From Dead to Worse

at nine, Amelia was already deep in a cleaning frenzy because of her father’s impending visit. By the time I left for church at about ten forty-five, Amelia was on her hands and knees in the downstairs hall bathroom, which admittedly is very old-fashioned looking with its tiny octagonal black-and-white tiles and a huge old claw-footed bathtub; but (thanks to my brother, Jason) it has a more modern toilet. This was the bathroom Amelia used, since there wasn’t one upstairs. I had a small, private one off my bedroom, added in the fifties. In my house, you could see several major decorating trends over the past few decades all in one building.
    “You really think it was that dirty?” I said, standing in the doorway. I was talking to Amelia’s rump.
    She raised her head and passed a rubber-gloved hand over her forehead to push her short hair out of the way.
    “No, it wasn’t bad, but I want it to be great.”
    “My house is just an old house, Amelia. I don’t think it can look great.” There was no point in my apologizing for the age and wear of the house and its furnishings. This was the best I could do, and I loved it.
    “This is a wonderful old home, Sookie,” Amelia said fiercely. “But I have to be busy.”
    “Okay,” I said. “Well, I’m going to church. I’ll be home by twelve thirty.”
    “Can you go to the store after church? The list is on the counter.”
    I agreed, glad to have something to do that would keep me out of the house longer.
    The morning felt more like March (March in the south, that is) than October. When I got out of my car at the Methodist church, I raised my face to the slight breeze. There was a touch of winter in the air, a little taste of it. The windows in the modest church were open. When we sang, our combined voices floated out over the grass and trees. But I saw some leaves blow past as the pastor preached.
    Frankly, I don’t always listen to the sermon. Sometimes the hour in church is just a time to think, a time to consider where my life is going. But at least those thoughts are in a context. And when you watch leaves falling off trees, your context gets pretty narrow.
    Today I listened. Reverend Collins talked about giving God the things that were due him while giving Caesar the things due him. That seemed like an April fifteenth type sermon to me, and I caught myself wondering if Reverend Collins paid his taxes quarterly. But after a while, I figured he was talking about the laws we break all the time without feeling guilty—like the speed limit, or sticking a letter in with some presents in a box you’re mailing at the post office, without paying the extra postage.
    I smiled at Reverend Collins on my way out of the church. He always looks a little troubled when he sees me.
    I said hello to Maxine Fortenberry and her husband, Ed, as I reached the parking lot. Maxine was large and formidable, and Ed was so shy and quiet he was almost invisible. Their son, Hoyt, was my brother Jason’s best friend. Hoyt was standing behind his mother. He was wearing a nice suit, and his hair had been trimmed. Interesting signs.
    “Sugar, you give me a hug!” Maxine said, and of course I did. Maxine had been a good friend to my grandmother, though she was more the age my dad would have been. I smiled at Ed and gave Hoyt a little wave.
    “You’re looking nice,” I told him, and he smiled. I didn’t think I’d ever seen Hoyt smile like that, and I glanced at Maxine. She was grinning.
    “Hoyt, he’s dating that Holly you work with,” Maxine said. “She’s got a little one, and that’s a thing to think about, but he’s always liked kids.”
    “I didn’t know,” I said. I really had been out of it lately. “That’s just great, Hoyt. Holly’s a real nice girl.”
    I wasn’t sure I would have put it quite that way if I’d had time to think, so maybe it was lucky I didn’t. There were some big positives about Holly (devoted to her son, Cody; loyal to her friends; a competent worker). She’d been divorced for several years, so Hoyt wasn’t a rebound. I wondered if Holly had told Hoyt she was a Wiccan. Nope, she hadn’t, or Maxine wouldn’t be smiling so broadly.
    “We’re meeting her for lunch at the Sizzler,” she said, referring to the steakhouse up by the interstate. “Holly’s not much of a churchgoer, but we’re working on getting her to come with us and bring Cody. We better get moving if we’re gonna be on time.”
    “Way to go, Hoyt,” I said,