This Much is True - Tia Louise Page 0,22

lining the perimeter, but I don’t fix a plate. Hope is close at my side watching the people moving in time with the organ music.

“Is it okay to eat the food if we’re not planning to stay?” She looks up at me, but I shake my head.

Some people close their eyes and do a dance where they’re hopping back and forth on each foot. The atmosphere is charged, and I can’t decide if it’s a good charge or something more ominous.

“I’m not hungry.” My stomach’s too tight to eat, and I lead her to where Scout’s sitting.

The best thing I can say is the table where he’s sitting is a safer distance from the crowd. The sides of the tent are open, so we can run if we need to. Also, it’s a little cooler here, the air is fresher.

Scout is at the end of the long table, and I take a seat beside him facing the stage. Hope sits at my left.

“Why didn’t you get any food?” My brother shovels a plastic fork full of green beans into his mouth and shakes his head. “Mmm… Somebody cooked these with bacon.”

Ushers in black masks stand in locations throughout the crowd watching. They’re big guys, and I can only see their eyes, which has me on guard.

I’m sure it’s residual defensiveness from being in prison. Still, I’m not sure we’re going to get out of here without making some kind of commitment.

“Must be five hundred people in here.”

Scout nods. “Big crowd.”

“It’s like we’re crashing a wedding.” Hope leans forward, her mask hanging off one ear.

Scout hands her his extra roll, and she pinches off a piece.

“I’m sure it’s fine if we don’t stay long.” I say it to them as much as to me. “They prepared all this food. They probably meant for people to eat it.”

“People who are here to praise Jesus!” Scout’s voice goes louder, and he holds up a fork.

I can’t tell if he’s making fun, and I wish he’d keep it down. Maybe this isn’t our flavor of church, but I don’t believe in ridiculing others—no matter how strange their style comes across.

Also, they have us outnumbered.

The man on the microphone grows solemn. “How many of you are afraid tonight?”

The organ does a loud flourish, changing from dancing to solemn just that fast.

“Amen!” Somebody shouts from the crowd.

“How many of you are in the grip of anxiety?” He says it like anxi-uh-tay.

It’s all drama—his heavy breathing loud in the mic and lines of sweat tracing down his cheeks from temple to jaw.

Scout raises his eyebrows like he’s having the best time. “I didn’t know they still did shit like this.”

“Don’t swear in the tent revival.” Hope’s voice is barely audible over the din.

Glancing at the faces, it’s a mixed crowd, mostly white folks. They’re not well-dressed, and some of them are in serious need of dental work. All of them have hungry eyes, sad eyes, mistrustful eyes.

My throat grows tight. “I think people are ready to try anything to appease this year.”

“I’d love to play a character like him in a movie.” He polishes off the chicken, wiping his fingers with a paper napkin.

A woman steps to the center of the tent, right in front of the stage and begins to wail and shake her hands over her head. Her back arches, and she spins in place like one of those whirling dervishes.

“Yes, Lord!” Brother Bob hops off the stage and strides to her. “Release that spirit, yes-ah. That spirit of tor-ment. That spirit of fear.” He smacks his palm on her forehead, giving her a firm shake as he shouts. “Release her!”

The woman goes down, and several ushers surround her, easing her to the grass as one covers her legs with a blanket.

Hope sits higher in her seat, straining to look. “He shoved her down!”

“It was the spirit.” Scout leans forward. “Or was it?”

“I don’t like this.” I shift in my chair. “Are you done? Give me the keys. We’re leaving.”

“Hang on.” He holds up a hand. “This is great research!”

“For a movie you’re not in. Let’s go.” I stand, and the man with the mic locks eyes on me. Shit.

“When Paul was on the island of Malta…” Brother Bob’s voice changes to storytelling-style. “The Bible says a serpent came out of the fire and latched onto his hand.” He paces back and forth on the grass in front of the stage. I don’t like his eyes on me.

“Dammit, Scout.” My jaw is clenched, and I