AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Daryl sat patiently through the Sunday School lesson and did his best to pay attention. He held Carol's hand in his and, when he needed to stimulate himself to keep from dozing off, he toyed with her fingers and twisted her wedding band around and around on her finger.
Finally, marking the end of the class, Judy Rigors—who ran their Sunday School class – asked if there were any prayer requests. Whatever prayer requests they made would be added to the list, and Judy would pass the list to the pastor who would read them out to the congregation during the time which eh allotted for such things.
Daryl was one of those people—like many members of their congregation—who would often come to preaching because that was what was expected of him, but who skipped Sunday School as regularly as possible.
Today he was in Sunday School simply because he had some things to say that he needed to be certain were heard.
Daryl waited patiently while those who had prayer requests made them. When he was certain that there was nothing else that anybody wanted to add, and Judy had started to reach the part of her speech where Daryl thought she sounded like an auctioneer letting everyone know that the offer was about to be off the table, Daryl raised his hand and cleared his throat.
"Daryl?" Judy asked.
"Got a request," Daryl said.
Judy looked surprised, but she nodded at him and picked up the yellow pencil again so that she could scratch his request onto the paper below Hanna Cartwright's request that they all pray for the condition of her husband's knee. His knee hadn't changed in roughly forty years, but she added it to the list, like clockwork, every Sunday.
"What do you need prayer for?" Judy asked.
Carol squeezed Daryl's hand. He didn't look at her. She'd told more than a handful of people while they'd walked the halls, but this would be sure to get the news out.
"You prob'ly heard already," Daryl said. "But—my wife, Carol here, is expectin'."
Judy smiled at him.
"You mean you've decided to adopt again?" She asked.
She was one of the few that had neither spoken to Carol nor to Pru or any other church gossip. Daryl cleared his throat again and shook his head. He glanced at Carol. She was wearing a slight hint of a smile and she was staring at him expectantly. She was pushing him fully into center stage. It was clear that she had no intention to jump in with him.
"No," he said. "No. No. Not exactly. I mean—she's expectin'. Like—well, like you do when that's—when it's what you're doin'."
"Oh," Judy said. The word came out so short and crisp that Daryl thought it sounded like the most perfect representation of the letter that it possibly could. "I'm sorry—are things...not well?"
"They fine," Daryl said quickly. "Everything's fine. Just as it should be. But we'd like to be put on the prayer list so that people could pray that—things keep on as they are. Ya know? That—we have the blessings and all to which..." He stopped. He was always befuddled as to how to word things so that they would please the hens that spent most of their time judging people from the amen pew. "We want prayers that everything's gonna keep on the way it is. That we gonna—ya know—get us a strong and healthy addition to our family."
He'd heard more inane requests before, but Judy stared at him. He felt his jaw tense. He raised his hand and waved it at her to get her to come out of her stupor.
"Go ahead," he said. "Write that—just write that down."
"Oh," Judy repeated. "Oh—of course. Prayers for—for a healthy new arrival. That suit you fine, Daryl?"
"Suits me just fine," Daryl confirmed.
"Well—I think I speak for—for everyone here," Judy said, "when I say that—we'll certainly be praying for you. We'll be praying that—everything—is as you want it to be."
Daryl thanked her and Carol thanked her quietly. He noticed, with a prickle, that there was still no true show of congratulations offered to them. He decided to excuse it because of their surprise. Certainly they would all know to mind their manners whenever the shock wore off.
Daryl sat through the prayer—his own request added in there with the others—and held Carol's hand while he prayed for their child right along with the prayers for other things that meant relatively little to him. Still, he put effort into all of his prayers so that God—if such things mattered to him—wouldn't be offended by Daryl's lack of effort and decide to teach him some kind of lesson about the importance of sincerity in prayer. Normally he wouldn't mind risking it, but he didn't like the idea of risking anything when it might impact his family negatively.
When the prayers were done, and the class was dismissed, Daryl sent Carol on to get the little ones at the nursery. He assured her that he was coming—just as soon as he shared a few words with their classmates.
Carol accepted his dismissal, and she left to get Jack and June. Daryl sat in his metal folding chair and waited while the others left, too. He stayed right where he was until Judy was just about to turn off the lights—the prayer requests clasped tight in her hand.
She smiled at him. He didn't believe her smile for a moment.
"Is there something I can help you with?" She asked.
Daryl finally stood up, but he stayed in his place so he could make it clear that he wasn't going anywhere until he'd said his peace.
"You who I talk to about gettin' one of them party things for Carol?" Daryl asked.
"Party things?" Judy asked.
"Cake squares," Daryl said. "Sweet tea—because lemonade with cake don't always make that much sense, don't you think? Coffee. Some of them—them finger sandwiches. I ain't been to one of them parties more than to drop Carol by one, but I want one for her. Everybody tellin' her how much she looks like a good new mother or whatever the hel..." Daryl stopped himself. "Whatever it is that you say at the parties. Where do I order her one?"
Judy laughed to herself.
"You don't order them," Judy said. "Socials are arranged by members of the church."
"You're a member," Daryl said. "An' her Sunday School teacher besides. Arrange one."
"It doesn't work like that," Judy said.
"You just said it did," Daryl said.
"The socials like that are for new mothers, Daryl," Judy said. "They're for—congratulating new mothers to help prepare them for their new arrivals. You understand."
Daryl clenched his teeth. He realized what he was doing and consciously made himself release his jaw.
"No," he said. "No—see that's the problem. I don't understand. Because—when Carol an' me got married—the church didn't offer us nothin'. But I see they have them parties for the new-to-be-married."
"Your marriage was..."
"Unconventional," Daryl interrupted. "Yeah. I heard it before. What that word means, though, is that'cha didn't like how it happened. I know. Believe me. I've heard the talk all over this town. But I sit in my pew on Sundays an' I keep my mouth shut. Then when we brought Sophia home, there weren't no cake an' no finger sandwiches. Couldn't hardly get nobody to look in our direction for a good six months."
"That situation..."
"Was messy," Daryl said. "Heard that, too. Mattered that she was borned out of wedlock. Didn't seem to matter that we brought her into a lovin' home an' a happy marriage—somethin' that half the congregation can't swear to have. We brought June home an' you said she was too old for somethin' like that. By the time we brung Jack home, you said we had too many kids and, besides, it weren't the same as bein' no real Ma. I've heard every excuse you got. This baby's comin' in the most traditional way that babies can come. Created outta nothin' but the purest dam..." Daryl stopped. "Outta the purest love that I believe can exist outside a' somethin' just straight for Sunday School. If you believe what'cha preach—then it's a baby made outta love that was blessed by God himself. What more you want?"
Judy laughed nervously.
"It's just that..."
"That you too judgmental," Daryl said. "You too judgmental on me an' you too judgmental on Carol. You hold a mistake she made forever ago against her. A mistake that—it was a mistake, honest and true—but she made it outta thinkin' she was in love an' was gonna be his lawful and holy wife. But 'cause her shame was public, you hold it against her. You hold against the both of us that you think it was improper how we got married. You think I took advantage of her. The whole town does. An' maybe I did. But that's—that's my shame. That's somethin' I gotta pray for on my knees at night—and I do. Because if I took advantage of her—if I hurt her—I wanna know I'ma pay for it. But it's gotta be me that pays for it. Not her. She's paid enough. An' you ain't my judge."
Judy had lost every ounce of color in her face—at least every ounce of natural color. The rouge on her cheeks was that much more dramatic with the blood drained out of her face.
"I—I—" she stammered.
Daryl shook his head.
"I didn't wanna fight," he said. "Didn't come for that. I just came to ask—how I get her one of them parties. If I was her, I wouldn't care about a single one of you. Not one bit. But she does. She just wants—to feel accepted. So who I gotta talk about to get some cake an' finger sandwiches an' everybody to tell her—whatever it is you're supposed to tell her?"
Judy shook her head.
"It's just that—it isn't proper," Judy said.
Daryl swallowed. He almost felt like his insides had liquidated and that liquid had begun to boil. He nodded his head.
"That's fine," he said. "But it ain't proper that you stand up here an' teach Sunday School every Sunday when you claim to be a happily married woman but I know you runnin' around on your husband with Leonard Green. Except I also know that Velma Green sits in here every Sunday an' thinks you're just the sweetest 'cause she don't know what'cha doin' with Leonard. He don't tell her he's got a mistress, neither, 'cause that would ruin his reputation as a deacon. Wouldn't it? And I know that sweet lil' Georgia Bigsby—everybody's talkin' about when she finally gets married. But she's been out late at Fuller's Millpond with that Wingate boy many a night. And I know that—I know that Margaret Rollins that sits in here an' sings in the choir—gets all them mentions for bein' such a good service member to the community an' all—she's such a lush that she spends more time on the bottle than Jack does an' he can't hardly stomach solid food."
"Daryl—I—" Judy stammered. It was clear that she meant to deny the accusations, but she couldn't. Daryl put his hand up to stop her and shook his head.
"Y'all think 'cause I don't run my mouth, that means that I don't hear an' see real good. I hear an' see better'n most of you. Now—my point is that we all got somethin' we ain't proud of. You ain't doin' her no favors by holdin' against Carol somethin' that she's had to carry, publicly even, for a long time. It's heavy enough without you addin' to the load. I ain't tellin' your secret 'cause it ain't mine to tell. At least—not if you don't make me go down there an' walk away the down to the front of the aisle when it's time for the callin' an' let the pastor know I got a few words to say."
"Daryl..." Judy stammered. It was clear that she was barely breathing. She couldn't speak because she couldn't get oxygen into her system at the rate she was going.
"I ain't askin' for nothin' but—a little forgiveness," Daryl said. "What the hel..." he stopped. "What you preach every Sunday. You don't think that's fair? Forgive in the name of the Lord? Ain't that what every sinner wants? A lil' forgiveness?"
Judy nodded her head.
"Forgiveness," Judy said.
"And not to have people pointin' out their sins—you think?" Daryl asked. "Keep 'em private? Let each individual deal with their sins?"
Judy nodded.
"Sins are—individual."
Daryl smiled to himself.
"And foldin' chairs," Daryl said. "Them paper table cloths. A lil' gift or two for a new baby—things that she oughta have. Cake an' coffee an'—an' finger sandwiches. Don't sound like too much to ask, do it?"
Judy swallowed. Her face fell, but she shook her head.
"It doesn't sound like too much at all," she ceded.