The Broken and Wounded

“Mommy,” Mae said, digging her toes into the back of her mother’s seat. “I ain’t going to church no more.”

“Mae, you stop that talk right now.” Bess pulled into the parking lot of the Greater Presbyterian Church of Hope in Christ. She turned off the engine and glanced up to meet her daughter’s eyes in the rearview. “Jesus can hear you.”

“But Daddy doesn’t go,” she whined. “You told him he has to, and he don’t. So I don’t neither.”

“You will come to church. No more lip. And that’s final.”

A silver pickup truck pulled in next to Bess and the girls. Jeff Miller hopped out and circled to the passenger side. Bess noted how respectable he always looked. Black slacks, a powder blue dress shirt, a pale yellow striped tie. Jeff reached up into the cab, grabbing his wife Connie by her hips. Connie held her Bible in one arm, the other hung in a sling above her fuzzy lavender sweater. Jeff eased her to the ground below. She waved to Bess and shimmied, adjusting her long denim skirt before heading toward the church.

Bess studied her daughters through the rearview mirror. Ethel rocked her doll Jenny, and Mae drove her blue Hot Wheels car along the window. Their matching rose and white gingham dresses no longer looked as crisp as when Bess sewed them last August. The girls’ wavy hair, the color of buttermilk biscuits, peeked out from under their bonnets, the same ones they wore for Easter. Once a bright white, the fabric yellowed and frayed at the edges.

Before getting out of her blue Honda, Bess inspected her reflection. Auburn curls framed her narrow face, a dusting of freckles spread across her cheeks. Deep violet bruising outlined her stormy blue eyes, fading outward to shades of gray and green. She stretched to the passenger side floor, digging through a pile of toys and empty water bottles to find her Bible.

“Alright, girls. We don’t want to be late. Let’s get a move on.”

Ethel cradled her blond doll and grabbed a plastic shopping bag stuffed with crayons, paper, and magic markers, ones smelling like blueberries and apples. Mae tucked a Stegosaurus under her arm, filling her pockets with little green army men. The girls leaped from the backseat, dashing toward the black double doors of the little white church, the gravel crunching under their scuffed patent leather Mary Janes.

“Do you have your—” Bess hollered. Before she finished, the twins threw up their right arms, shaking their matching pink masks, as they bolted for the entrance.

Bess sauntered down the stone path, dragging her fingertips along the rickety white picket fence. She peered up to where the steeple once shot up to the sky. A raging storm had swept through Wheatcroft, knocking the tower to the earth. With the numbers dwindling at church, the tithe money fed the pastor but couldn’t cover the repairs. Chunks of timber and broken planks were all that remained of the spire. The belfry smashed to bits. The massive bronze bell had bounced across the grass and through the parking lot. Bess still felt guilty for laughing when Pastor Fred and the choir members scrambled, trying to catch it before it hit someone’s car.

Ethel and Mae slipped inside the building with the Millers. Bess pried open the heavy wooden door, finding the girls tucked away in their pew. For once, they wore their masks without a fight. Bess yanked the paisley face-covering from the pocket of her leather bible cover and adjusted it over her mouth and nose. The door slammed shut. The sound echoed through the modest sanctuary. A handful of families scattered among the rows, waiting for the service to begin, shifted to observe her. Bess loved how her yellow mask hid her newly forming frown lines, but she despised how it accented the bruises she hoped everyone would ignore.

Thick canvas tapestries depicting the stations of the cross crowded the walls between the stained glass windows. A wooden cross draped in a wrinkled sash hung above the dusty pipe organ. Zeke Foster occupied the first row, cuddled up to his wife, Emily. Small clear tubes ran

Fiction - Second Place Kerri-ann Torgersen

Livermore, California, USA

from under his mask to the oxygen tank nestled in his lap. All those years laboring in the Waverly mines brought nothing but trouble to his lungs. Bess feared the same for her husband, Del, ever since he developed a bit of a cough. She lost sleep, worrying the good Lord would take him from her, but Del thought it best he find a job with better pay now that Bess stayed home with the girls.

Behind the Fosters, Edith Warburton, the type of woman everyone said must have been beautiful in her prime, moved about the pew with grace. Her cream wrap dress hung off her delicate shoulders. Martin Warburton loved his wife with a rather unnatural devotion, staring at her over the tortoiseshell glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Their brood of eleven children crawled all over the third row. Trevor, the Warburton’s towheaded toddler, played peek-a-boo with Daisy Parker directly behind them. Daisy sat with the Millers every Sunday after losing her husband some months back. Where she once attended church in nothing but the finest dresses, she now donned a coral peasant blouse and a navy paneled skirt, her tawny locks thrown up in a loose bun.

Samuel Ellis lounged in the last row, his arms strung over the back of the pew. He winked at Bess, tugging down his mask to reveal dimples and a playful smile. Bess fumbled with her Bible. The book crashed to the carpet. She scooped it up, rushing to her seat. A brown paper sack rested on the burgundy pew cushion near her daughters. Russet potatoes, romaine lettuce, and a bundle of purple and orange carrots tied in twine peeked out from the top. Bess plucked the note taped to the side.

Bessie,

Pa’s farm had extra. Thought this might help a bit.

Sam

Bess hated being the church charity case. Sam meant well, but his help became the hardest to accept. They grew up on neighboring farms. Best friends from kindergarten to graduation. Their parents started joking about how they would marry. One day, she noticed Sam looking at her in a way she hadn’t seen before. Or maybe never noticed. When she realized his feelings for her, she couldn’t fathom why.

The members of the choir floated up the aisles to the choral riser, their shiny white and deep-blue robes flowing around them. Pastor Fred’s wife, Tammy, flipped her wheat blonde tresses behind her shoulders and began to sing, leading them into worship.

Will the circle be unbroken By and by, Lord, by and by There’s a better home a-waiting In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

Bess appreciated how Tammy’s striped face-covering matched her robe and wondered if everyone knew she had a fat lip underneath it. She turned to watch her girls. Ethel and Mae sang off-key, their bodies swaying like reeds in the summer breeze. Bess mumbled the lyrics. Her eyes wandered. Cobwebs clung to the arches along the pale white ceiling. The wooden pews, worn and dull, needed a coat of polish. Brown spots covered the musty maroon carpet. The wicker offering basket floated from family to family, making its way through the rows. Bess couldn’t recall the last time she saw more than a few dollars in it.

The choir shuffled through their standard five hymns, ending with Amazing Grace. Pastor Fred waddled to the mahogany pulpit and stood a few feet back to make space for his ever-growing belly. His gut pushed apart the plaid fabric of his button-down, revealing his undershirt. The pastor sure looked well-fed.

“I’d like to thank the choir for bringing us into God’s presence today. May the Lord bless you,” he said, his voice loud and cheerful. He covered the weekly announcements, spoke about outreach in the community, and gave a message on keeping the faith in trying times.

Bess attempted to focus on the word of God, but Ethel and Mae drowned out most of the sermon. Ethel stole Mae’s favorite matchbox car. Mae smacked her. Bess settled them. Mae crammed a crayon up her nose and cried. Bess consoled her. Mae pulled Ethel’s hair. Bess intervened.

“Please turn to the book of Jeremiah, chapter one, verse fourteen.” Pastor Fred peeled open the pages of his aging Bible. The sound of shuffling and pages turning filled the air.

“The Lord said to me.” Pastor Fred cleared his throat, his round face glistening with sweat. “From the north, disaster will be poured out on all who live in the land.”

“Mommy,” Mae said as she stood up.

The pastor stopped speaking. The entire congregation turned in their direction.

“Shhhh.” Bess glared at her, grateful a

mask hid her reddening cheeks.

“When can we be done? I’m bored.” Mae climbed over her mother toward the aisle.

“You sit down right now. You know better than to talk up in church.” She yanked her by her sleeve and whispered. “Now you pipe down til it’s over.”

Bess remembered when the girls sat through Sunday service without much fuss. The problems began when the schoolhouse closed and Webster county went on lockdown. Del borrowed money from the Warburtons to install the internet. He bought a second-hand laptop from a thrift store in Paducah and made Bess quit her job. Ethel and Mae started video calls with their first-grade class, sitting next to one another at the kitchen table. All the Zoom malfunctions, incorrect passwords, turning things on and off again were enough to send Bess to the madhouse. And all those hours staring at moving pictures did a number on the girls’ attention spans. Now they only sat still with a screen in their faces.

“Dear Lord. I offer unto you the wounded hearts, the broken hearts, out in our community.” The pastor raised his plump hands in prayer. “We know it is you, my Lord, who will uphold them in the end. Let them not lose hope.”

Bess rolled her eyes.

“Let them not cast away everything good and beautiful in this life. Let them know they have everything they need. Thank you, Father God.” Pastor Fred closed his Bible.

Before he said “Amen,” the twins sprang up, running off to play with the Warburton children. Bess lingered, scooping up crayons and cars from the pew.

“Good morning, Bessie.” Samuel Ellis appeared.

“Morning, Sam. Thank you for the vegetables,” she said, continuing to search for crayons under the pew cushion. “I might just use ‘em for dinner tonight.”

“Always glad to help,” he said, wringing his faded baseball cap in his calloused hands. “I— I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Bess glanced over, noticing the dirt under his fingernails. His flannel shirt, halftucked in, hung over his dirty blue jeans, his cowboy boots caked with fresh mud.

Does this man have no shame?

“What is it, Sam? Is this about the church bake sale? Cause I—”

“No, it ain’t about that,” Sam said and forced a smile. He moved a pile of crayons off to the side and sat down. “You know I care about you.”

Bess smoothed her floral dress and sat down, crossing her legs.

“I know. I know,” she said, her voice hushed. “But I’m married now.” Her eyes darted around the room, searching for other members of the congregation. She fiddled with a scarlet crayon, caught herself, and pinned her hands under her thighs.

Samuel Ellis might just be the only nice man on this earth.

“I don’t know how to say this— but— your eyes, Bessie. I’m worried. Since the first time you showed up with a shiner, your weasel of a husband stopped coming to the service.” Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. “It don’t look right.”

“Just cause Del hasn’t been coming don’t mean he’s the one who did it,” she said, springing to her feet. “I already told you. It happened at Lena McElroy’s. And Del already said I can’t go there anymore.”

“Bessie, I— I’m here if you need me.” Sam rose, resting his hand against her back. “Don’t forget I care about you.”

“Stop saying that. We’re in church,” Bess said, rolling her shoulder. His hand slipped off. “I’m so tired of hearing it.” She spun to pick up the wreckage the twins left behind and crammed the rest of the crayons into the plastic shopping bag.

Sam, not knowing what to say, hovered at the end of the pew before he walked out of the double doors.

Bess drove the long way home. Grand oak trees, stretching on for miles, loomed over the edges of the country roads. Their branches banged and scraped against the car’s roof. She replayed her conversation with Sam. As much as he cared, he had no right to get involved. He never liked Del. She didn’t find it the least bit surprising that Sam blamed him for every little thing troubling her.

Bess rounded the bend by the orchard. Scraggly apple trees lined the road. Bess and the girls passed a sign reading “Foster’s Farms and Fruit Stand.” The white shack sat off to the right-hand side. Baskets of Braeburn and Granny Smith surrounded the small building. Jugs of cider and jars of applesauce covered the tables out front.

“Momma.” Mae kicked her mother’s seat. “I want apples.” She kicked again.

Bess ignored her daughter’s request.

Sam Ellis has some nerve. I shoulda giv-

en him a piece of my mind.

“Me too! I want apples.” Ethel perked up. “Please, Momma, can we get apples? Please. Apples. Apples. Apples.”

Bess slammed on the brakes, sending the girls halfway out of their seats.

“We still have apples from last Sunday. I ain’t spending money on more.”

“But Mommy,” Ethel said, her voice almost a whisper. “You can bake more pies.”

Bess jerked to face the twins.

“I’ll be damned if I’m making another pie,” she spat the words.

Mae began to cry. Ethel pulled the bonnet down over her eyes, sniffling.

“Not another word until we get home. You hear me?”

Dear Lord. I can’t do this much longer. Please guide me.

Bess once had a sense of peace in her life. She’d worked at Pop’s Soda Shop over in Providence since she turned 15. Bored housewives stopped in to chat, catching her up on the town gossip. The local kids played hopscotch on the black and white checkered floor while waiting on their banana splits and sundaes. Oldies like “Rockin’ Robin” and “Yakkity Yak” blared from the jukebox. She worked right on through her pregnancy and returned shortly after the twins were born. Bess loved the peaceful rides to work and her hour-long lunch breaks. She’d grab a turkey and Swiss on rye from the deli next door. The owner always snuck an extra pickle into the white paper bag with her sandwich. She’d cross the street, laying out a quilt under a tree in the park. The wind rustled the leaves. The birds tweeted in the trees. The faint clang of wind chimes reached her ears from somewhere far off in the neighborhood.

Now she sat at home, troubleshooting video calls and watching reruns of I Love Lucy. Pastor Fred preached about having an attitude of gratitude. Bess sure tried. She counted her blessings while restarting the laptop, testing the microphone, making pies, and scrubbing stains from the girls’ dresses.

Bess turned onto the property. A cloud of dust billowed around her Honda. They passed the ruins of their barn, and the old farmhouse came into view. Faded white strips of paint hung off the sides. A few black shingles were missing from the roof. Chickens roamed the front lawn and ran in every direction once she stopped the car out front. Ethel and Mae sprang from the backseat and sprinted after the hens, giggling.

“Stop chasing the dang chickens,” Bess yelled. “How many times do I—” She stopped herself and sighed, shaking her head.

Bess abandoned their belongings, the cars and dolls spread out across the backseat, the vegetables from Sam, her Bible, and she told herself she’d come back for them. She strolled past Del’s truck and approached the wraparound porch. A breeze danced through the air, sending their rocking chairs bobbing back and forth. As she climbed the stairs, Del’s voice carried through the screen door and out into the yard.

“Are you kidding me? That guy was wide open.” He reclined in his worn-out la-z-boy, yelling at the television with a PBR tucked between his legs. He sported his grimy flannel pajamas, the ones with the hole in the crotch. Bess attempted to sew them, but he refused, saying they provided easier access. A bag of barbecue potato chips and a tower of empty beer cans covered the end table next to him. Men in helmets and uniforms ran across a green field on the tv screen.

Bess pried open the door. It banged shut from the wind, hitting her on the backside. The smell of roasting turkey filled their home. She’d tried getting out of cooking elaborate Sunday dinners now that Del stopped coming to the service, but he insisted the tradition continue. She prepped the bird in the early morning before the sun peeked over the hills. If her timing worked out, all the fixings would be ready by the time the turkey finished cooking.

“Bess? That you?” Del shouted. “Where’s the damn remote?”

Church was great, Del. Thanks for asking.

“I don’t know. It’s wherever you left it.” Oh, what’s that? You’re gonna show up next week? That’s great!

The loose floorboards groaned under her weight as she entered the kitchen. A drab green curtain covered the open window above the white porcelain sink. She brushed it aside and hollered to the girls.

“Ethel. Mae. Don’t run off too far.”

She grabbed a potholder from the oak countertop. The oven door squealed open.

One thing. I asked him to do one thing.

Bess snatched the baster from the stovetop. She squeezed the red bulb, sucking up the greasy liquid before bathing the bird in its juices. The turkey’s skin

sizzled. A tarnished silver pot rested on the counter filled with russets she peeled and chopped before bed last night. She slid it to the back of the stovetop and lit the burner.

Bess plopped down in a wooden chair at the table, adjusting the checkered blue cushion under herself. She grabbed an ear of corn from the pile next to the laptop and peeled back the outer green layers and stringy silk.

“Get me another beer,” Del’s voice rang from the living room.

“Del, I’m shucking the corn. If you want supper on time, you need to let me be.”

“Bess. Bring me a beer. Now,” he shouted, sending himself into a coughing fit.

Bess slammed the ear on the table and wiped her hands on her dress. She stomped to the fridge and snatched the last can of PBR by the lettuce on the bottom shelf. The cool metal chilled her fingers. She paused, studying the can. I could shake it a little. She imagined his reaction. Del in a panic, jumping up to clean himself, missing half the game. No. I’d pay for it later. She clicked the door shut, pausing again.

“Hey, Del. Head’s up.”

Del nearly tumbled out of the recliner, fumbling to catch the beer she threw in his direction.

“Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?” he wheezed.

“You always say I ain’t got no sense.” Bess shrugged. “You must be right.”

She turned, hiding her smile, and called the girls to wash up for dinner. They bolted in and straight up the creaky stairs to their bedroom.

Bess finished up with the corn and sautéed the green beans. She knew the bird would be done shortly, so she scrapped the idea of making biscuits from scratch. She mashed the boiled potatoes and left the lumps in because she’d never hear the end of it if she whipped them out.

The scent of beer and sweat wafted through the tiny kitchen. Bess turned to see Del lingering in the doorway, monitoring her. He cleared his throat, stifling a cough. His rough hands rested on either side of the doorframe. His untamed hair, the same shade as cow manure, looked as if it were trying to escape his stench. He yanked a sage green dishrag hanging from the oven door handle and hocked a wad of phlegm into the fabric.

Hasn’t this man ever heard of a comb? Or a shower? Lord, help me.

Bess cleared the table and laid out a checkered tablecloth, stained from the girls’ spills and drips. She placed their mismatched knives, forks, spoons, and fabric napkins on top.

“Smells good in here. What all are we having for dinner?” Del swooped in and wrapped his arms around her waist, his beer belly crashing against her.

“Well, you know ‘bout the turkey. We’re having green beans, fresh corn, mashed taters, gravy—”

“No biscuits?”

“Del, I didn’t have time. But I took a pie out of the freezer.”

“I work hard all damn week so you can stay home. And you can’t make biscuits?”

“Del, I—”

“Nope. Don’t even. You need to make them before you call for dinner.”

Lord? Do you hear this? This man is an ingrate.

“Well, then get your paws off me so I can make your biscuits.” God, grant me the serenity to accept this man I cannot change. “Bess, I’m tired of all this lip. Is this about Lena? Cuz you ain’t going there tonight.”

“Del, this ain’t got nothing to do with her.” Grant me the courage to change the things I can.

“Bessie, you better watch your tone.”

“I’m sorry, Del. I’ll pipe down.” And the wisdom to know the difference.

Bess gathered the ingredients as Del stumbled back to the recliner. All-purpose flour, baking soda, salt, butter, and a plastic jug of milk from the fridge. Bess checked for eggs but remembered she used them for cheese omelets that morning. Ethel knew she needed to refill the egg container after breakfast, but Bess couldn’t remember the last time the girl actually did it. She grew tired of the fight to get the girls to do their chores, so she stopped pestering them.

“Del, we’re out of eggs. Be right back.” Bess waited for a response. When he didn’t answer, she walked down the steps into the yard. She passed the beds of wilted tulips surrounding the house, the edges of their petals brown and curling. The small round stones littering the flower bed sank into the mud. Pictures of the farmhouse, the Jesus fish, and hearts the girls painted on the rocks now obstructed by clumps of dirt. A few chicks pecking for bugs scattered as she followed the narrow dirt path to the side yard.

Del built the chicken coop last fall, hoping they’d get plenty of eggs. Ethel and Mae never let the birds be, so they

barely laid any. Bess ducked inside the wooden structure. Their finest hens, Rosie and Cluckers, slept soundly in their nesting boxes. Bess dug underneath them, searching for an egg. She sifted through piles of hay. Please let me find one. All I need is one. She checked every nest, but they all turned up empty.

Bess inched along the path, heading to the house. The sun eased its way closer to the hills. She stopped and embraced the rays warming her pale skin. A cool breeze sent goosebumps over her arms, and the smell of the lilac bushes blew through the yard. Bess shivered, tucking her hands into her pockets. Her fingertips touched something cold and rough. Bess fondled her keys. The girls were inside their room, playing. Del lounged in his chair, sipping his beer and waiting on his biscuits. The turkey was ready to be pulled from the oven. Bess crept along the porch and tiptoed past Del’s truck to her Honda. She eased the door open and slid into the seat, pulling it shut. The silence hurt her ears. She placed the keys in the ignition.

A knock blasted against the car window.

“Bess?” Del peered in, his face inches from the glass. “Where are you going?”

Bess stared ahead, her hands frozen on the steering wheel.

Del pounded his fist against the windshield.

Trembling, she rolled down the window.

“I— I was just heading up the road to borrow an egg from Connie. We’re out,” she said, her insides churning. “I’ll be right back.”

Del bit his lip and studied her face.

“Don’t take too long,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

Bess started the engine and pulled onto the road. She watched as their farmhouse grew smaller and smaller in the rearview until it disappeared. The Miller’s rusty mailbox came into focus along the road's right side, the little red arrow standing straight up. Bess drove right on past it. She drove past the cornfields and past Foster’s endless rows of apple trees. Veering left at the fork, she pulled around a green tractor throwing up clouds of dust and began driving north on Highway 109. A honey-colored Jersey cow, munching on grass, lifted its head as she passed. The land transformed into grassy rolling fields. Bess kept driving.

Cars parked end-to-end lined the side of the highway outside Lena’s property. Bess found her spot between a gray minivan and a white coupe. She grabbed her mask from the glovebox and stepped out into the dusky evening, marching along the wooden fence surrounding the land. A breeze traveled over her skin and carried the faint sound of women’s voices with it. The red building came into view as she grew closer. The barn appeared bigger than Bess last remembered it, the peak of the roof sharp as a point, the white and tan cupola extending toward the heavens. The wind spun the arrow on the black metal weathervane round and round. The rooster above it, standing firm, glared down at her.

Light poured through a crack in the tall barn doors, illuminating the damp ground outside. Laughing and cheering from inside carried through the air. Bess approached the building and knocked.

“What’s your name?” A woman she hadn’t seen before peered out through a slit in the door.

“Bess,” she said, glancing around. “Bessie Tompkins.”

“Just a minute.” The woman disappeared.

Bess waited. She noticed three figures in the shadows near a broken water trough. The barn door opened partway, and the woman stepped aside to let Bess pass.

Bess placed her palm on the rough wooden doorframe, turning sideways. She slipped in. The stench of manure invaded her nostrils. Deafening shouts and cheers echoed off the barn walls. Ladies, some Bess recognized and some she didn’t, sat along the hay bales placed in semi-circular rows. Lena slouched against a weathered ladder leading up to the loft. Shades of navy and red in her flannel matched her cowboy boots. Her fiery curls billowed around her thin shoulders. Bess rushed over to her side.

“It’s so good to see you, Bess,” Lena’s booming voice escaped through her American flag mask. She hugged a brown clipboard close to her chest. “Are you interested in signing up tonight?”

“I hadn’t planned on it, but—” Bess shouted. She noticed Daisy Parker and Tammy Buckley, the pastor’s wife, sitting with the rest of the ladies among the bricks of straw. “I think I will.”

Lena slid a blue ballpoint pen from the back pocket of her tight blue jeans. She scribbled Bess’s name down and returned to the ladder.

Bess maneuvered through the hollering women, dry straw crunching under each step. She eased herself down onto