Chapter One: Humble Sundays

Dally's morning before church.

It was the Sunday morning before church and I was desperately trying to comb out my unruly blonde curls in front of my cracked full-body mirror. I hated my curls. My mama said they made me look like Dolly Parton, but Deborah had cornered me just last week to tell me I looked too unkept for the house of God. Mama didn't like Deborah much, but she wouldn't say it. It was the face she made whenever Deborah spoke, and the "bless her heart" she added whenever we left for home. Mama did like Dolly, though. Papa had final say on my name, Dallas- his home State,  but mama took the liberty of calling me Dally for as long as I can remember. She told me once she saw big blonde curls coming in, she couldn't help the nickname. We used to dance around the house to her music when we cleaned until papa decided she was too much of a bad influence. "Too Liberal," he would say with a judgmental glare as he drank is bud light. As Christians, we weren't supposed to judge or drink, but papa always said that Jesus had already died for his sins so it was okay. Still, sometimes I heard my mama hum  'Jolene'  while she cooked if papa was at work.

  "I love your voice, mama." I told her when I was still a toddler. She gave me a beaming smile in return. "Like mother, like daughter. You have a wonderful voice too, my angel."

  From then on, we would sing together every day as we did the household duties. I loved it. As I grew older and learned to harmonize with her, I felt truly connected to her in a way I never could feel with anyone else. Singing in church for God and our congregation filled my heart with glee, but never gave me that full joy of singing around the house with mama. Over the years, the skin under her ocean blue eyes began to droop and she looked more and more tired by the day. Her joyous singing turned to a hum as she went about her day in her beautiful green gowns, laced and embraided with pink flowers. One of which I was wearing that day. Still, if I ever belted out a note, mama would make a point of meeting me with a beaming smile and joining in on the melodies.

  "Carrie!" Papa's booming voice interrupted my pleasant memories. "Why is that girl taking so long?"

  The tapping of mama's feet sounded down the hall. My door flung open in seconds. Mama looked down at me just as I attempted to comb out one of my heftier curls, only for it to bounce back into place like it had never been touched. "Oh, Dally," mama said in her soft tone. "Is this because of what Deborah said last Sunday?" She took the comb from my hand and placed it on my nightstand. Embarrassed, my eyes turned to my feet.

 "I just wanna look good..."

"My dear," she lifted my chin. "You are beautiful. You are just the way God made you and that is perfect. Don't you worry about what Deborah says."

  Her voice was harmonic with a heavy southern twang, much like mine. Unlike mine, every word she spoke filled those around her with love and confidence. I loved that about her. Mama was the most admirable person I'd ever met. Not even the rainiest of days could dampen her smile.

 "Carrie!" Papa sounded even more agitated. 

"Let's get your slippers on, alright?" said mama. I nodded and followed her into the kitchen.

  Papa was leaning by the door, crushing a beer can in his hand before throwing it into the recycling bin. We kept our heads low, faces painted with smiles. We still had 40 minutes before even the choir members had to be there, but we knew not to argue with the leader of the household. The house was humble, but nice. Compared to most of the homes in Harts, Louisiana, it was darn glamorous. The kitchen was small and attached directly to the living room space. It was hosted two small bedrooms and one bathroom. Mama did her best to make it bright. The cabinets were painted bright yellow and a sky blue tablecloth painted with sunflowers draped the table. It gave the place the warmth it needed. In the livingroom, our clunky tv blared with entertainment news. A red banner flared across the screen. A boy band I knew only of from our church youth group danced on a stage like they were sliding on air. It was incredible to me. The group was put together without question to make the worldly teenage girls buy albums, but they were so popular the band had even seeped into my own little world of church and home.

If I was being honest with myself, I struggled not to listen to worldly music like my father wanted. Especially when my friend Anna would tell me of the incredible voices on the radio, like the boys I was currently seeing on television. They all looked so young... between 14 - 18 Anna told me. How amazing to be able to do all that, I thought. The lady reporting on the news seemed to be spouting something unsavory about them, but all I could feel was impressed. I couldn't imagine the talent it took. Even singing to the congregation gave me butterflies. Part of me wanted to learn more about all the musicians I'd barely heard of, with recognized faced but forgotten names, but I knew papa would never allow it so I didn't ask.

Papa noticed my eyes on the television screen. He walked over and shut off the screen. "That filth is of no use to the eyes of a young lady," he said. Only he was allowed to keep up to date with the on-goings of outer society; then he would report to us. Something about how a lady's mind must stay pure. 

"Yes, papa." I said, "sorry, papa."

Just then, the sound of our doorbell echoed through the house. "Who is that now?" Papa huffed as he answered the door. Light beamed through the doorway as it opened like a warm hug from the sun. Papa stood still. Standing on our doorstep was a tall, handsome boy. Short dark hair brought out his brown eyes and glowing smile. I knew him.

 Matthew Baker lived nearby and would often give me a smile. Occasionally, we would exchange words at youth group. Never often did we have any full conversations, but he was well respected in our community. Kind, considerate, and most important of all, walked firmly in the footsteps of Jesus Christ. He was a little older than me at 18, and I only 15, but his smile sometimes reminded me of mama's. 

  "Good morning, Eric...er... Sir." Matthew played with the cuff of his suit. He looked nervous. "I've come to ask your permission to court your daughter."

  My heart stopped. I hadn't thought any boy would be interested in courting me, with my big curly hair and internal attitude. Papa may not of known, but God knew that I needed to be more humble. Why would God send me a boy like Matthew? 

 My father waved his hand at me to come over. I knew not to hesitate when he gave an order. Nervously, I stepped to towards the doorway. My eyes darted between Matthew and my papa. My heart was beating against my chest like a drum. My stomach started to churn. Oh gosh... I still felt like a child. What would my father say?

  "Good morning, Dallas." Matthew gave me his friendly, inviting smile. "You look beautiful today."

  I felt my face flush red. Why did he have to say that?

  Papa pursed his lips. "What do you have to offer for her?"

  "Well, I... " Matthew looked taken aback. "I'm sorry, Sir, I don't think I know what you mean?"

  "I mean what I said. What do you have to offer?"

Matthew cleared his throat nervously, "I can promise her a life full of love, God, and children. I can take care of her and protect her. And if she chooses I am not her choice to marry, I will understand and remain a strong friend of the family. I can-"

"Not her," Papa snapped. Matthew's eyes widened with surprise. "Me," papa continued. "What is it you can offer me for her?"

  I took a step back. Papa sounded really agitated this morning, and it didn't seem Matthew helped that matter. Matthew stuttered a bit, "surely, sir, the well-being of your daughter is most important, is it not?" He spoke so much older than he was. It almost made me swoon as much as I worried it would anger papa to be questioned.

  Papa rolled his eyes and stepped passed him. "I would like you not to speak to my daughter until you can bring me a better offer. Girls, get in the car. We are going to be late now." I slipped on my nicest pair of white slippers and kept my head low as I walked past Matthew with my mother. As we piled into the blue rusted truck, my father lit a cigarettes. Mama rolled down the windows. Papa shifted the vehicle in reverse, leaving Matthew staring baffled at us on the front porch.