Read Online The Unraveling of Mercy Louis by Keija Parssinen - Free Book Online

reaching upward for deliverance.
    I look around to see if anyone else has seen what I have. A few rows back, someone is groaning softly. It feels wrong to look at people’s faces while they pray, they’re so vulnerable. Some are open-mouthed, some are pinched in concentration, many sway gently, that quiet dance you do as you find the rhythm of your prayer. Nothing out of the ordinary, but that heaviness I felt when we walked in seems worse, the air before a storm. Briefly, I lock eyes with Marilee Warren, a girl from my grade. She looks beseechingly at me, her large green eyes striking against her black dress. It’s not just any black dress, I realize then. It’s the shapeless sackcloth that girls wear when they’ve been caught violating the promise of chastity made at their purity ceremony. I feel a fluttering in my gut, imagining what it is she’s done. If she’s already wearing the dress, it won’t be secret for long.

    Maw Maw follows my gaze to Marilee and clucks her tongue. “They let her go around in those dancing-girl costumes. Hypocrisy in the parent breeds hypocrisy in the child.”
    Pastor Parris clears his voice and a hush descends on the room. “Let us pray,” he says. “Lord, today evil has shown its face among us. Today we have learned of a baby treated like common trash, a life tossed out as if your greatest gift had no value. A child who could not speak to defend itself, who could not lift a finger to fight for its life. Only the truly evil would treat the defenseless so cruelly!”
    I think of Charmaine, how she would have dissolved me before my heart even had a chance to form. Once you’re firmly rooted in this world, it’s strange to consider that it might have been otherwise.
    Pastor Parris continues: “I want all women of childbearing age to stand up.” He watches us expectantly. “Come on, now. No one’s in trouble. But I want every woman between the ages of thirteen and forty to please stand.”
    We’re slow to follow his order. After a pause, a few women, mothers with babies on their hips and some of the older married women, stand. Arms crossed over chests, they shift nervously from foot to foot.
    â€œGo on, Mercy child, you’ve got nothing to hide,” Maw Maw says. Reluctantly, I get to my feet. Those still seated look around at us, eyebrows raised over questioning eyes. How many of these people know who my mother is and what she’s capable of? Daughter of a whore, must be one herself. Mrs. Warren prods her daughter, and when Marilee rises, everyone stares at her, standing there in that ugly dress. They know what it means, and a whisper travels through the congregation as the sight registers with them. I feel sorry for Marilee, she looks so small and pale, swathed in the telltale black cotton.

    â€œTake a look at these women,” Pastor Parris continues. “Your wives, sisters, daughters, friends. While I’m certain that none of them is responsible for what happened to that child, I want to make an important point.” He pauses for effect, walks to the front of the stage, and looks from left to right, nodding at each row of people. The pastor’s a nervous man with cornmeal-colored skin, a swatch of steel-wool hair, and darting pale eyes, as if he can see the angels and demons he says are battling in the air around us. Though I’d never tell Maw Maw, I don’t like him. He relies on the pulpit too much, something to lift him above the rest of us, and there’s dark talk about why he left his church in Nacogdoches, some girl hurt during a cure.
    At last he starts up again: “That point is this: when a child suffers, all of us must bear the guilt and shame of it, all of us are tainted. Let us remember, too, we are all of us sinners, no one is immune to evil.”
    Amen amen amen, people chorus. A chill chases down my neck, causing me to jerk my head back. A voice: Speak for