Jackson, Mississippi, is not the hub of activity in the Southern States. Far from it. The cinema on Main Street is barely in working condition, and the only shopping market in the whole city is on the far edge of town, closer to the Riley plantation than anything else. I still like it, though. It's all I've ever known.

I pulled at my collar. The sun's rays seemed to beat persistently on my family's house…even at night, it peeked about the curve of the Earth, reached in my window, and scorched me. The tight cotton-and-wool Sunday clothes didn't help any.

"Mae Mobley Leefolt!"

My eyes flicked towards the door, locked, to my room. Lifting myself from my made bed, I hurried over and opened it. Rushing down the stairs, I had just seconds to smooth the front of my dress and pull up my limp stockings before my mother walked in.

"Hmph," she said. Mrs. Leefolt, as I often thought of her in my head, gazed at me critically. Although I was wearing the clothes she'd chosen for me, and had fixed up my hair in the way she always wanted me to, the tips of her mouth sagged in a disappointed frown. Never enough for Mrs. Leefolt; never enough.

"Nothing we can do about it now," she quipped haughtily. "But what Hilly will say, I just don't know…" she finished as she walked away.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. I didn't give a damn what Mrs. Hilly Holbrook thought. Mother's best friend was considered to be perhaps the most respectable housewife in Jackson, and so Hilly found herself in a comfortable enough position to look down on those who did not live up to her high expectations. Many husbands around town joked that Hilly liked to pretend she was the Supreme Court Justice, always judging other people (to the indignation and worry of their wives, who knew all too well that their friend knew everything)…but in her case, she had no legal right to.

Following Mrs. Leefolt out to the convertible, I felt a growing sense of dread. Church was hardly my cup of tea. Although I believed and prayed to God with a fierce piety that my mother deemed blasphemous (however ironic that sounded.) She'd say "That kind of devotion just ain't natural…you're hiding something from your mother and you think that the best way to keep quiet is by prayer. Believe you me, I see right through your act." And I'd put up with it. Because she was Mrs. Leefolt, and however dependent she was on Hilly Holbrook, she was not to be crossed.

"Hurry up now, Mae Mobley, Johnny," she called. I heard my brother rushing down the front steps to catch up with us.

Johnny was mama's boy, through and through. We had a spotty relationship, marred often by our parents' disputes. He always seemed to believe that mother, however idiotic she sounded, was in the right, and papa was the evilest thing there ever was. I, on the other hand, believed papa to be my saving grace—the only thing that kept me sane in a household of crazies.

He stuck his tongue out at me. Although the main source of our mutual dislike was our parents, we had our own troubles. Johnny constantly snooped in my room, probably searching for something incriminating to report to Mrs. Leefolt. I, on the other hand, annoyed him when he had his friends over. His friends constantly stared after me as if I was the first girl they'd ever laid their young, perverted eyes on. Honestly, fourteen-year-old boys were so prying. Johnny didn't like their attention towards me any more than I did, but had enough sense to keep his mouth shut when they were around. Seemed to think they'd spring to my defense.

"Real smooth, Johnny," I whispered, and he scowled. I was his irritating eighteen-year-old sister, and I was milking that title for all that it was worth. He scowled back at me, and I finished the walk to mother's convertible strutting.

"Stop walking like a chicken," scolded mother, and I immediately dropped the ridiculous swagger. Johnny sniggered behind me. Mrs. Leefolt took the driver's seat, Johnny, shotgun. We were to meet papa at Jackson's First Baptist, but he was showing up less and less, a source of constant anguish for my poor, poor mama. Seemed that she could only take religion in moderate doses—neither extreme suited her.

The ride to the church was quick—it was just up the road, and we could've walked. But Mrs. Leefolt insisted on driving about in her spanking-new car, because that's how all the other women of the city did it—and their actions were worthy of copying. Mother was a thrifty housewife—we were hardly as rich as Hilly or the bridge-group gang's high-end members…but Mrs. Leefolt found a way to flatter what we had with cheap extravagance. Her convertible was probably the only really expensive thing papa had indulged for her since the colored bathroom for the maids.

We parked in front of the church. Mother spotted Hilly's car and sped off to join her, instructing me to take Johnny to the family pew. With my little brother in tow, I entered the sacred house and sat myself down, pulling Johnny to the seat next to me.

Around us, various members of the First Baptist congregation filtered in, exchanging greetings with the pastor and each other. The women were dressed in the usual skirt-suits, large, flowery hats, and a strand of pearls, their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers donning Sunday blazers and khakis.

After the initial group sat in their seats, mother unhappy to be torn from Hilly's side, Pastor French held up his hands, for silence. His eyes were closed, and his whole body swayed with what seemed like preemptive holiness.

"Welcome, my congregation," he hummed.

"Welcome, pastor," we repeated as one. Johnny coughed. I kicked him. He kicked back.

"We are gathered to celebrate God's sacred day of rest, Sunday. The Lord's day. Join me in silent prayer to thank Him for His allotment of these twenty-four hours for our exploration of our own personal spirituality."

About me, eyes closed. As mine shut and my hands placed themselves together, palm-to-palm, I noticed Mrs. Leefolt's were wide open and staring straight at the altar-piece. Whatever type of religious devotion she required from the rest of her family, she seemed not to want to take part in.

Thank you, dear Lord, for the life you have breathed into me, and thank you for the many things you have given me. You have given me my family—my mother, unfaithful and nagging as she is, my brother, however nosy and hateful he is, and my papa, my good papa, for whom the sun shines in the day. Thank you for these gifts, and thank you for placing food on our table at night, thank you for the roof you have placed over our heads, thank you for the love I am able to feel towards my family, even when it seems most unlikely. Thank you, dear Lord. Amen.

I opened my eyes and looked up to Pastor French. His eyes were still shut and his lips moved, forming the words of his own noiseless prayer. When they opened, I felt that the whole world had just been reborn.

"Set down your hymn books, folks," called the pastor. "Our songs for this meeting are over, and so is are our Sunday church hours. You are all welcome to stay or go as you please, but I do have one last, important announcement."

The church-goers who had started to shift and lift themselves from the pews set their bottoms back down on the cold wood. I could almost smell the impatience rolling off of them in waves.

"I am afraid to say that I will be leaving this congregation," said Pastor French. A ripple of conversation flowed through the group, but almost immediately, silence returned. The pastor, leave? I thought. He'd leave us?

"It's not a matter of choice," he continued, as though he had read my thoughts, "As a few of my long-time followers are aware, this was not meant to be my permanent home. I am part of a rotating parish organization, and I have long since overstayed my initial welcome in the wonderful city of Jackson, Mississippi."

Groans and cries of complaint emanated from the congregation at large.

"But rest assured, I am not leaving this faithful group in bad hands. Pastor Gerald Smith will be leading this church from now on. Next Sunday, Easter Sunday, he will preach his first sermon. I hope my absence does not incite the subsequent departures of others…I, as your pastor, merely aided in your spiritual journey. I hope that you will extent to Pastor Smith every consideration and give him your full support. He is no novice, but he is new to this church. I wholly hope that this transition will be smooth and painless. I leave you in person, but my heart remains forever planted in the great fields of Mississippi!"

Cheers and shouts erupted from the group—the sad news had been quickly processed, I thought bitterly. Was no one else upset at Pastor French's removal from our church? I noticed Hilly Holbrook grinding her teeth across the aisle—surprised, I realized that this was probably the first time we'd ever thought alike in any situation of any magnitude, especially one of this importance.

"Leaving?" yelped Hilly. "Leaving Jackson First Baptist?"

"Seems like it," said Mrs. Leefolt quietly.

"Damn right it seems like it!" exclaimed mother's best friend. "I can't believe that two-faced pastor has the nerve to leave us behind. It's absolutely sacrilegious. I hope his license is revoked for this indecency," she huffed.

"Oh, Hilly, you don't really…"

"I do intend to make a fuss about this, Lizzy! He can't just up and leave! I'll be having a talk with the Lieutenant Governor, he'll be able to fix things up right and proper like they should," finished Hilly triumphantly.

"But this is a private church, the government doesn't control any religious sects, isn't that ri—"

"He's a man of power, Lizzy! That'll make all the difference. And you know, if Hilly Holbrook sets a mind to something…"

"She'll always get what she needs," finished mother, sighing. Sometimes I pitied her for having such an overpowering best friend. Other times I thought she well enough deserved it.

My mother and Hilly have been best friends since forever. That, I can tell. It's always been the two of them, fighting for whatever Hilly has "set a mind to" most recently. The two musketeers—the little engine that could, dragging along her caboose. Needless to say, mother's the caboose. Hilly always is a bit superior with her. But they've always been this close—always this inseparable. Nothing, nobody, has ever gotten in their way.

At least, that's what I thought, until I got the letter.