The Great Good Summer by Liz Garton Scanlon Page A

reach for the phone, I look around to make sure we’re still speaking in private. Skinny Man’s mouth hangs open, and he hasn’t budged a bit.
    â€œCan you connect me to Highpoint Baptist Church in Tallahassee, Florida,” I say to the operator, and while it rings, I whisper to Paul, “What’s our next plan?”
    â€œPardon me?” says a man on the other end of the line.
    â€œOh. Oh, gosh. I’m sorry. I was talking to someone here. Listen, you don’t know of a place called The Great Good Bible Church of Panhandle Florida, do you?”
    â€œThe Great Good Bible Church. I don’t think so. Why?”
    Why? Well, huh. Nobody’s asked me that before. I swallow, and then, because he’s got a nice voice—about as much like Daddy’s as the little lamb woman’s was like Mama’s—I start talking. Like he’s my own personal pastor.
    â€œWell, sir, this is all kind of crazy,” I say. “The thing is, I’m looking for The Great Good Bible Church and this Holy Roller preacher called Hallelujah Dave because I’m pretty sure—almost one hundred percent positive, actually—that that’s where my mama is. She needs her medication. And I need her.”
    â€œOh,” says the Daddy-like man on the other end of Mama’s cell phone.
    And that’s all he has time to say, because I start up again. “And I’m on my way to bring her home. But I can’t very well do that if I can’t find her, can I?” That’s what I say into the phone, and that’s when I feel Paul touch my arm with his fingertips. I turn to look at him, and he’s holding one finger up to his lips, as a shh sign. But not in a mean way like this morning. This time it’s almost gentle, really.
    And then I look across at Skinny Man, and guess what? He’s staring straight at me too.
    â€œNo, I guess you can’t,” says the voice I forgot was there. “That would make it pretty tough,” he says. “But I have something for you, my dear. I don’t know The Great Good Bible Church, but Hallelujah Dave I’ve heard of. Just this morning. He was in the Tallahassee paper, and I hate to tell you this, but that man’s in jail. I don’t know where that puts your mama, but the fellow who calls himself Hallelujah Dave is most definitely in the county jail.”
    Jail. Jail? My throat stops up, and I drop the phone into my lap like it’s on fire. I hear a murky, spooky voice calling out, “Miss? Miss, are you okay?” But it’s Paul who reaches for the phone and says “Thank you for your help” before hanging up properly. Which is only right, because the pastor from Highpoint Baptist truly was a help. Just not the kind of help I expected. Or wanted, really.

Chapter Thirteen
    I sit, stone silent, for a while, my eyes kind of burning from looking out the window at everything flying by.
    Hallelujah Dave’s in jail. I cannot believe that this is what’s become of my mama’s life, or mine. We are good stock, or at least that’s what she always says. If one of us isn’t feeling right about something, like when Daddy’s roofing business suffered and we had to “tighten our belts,” she’d say, “Don’t you worry, honey. We are good stock. This is a bump in the road, but we are good stock and we’ll be fine. You can have faith in that.” And we always did.
    But at some point I guess Mama stopped believing it herself. It’s like the cross around my neck. The shine wore right off, and suddenly Mama was hurling herself onto the floor of a strange church at a strip mall and crawling all the way to Florida with a guy who goes and gets himself thrown into jail.
    I rub the cross. I like it. It’s familiar. But my mama? I don’t even know who my mama is anymore.
    â€œIvy. You’re shivering,” says Paul. “And you haven’t said