She shook her head. "I--"
He walked down the steps toward her. "I'll teach you a lesson, you cock-teasing bitch."
She ran. The slight numbness that had seemed to come over her when she'd stepped onto the street lifted, and she was free to act, free to move. She ran like hell.
She heard the pastor behind her. She did not know if he was following, but he was definitely shouting at her, though the sound of her breathing mercifully muffled his cries into an indistinguishable drone.
She turned left at the corner, and though her legs and lungs were hurting and it was getting hard to breathe, she did not stop or slow down, and she continued running until she reached the highway.
Rich didn't want to go to the picnic, but Corrie had to attend, and he and Anna had been formally invited. It was a legitimate news event, he reasoned, and he would have been obligated to go and take a few photos for the paper anyway. Rather than argue with Corrie, he agreed to make it a family outing.
They argued anyway, on the way over. They were driving toward the park, he and Corrie traveling in silence, Anna in the backseat singing to herself, when Corrie said, out of the blue, "People here say 'man-aisc." ":
He glanced at her, puzzled. "What?"
"They say 'man-aisc." Either they have reading problems or speech problems. It's 'may-o-naise," not 'manaise." How do you get 'man' out of 'mayo'? Tell me that. Is this the kind of thing that you want your daughter to grow up emulating?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about our daughter's future."
"What does colloquial speech have to do with Anna?" "Everything.
Children are products not just of genetic. but of their environment.
I think she's growing up in the wrong environment."
"I bet Pastor Wheeler says 'man-aisc' too."
She stared at him, face muscles tightening. "What's that supposed to mean?" ,.
He shook his head. "Nothing."
"No one's forcing you to go to this picnic, you know.
If you don't want to spend time with your wife and daughter..."
"Jesus. Just shut up for a while."
Corrie did not respond. Anna's singing had stopped, and the silence in the car seemed unbearable. Rich reached over and pushed a cassette into the tape player.
Allman Brothers. Corrie hated the Allman Brothers, but she didn't say anything, simply sat staring straight out the windshield, arms folded over her breasts.
They drove to the picnic without speaking.
The park was crowded, much more crowded than he would have expected, and he had a difficult time finding a parking place. He finally found a spot a block away on the opposite side of the street, and they walked back.
Lines had already formed in front of the barbecue grills, and there were people everywhere. Wheeler's church was not one of the major denominations and Rich would not have expected this many people to show up for a fund raiser, but then again not everyone here was from
Wheeler's congregation. Most of them were probably people who had read about the picnic in the paper and had come out of curiosity, or because nothing else was happening in town this weekend. Still, the turnout was impressive.
The picnic did seem to be well planned and put together, he had to admit that. A large banner proclaiming this the "First Annual Rio Verde Picnic and Church Social" was strung between the park's two dusty oaks, and all of the benches and picnic tables were festooned with yellow crepe paper. There were booths and cordoned-off areas for organized games, and plenty of name-tagged church members were on hand to direct newcomers to the appropriate section of the park. The air smelled of burning charcoal, beer, relish, insect repellent, and suntan lotion. Rich glanced up again at the banner. He was a little leery of the fact that this was being called Pdo Verde's church social rather than the Church of the Holy Trinity social, but the banner's grammatical error and its implications didn't seem to be troubling anyone else, so he let it ride.
Taking Anna's hand, Corrie started off across the dried grass toward the barbecues, without giving him so much as a backward glance. He considered remaining where he was, or even going back to the car--just to give Corrie a little sore---but he didn't want to drag Anna into this, so he followed his wife and daughter through the crowd.
The day was hot. There was very little shade in the park, and what shade there was had been usurped by church families who'd staked out the benches underneath the occasional trees. He glanced around as the three of them headed toward the food, smiling, nodding, waving, saying a few quick "'hi's, but though he saw several acquaintances, he saw no friends. Most of the people here were strangers to him.
Ahead, behind the middle barbecue, in a white apron and comical chef's hat, spatula in hand, stood Pastor Wheeler. The preacher was grinning hugely, joking wit the men and women who waited in line, paper plates in hand, but there was something about his manner, aboul the way he talked to the people in front of the barbecu( that seemed forced, false, and slightly patronizing. It was unnerving to see such unapologetic glad-handing, ant Rich felt even more ill at ease when Wheeler noticed Corrie and turned some of that guile on her. ' He did not follow Corrie and Anna around the barbecue but remained where he was. Anna, he noticed seemed wary of the pastor. She didn't blanch or pull back when he smiled and patted her head, but she wasn't a friendly or forthcoming as she usually was, and he could tell from her posture that she was afraid of the man. Apparently, she had inherited his own good sense find instinctive ability to judge character.
The strange thing was that Corrie, too, seemed somewhat frightened. Her beaming smile and friendly tone of voice betrayed no such reservations, but her body language told another story. She stood stiffly, awkwardly; even her usually expansive hand gestures appeared reserved.
Rich watched Wheeler for a few moments, making no effort to move any closer. The pastor was of medium height and medium build, but carried himself as though he were something more, something special. There was about him an indefinable air of sleaziness and opportunism common to all salesmen. Rich watched him clap hands on backs, overreact to jokes. Try as he might, Rich failed to understand how people could find such a man charismatic.
And how people could believe that such a man knew The Truth was totally beyond his comprehension.
Rich caught Corrie's eye, motioned to her that he was going to look around, but she simply looked away. She'd seen him, he knew, though she wouldn't acknowledge it. He started off through the crowd toward the booths at the edge of the playground. He wondered if he should have brought his notebook, but then decided that any factual material about the picnic he might need he could get from Corde. He'd go back to the car a little later, get out his camera, and take a few crowd shots. Maybe a small kid eating a big slice of watermelon. Or a dog playing Frisbee. Something cute and heartwarming.
To the side of the first booth--a ring toss game--was a table covered with red crepe paper. From the front edge of the table hung a sign on which was printed a single word, "Raffle," and a price, "$5." He walked around the line of people in front of the table to where the ticket sellers sat and looked down at one of the raffle tickets.
As a fund-raiser, the church was raffling off a car donated by Whit Stasson's Chevrolet.
Sure enough, a new white Blazer was positioned in the street behind the table, half hidden from this angle by the ring toss booth.
Rich frowned. Churchgoer or not, a car was one hell of a donation for a person to make, particularly in this town where raffles were usually for video rental coupons or, at best, toaster ovens. One hell of a donation. Whit had cut hack on his advertising in the paper earlier thit year, and Rich knew firsthand that the dealership was not doing all that well.