Snow in Summer: Fairest of Them All: Fairest of Them All by Jane Yolen Page A

cigarette. I watched as its little red light fell into the short grass like a shooting star. “He has some news.”
    I didn’t think that was what he meant to say, but like Papa, he was under Stepmama’s charm.
    Now I could hear singing through the closed door. It was nothing like the singing in Cousin Nancy’s church, which is quiet and often off-key. This was a rollicking, hand-clapping version of the old union song “We Shall Not Be Moved.” I could feel the beat of it beneath my breastbone.
    Suddenly touched by the song, I began humming along.
    “Enough,” Stepmama warned, hand raised.
    Even though I knew she wouldn’t hit me—not while I was wearing the caul, and not in front of this man—I stopped humming.
    She pushed through the door and we went in.
    I was used to the beauty of Cousin Nancy’s church with its simple pews and the single lovely stained glass window. Even the plain Baptist church I remembered going to with Papa—long before Stepmama came into our house and our lives—even that church was pretty compared to this. And the one time Mama had taken me into the abandoned church on the mountain, it was peaceful; the very stones seemed to breathe.
    But here in With Signs Holy Church the main room was no more than two or three rooms of the old house knocked together, the walls separating them having been removed. I could still see where the old walls had been. The low ceiling made me feel pushed down, not lifted up as I did with the high vaulting of Cousin Nancy’s church. Besides, I could see where the paint was peeling off. The curtainless windows were closed against the cold of the night. In fact, several of them had been painted over with black paint.
    There was little in the church sanctuary but three rows of wooden benches, a long table at the front, and a stove in a corner, already lit. It’s not for nothing the mountain is nicknamed “Freeze Your Heart Mountain” and “the Ice Maiden.” That stove was pumping out a stream of heat. A stack of cordwood lay right beside it and every now and then, one of the men would slip another log in.
    On the walls were cutout magazine pictures of Jesus with his hands on the heads of different small children, all of them white, ragged, and adoring. Also three handmade quilted banners hung from the ceiling by ropes. One said: Jesus Saves. The second proclaimed: Welcome to With Signs Holy Church. The third stated simply: Mark 16:16–18. I was pretty sure that last referred to the Bible, but as to what verse I had no idea.
    In one corner of the hall stood a knot of women, all of them maybe Stepmama’s age or a bit older. They wore print dresses that came down well below their knees. The women chattered together though not in a prayerful way. More like crows cawing.
    In another corner several men in overalls were huddled, talking in hushed tones, their hands making strange signs in the air.
    Just then, four men marched in from a door at the back of the sanctuary, carrying wooden boxes they set down on the table in front of the benches. The boxes all had sturdy tops.
    There was no one my age at all in the church, though several boys who looked like they were already out of high school stood together in the far back, jawing. And one girl who might have been anywhere from fifteen to twenty, heavily pregnant, was a row behind us, pointedly not looking at any of the boys. Of course in those days, it wasn’t unusual for mountain girls as young as fourteen to get married. My own mama had me when she was barely sixteen and she and Papa had been married for over a year at that point.
    Every now and then, the boys looked over at Stepmama, and the tallest, blondest one nodded at her. He was handsome in a heavy-lidded way, his hair combed straight back to show off his broad forehead, which served to emphasize his eyes and those heavy lids. He tried to act as if he didn’t know he was being watched, but of course the satisfied half smile gave him away.
    Stepmama