Зима тревоги нашей
Chapter 7
"Ethan!"saidMarysternly."Supposesomeoneshouldhearyou."
"No,Iguessitcouldn’tbepopular."
"Ithinkyou’rehorrid,"Marysaid,andsodidI,worsethanhorrid.ButIdidwonderhowMr.Bakerwouldrespondtocommentonhishair.
OurfamilyrivuletjoinedotherstreamsandpassedstatelygreetingsandthestreamwasariverpouringintoSt.Thomas’sEpiscopalChurch,amedium-highchurch,maybealittlehigherthancenter.
WhenthetimecomesthatImustimpartthemysteriesoflifetomyson,whichIhavenodoubtheknows,Imustremembertoinformhimabouthair.Armedwithakindlywordforhair,hewillgoasfarashisconcupiscentlittleheartdesires.Imustwarnhim,however.Hemaykick,beat,drop,tousle,orbumpthem,buthemustnever—never—messtheirhair.Withthisknowledgehecanbeking.
TheBakerswerejustaheadofusgoingupthesteps,andwepasseddecorousgreetings."Ibelievewe’reseeingyouattea."
"Yes,indeed.AveryhappyEastertoyou."
"CanthatbeAllen?Howhe’sgrown.AndMaryEllen.Well,Ican’tkeeptrack—theyshootupso."
There’ssomethingverydearaboutachurchyougrewin.Iknoweverysecretcorner,secretodorofSt.Thomas’s.InthatfontIwaschristened,atthatrailconfirmed,inthatpewHawleyshavesatforGodknowshowlong,andthatisnofigureofspeech.ImusthavebeendeeplyprintedwiththesacrednessbecauseIremembereverydesecration,andtherewereplentyofthem.IthinkIcangotoeveryplacewheremyinitialsarescratchedwithanail.
