almost touched a whale.
CHAPTER 6
T URNER was not surprised the next morning when Malaga Island was declared a forbidden place, once again.
He was not surprised when his father—and his mother—repeated the word forbidden four times during breakfast.
He was not surprised that his father watched him carefully during the "Community Notices" section of the Sunday-morning service at First Congregational, as he announced the formation of a group in Phippsburg to explore "new ventures" that might "improve the economic prospects of our town."
But he was surprised by his father's sermon topic—the fall of Jericho—which seemed to Turner strange to set among a new minister's first sermons.
Turner was sitting in a front pew as hard as Jacob's pillow, and he shifted now and again to let another part of him take his weight. The sanctuary had trapped the sticky heat of the past several days, which came close to stifling anyone wearing a starched white shirt with a starched white collar.
He felt the eyes of every member of First Congregational staring at the back of his starched neck. He felt Mrs. Cobb's outrage. He felt Mr. Stonecrop's disdain. He wished he could feel Mrs. Hurd's pale eyes, but she didn't come to church. Deacon Hurd's family was there, though, sitting across the aisle in the other front pew. From this angle, Turner could not tell whether Willis's nose was straight.
He hoped it wasn't.
The sermon slouched along as sermons will when every single soul in the building is wishing that the ushers would start passing around cool glasses of lemonade. Turner watched a small yellow hornet buzz listlessly around the pulpit as the priests of the Hebrew host organized their march. It meandered a bit, then settled down into one of the rosettes and went to sleep. Turner wondered what might happen if it woke up and decided to sting his father at some prominent moment—say, when the trumpets of Jericho sounded. He imagined the hornet turning on Deacon Hurd, and the general melee as he ran down the aisle, chased by the eager insect, hollering and swatting at the thin air.
He thought of swatting at thin air, of swatting at rocks on the shore, of Lizzie Bright Griffin, of tossing a ball back and forth, digging clams, sitting on the beach watching the tide heave in and out like the vast breathing of a whale.
Could it all have been a lie?
He had almost touched a whale.
By now his father had gotten onto the woes of Jericho, and he was finding his stride. Jericho, his father announced, was a place that needed to be rooted out so that God's good and perfect purposes might be fulfilled. So God had brought to its walls the Hebrew host to be His hands to carry out His righteous work. Reverend Buckminster paused and cleared his throat. He paused some more and cleared his throat again. He looked down at Mrs. Buckminster. He looked away.
"In this same way, good people of Phippsburg, God calls us to be His hands, and to do His will, to blot out spoil and contagion from among us, to bring His people to the place where He would have them be. Just as Jericho was wiped out and is gone to human history, and just as the Promised Land was taken up by the faithful, so also should we blot out what is not wholesome, what is not good, what is not pleasing, and take up our own promised future."
Turner felt his mother stiffen beside him. She reached out and took his hand.
"Amen," said the Reverend Buckminster.
"And amen," said Mr. Stonecrop behind them.
The organ turned to a melancholy last hymn, playing too slowly; after four verses, it sighed to silence a phrase or two behind the congregation. Reverend Buckminster descended from his pulpit and processed down the aisle. Mrs. Buckminster and Turner went behind him and stood with him at the back of the church to endure the handshakes and knowing looks. ("Did he really go out into the bay with a Negro?") Willis passed without looking at him, as, in fact, did most of the congregation, until he
CHAPTER 6
T URNER was not surprised the next morning when Malaga Island was declared a forbidden place, once again.
He was not surprised when his father—and his mother—repeated the word forbidden four times during breakfast.
He was not surprised that his father watched him carefully during the "Community Notices" section of the Sunday-morning service at First Congregational, as he announced the formation of a group in Phippsburg to explore "new ventures" that might "improve the economic prospects of our town."
But he was surprised by his father's sermon topic—the fall of Jericho—which seemed to Turner strange to set among a new minister's first sermons.
Turner was sitting in a front pew as hard as Jacob's pillow, and he shifted now and again to let another part of him take his weight. The sanctuary had trapped the sticky heat of the past several days, which came close to stifling anyone wearing a starched white shirt with a starched white collar.
He felt the eyes of every member of First Congregational staring at the back of his starched neck. He felt Mrs. Cobb's outrage. He felt Mr. Stonecrop's disdain. He wished he could feel Mrs. Hurd's pale eyes, but she didn't come to church. Deacon Hurd's family was there, though, sitting across the aisle in the other front pew. From this angle, Turner could not tell whether Willis's nose was straight.
He hoped it wasn't.
The sermon slouched along as sermons will when every single soul in the building is wishing that the ushers would start passing around cool glasses of lemonade. Turner watched a small yellow hornet buzz listlessly around the pulpit as the priests of the Hebrew host organized their march. It meandered a bit, then settled down into one of the rosettes and went to sleep. Turner wondered what might happen if it woke up and decided to sting his father at some prominent moment—say, when the trumpets of Jericho sounded. He imagined the hornet turning on Deacon Hurd, and the general melee as he ran down the aisle, chased by the eager insect, hollering and swatting at the thin air.
He thought of swatting at thin air, of swatting at rocks on the shore, of Lizzie Bright Griffin, of tossing a ball back and forth, digging clams, sitting on the beach watching the tide heave in and out like the vast breathing of a whale.
Could it all have been a lie?
He had almost touched a whale.
By now his father had gotten onto the woes of Jericho, and he was finding his stride. Jericho, his father announced, was a place that needed to be rooted out so that God's good and perfect purposes might be fulfilled. So God had brought to its walls the Hebrew host to be His hands to carry out His righteous work. Reverend Buckminster paused and cleared his throat. He paused some more and cleared his throat again. He looked down at Mrs. Buckminster. He looked away.
"In this same way, good people of Phippsburg, God calls us to be His hands, and to do His will, to blot out spoil and contagion from among us, to bring His people to the place where He would have them be. Just as Jericho was wiped out and is gone to human history, and just as the Promised Land was taken up by the faithful, so also should we blot out what is not wholesome, what is not good, what is not pleasing, and take up our own promised future."
Turner felt his mother stiffen beside him. She reached out and took his hand.
"Amen," said the Reverend Buckminster.
"And amen," said Mr. Stonecrop behind them.
The organ turned to a melancholy last hymn, playing too slowly; after four verses, it sighed to silence a phrase or two behind the congregation. Reverend Buckminster descended from his pulpit and processed down the aisle. Mrs. Buckminster and Turner went behind him and stood with him at the back of the church to endure the handshakes and knowing looks. ("Did he really go out into the bay with a Negro?") Willis passed without looking at him, as, in fact, did most of the congregation, until he
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