Part 17 (1/2)

”You mean, why don't they get up a mission to Africa, right? Or start an environmental ministry or something.” Candy rucks up her chin. ”When, I mean, will you look at the earth.”

”That is just a fact,” declares Beth.

”Because they believe in salvation through faith,” honks Grace. ”They don't believe deeds matter.”

”But where Paul told us to spread the Good News, shouldn't we do that whether we're getting credit or not?” Candy's red hair is s.h.i.+ning. ”And why do they keep to themselves the way they do?” She's upset about a recent ec.u.menical powwow, which the pastor of the Heritage Bible Church refused to attend. ”Opening up their own school as if everyone else has cooties. And people mix us evangelicals up with them-that's what gets me! As if we're all the same, because we don't want our kids watching p.o.r.n. Because we don't want to see babies getting killed. Because we honor G.o.d's plan and believe in the family. When, I mean, they are just fanatic!”

Silence.

”That is just a fact,” says Beth, finally.

Flora, all in green, appears with a coffeepot in each hand. Her flat, smooth nose is s.h.i.+ning with sun and her earrings flicker, too-a little fish hanging in each lobe. Thanks, they all say. Caf. Decaf. Thanks.

Greta looks at Hattie. ”Do I hear your friend the Cambodian girl's involved with this church?”

”I don't know the extent of it,” answers Hattie, slowly. ”But this blue car does come to pick her up and bring her to some center.”

”You have got to stop that.” Beth jabs at the air with a toothpick. ”You have got to nip that in the bud.”

Hattie nods.

”Maybe get her involved in something else?” says Greta.

A great suggestion, but when Hattie asks for ideas, only Candy has an action item for her, namely to pray on it. Because in her experience, she says, G.o.d can be a genius at this sort of thing.

The cell tower has somehow pa.s.sed after all.

”How could anyone do this?” demands Hattie. ”With all of town so against it? Who?”

But it is just a fact, as Beth would say. Jim Wright has not only gone and allowed an appeal of the cell tower case but, confoundingly, approved a permit. As long as he's lived in town! explodes Greta. Owing as much as he does to his neighbors and teachers! Everyone who's ever lent him a can of motor oil is irate. But, well, he's taken his money, and two other zoning board members besides-both of whom have already skipped town with their families.

Good riddance! says everyone.

And when it turns out that plywood is being stolen from the cell tower building site, well, no one is exactly distraught. People don't like it that crime is going up in general-new folks, they say. New folks bringing problems in their pockets. But in this case they just shrug. Someone building himself a deer camp, they joke. Cash 'n' carry, only without the cash.

Now the plywood on site's been stamped with the cell tower company's name, and there are NO TRESPa.s.sING signs posted, too. As for where the plywood's gone to, though, who knows?

”Somebody must know,” insists Hattie.

Because in a town this size, people do generally know who's behind things. And this is Riverlake, after all. A good town, a town that prides itself on having everyone in its picture.

But no one, in this case, has seen anything.

It rains so hard on the Fourth of July, the Pride of Riverlake doesn't even march this year.

Sophy pokes at her cheek with an eraser. ”I wish they'd stop.”

”Of course you do,” says Hattie.

”I wish they'd kill each other already.”

”Oh-don't say that.” Hattie pushes a plate of Russian teacakes toward her, and Sophy does take one. Instead of eating it, though, she nudges it from one spot on the table to another, like a chess piece. ”Is your dad still hitting Sarun with newspaper?”

Sophy goes on nudging but nods.

”Then it isn't likely to happen soon, thank goodness. It's hard to kill someone with newspaper.”

Sophy looks up. ”I guess that's good.”

”Yes, it is,” agrees Hattie. ”It is good.” She sees Joe, emaciated and yellow, his eyes stuck open and his chin fallen back; she hears Lee's long, loud silence.

But no more thinking of these things. There's a lesson to teach; and so, though it is b miao zhu zhng-like pulling at seedlings to make them grow-Hattie teaches. And at the end, has an idea.

”Qng wen,” she says, as they put away their books. ”I've seen you playing the guitar.”

”My old boyfriend gave it to me. I'm teaching myself.” Sophy looks proud of herself. ”I have this book.”

”Qng n sho Hany,” says Hattie. ”Do you remember how to say 'I have a book'?”

”Wo yu y sh. I mean, Yi ge.”

”Y bn.”

”Y bn.”

”Good. The whole sentence, please.”

Sophy rolls her eyes but says, ”Wo yu y bn sh,” and stands up.

”Hen ho. Well, here's my question, then”-is this impulsive? Never mind-”would you like guitar lessons? If I am able to arrange them?” It's Hattie's attempt to get Sophy involved in something else.

Sophy sits back down.

”I can't promise,” Hattie warns.

But Sophy does not hear her. ”Yes!” she blurts. ”Yes! I'd love that! Yes! I would! Yes!” Her lips are parted and her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g; she looks as though she might cry.

”I can try but-really-I can't promise,” Hattie warns her again-encouraged by Sophy's response but hedging, as Everett would say. She has to.

Still, Sophy keeps exclaiming and when Annie comes to visit, throws the poor dog right up in the air. Annie's face is as shocked as a dog's face gets; Hattie laughs.

And at yoga the next day, she ignores the way Carter circles Jill Jenkins. She ignores Jill's tossing of her s.h.i.+ny black hair; she even ignores Jill's backbend demonstration, though how truly remarkable that, with just the lightest support of Carter's well-placed hand, Jill can still do a backward bend right straight into a bridge. Well, if it ain't a tendered loin! Lee would say. But Hattie ignores even Lee. Da gun-she simply watches, at headstand time, for Carter's return to the world of the right-side-up. He is the last of the headstanders to come back; but here come his feet, finally, lightly touching down. One and then the other. And there-he's levered his long body upright, moving with such grace that Hattie half forgets her mission for a moment: It is as if some invisible agency has judiciously supplied a bar, at just the right moment, at his hips. And here, now, he stands, before her-a barefoot man with a magenta-colored face. A zinnia.

He untucks his T-s.h.i.+rt.

”Guitar lessons? I am rusty as the Tin Man,” he begins-taken aback but relieved, too, she can see, to be having a normal-ish conversation with her. ”Moreover, I am in danger of turning into a one-man rec center,” he says.

Still, come Sat.u.r.day afternoon, Hattie is introducing Carter to the Chhungs. She doesn't stick around. But from back in her house, she can see Carter produce his guitar with a flourish; Sophy, she can see, too, is already enthralled. The dogs need their teeth brushed; every s.h.i.+rt Hattie owns has a spot on it; and for once she has a clear idea what she's going to focus on if she ever makes it back to her bamboo-a more natural splay of the leaves. Like the fingers of a hand, she thinks. She wants them to fall like the fingers of a hand.