Proper Penance

\> y Z Jl MLFor the 13 years since Mazie braved the storm her divorcing Boyd had blown up, she had religiously boarded the gray church bus every Sunday morning and again on Sunday night. It might be more truthfully said, the more religious part of the custom was her commitment to the act of going, not the reason for it. Harve sat third seat back on the right. He was the fourth one to get on, his street being next over from that of Miz Weston, who hauled the ever faithful Christians to and from the white-sided steepled structure each and every Lord's Day. No one bothered Harve's seat. Secretly, they laughed among themselves at the rigidness of his rule for always sitting at the same place while everyone else sat there and about with one friend or another to gossip. Their whisperings ranged from Sally Jackson's wearing of the same off-white sweater five Sundays in a row, to the newest member of the Christ brigade (as they fondly referred to themselves)-being that little Thompkins girl from Owl Town of indefinite age but of definite condition. Today was like every other Sunday. Mazie woke, dressed painstakingly in Proper Penance by Sandra B. Keaton the nicest clothing her small Social Security check allowed, and styled her hair as carefully as arthritic joints permitted. She lived for the first day of the week, sweating in the heat or shivering in the chill of her second story downtown apartment waiting. Waiting out her last days, wishing her life away (or what was left of it) for Sundays when she would see Harve. Mazie told no one this. She was a bit ashamed of a crush at her age, but 13 years was a long time of looking longingly at something or someone you couldn't have. She couldn't even sit with him-they'd seen to that-they being old Lula Pickrell or Cletalee or Opal. Mazie had teased Cletalee and Opal, scoffing at them for occasionally sitting there, declaring in a mock angry tone, "You'll get in trouble for doing that!" But maybe the only mockery about her 33 saying it was thinking the tone wasn't really angry. Lula was a terrible problem. She sat with Harve most, flapping those flabby jaws of hers faster than the bus traveled, although never stopping for a sign or a traffic light the way it did. Lula knew. Mazie knew she did. She could tell by the twitch of Lula's long nose when she caught Mazie turning to stare back at her in disgust. She was satisfied her secret was safe from the rest of the ladies who fought to sit in the coveted position third seat back next to Harve. But it was evident Lula had it all figured out. Maybe it had been easier for her because she had recognized in Mazie some kindred emotion, yet instead of understanding this, she strove to defy it in every possible manner. Mazie scolded herself, saying it could be that she deserved the continuous fall of false hopes. She had owned up a few years back that her motives weren't entirely honest when the Lady Conscience who sat on her right shoulder protested loudly in her ear. Mazie, the worshipping that you've been doing is of a mortal man, not a Supreme Being. Harve is the main reason you go to church. Admit it. And so she had and, because she had, she let her feeling develop and grow. Harve became more important to her in her mind than Boyd, in body, had managed to become during those years of marriage. Possibly it was because she could never get close enough to discover Harve's faults, or of the association her thoughts had of him and church combined , her fascination took on a spiritual quality. Nevertheless, something was going to have to be done about Lula Pickrell. She had already waited too long. Now the bus came to a creaking stop and Mazie self-consciously patted the blue-gray curls atop her head. The door swung open and she slowly climbed the steps. Her...