Read Online The Western Light by Susan Swan - Free Book Online

yelling for Rev. Attridge to throw John Pilkie out.
    â€œNow, now, gentlemen. Sit down, please!” Rev. Attridge shouted. “Let us pray for the lambs of God who have the misfortune to be in institutional care.”
    Looking up at Rev. Attridge, John Pilkie cried in a deep, confident voice: “Receive the Lamb of God to dwell in England’s green and pleasant bowers.”
    The men at the back of the church started yelling again, and then everybody was on his or her feet talking. I jumped up too, praying nobody would hurt John. From the front of the church, Rev. Attridge had to shout at people to sit down. Finally, everyone did. When the view cleared, I saw Sib Beaudry grab John by the collar and shove him roughly out the vestry door.
    ON THE WAY OUT OF church, a shaken Rev. Attridge pumped our hands. “Happy Easter, ladies!” he said. “What did you think of the hockey killer comparing himself to the Lamb of God?”
    â€œI don’t think he meant any harm by it,” Little Louie replied, lighting up a Sweet Cap. “He was quoting Blake.”
    â€œMy daughter had some poems published in her high school year book,” my grandmother said proudly. Her eyes took in Little Louie’s big, pretty mouth and the messy blond bangs under my aunt’s bright blue veil. I was struck by the possessive look on my grandmother’s face. She acted as if she owned Little Louie the way Sal sometimes acted as if she owned me.
    â€œNow isn’t that something!” Rev. Attridge smiled at my aunt. “And how did you like my sermon?”
    â€œIt was original, I guess,” Little Louie replied, blowing one of her large, jiggly smoke rings. I tried to bat it away before it floated into Rev. Attridge’s eyes. Too late. He coughed, covering his mouth with his hand.
    â€œI have a question,” I asked.
    â€œMary, nothing about John Pilkie now,” my grandmother said.
    â€œWhat would your question be, Mary?” Rev. Attridge asked.
    â€œJesus wants us to sacrifice ourselves for others, but what if being good hurts other people?”
    â€œMost people aren’t harmed by that sort of sacrifice.” Rev. Attridge winked at Big Louie as if they were sharing a joke. “They know that being good helps those around them so they accept it, Mary.”
    â€œMary asks too many questions.” Big Louie said. She, too, knew I was referring to my father whose work schedule worried my grandmother and me. According to Big Louie, who enjoyed telling our family stories, my father sacrificed himself to others because my dead grandmother Phyllis Bradford told him boys were full of urges so dark and terrible she couldn’t utter their names. My dead grandmother had tested my father’s willpower by placing a plate of cookies in front of him. If he grabbed a cookie before she said he could, she smacked his palms with a leather strap. My father reached his full height of six-foot-six at fifteen, and when he told my grandmother he wanted to be a doctor, she said, “Thank the Lord, because a brute like you could go around killing them.” My father took his mother’s feelings inside himself and he fought her views every day of his life by shuffling with a sad, patient air towards whoever needed him. That was Big Louie’s opinion, anyway.
    â€œWould you like to come in for a glass of sherry?” Rev. Attridge asked, nodding towards the refectory.
    â€œNo, thank you.” My grandmother gripped my arm. “Dr. Bradford will be coming home soon from the hospital. Goodbye, Reverend Attridge.” I followed my aunt and grandmother over to our Ford station wagon, keeping my eye out for John. All around us, churchgoers were talking in high, excited voices. It struck me that John was going to change our town. Of course, I didn’t know how right I would be. My premonition sprung from my childish love of the dark excitement that goes with somebody like