Hope stands in the center of the kitchen, readying herself for Caleb's sermon as she watches him open the last blind. He leaves the room and she hears the bathroom door click shut. There is the swish of unrolling paper, the flush of the toilet. She hears running water. Then Caleb yells something about the need to keep busy. “Here we go,” she whispers, pinching her lips closed with her fingers, nails biting into the skin.
Hope sits at the kitchen table, hands unclasped in her lap. She surveys the surface and notices the jack-o-lantern placemats she bought last year. The orange bowl filled with black jellybeans. Black jellybeans raise blood pressure, Hope thinks. Heaven help you if you're addicted to licorice and life throws you a curve. She reaches for the bowl.
Caleb comes in with a CD and waves it at her. “New praise songs,” he says. “Let's give a listen.”
“I don't want to,” Hope says.
“Hope.” Caleb stands at the head of the table and fixes her with his caring-pastor look.
She stares back, raises an eyebrow. “I am not praising your God right now,” she says.
“You need to get back to work,” he says.
“You work for Southwest Christian Fellowship. I don't. The things I do, I do because I'm attached to you.”
“There are certain duties.”
“Duties?”
“Work can heal a world of woe,” he says.
“Two hundred and fifty-three people want me to meet their expectations,” Hope says. “I'm done.”
“They're your responsibilities, too. Not just mine.”
“No. They are yours.”
She sighs and leans across the table.
Caleb looks away, as if she's the one that's mucked up their lives. “Besides the two of us, the only other soul at that church I cared about is dead. I don't care about the rest of them.”
Hope pushes her chair back and looks down at her husband. “Can we drop this now?”
Caleb stands there, thick and portly, shoulders slumped. “When will my wife be back?” he asks, still without looking at Hope.
“I don't know.”
Caleb eases into the chair and nods. He picks at something dry and yellow on the placemat. Hope stares hard, willing him to look at her, to see that she wants him to leave. But he does not raise his eyes. He covers them, bowing his head, one hand clinched on the mat in front of him.
Hope feels her throat tighten. She can't think of a thing to say. She isn't interested in touching him. She turns away.
Hope intends to hide in the bedroom, but pauses at the living room instead and walks toward the organ. She thumbs slowly through the hymnal, skimming titles and lyrics. How great is God almighty, who has made all things well. “Save one,” Hope mutters. She snaps the book shut and places it back on the organ.
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