I’m not the only one whose anger is beginning to spread through her insides like poison ivy. The reevaluation and the story in the paper have both made the entire congregation of Hopewell so angry, they actually start shouting up at Chuck the minute he steps behind the pulpit on Sunday.
“We fixed it, Chuck!” Mr. Pike calls, from a seat in the back. “We picked up the toys in the yard. Irma Jean made new cushions for the swing set. But the committee still says the swing has been racking up fines now for more than two months. How can they do that?”
“Gus brought me all those shingles,” Mr. Bradshaw adds, from his spot next to the piano up front. “Brought some to the Widow Hollis, too. Now, we hear patches are in violation? I can’t afford the fines—so how am I supposed to afford a whole new roof?”
“It’s pay fines or eat at my house,” Mrs. Shoemacker agrees.
Chuck raises his hand to settle everyone down, and nods as he steps out from behind his pulpit.
“Why is my swing set in violation, when they’ve got old rusted pieces of the swing set from Montgomery cut up and glued together?” Mrs. Pike shouts, pointing at me and Gus.
“Now, don’t start in on our house, Mrs. Pike. We’re getting fined, too,” Gus insists.
“I thought when they reevaluated our homes, it would fix the situation. But it’s only made it worse,” Ms. Dillbeck says. “Most of us can’t exactly undo what we’ve already done. Once a porch is painted, you can’t really unpaint it.”
“You know Mr. Cole,” the Widow Hollis tells Chuck. “You see him all the time downtown as you try to raise the money to rebuild Hopewell, don’t you? Surely you can reason with him. You’ve got to tell him this isn’t right.”
Everybody starts shouting so loudly, Chuck has to stick his fingers in his mouth and whistle to get us all to quiet down.
“I’m every bit as concerned about this as you are,” Chuck says. He sighs, leaning against the pulpit. He’s looking as skinny as an old farm dog living on scraps.
“What are we going to do, Chuck?” Mrs. Pike demands. “We’ve got to think of something!”
Silence in the room swells.
“Chuck?” Mrs. Pike presses.
“Right now, I think your only concern should be for your homes,” Chuck says. “I’ll speak to Mr. Cole on your behalf. I’ll certainly take your concerns straight to him, try to reason with him. But the most important thing right now is for us to stick together and support each other.”
That doesn’t sound like much of a solution—it sounds more like Chuck’s trying to walk around the real answer. Everyone else must feel it, too, because we all just stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for more.
“I have to admit,” Chuck says quietly, “that I am also at the end of my ideas.” In our shock, Chuck goes on, “Our rummage sale didn’t bring the amount of money I was hoping for. I’ve appealed to every appropriate business in town. But I’ve come up short.”
“What are you saying?” Gus asks. He barely asks in a whisper, but the room is so quiet that Chuck still hears him.
“I don’t have the money we need to fix Hopewell,” he says sadly. “Everyone around here’s facing hard times, and, well—I’m afraid—we might have to sell the property, and find ourselves another place to hold church permanently. We won’t be able to use Montgomery forever.”
There’s such a quick intake of air that it feels like it’s Montgomery that’s gasped, not the people sitting inside the all-purpose room.
“Lose Hopewell?” Ms. Dillbeck blurts. “You can’t let that happen, Chuck!”
Chuck opens his hands, to show us his palms. They’re completely empty.