“Martha’s doin’ that sassy thing with her eyes again, Sister Elba.”
Martha pulls the ball out of her pocket and hurls it at the boy. This time she doesn’t miss, and he lets out a yowl when it connects with his shoulder.
“Martha, was that really necessary? And, Jackson, I don’t need eyes to know your cousin would rather be outside on a nice day like this, but we all have responsibilities, don’t we? When you and Vernon get back, take the younger kids over to the chicken coop, because I’m pretty sure there’s a chore that you haven’t finished. And don’t let Isaac sit down inside the pen this time.”
Vernon groans and does a pretty good imitation of Martha’s eye roll before he and his brother take off down the street.
Kiernan reaches over to squeeze my hand. “See you shortly, Kate.”
It’s the first time that I’ve really looked at this side of his face when he wasn’t wearing the biking helmet. The cut I noticed earlier, just above his eye, seems smaller, and the bruise beneath it, which was bluish purple, has begun to fade. I file this observation away for later, since I can’t really ask him about it now.
Sister Elba takes my arm, and we climb the steps to the church, dodging two small girls who are a study in contrasts. One is blond and pale, like Martha and the twins, her legs long and thin with knobby knees. The other girl, who looks slightly younger, is African American, still bearing the chubby cheeks and build of a toddler. I give them a smile and tug the CHRONOS key out of my blouse so that I’m ready to set a stable point as soon as I have both hands free, saying a silent prayer of thanks that the only people around are either too young to pay attention or too blind to see what I’m doing.
“Are you musical, Kate?” Sister Elba asks when we reach the top of the steps.
“No, unfortunately not. I took piano lessons for a couple of years, and it wasn’t for me. But I am a student of history, and Martha tells me the harmonica is quite old.”
“It’s actually ar-monica, without the h,” she says. “And it’s definitely old. If my uncle is to be believed—and I must admit I’m not entirely convinced on that point—this was one of the instruments made by Benjamin Franklin himself.”
We walk into the small building I remember from the newspaper clipping, and my breath catches in my throat. I can almost see the bodies in the pews and the officials standing in the aisle.
Sister Elba, who is still holding on to my arm, must feel the change in me, because she asks, “What’s the matter, child?”
I scramble for a viable excuse and finally go with something semitruthful. “I was just reminded of my grandfather for a moment.”
“I’m guessing he’s passed on now?” she says, patting my arm. “Well, he’s in a better place. You’re just missing him. And that’s okay. All part of the natural order. You got an angel watchin’ over you every day now.”
A shiver runs through me with those last words. Watching over me—quite possibly. Angel, not so much.
The layout of the sanctuary seems to be second nature to her. She works her way to the front of the church, tracing her fingers over the pews on her right. I take the opportunity to pull up the interface on the CHRONOS key and set a stable point just behind the back row and then follow her down the aisle.
The church looks different when I view it from the front—it’s not the same angle as the photographs, so I’m not as bothered by afterimages of dead bodies. The room is beautiful in its simplicity, the afternoon sun shining softly on polished wooden benches topped with homemade cushions. It’s a far cry from the opulence of the Cyrist temple, but it seems much more likely to me that someone in search of divine guidance might actually find it here.
“You have a beautiful church, Sister Elba.” I set another stable point from this angle, then walk across to the other side.
“Oh, the church isn’t mine, child. I just have the privilege of teachin’ here.”
“What denomination is your community?” I ask, partly because I’m interested but also because it gives me a chance to set a few more stable points if I keep her talking.
“Now, that’s a very good question. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer. Some of my family were with the Friends Church. You probably know of them as Quakers. But we got all different kinds of believers. I just preach what I know in my heart, and sometimes they agree with me; sometimes they don’t. And that’s okay. All in the natural order of things that people will worship in their own way. If some of them disagree enough that they can’t be happy here, they eventually get tired of grumbling and move on. Like Martha. She’s nearly grown, and she’ll leave us before long. Nothing here to hold her, so she’ll head into the city, and the good Lord willin’, she’ll find a man of her own and stop making eyes at those who are already taken.” Sister Elba laughs, shaking her head. “But I hope Martha finds her way back to us eventually, and when she does, she’ll know there’s a place here for her.”
She turns her head toward the spot where I was the last time I spoke and squints, then moves her head around until she finds me again. “Lord above, child, you flit like a butterfly. What’s got you on edge?”
“Nothing, really,” I say as I set another point, this one looking toward the smaller door on the right side of the church. “I just tend to be a little hyperactive.” I’m not sure that hyperactive is even a word in 1911, but I guess she’ll piece it together.
Her eyes rest on me for a minute longer, unfocused. I get the strangest feeling, like she’s seeing straight through to my thoughts.
“But that’s not true, is it? Somethin’ is definitely weighing you down. You’re not worried about your young man out there with our Martha?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. That’s . . . not a problem.”
“I’m a good listener, if you’d care to unload.”
I’m silent, and she chuckles quietly. “Sounds like you’re not ready. Well, then come on over here, and let me show you Ben Franklin’s invention. It makes mighty pretty music once you teach it who’s boss.”
She opens the wooden chest, which looked rectangular in the newspaper photo but is actually tapered, with one side nearly twice as wide as the other. The case is over a yard long and maybe half that wide and deep at the larger end. Inside is a glass creation, shaped a bit like an ice-cream cone, broad at one end, then tapering off at the other. As I look more closely, I see that it’s actually dozens of crystal bowls nested inside each other and threaded onto a spindle. The bowl rims are painted seven different colors, in sequence. Tucked at the front of the box is a flat dish filled with water.
Sister Elba runs her forefinger lovingly over the ridges of the instrument. “Franklin was from a Quaker family, you know. Supposedly he made this for my great-great-grandmother. One of the bowls cracked off when I brought it down from Canada. Cost me more money than I could spare to move it, and I worried the entire way it would get busted. Another bowl there’s got a crack—See it? Right here?—so we’ll probably lose that one, too, before long. A shame, but I guess that’s okay. All part of the natural order, I suppose. Want to give it a try?”
“Sure.” Truthfully, I’d rather just go now that the stable points are set, but since this was my excuse for coming into the chapel, I feel obligated.
“Ever use a sewing machine?”
“No.” I’ve seen Grandma Keller use hers, but since hers is an electric model that plugs into the wall, I don’t mention it.
“Well, this pedal down here spins the armonica, like the one on a sewing machine moves the needle. You pump the pedal, then dip your fingers in water and hold them against the edges of the glass while it spins.”
“So, the different colors are different notes?”
“That’s right. The primary colors give you a C-major chord. Go ahead, give it a try.”