Read Online Kate Fox & The Three Kings by Grace E. Pulliam - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Grace E. Pulliam
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extra big slice for us to share,” David offered the second fork and placed the white cake between us. Still smoldering from the shame of moments ago, I reluctantly picked up the fork and offered David a small smile of appreciation. Really too embarrassed to murmur any words of thanks, I took a mouthful of cake with red balloon frosting. David’s stoic expression crumpled into a sideways grin.
Growing up, Grams crafted amazingly extravagant and decadent cakes for my birthday or any celebration that was deemed cake-worthy. Every year, Grandpa and I would admire Grams’ baking abilities, doing our best to stay out of her way in the kitchen. While the cakes were in the oven, Grams would whip up her famous buttercream frosting, consisting of a pound of cream cheese, a pound of butter, God-only-knows how much powdered sugar, and a splash of vanilla essence. Grandpa made habit of pilfering the spatula for us to sneak a taste of the sweet frosting. Grams huffed at Grandpa in disapproval, but her frown waivered after several moments, eventually dissolving into a soft chuckle.
In contrast, the cake before me tasted like a store-bought, week-old science experiment. The cake itself was dry and resisted under my fork. David cast me a sideways glance, followed by a melancholy smile as we shared our cake in silence.
The ride to the funeral picketing proved miserably hot; the service was held on the northernmost corner of Mt. Vernon proper, about an hour away from Brushy Fork. David and I squeezed into the last row of the old, white church van. The air conditioning went out the summer of my eighth grade year, I remembered, as the backs of my knees began to sweat against the pleather benches.
The van skidded to an abrupt halt in front of the Mt. Vernon United Methodist Church. The church itself was quite sizeable and impressive, with its stone structure nothing like W.H.O.R.E.’s doublewide of a worship center. Through immense stained glass windows, sparkling brilliant shades of violet, emerald and deep ruby red, I spotted several of the fallen soldier’s family members taking their seats amongst the vast wooden pews, solemnly chatting amongst themselves. I noticed a striking, blonde pregnant woman, with mascara dripping from her lashes onto her cheekbones, staring back at me through the window, her hands folded tightly across her lap. I glanced back to the Blood of Christ Baptist Church van, making sure my absence wasn’t being acknowledged, and peered back through the stained glass, only to intercept a glare so full of loathing that goose bumps appeared along my forearms and trickled down the back of my neck.
My attention was immediately torn from the pregnant woman and redirected to the neon pink sign being shoved into my hands. Out of breath and sweating profusely, Joy distributed the rest of the obnoxiously colored and heinously hateful signs to everyone filing out of the church vans. The majority of the signage read: “Thank God for dead soldiers!!!” and “God hates America!!!” written in bold, black lettering. I cautiously studied my own sign and cringed: “Thank God for IED’s!!!”
Sergeant Coleman, whose funeral we were at, died from a roadside car bomb, according to the Lexington Leader Obituary. Our local paper detailed the account of Sergeant Coleman’s untimely death, highlighting his military experience and his childhood. Coleman was a Mt. Vernon native who married his high school sweetheart as soon as they graduated. He and his wife were expecting their first child in August.
Joy led W.H.O.R.E. in the protest of Sergeant Coleman’s funeral, and she urged the congregation to chant: “God Hates America!” louder as the organ cascaded into a beautifully tragic rendition of Amazing Grace .
The worst portion of the protest occurred halfway through the funeral, when the church’s elegantly wooden carved doors burst open and several of the Sergeant’s fellow soldiers stalked through the threshold.
Growing up, Grams crafted amazingly extravagant and decadent cakes for my birthday or any celebration that was deemed cake-worthy. Every year, Grandpa and I would admire Grams’ baking abilities, doing our best to stay out of her way in the kitchen. While the cakes were in the oven, Grams would whip up her famous buttercream frosting, consisting of a pound of cream cheese, a pound of butter, God-only-knows how much powdered sugar, and a splash of vanilla essence. Grandpa made habit of pilfering the spatula for us to sneak a taste of the sweet frosting. Grams huffed at Grandpa in disapproval, but her frown waivered after several moments, eventually dissolving into a soft chuckle.
In contrast, the cake before me tasted like a store-bought, week-old science experiment. The cake itself was dry and resisted under my fork. David cast me a sideways glance, followed by a melancholy smile as we shared our cake in silence.
The ride to the funeral picketing proved miserably hot; the service was held on the northernmost corner of Mt. Vernon proper, about an hour away from Brushy Fork. David and I squeezed into the last row of the old, white church van. The air conditioning went out the summer of my eighth grade year, I remembered, as the backs of my knees began to sweat against the pleather benches.
The van skidded to an abrupt halt in front of the Mt. Vernon United Methodist Church. The church itself was quite sizeable and impressive, with its stone structure nothing like W.H.O.R.E.’s doublewide of a worship center. Through immense stained glass windows, sparkling brilliant shades of violet, emerald and deep ruby red, I spotted several of the fallen soldier’s family members taking their seats amongst the vast wooden pews, solemnly chatting amongst themselves. I noticed a striking, blonde pregnant woman, with mascara dripping from her lashes onto her cheekbones, staring back at me through the window, her hands folded tightly across her lap. I glanced back to the Blood of Christ Baptist Church van, making sure my absence wasn’t being acknowledged, and peered back through the stained glass, only to intercept a glare so full of loathing that goose bumps appeared along my forearms and trickled down the back of my neck.
My attention was immediately torn from the pregnant woman and redirected to the neon pink sign being shoved into my hands. Out of breath and sweating profusely, Joy distributed the rest of the obnoxiously colored and heinously hateful signs to everyone filing out of the church vans. The majority of the signage read: “Thank God for dead soldiers!!!” and “God hates America!!!” written in bold, black lettering. I cautiously studied my own sign and cringed: “Thank God for IED’s!!!”
Sergeant Coleman, whose funeral we were at, died from a roadside car bomb, according to the Lexington Leader Obituary. Our local paper detailed the account of Sergeant Coleman’s untimely death, highlighting his military experience and his childhood. Coleman was a Mt. Vernon native who married his high school sweetheart as soon as they graduated. He and his wife were expecting their first child in August.
Joy led W.H.O.R.E. in the protest of Sergeant Coleman’s funeral, and she urged the congregation to chant: “God Hates America!” louder as the organ cascaded into a beautifully tragic rendition of Amazing Grace .
The worst portion of the protest occurred halfway through the funeral, when the church’s elegantly wooden carved doors burst open and several of the Sergeant’s fellow soldiers stalked through the threshold.
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