Mae knew from her own life that you couldn’t force someone to love you, but she knew she deserved better. She’d just finished reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and thought about Francie Nolan, the main character, who always stood up for what was true and right. Like Dorothy in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Francie had become a friend, one she felt she could rely on in a moment like this. She took a deep breath and said what she thought Francie might say: “Just because you come waltzing in here in your fancy suits and shoes doesn’t give you the right to judge me. I’m as fine as anyone you know, probably even finer. I’d never marry a man who cheated on me or used my suitcase, which, by the way, reeks of lavender soap. I suppose you take me for some simple girl in the baking business who would never figure that out. Well, I’m more than that.”
She heard the sound of raked rocks in her voice, and it made her feel powerful. John gave her a weak smile that showed the tunnel between his two front teeth. It was the kind of smile that told her she would never see him again.
“I suppose this means you’re giving me the boot.”
“I suppose I am.”
She watched as he walked out of her room. The last she heard of him was the tick-tocking of his shoes against the wooden floor. “Holy moly,” she thought, “I sounded just like my mother.”
Despite her bravado, she was sad. She’d miss the wanting and the waiting. She’d looked forward to seeing a night game at Yankee Stadium and had gotten used to the smell of lavender soap. Knowing that she was going to church this morning and would hear one of Reverend Klepper’s plague-free sermons gave her small comfort. But first she needed to see her mother.
Geraldine was alone in the baking room, preparing the dough for the next morning’s bread. She didn’t see Emilia Mae enter and was startled when she heard “Mother.” She turned to her daughter with a smile. “Well, look what the cat’s dragged in. To what do I owe this honor?”
The lightness in her mother’s voice made Emilia Mae think this conversation would be easier than she had anticipated. “Well, I thought we should talk a little about church.”
“Do you mean about how you haven’t shown up for the past couple of weeks? You know, I’ve missed you.”