Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later
Piper looked at me, her lower lip tucked under her teeth.
She thinks we are nothing, Dad, Piper said. She thinks we are just some poor family they are rescuing.
We are not nothing, I said. We have everything we need.
Is Mom going to ruin this? she whispered.
No, I said, though I could feel the lie sticking in my throat.
She turned back to her basket, her hands moving the dried flowers around in circles.
Reverend Miller appeared at the corner of the hallway, holding a black leather Bible.
Robert, a word in the chapel, please, he said.
The side chapel was cool and smelled of beeswax and old carpet.
The minister did not sit down.
He stood by the small altar, his hand resting on the wooden rail.
I heard some of the talk in the vestibule, Miller said.
It is under control, Reverend, I said.
Your parents sat in the third pew every Sunday, Robert, Miller said. I know how much this parish means to you. But a wedding is a covenant before God, not a boxing ring.
If I see any disruption in the pews, I will stop the service, he said.
My chest tightened.
You would halt the ceremony? I asked.
I will, he said. I cannot have the congregation witnessing a family feud.
He looked at the floor, then back at me.
Your ex-wife’s husband has already made a very large donation to our building fund this morning, and he expects a peaceful service, Miller said.
A donation? I asked.
Two thousand dollars, Miller said, looking down at his desk. He said it was to cover any extra maintenance. But I know what it was for. He wants to make sure his family feels welcome.
He is trying to buy the church’s favor, I said.
He is trying to protect his wife, Miller said. And I have to protect the peace of this sanctuary.
The clock on the chapel wall showed five minutes to three.
We have guests arriving in thirty minutes, I said.
Then make sure your house is in order, Robert, he said.
I left the chapel and walked toward the small basement room where the men were waiting.
