Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

“Of course you can, dear,” the Reverend said. “‘I can do everything through him who gives me strength.’ You just need time is all. For now, I’ll go pick up some takeout. Chinese good with everyone?”

Dorothy went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “Every time I make one of her recipes, I can feel her little eyes staring over my shoulder and hear her sniffing like the Queen of England every time I add an ingredient. She probably put the wrong baking time in the book on purpose so when people tell her about the disasters their casseroles turned out to be, she can say, ‘Oh, why that’s just too bad! Of course, I never had any such trouble, but then I did make that recipe myself.’”

Abel focused on the broom in his hands, trying hard not to laugh at his mother’s spot-on impersonation.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said the Reverend, his pulpit voice creeping up on him again. “And I don’t think it’s very Christ-like of you to make fun of one of our church’s most distinguished ladies.”

“Why not?” Dorothy snapped, hurling the aloe leaf to the floor, twisted and broken. “They make fun of me. Or have you been too busy shaking hands and preparing sermon notes to hear them whispering about what I’m wearing or why I put on so much makeup that morning or what the dear, sweet Reverend Whittaker is doing married to her?” She slammed the oven door shut.

“If that’s your attitude toward them, maybe they have reason to talk,” said the Reverend.

Abel’s eyes widened. Please don’t go there. Not again.

But it was too late. Dorothy pushed herself to her feet and glowered at her husband. “Are you saying it’s my fault? Do you wonder why you married me too?”

The Reverend glanced at Abel, who shook his head, telling his father to back out.

“I know exactly why I married you. All I’m saying is you shouldn’t be so quick to insult the members of my congregation. Regardless of how you feel, we owe them a certain level of respect and respectability.”

“You and your respectability,” Dorothy huffed. “This isn’t a family, it’s a farce.”

The Reverend blinked. “I thought this was about Mrs. Willoughby. When did it become about us?”

“Eighteen years ago,” said Dorothy, “and it’s never been right since.”

“Calm down, Dorothy. You’re upset. I understand.”

Dorothy slapped him. Her petite frame couldn’t get much strength behind it, and considering how she winced and grabbed the burn welts rising on her fingers, it hurt her way more than him. Still, the shock was enough to leave the Reverend speechless.

Abel wanted to shrink until he could hide behind the broom handle. As tense as things had gotten in this house, no argument had ever blown up like this.

When Dorothy spoke, her voice trembled. “You’ve never understood how I feel, Charles. And despite everything, I hope you never do.” She turned and pushed her way out of the kitchen.

“Dorothy!” the Reverend called after her.

Abel went back to sweeping, this time with a vengeance.

“What happened?” The Reverend eased himself into his kitchen chair. “Everything was fine until tonight. Now all of a sudden she thinks everyone’s making fun of her and I don’t want to be married to her anymore. What did I miss?”

“Try everything,” Abel muttered.

The Reverend’s face hardened. “What was that?”

Abel dropped the broom against the table. “Mom was right. This hasn’t been a happy family for a while. You haven’t noticed because you don’t listen to what we want.”

“I know exactly what you want,” said the Reverend.

“No you don’t! You think I enjoy being the perfect preacher’s kid, always neat and clean and well-behaved?”

“What would you rather be?” the Reverend asked, his pulpit voice booming forth now unfettered. “A druggie? A jailbird? One of the millions of unfulfilled young people in this country?”

“I’m already unfulfilled, Dad!” said Abel. “I’m a shell that you’ve made look like you, with all your rules of what I’m supposed to do and not do, but what’s the point if I’m not happy? If I’m alone? If I’m suffocating in a box that’s too small for me?”

“Those rules are there for a reason.”

“And I’ve never seen the reason! All I’ve seen is the Ten Commandments with thousands of amendments and bylaws and asterisks with fine print. I can quote every single one of them, but what’s the point when they mean nothing?”

“The point is that they make you into the man God meant you to be,” said the Reverend, and Abel recognized the line from a sermon two weeks ago, almost verbatim.

“God,” he asked, “or you?”

The Reverend squeezed the sides of the table as though it were his pulpit. “This conversation is over, young man.”

“It’s not a conversation if you don’t listen to me!”

The Reverend leaped to his feet. “‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right!’”

“‘Fathers, do not exasperate your children!’” Abel shot back. “You can’t quote at a problem and expect it to go away. Could you try being a father instead of a preacher for once?”

He saw the pain in his father’s eyes and half-wished he could take it back. But no, it had been honest, and a truth that hurt was better than silence that killed.

Then the Reverend’s eyes darkened. “Get out.”

Abel nodded and shoved the broom into his father’s hands. “You’ve got quite a mess to clean up,” he said, nodding to the spilled casserole as he strode out the back door and out of the house.

He probably thinks I’ll be back in an hour, and in the morning, everyone will have forgotten our fight. Abel shook his head. He knew better. There was no going back, not now. Pepper’s Mill First Baptist was a deathtrap for their family, and someone had to make the first move to escape. If nothing else, this would shake them up, force the Reverend to think.

He pulled Morgan’s napkin from his pocket and read the address, but he already knew where