Jason said the Dumpster had been parked behind the stadium, but Dermott said Mondawmin Mall.
After their swim they sat down for lunch at two redwood picnic tables on the patio. That way they didn’t drip across Sister Myra’s floors; they’d be dry before they’d finished eating. It was Mindy’s turn to ask the blessing (not a chance Dermott Kyle would get another turn, not after last time!), and then they had bologna sandwiches and milk. Dessert was little foil packets of salted peanuts because Sister Myra’s husband worked for a company that made airplane meals and he got a special discount. By now they’d used up all their energy and they were quieter. Daphne fell asleep with her head on the table halfway through her sandwich. Thomas pumped a mouthful of milk from one cheek to the other to hear the swishing sound. Dermott asked, dreamily, “Does everybody see flashes of white light while they’re chewing tinfoil?”
Still in their swimsuits, they were herded downstairs (Daphne sagging over Sister Myra’s shoulder), where they unrolled their blankets from home and stretched out on the floor for their naps. Sister Myra sat in a chair above them and read aloud from the Bible-story book with its queerly lightweight paper and orange drawings: “The Boy Jesus in the Temple,” today. (How rude He was to his parents! But there must be some excuse for it that Thomas was still too young to understand.) The idea was, the little ones would sleep and the older ones would just rest and listen to the story. Thomas always meant to just rest, but Sister Myra’s low voice mingled with the creaks overhead where Sister Audrey was clearing away lunch, and next thing he knew the others were rolling their blankets and Reverend Emmett had arrived for Juice Time.
Reverend Emmett was tall and thin and he never seemed to get hot, not even in his stiff white shirt and black trousers. All the children loved him. Well, all except Agatha. Agatha said his Adam’s apple was too big. But the others loved him because he acted so bashful with them. A grownup, scared of children! He said, “How are our campers today? Enjoying this beautiful weather?” and when somebody (Mindy) finally said, “Yup,” he practically fell apart. “Oh! Wonderful!” he said, all flustered and delighted. Then he sat down on one of the nursery-school chairs so his knees jutted nearly to his chin, and the others settled on the floor in a circle while Sister Myra and Sister Audrey passed out paper cups of apple juice. Reverend Emmett took a cup himself. (In his long, bony fingers, it looked like a thimble.) He said, “Thank you, Sister Audrey,” and he smiled so happily into her face you would think he’d never heard of the Dempster Dumpster. Sister Audrey blushed and backed away and stepped on one of the Nielsen twins’ hands, but since she was wearing her flip-flops it must not have hurt much. The twin only blinked and went on staring at Reverend Emmett.
Sometimes Reverend Emmett talked about Jesus and sometimes about modern days. Thomas liked modern days best. He liked hearing about the Church of the Second Chance: how it had started out meeting in Reverend Emmett’s garage where the floor was still marked with oil stains from Reverend Emmett’s Volkswagen. Or even before that: how Reverend Emmett, an Episcopal seminarian and the son of an Episcopal minister, had gradually come to question the sham and the idolatry — for what was kneeling before a crucifix but idolatry? — and determined to found a church without symbols, a church without baptism or communion where only the real things mattered and where the atonement must be as real as the sin itself, where for instance if you broke a playmate’s toy in anger you must go home immediately and fetch a toy of your own, of as good or better quality, and give it to that playmate for keeps and then announce your error at Public Amending on Sunday. Or how Reverend Emmett’s fiancée had dumped him and his father had called him a crackpot although his mother, the smart one in the family, had seen the light at once and could even now be observed attending Second Chance every Sunday in her superficial Episcopal finery, her white gloves and netted hat. But that was all right, Reverend Emmett said. To condemn a person for fancy dress was every bit as vain as condemning her for humble dress. It’s only the inside that counts.
Today he talked about how meaningful it was that he should come for these chats of theirs at Juice Time. “This way,” he told them, “it’s a period of spiritual nourishment as well as physical.” Then he put it more simply for the little ones. “You don’t get just apple juice, you get the juice of heavenly knowledge besides.” He said, “How lucky you are, to have both at once! Most children have to choose one at a time — either nourishment for the soul or nourishment for the body.”
“Isn’t there anything else?” Agatha wanted to know.
“Excuse me?”
But she shrugged and picked at a cuticle.
“And even young as you are, you can still bear witness,” Reverend Emmett said. “You can live in such a way that people will ask, ‘Who are those children? And what is the secret of their joy?’ That’s what ‘bearing witness’ means, in our faith — not empty words or proselytizing. Those cigarette smokers and coffee addicts and sugar fiends in their big expensive churches, contributing to the Carpet Fund and sipping their communion wine which we all know is an artificial stimulant—‘Why are those children so blessed?’ they’ll ask. For you are blessed, my little ones. Someday you’ll appreciate that. You’re luckier than you realize, growing up in a church that cares for you so.”
Then he took a small brown bottle out of his trouser pocket and said it came from Kenny Larson’s doctor. He said all the campers had to have eardrops before they went in Sister Myra’s pool again.
Next came Crafts, where they made framed scripture plaques from drinking straws. And after that, Song Time, where they sang, “I’ve got the peace-that-passeth-understanding down in my heart, down in my heart …” as fast as possible in hopes that someone’s tongue would get twisted, but nobody’s did. And then Afternoon Swim, the longest single, period of the day. Thomas thought maybe Sister Myra had lost all her zip by then and just let them go on swimming because it was easiest. During their nap she had changed back into her skirt and blouse (probably for Reverend Emmett’s visit, even though clothes were not supposed to matter), and she didn’t bother getting into her swimsuit again but sat on a chair next to the pool with her skirt pulled up above her knees and her face tipped back to catch the sun. Still, you couldn’t put a thing past her. “No dunking allowed, Dermott Kyle!” she called, although Dermott was barely beginning to move in Mindy’s direction and Sister Myra’s eyes were closed. Her face was so freckled that it had a spattered look, as if someone had thrown handfuls of beige spangles at her.
Thomas knew how to swim — Ian had taught him last summer — but he hated getting his head wet. He swam straining out of the water, his arms flailing wildly and splashing too much. Agatha swam a slow, steady breast-stroke like an old person. Her gaze was fixed and her chin stayed just under the surface, so that she looked obstinate. Dermott Kyle, naturally, was wonderful at every stroke there was and also claimed to be able to dive, although he couldn’t prove it because Sister Myra didn’t have a diving board.
In the baby pool, Sister Audrey stood ankle-deep and bent over with her hands in the water. Johnny Larson was emptying a sprinkling can on top of Percy’s head. Daphne was … Thomas couldn’t see Daphne. He waded toward the edge of his own pool to check, and that’s when he realized that the thing in Sister Audrey’s hands was Daphne’s little blue-flowered body.