The Bernice L. McFadden Collection. Bernice L. McFadden

you raised her and Coraline certainly don’t want her back …”

      “… She is a fine-looking girl. Fine!”

      “… Any man would be tempted to.”

      “—Being that you are a man first and a man of the cloth second.”

      “… We don’t want you to be tempted to do what a lesser man would …”

      “… And the women clucking like hens about what’s going on here, and you know …”

      “… That make them look at us funny, and we got enough problems already and don’t need our women accusing us of messing around, so you either.

      “… Put Doll outta your house or divorce your first wife and take Doll as your second!”

      August took their advice, and within the month the two were betrothed. It was a scandal, of course, and he lost 20 percent of his congregation. Some of the female neighbors stopped talking to him and would just as soon spit fire on Doll than address her as Mrs. Hilson.

      “There’s only one Mrs. Hilson and that is Ann Hilson!”

      When word reached Coraline, who had moved down to Sperry, she huffed and said, “I ain’t a bit surprised.” But she was curious and begged a ride from a man who was sweet on her. “Carry me into Tulsa, please, I gotta see about some business.”

      “On a Sunday?”

      Coraline gave the man a hard look.

      “Aw’ight, come on.”

      She slipped in the last pew and pulled her hat low over her forehead. On the pulpit August waved the good book until the sleeves of his robe flapped and billowed. He jumped and ballyhooed, stomped and spoke in tongues, and encouraged his congregation to do the same.

      Coraline chose to reveal herself just as the collection was being taken up. Head held high, she strolled right up the center aisle, deftly ignoring the whispers and finger-pointing.

      “Morning, Reverend.”

      “Morning, Sister Coraline. Nice to see you again.”

      Coraline turned and looked at Doll. “Doll,” she said.

      Doll returned Coraline’s query with a polite and respectful, “Mama.”

      Coraline looked at August. “It’s true? You done gone and married the girl?”

      August shuffled, tried to smile, but it emerged as a frown. “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

      Coraline stripped her teeth. “Okay,” she said with a toss of her head. “I just had to hear it from your mouth.”

      “Well, now you’ve heard it.”

      “Yes, I have.”

      August didn’t know what possessed him, but he raised his Bible into the air and cried, “What God has brought together, let no man pull asunder!”

      Coraline cocked her head to one side and said, “What the good book say about what Esther has brought together?”

       Chapter Seven

      Iess than a year after they were married, Doll gave birth to a girl who they named Hemmingway. A boy followed three years later, and they named him Paris.

      Doll didn’t make a good wife or a good mother.

      She did not allow her children to call her Mama or Mommy—“You call me Dolly. Doll-lee!”

      She did not cuddle, tend to runny noses, or wrap their necks with woolen scarves to protect them from the cold. She may have fawned and fussed in public— but in the privacy of their home Doll avoided the children with the same vigor she used to evade housework.

      For the most part, her days were spent lounging in her slip, sipping sweet tea, listening to George Tory and Skip Blake albums on the phonograph. The only reason she even attended church service was because she enjoyed the arresting effect her presence had on the congregation.

      Besides all of that, one of the only other things she enjoyed doing was making johnnycakes. Even those people who did not like her had to admit that Doll’s johnnycakes were the best they’d ever tasted. Light, fluffy, heaven-on-your-tongue, melt-in-your-mouth type of good. So good it almost made her behavior acceptable.

      Almost.

      * * *

      One evening, August bid Doll and the children goodbye and set off with two ministers to host a midnight revival.

      “I’ll be back by sunup,” he said as he mounted his horse.

      Doll shrugged, “Okay.”

      In the darkest part of the night, Hemmingway awoke to Paris’s wailing. She climbed from her bed, went to his crib, and stuck her finger in his diaper. It was wet.

      Hemmingway walked confidently down the hallway toward her parents’ bedroom. Unlike most children, she was not afraid of the dark. Upon reaching the bedroom door, she rapped softly on it while calling, “Dolly? Dolly?”

      There was no answer, so Hemmingway turned the knob and pushed.

      “Dolly?”

      The room was cast in shadows. She could see the gray silhouette of her mother’s body stretched out on the bed.

      “Dolly, Paris is wet and I think he’s hungry too.”

      The silhouette shifted and the bedsheets rustled. A voice the girl had never heard before said, “Hemmingway, is that you? Come in here, sweetness.”

      Can a voice have fingers? That one did. Icy fingers that closed around Hemmingway’s young heart.

      The darkness shifted and the silhouette sat up. “Come here,” it cackled.

      Hemmingway backed out of the room, ran down the hallway and into her bedroom. She dragged the painted wooden rocking horse across the floor and pushed it up against the closed door.

      Paris was screaming by then, but his sister barely noticed above the sound of her galloping heart. The baby screamed himself hoarse and finally fell asleep. Hemmingway remained awake, watching the door and listening for the voice with the icy fingers. She did not know when sleep stole her away, but she would always remember the dream that followed of her and Paris running for their lives through a dark, lush forest. On their heels was a wolf wearing the face of their mother.

      The next morning Hemmingway woke to find Paris gone. Fearing that the wolf in her dreams had taken him, she leapt from the bed and crept out of the room. The air in the house was soaked with the scent of bacon, eggs, grits, and johnnycakes. She could hear her father’s voice chiming merrily in the kitchen.

      Doll was seated at the table, nursing Paris. When she looked up and saw Hemmingway standing in the doorway, her face turned bright with pleasure.

      “Morning, darling, how did you sleep?”

      “Hey, baby,” August smiled.

      Hemmingway watched them. Not sure yet if this was part of her nightmare, she remained in the doorway.

      “Oh, we’re not speaking this morning?” Doll sang.

      August frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

      The girl took a tentative step into the bright light that streamed through the kitchen windows. “Daddy?”

      “Yes?”

      Hemmingway flew into him and nuzzled her nose deep into his neck. He smelled like night air, liniment, and scorched cedar chips.

      He was real. It was not a dream.

      August patted Hemmingway’s back and shot Doll a questioning look. Doll shrugged her shoulders