5.

On a fine blue December morning, a white family in an old white station wagon stops outside the white ranch-style house on Vine Street. The sun is almost at full height, highlighting the water stains on the windshield as Reverend Thomas Burne squints beyond it. He sees a white cat stalking across the lawn, away from a pair of screaming toddlers. Another toddler spins in dizzy circles and collapses. A baby looks on stoically from a plastic swing.

‘Congratulations. Looks like you’re grandparents now,’ Sally-Ann, his youngest, pipes up from the back seat.

‘I don’t think this is the place.’ Vicky, his second-born, sits forward, bookmarking her Wide Sargasso Sea with a Women Strike For Peace flier. ‘Looks like a daycare or something.’

Rev. Burne’s moustache droops as he frowns. ‘Care to ring the doorbell and see?’

‘Um, no thanks. You go ahead, Dad.’

‘I second that.’ His wife Margaret grins, cheekbones flushed apple-like. ‘Tom, you need to stretch your legs.’

‘Ditto. Women’s vote,’ Sally-Ann sing-songs.

‘Well … who am I to argue with democracy.’

Rev. Burne’s daughters have an impulse to giggle as he unpacks his lanky body and traverses the toy-strewn yard, careful as a stork. Instead, Vicky scrutinizes her book. ‘Mr. Rochester is a creep.’

‘I never liked him.’ Margaret grimaces. ‘Call me unromantic, but that moody-broody act does nothing for me.’

Rev. Burne raps on the door of the white house. Sally-Ann gives a low whistle as it peels open and a dodo-shaped middle-aged woman steps onto the porch. ‘Gee, Evie has sure packed on the pounds.’

‘Sal!’ Margaret cries. But her youngest daughter’s joke has taken her by surprise and she’s snickering like a schoolgirl, eyes watering under her round sunglasses. Sally-Ann and Vicky exchange glances as she dabs a tear. ‘Oh — Don’t laugh! — Girls.’

‘Mom’s leaking again.’ Sally-Ann smirks.

‘Better call the plumber.’ Vicky rolls her eyes. ‘Seriously, Mom? It’s not that funny.’

‘It’s not funny!’ Margaret agrees. ‘Just you wait till you’re my age and shedding tears at the drop of a—’

‘Looks like Evie got a perm, too.’ Sally-Ann peers out at the dodo woman. ‘And some gray highlights. Motherhood has really matured her.’

This sets Margaret off anew, and soon the car is humid with cry-laughter. ‘You know, I can’t even imagine Evie and Lenny with kids,’ Vicky says.

Lenny.’ Margaret sighs. ‘He’s still such a boy. I hope Evie isn’t cracking the whip too hard.’

‘This is so weird,’ Sally-Ann gripes. ‘Who even is that lady?’

They watch Rev. Burne and the dodo woman exchange gestures. Rev. Burne takes a slip of paper from her and dips his balding head, makes as if to go. Out of nowhere, the dodo woman reaches over and plants a kiss on his cheek.

‘Far-out, Mom! You’ve got competition.’

‘And I didn’t even bring my dueling pistol.’ Margaret tilts her face upward as Rev. Burne re-enters the station wagon. ‘Hello, darling. I see you’ve found an admirer.’

‘I suppose so.’ Rev. Burne blushes. ‘Nice lady from Lafeyette … Indiana. One of those “Peoples Temple” members. She had a Korean baby,’ he adds curiously. ‘We’ve got a few miles to go yet. They’ve moved to a cabin, apparently.’

‘Evie in a cabin?’ Margaret sighs, shakes her head. ‘She’s full of surprises, our girl.’

The tires are just a whisper on the dirt road, but the black-and-white dog hears everything. He bounds ahead, barking rabidly, and his mistress doesn’t bother calling him back. A squirrel, perhaps, or some kind of bird. Last night she and Jim heard screech owls. The cabin comes into view, and Picnic’s barks become shallower. Something slams in the distance. Her chest splinters like glass, target-practice milk bottles in the woods. She freezes in her boots, bloodlessly gripping her .22. Then, scrutinizing the movement through the trees, a pang of recognition:

Oh! MomandDad.

Evelyn has always been thin, but what strikes the Burnes most seeing their firstborn daughter emerge from the bushes is how her clothes swamp her body — the clunky boots and long plaid skirt and chunky sweater. Her whole appearance somehow diminished, in fact, cringing and shadowy, as if she’s trying to hide not only what’s in her hands but her heart. With a slithery feeling, they realize what she’s holding. Sally-Ann cracks a joke about cabins and shotguns. Margaret shuffles forward, mouth o-ed. ‘A gun, Evie?’

‘It’s for self-defense.’ As Evelyn steps closer the sunlight brings the shadows on her face into full relief. ‘There’ve been reports of prowlers from the highway.’

‘Prowlers?’ Margaret reaches to touch her under-eye. ‘You mean — somebody came and did — this?’

‘Oh, no, that was my fault.’ Evelyn gives a rusty little laugh. ‘I hit my face on the car door. You know how clumsy I get when I don’t have my morning coffee. Speaking of which.’

She throws her head toward the cabin and invites them in. Rev. Burne frowns as she mounts the porch, rifle tucked under her arm. ‘Lenny, he’s okay with … that weapon?’

‘Don’t let Picnic in. He’s covered in dust.’ The screen door yelps as Evelyn tugs it open and continues conversationally, ‘He was named by some children who found him on a church picnic. Our church has an impressive animal rescue program. Since September we’ve found homes for thirty-six animals that would’ve otherwise been euthanized.’

Though the hall is narrow and rustic, it’s also tidy and reverently decorated with art and family photos. ‘When I saw that bruise …’ Margaret tells Evelyn’s nape. ‘We worry, Evie.’

‘Honestly? It looks worse than it is.’ Tucking back a loose strand, Evelyn’s fingers brush over her rose earring. She motions her family into the kitchen and taps the rifle’s handle. ‘Have a seat. I’ll put this away and freshen up.’

‘About that …’ Rev. Burne tries again. ‘I never want to tell you girls how to live, but I had hoped, growing up in a pacifist household—’

For the first time since their arrival, Evelyn meets her father’s gaze, arms crossed and brows blandly raised. ‘It’s only a .22. Practically a children’s rifle.’ She smiles faintly and rolls her eyes. ‘Everybody keeps firearms around these parts. It’s just for show.’

‘All guns cause harm, Evelyn … And I’ve never known you to do anything simply because everybody else is.’

This is such a typically Rev. Burne thing to say that Evelyn has an urge to roll her eyes again. Instead, she looks to her mother, whose face is soft with concern, and her sisters, who mostly just look curious. ‘You’re right,’ she sighs and holds the rifle out to him, horizontal in surrender. ‘I suppose I just got caught up in the hysteria. Here. Take it away.’

Rev. Burne shakes his head. ‘There’s no need for that. I trust you’ll do what’s right.’

He gives the crook of her arm a squeeze, in lieu of a hug; his firstborn daughter doesn’t like being hugged, and he respects her need for distance. She nods and lifts her gray eyes to his, lowers them and turns back down the hall. That bruise. It bothers him. More than he can say.

In Evelyn’s absence, the Burnes seat themselves at the dining table, Margaret resisting the urge to get up and make the coffee herself. ‘It’s nicer than a typical cabin,’ she says. ‘The way she’s done it up. It’s almost how I pictured she might’ve lived in France.’ Sally-Ann plucks a lemon from the fruit bowl, sings, ‘They call me mellow yellow ’ Vicky needs to pee. ‘It does surprise me that Lenny would agree to keeping a firearm,’ Rev. Burne muses. ‘Well, it’s not as if we were ever in doubt of who the decision-maker is in that relationship,’ Margaret rejoins. Vicky creeps back in, brown cords rustling like leaves.

‘Evie’s on the phone,’ she reports. ‘It looked kind of … intense.’

‘She better be telling Lenny to get his butt over here.’ Sally-Ann rolls the lemon between her palms.

Soon enough, Evelyn floats back into the kitchen, her bruise freshly powdered and her sweater exchanged for a chic cowl-neck blouse. She looks both more and less like herself than before, her eyes strangely veiled, high color in her cheeks. Margaret asks how Lenny is, and Evelyn says, ‘Him? Oh, fine,’ and shrugs with one shoulder. She busies herself at the stove with the coffee and carries on, ‘We’re expecting large numbers at our service tomorrow. Last week we had over three hundred. I know Dad will be working, but if you want to stay on, Mom, or even just Vicky and Sally-Ann, you’re most welcome. People come from Sacramento and even further to hear Reverend Jones speak. He’s truly a sensation.’

‘I’m afraid this overworked unenlightened housewife already committed to cooking a feast for a dozen seminary students tonight. And Vicky has a date, rumor has it.’

‘Well. You’ll meet Reverend Jones soon enough.’ Evelyn angles away from the stove. ‘He’s on his way now. He wants to meet you very much, and I want you to meet him.’ Her voice dips, dreamily deliberate. ‘You should know: Jim has become very important to me.’