Chapter Two - Bless His Wicked Heart
Well—church doesn’t change people. It makes them meaner. They walk in, expecting magic to sanctify their pious versions of themselves while they perch all prayerful in a church house. They expect to become heaven-bound saints that way. But when the meeting ends and nothing shifts, they leave cranky. Fake smiles stretch their cheeks raw. Heads throb from trying to behave righteous. Shoulders knot, knowing they’re minutes away from cussing one of their own before they even clear the parking lot.
At collection time, worry dries out those saints’ throats. Their voices rasp, as my older brothers circle their benches, rattling metal offering plates and patiently demanding weekly tithes. Most men slink in, dropping pocket change onto the pan. The sound of quarters and dimes rattling paints their faces red. Everyone leans, listening as the coins spin and settle.
In the evening air, Daddy’s sermon sears them—hell’s sulfur exploding straight from Satan’s pit. I used to wonder why anyone paid to listen to it.
Most Sundays, the saints go home meaner than a cat with its tail slammed in a church door.
So, Sunday night, our behinds were parked in church, waiting for a miracle to fix our souls, bruised from supper’s latest war.
Like a row of half-awake crows perched on a phone line, my brothers and I slouched beside Mama, desperate for a scrap of laughter to rescue us from Daddy’s bitter sermon. The saints’ nerves stretched thin as rubber bands while he dragged that sermon tighter by the hour. His own nerves stretched toward snapping as he begged sinners to come forward. Obviously, he meant Billy. He preached as if the altar’s only purpose was to bend that boy’s knees.
Unbothered, Billy sprawled in the aisle seat and dozed. I nodded too—until Mama smacked the back of my head, snapping me upright. My other brothers hunched, elbows on knees, heads in their hands like in fervent prayer—comic books hidden in the hearts of their Bibles. Mama, eyes shut, murmured to God.
With a cough, Billy snored—loud—tumbled halfway into the aisle before jerking upright.
From the pulpit, Daddy shot Mama a glare. Before she could grab him, he marched over and yanked Billy up by the shoulders. Billy jerked awake, fists flailing like a cornered animal. Mama snatched his hand, guided him back to the seat, and curled around him. She pulled his head to her shoulder, soothing him. “He had a bad dream,” she whispered. Her voice echoed through the chapel’s cavernous silence.
I darted a glance at the congregation, caught the grim stares of our fellow sufferers. Daddy flushed dark purple-red. It didn’t look good—the preacher’s own son toppling into the aisle mid-sermon.
That kid’s not afraid of the devil, I calculated. I buried my grin in my hand, stifling a laugh that nearly took my breath.
—Almost passed out, holding my breath to keep from giggling outright.
“We’ll see to this when we get home.” Growling under his breath, Daddy strode to the pulpit and snatched up his Bible. He flipped through its pages but—
With a mile-wide grin, Sister Cartwright dashed ahead and dropped onto the ancient piano bench. She hammered out “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.” The congregation sang. Crickets joined. A dog howled. A cow bellowed.
That was the signal. Daddy’s saints determined church service was done. After two hours of seat-sweating, hat-grabbing, child-wrangling torment, they collected those kids, hats, and Bibles and filed out singing “I’ll Fly Away”. One after another, they paused to pat Billy’s curly head. He’d rescued them from an extra hour of brimstone. Bless his wicked little heart.
Out they went—no holier than when they’d arrived three hours earlier.
Beyond the tooth-grinding sermon, the dark night welcomed us with a jubilant chorus of bullfrogs and crickets. Their music rattled through the summer air and into our ears. We drank in the humid river breeze. Pinprick stars blinked against the inked sky. River, critters, stars—all of it lulled my anxious mind.
We squished into Daddy’s ’43 Ford, faces soured, dreading the ride home. I cranked the window and gulped the cool air, wondering how those creatures found joy while we simmered in human bitterness.
Billy’s sweaty head slumped onto my shoulder, his snores rumbling. I didn’t blame him. It was near midnight, and he was ten. But I kept my eyes on Daddy’s jaw—tight, slack, tight again. That familiar stab of foreboding jabbed me. Sharp. Predictable.
I stared out the car window, breeze brushing my face, imagining a hermit’s life—like John the Baptist. About that time, locusts and honey sounded downright decent. I mean, how did hermits handle cricket legs sliding down their throats? That John-the-Baptist guy was hardcore.
After us kids bolted for bed, Daddy’s wrath and Mama’s fury thundered through the house for hours. Silence took over, quiet locked in tight.
The days dragged. Long. Empty. So quiet, we half wished they’d start fighting again—just to hear something human.
Pain chewed at me. I couldn’t stomach another family clash. I ached to be anywhere but home.
I needed out. I only needed my dog, a book, and a patch of quiet with food enough to last. And I knew the place to go—a cave curled into the high valley behind Mount Thompson.
Downhill from the cave slouched an ancient, abandoned homestead. A feisty little creek veined the hollow nearby. A scrappy, aging apple orchard twisted across the yard, offering sour, scrawny fruit. Old grapevines snaked through the brush, dripping with purple heaven.
Time gnawed at the house. One side sagged toward ruin while the other lifted its shoulder and braced against collapse. I spent hours drowning in dust, digging through forgotten furniture and yellowed clothes and old books—each piece a whisper of bygone lives.
At the cool end of my cave, I’d stashed picnic things on a ledge: canned sardines, a metal tin of tiny crackers and canned food, blankets along with books, and old clothes fished from the house.
Beyond that ledge, the tunnel gaped wide, swallowing light. It dared me to step inside. I never did. I needed a flashlight. Still, every visit tugged at my bones, tempting me. On one trip, later last summer, I did snatch Daddy’s flashlight, planning to uncover the dark cavern.
Time wandering between the cave and our house scraped away the noise of family conflict, leaving behind only the ache of unspoken words and a gnawing need for love. I wondered—might we live without snapping and growling? Offer a hug, a kiss, a kind word?
I wanted to ask for love, but the words never got beyond my lips. At home, we weren’t a family—just bodies sharing air but never close enough to touch. Everyone pulled away. Strangers—almost.
I chewed on that thought.
One day I spotted a doe and her twin fawns grazing in a field. All three pointed in the same direction. No threats. No anger. A family built on love. When danger flickered nearby, the doe sprang ahead, her fawns trailing like beads on a necklace—tethered by instinct, bonded by trust.
I pressed my fingers into my forehead, fighting the ache. If animal families bond and cooperate, can’t we? Let’s forget past troubles! Try forgiveness.
Truth was, I stood at the center of the discord at home. Me and my longing to learn to play the piano. And Uncle Harry’s offer to teach me, as long as Daddy didn’t find out.
I knew better. Knew God would catch me. Knew Daddy would figure things out, and I’d be punished for a long time. I was helpless; the piano called me.
Still, shouldn’t Daddy be bound by the lessons from his own sermons? Forgiveness? Love?
Sometimes I thought Mama and Daddy might get along better without me and Billy around to irritate them. No matter how hard I tried, I didn't find a way for us to stay in their good graces. I chased answers. Wrestled for them. But deep down, I knew the truth—
I was grappling with smoke. No answer waited at the end.
We were a contentious family. My mulling didn’t change that.
Period.
So, while my parents fought, and I plotted my escape, something inside me split—wide and bottomless. No bridge. No way to cross.Write your text here...
***** Copyright 2026 Mary Baidenmann