Being a real lady wasn’t in the cards for me, but it didn’t matter much, because there we all were, shoved up on this shelf where the mountain meets the prairie, and me, shoved up on the shelf where a girl met what her mother wants her to be.
“When are the services?” I asked her softly.
“Honestly, Casandra. Patience. That is what the Bishop is here to tell us.” She groped the mantel for her cordial glass. “My goodness, what a shame. Deacon Pious must be a confounded wreck.”
“Mmm,” I said. I had already seen how the Deacon was taking things, though I wasn’t about to share that with my mother, who felt that men who cried were about as useful as flat shoes.
Unsurprisingly, my mother with all her ladylikeness had adapted well to being the First Lady after my father declared New Charity its own entity. Before the troubles, there were rules about that sort of thing, but everything was different now. Our history books had been packed away for a good long while. We were supposed to be proud in our roles as “new pioneers.”
I didn’t understand why that meant we had to forget about the years things didn’t grow and the winters we survived by working together before the Spirit poured its blessing through the Bishop and our collective gifts.
“The dress looks nice, though,” Mama said, adjusting the neckline. “You can wear one of the others to the funeral.”
“I’ll have my robes on.” I could be plain and pure in the service of the Spirit. It wouldn’t matter what I wore beneath, and I’d be far more comfortable in my old jeans.
“I want you at the social hall afterwards. I’m tired of everyone thinking something’s wrong with you.”
“No one thinks that,” I protested, although if I was honest, I had no idea. What I did know was that my being at the social hall wouldn’t magically fulfill Mama’s hopes that I’d be snapped up by one of the available men in town.
I remember thinking way back when that Mama might have loved me more if I were a little more like Syd. She was lithe where I was strong. Dark-haired instead of washed-out blonde. Fine features and dark eyes where I was blunt-nosed and freckled and gray-eyed, collecting all the most mundane features of the Willis clan.
Mama hadn’t seen the other parts of our friend. The strange, odd parts. Syd was always early, always pacing. Studying things. Opening drawers, lids, doors. Talking to herself. Biting her nails. She was as sharp as the electric fence for the stallion’s pen—the one we kept on with the generator. On our fourteenth birthday, the last before Syd left for the City, Len made us all hold hands and touch the fence. I was the last in line, and the current was so painful I almost wet my pants. I called him a name so loud and so terrible the adults heard it and blanched. Mama sent me to spend the rest of the night in my room. Syd was the one to talk Mama into releasing me from banishment. Chalk it up to countless favors owed. Syd was always working an angle.
I wondered if she’d be working one still.
My father and the Bishop finally finished their conversation, and we mercifully sat down to dinner. There was salad and pleasantries and wine pouring. Over the roast the Governor got down to brass tacks.
“Cas. Len,” said the Governor. “The Bishop shared some sad news before dinner. It seems Cal Turner passed on this morning.”
I nodded. “We saw.”
“As I expected,” said the Bishop. “Very well then. Deacon Turner has asked that the funeral be held immediately, so I’d like you to prepare yourselves for service tomorrow.”
“One of the town’s finest,” the Governor said.
My mother batted her eyes at her peas, as if my father were talking about hay yields or inches of rainfall instead of death and sorrow.
Len frowned. “Doesn’t he want to wait for Syd to get here?”
The Bishop wiped the corners of his mouth and glowered at us from beneath his grizzled eyebrows. “It could take weeks
“When are the services?” I asked her softly.
“Honestly, Casandra. Patience. That is what the Bishop is here to tell us.” She groped the mantel for her cordial glass. “My goodness, what a shame. Deacon Pious must be a confounded wreck.”
“Mmm,” I said. I had already seen how the Deacon was taking things, though I wasn’t about to share that with my mother, who felt that men who cried were about as useful as flat shoes.
Unsurprisingly, my mother with all her ladylikeness had adapted well to being the First Lady after my father declared New Charity its own entity. Before the troubles, there were rules about that sort of thing, but everything was different now. Our history books had been packed away for a good long while. We were supposed to be proud in our roles as “new pioneers.”
I didn’t understand why that meant we had to forget about the years things didn’t grow and the winters we survived by working together before the Spirit poured its blessing through the Bishop and our collective gifts.
“The dress looks nice, though,” Mama said, adjusting the neckline. “You can wear one of the others to the funeral.”
“I’ll have my robes on.” I could be plain and pure in the service of the Spirit. It wouldn’t matter what I wore beneath, and I’d be far more comfortable in my old jeans.
“I want you at the social hall afterwards. I’m tired of everyone thinking something’s wrong with you.”
“No one thinks that,” I protested, although if I was honest, I had no idea. What I did know was that my being at the social hall wouldn’t magically fulfill Mama’s hopes that I’d be snapped up by one of the available men in town.
I remember thinking way back when that Mama might have loved me more if I were a little more like Syd. She was lithe where I was strong. Dark-haired instead of washed-out blonde. Fine features and dark eyes where I was blunt-nosed and freckled and gray-eyed, collecting all the most mundane features of the Willis clan.
Mama hadn’t seen the other parts of our friend. The strange, odd parts. Syd was always early, always pacing. Studying things. Opening drawers, lids, doors. Talking to herself. Biting her nails. She was as sharp as the electric fence for the stallion’s pen—the one we kept on with the generator. On our fourteenth birthday, the last before Syd left for the City, Len made us all hold hands and touch the fence. I was the last in line, and the current was so painful I almost wet my pants. I called him a name so loud and so terrible the adults heard it and blanched. Mama sent me to spend the rest of the night in my room. Syd was the one to talk Mama into releasing me from banishment. Chalk it up to countless favors owed. Syd was always working an angle.
I wondered if she’d be working one still.
My father and the Bishop finally finished their conversation, and we mercifully sat down to dinner. There was salad and pleasantries and wine pouring. Over the roast the Governor got down to brass tacks.
“Cas. Len,” said the Governor. “The Bishop shared some sad news before dinner. It seems Cal Turner passed on this morning.”
I nodded. “We saw.”
“As I expected,” said the Bishop. “Very well then. Deacon Turner has asked that the funeral be held immediately, so I’d like you to prepare yourselves for service tomorrow.”
“One of the town’s finest,” the Governor said.
My mother batted her eyes at her peas, as if my father were talking about hay yields or inches of rainfall instead of death and sorrow.
Len frowned. “Doesn’t he want to wait for Syd to get here?”
The Bishop wiped the corners of his mouth and glowered at us from beneath his grizzled eyebrows. “It could take weeks
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