She’s a troublemaker from way back, got fancy ideas an’ haughty ways—we’re mighty glad to have you all.”
With that, Calpurnia led us to the church door where we were greeted by Reverend Sykes, who led us to the front pew.
First Purchase was unceiled and unpainted within. Along its walls unlighted kerosene lamps hung on brass brackets; pine benches served as pews.
Behind the rough oak pulpit a faded pink silk banner proclaimed God Is Love,
the church’s only decoration except a rotogravure print of Hunt’s The Light of the World.
There was no sign of piano, organ, hymn-books, church programs—the familiar ecclesiastical impedimenta we saw every Sunday.
It was dim inside, with a damp coolness slowly dispelled by the gathering congregation.
At each seat was a cheap cardboard fan bearing a garish Garden of Gethsemane, courtesy Tyndal’s Hardware Co. (You-Name-It-We-Sell-It).
Calpurnia motioned Jem and me to the end of the row and placed herself between us.
She fished in her purse, drew out her handkerchief, and untied the hard wad of change in its corner.
She gave a dime to me and a dime to Jem. “We’ve got ours,” he whispered.
“You keep it,” Calpurnia said, “you’re my company.”
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