Chapter One

Paul Carew woke early, not looking forward to facing another endless summer Sabbath. Inside the church, he sat feeling angry and sad. It was past noon and hot. He was sure Elijah had preached longer than usual. Seems, after the ham auction, the holy-picture window fund had raised well over the three hundred dollars needed to make the payment. His father spent a great deal of his sermon thanking God, thanking Jesus, for choosing to pour down blessings upon his own worthy head. Paul took notice that the last thing Elijah remembered to do was thank his loyal congregation.

After church, as they always did, the Carews got together at Cousin Lorene's house for lunch. But Paul couldn't find his appetite and scooted little mounds of mashed potatoes and chicken breast under his untouched biscuit. He kept an eye on Elijah, now in his shirtsleeves, sweating authority.

After a while, he couldn't bear the sight of his father's grease-covered chin, moving up and down like a string-pulled dummy, so he matched up his knife and fork, stood, and took his plate into the kitchen.

"Paul, you come back over here, get you a piece of my coconut cake, allow me to put this spoon of vanilla ice cream on top." Lorene dug her scoop down deep, came up with a perfect round ball.

As soon as she handed him the plate, Paul tiptoed well behind his father's scowl and found a place next to Lorene's daughter, Arletta, took his cake, cut it up into small pieces, and divided tiny blobs of ice cream to spoon onto each bit.

"Paul, you just so delicate," Arletta whispered.

While Lorene passed coffee, Paul slipped out the door into the two o'clock sun, walked around the corner, home to his wooden house, held up by gray concrete stilts under the front porch. He was alone. All was still in the house. So, he set to picking up clothes Elijah dropped while in a hurry to get ready for church. He folded, placed, and hung them back into the cupboards.

On his way to the bedroom, carrying Elijah's tobacco-stained overalls, his eye caught the folds of his mama's second-best dress from Lorene. It was a hand-me-down she'd gotten from the big house over the tracks where she worked, a giveaway after spring cleaning. This was his chance to follow his feelings and he took it. He peeled off his Sunday shirt, unwound the pink lace and cotton dress from its hanger, and pulled it over his head, where it fell to below his knees. He followed himself in the dressing-table mirror, then sat down to unroll Mama's Pink Lady lipstick from the five and dime.

He pursed his mouth, flattened his lips in a big O. He traced and filled in the color, not stopping until he'd reached the deepest pink. A small, brown powder puff carried rouge onto his thin cheeks. He unhooked the colored beads Mama'd hung over the pointed tops of her mirror, wound them over and over around his neck, turned on her radio, snapped his fingers to the tune of "Sweet Georgia Brown." He knew it by heart, like he did every other hit song of the day.

He wasn't a second away from tapping his feet, his mama's pink dress swished with the beat, he swayed from one side to the other, moved backwards and forwards, arms gently swinging, until he was dancing and singing with his perfect partner, the boy in the mirror.

Fact is, Paul could croon the words to most songs by the light of any old silvery moon. Every day he sang one into his mama's mirror. He reached over to turn the music up and heard the bang of the front screen door. Paul was scared to death it might be Elijah. He dived down, scrambled under the double bed, trying to pull Lily's pink skirt with him, as he lay there flat on his stomach, holding his breath. He peeked out. His hot eyeballs could see a pair of black shiny-leather preacher shoes. Time went by, the shoes never moved. Blood pounded in his ears, and he was praying Elijah hadn't seen him.

Then, in a low voice, "I see your mama's pretty pink dress hanging out. Might have called you Paula, that's more like it." He knelt, looked at his son.

Paul caught one of his father's rare wide smiles, and with relief, started to breathe again, until Elijah hooked a hand under his arm, squeezed hard on his chicken wing, and pulled him out from under. One of the strings of Lily's necklace broke, spattering beads all over the floor, and for a minute Paul thought of scooping up all the different colored glass balls. He could smell the stale breath when Elijah put his face up close against his.

"Take off that dress, wipe your face." Elijah stood waiting with his hands on his hips.

Paul fumbled with each pink-covered button, pulled down the side zipper, and lifted the dress carefully over his head. Then, he took a towel hanging over the basin, spat into it, and scrubbed off as much makeup as he could. He stood in his underpants, shivering in fear.

"You know what God would say, don't you, boy? Or is it girl? God would say to me, loud and clear: 'Beat out those demons, Reverend Carew. Beat them until they fly down to Hell!'"

Elijah unhooked his brown-leather belt with the big brass buckle and with the other arm, threw Paul across the bed. At first the strap came down in slow, sharp slaps, then fury gathered steam and on they came harder, faster.

Paul tried to wriggle away, but Elijah pulled him back with one hand, and with his other, turned the belt to the buckle end and kept on beating as the metal clip dug deep into Paul's skin with each blow. Trickles of sweat rolled into his eyes, mixed with his tears, and with his agony he could feel the slipping sweat and blood on his back. Then, just as Paul nearly lost himself in a dead faint, the bedroom door opened.