Sunday
It was Sunday. That meant that the post wouldn’t be coming, Church would be in session, and none of the stores would be open for her to shop. Sunday was dismal. She had nothing against Church or the stores or the post, but it was the combination of those things; nothing exciting could possibly happen because there were no people or objects coming or going.
Living in a small town had its positive side: everyone knew one another so if she was out of town there was a plethora of people she trusted. It also made her feel welcome that people would smile when she walked into a restaurant or store or just a regular walk on the street. Even so, she didn’t like everyone. Not even all of the people who smiled at her when they passed or talked in the street. Fortunately, all of those people went to Church on Sunday, but unfortunately, so did all the people who interested her.
She knew some of the sour people would talk about her in Church. Many of the townspeople would be on her side; she had worked hard for a positive reputation. But she knew it wouldn’t matter. No matter how many times anyone insisted she wouldn’t be going to Hell, there was always going to be a crotchety old lady who would swear otherwise. She’d feel like a monster or a criminal whenever they’d say, “I know your kind,” even though there were plenty of people to cheer her up. “Don’t listen to them,” they’d say, but she’d hear them even if she didn’t listen.
She was scarce Saturdays, but Sundays were gruesome. She went for a walk around the town, but nothing was open, no one was out. She could smell the cows from the pastures behind the churchyard. She thought it was ironic that the pastor was the most sympathetic towards her. She turned down the road past the corn and bean fields. The road was like Moses splitting the Red Sea. She walked a little farther until she reached the Patterson’s house. She knew they weren’t home, although their youngest son might have gotten away with not going to Church. He was usually pretty spry about that sort of thing. But she decided not to go in. She didn’t feel like chatting with a ten-year-old boy.
She went back up the street but made a circle back around to the shops so she was walking on the primary street. She looked into the darkened windows and studied the wares. She walked past the grocer, the butcher, the backer, the bookbinder, the doll maker, all wishing they would be open so she could go in. She heard the bells of the Church and hurried back home. She wanted to be scarce when Church got out. She knew Old Widow Wipper would be the first in the street, shaking the pastor’s hand, and returning to her house above the general store. Luckily, she had friends who would go to the general store for her if she needed it.
Soon, she got a knock on the door and the Saltpeter family was there with Church pies.
“We though you’d like some,” Mrs. Saltpeter said, “even if you don’t go to Church. They’re home made.”
She thanked them and took a pie. She asked when the stores would be open next. They said Monday, but they’d open for her if she needed food. She thanked them, but said she’d make it to Monday. She knew that was a lie; she barely had enough food for a suitable dinner, but she didn’t want them to go out of their way for her any more. She invited them in, but they politely declined and wished her well. She shut the door and put the pie on her table. She stared at it.
The blueberry filling oozed out of the latticed dough on the top and glistened in the light. She could smell the tangy filling through the sweet crust. It has been neatly brushed with honey so the top was a perfect golden brown. Before she could grab a knife to cut it, there was knock on her door. The Pattersons were inviting her to dinner; Mr. Patterson said when she opened it. She thanked them and said she’d be there. She hoped there wouldn’t be ham, but she didn’t mention it out loud. Mr. Patterson tipped his hat and said he’d see her there. She shut the door and returned to the glistening pie. Her stomach growled and she cut into it watching the filling ooze out and turn her knife purple.
Sundays were lonely, but people were always nicer to her then.
This entry was posted on Thursday, August 21st, 2008 at 10:01 am and is filed under Fiction Prose, Realistic Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.