The woman would not meet her eye when Bria spoke to her. Didn’t even incline her head in Bria’s direction. But the woman gave a light touch, a friendly pat, to Bria’s arm.
The woman’s demeanor made Bria’s spirit plummet. Her reaction was physical; she had to clutch the wooden pew in front of her for balance. Why had she decided to attend that morning?
After the volume of voices had peaked, Reverend Erskine lifted a black-bound Bible. “Please stand for the reading from the Old Testament.”
Folks took to their feet. A hush fell over the congregation. Bria bowed her head, closed her eyes. Hoped Pastor had chosen an uplifting verse. Something to carry her through the coming days.
“Jeremiah chapter 1, verse 5. ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born, I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.’”
An elderly woman raised her arms, crying out. “Praise be!”
“You may be seated,” Erskine said. He waited for the congregation to get settled. Then he placed his hand over his heart. “Brothers and sisters, the words of this book have inspired my sermon for today. God tells us in the Book of Jeremiah that he is the true Creator of every baby in a mother’s womb. ‘Before I formed you in the womb,’ God says. The Lord God made us all! Can I get an amen?”
“Amen!” The chorus of voices was so loud, Bria jerked in her seat.
“The Book of Psalms says the same thing. Gives us the same powerful guarantee! Psalm 139, verse 1—‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.’”
A woman across the aisle from Bria jumped to her feet, raising her arms. “Praise Jesus!”
Bria recognized the voice. A knot of dread exploded in her chest as she leaned forward to peek down the row.
It was Starla Jones, occupying the back row, on the opposite side of the sanctuary. Starla’s brood took up most of the pew. She’d brought all five children with her.
Nova sat on the far end, near the narrow stained-glass window. Staring straight ahead. Not watching her mother as she danced, moving with the spirit, with her arms reaching up to heaven.
Two of the Jones kids were rassling on the pew, fighting over a paper copy of the church bulletin. Nova didn’t shush them, didn’tintervene. She sat in the pew like a bronze statue, unmoving, facing the pipe organ.
Reverend Erskine’s voice rose. A sheen of perspiration made his face glisten. “The Good Book confirms it. From the Book of Psalms: ‘I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made, your works are wonderful.’ Do you hear that, brothers and sisters? Each and every one of us, we are fearfully and wonderfully made!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“Amen!”
They were all rising, all getting fired up. Only Bria remained seated, it seemed. She peered around the sanctuary, then peeked down her row, trying to sneak a glance, to see whether other backsliders had kept their seats.
Only one, besides Bria.
Nova Jones.
“The good Lord, in all his wisdom and mercy, has decreed that we humble human beings are his own creation. So! Tell me, brethren. When one of God’s people is intentionally murdered; when that life is taken, before it had the chance to begin. When someone kills a precious baby before it is even born—what do we call that, brothers and sisters?”
“MURDER!”
It was a group chant, so beautifully timed, it sounded rehearsed.
Pastor’s voice began a crescendo. “God gave us his commandments. He gave them to Moses on the mountain. The Sixth Commandment is clear as day. Thou shalt not kill!”
Bria’s mouth was dry, her heart pounding. Nausea was coming in waves. She had to leave. She couldn’t bear it, could not remain in that sanctuary any longer.
She stood, tried to scoot in front of the couple who’d made room for her to sit with them. The woman who had reached outearlier to pat her arm made way to let her pass. But the husband was like a column of stone; she couldn’t squeeze past him.
Her heart raced, making her dizzy. She moved the other direction, pushed past two old women standing to her left. They didn’t try to trap her inside the pew. They scooted back, clutching the pew for support. One of the ladies looked up as Bria surged past. The auntie’s eyes were wet with tears.
She stumbled out into the center aisle. She didn’t mean to look at anyone. Certainly not Nova Jones, or her mother. Step-by-step, she focused on her escape, keeping her eyes fixed on the brass handle of the church door.
A woman appeared by some bad magic, just as she reached it. The preacher’s wife, Doreen Erskine, wrapped her hand around the door handle before Bria could touch it. Bria stumbled back a step. Did the woman intend to prevent her departure? Did the Erskines mean to keep her a prisoner in the church sanctuary?
A hush fell over the sanctuary. She heard bodies shifting in their seats to watch the drama unfold.
