Not long after, I resigned from the Junior Woman’s Club and took a break from the high school majorettes, but I still visited Mrs. Sanders, read inspired texts, and kept laying myself on the floor in the shape of a cross. One day I did it nude. I don’t know what I was trying to prove.

            At night, I blocked out the voice with Sominex, which kicked in after I’d listened to things like, Come on, do you really believe someone floated up in the air? You’re an intelligent person. Use your brains instead of those pills. Spin, spin, rinse, wrung out. You used to be a challenge. Now, you’re a broken-down washing machine. 

            I’d wake, exhausted, with blue black circles under my eyes no matter how much sleep I’d had. But I was still standing. And I’d managed to put a distance between myself and your grandmother, which made me rather proud. I’d asked, no, told her to stay home in the evenings because I wanted that to be our private time. Also, I told her to quit fixing our supper at noon. I’d do the cooking myself. She got me back by coming over earlier. Most mornings, I was awakened by the sound of the broom as Mother swept the porch.

            And every night, I’d tell myself, deadened with Sominex, waiting for the last string of blasphemies to cease, that everything would be over soon. The voice wasn’t as clear as it used to be. It sounded like a chorus of voices now, each trying to make a point. Plus, the tone had changed. It wasn’t male, female, or tap water neutral. It wasn’t anything—just the murmur of a crowd at a ball game in another part of town.

            Judas was underpaid. Why do you have flesh instead of feathers? Do you use a night light now because you don’t have a god? Stop being rude to poor Jim Henderson. He’s only trying to do you a favor—a real stud muffin, that one. He could show you a few moves Samy never thought of.

            Then a miracle happened, though I didn’t realize it at the time. It was number ten, the one I’d wanted most of all.

            I was standing at the stove. I remember looking at the kitchen clock. It was exactly ten minutes past five and we ate at five thirty, and I remember thinking that I’d better hurry to get the steaks done. I was frying cube steaks and had sliced an onion that I’d left on the cutting board. Yes, I remember that you didn’t like onions, but Rush did, and I was trying to do everything right. In the time it took to reach out, pick up an onion slice and put it on a piece of frying meat, I lost my faith. Like a bean snapped clean, no strings attached.  My mind felt clear for the first time in months.