Page 106 of The Giver of Stars
‘Those are slanderous words, Patricia!’
‘So sue me, Geoffrey.’
Van Cleve’s skin flushed florid purple. ‘I’ve warned y’all! She’s a malign influence!’
‘You’re the only malign influence around here! Why do you think your daughter-in-law would rather live in a cowshed than share one more night in your house? What kind of man beats up on his son’s wife? And you stand there presenting yourself as some kind of moral arbiter. Why, the way wejudge the behaviour of men against women in this town is genuinely shocking.’
The crowd began to murmur.
‘What kind of woman kills a decent man with no provocation?’
‘This has nothing to do with McCullough and you know it. This is about getting back at a woman who showed you up for what you are!’
‘See, ladies and gentlemen? This is the true face of that so-called library. A coarsening of female discourse, behaviour contrary to what’s proper. Why, do you think it’s right that Mrs Brady should speak in such a way?’
The crowd surged forward, and was stopped abruptly by two gunshots in the air. There was a scream. People ducked, glancing around nervously. Sheriff Archer appeared in the back doorway to the jailhouse. He surveyed the crowd. ‘Now. I’ve been a patient man, but I do not want to hear one more word out here. The court will decide this case from tomorrow and due process will be followed. And if one more of you steps out of line you’ll be finding yourself in the jailhouse alongside Miss O’Hare. That goes for you too, Geoffrey, and you, Patricia. I’ll put any one of youse away. You hear me?’
‘We got a right to free speech!’ a man shouted.
‘You do. And I got a right to make sure you’re speaking it from one of my cells down there.’
The crowd began to yell again, the words ugly, the voices harsh and clamorous. Alice looked around her and began to tremble, chilled by the venom, the hate etched on faces she had previously waved a cheery good morning to. How could they turn on Margery like this? She felt something fearful and panicky rise in her chest, the energy of the crowd charging the air around her. And then she felt Kathleen nudge her, and saw that Izzy had stepped forward. As the protesters railed and chanted around her, pushing and jostling, she limped her way out in front of them, a little unsteady and resting on her stick, until she was underneath the cell window. And as everyone watched, Izzy Brady, who struggled to stand in front of an audience of five, turned to face the shifting crowd, looked around her, and took a deep breath. And she began to sing.
‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.’
She paused, took a breath, her eyes flickering around her.
‘When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.’
The crowd quieted, unsure at first what was going on, those at the back straining on tiptoe to see. A man catcalled and someone cursed him. Izzy stood, her hands clasped in front of her, shaking slightly, and sang out, her voice growing in strength and intensity.
‘Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.’
Mrs Brady, her back straightening, took two, three strides, pushed through the crowd and placed herself beside her daughter, her back against the outside of the jailhouse wall, and her chin lifted. As they sang together, Kathleen, then Beth and, finally, Sophia and Alice, their arms still linked, moved to stand beside them and lifted their voices, too, their heads up and their gaze steady, facing down the crowd. As the men shouted insults, their six voices grew in volume, drowning them out, determined and unafraid.
‘Come not in terrors, as the King of kings,
But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings,
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea –
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus abide with me.’
They sang until the crowd was silent, watched by Sheriff Archer. They sang, pressed shoulder to shoulder, hands reaching blindly for hands, their hearts beating fast but their voices steady. A handful of townspeople stepped forward and joined them – Mrs Beidecker, the gentleman from the feed shop, Jim Horner and his girls, their hands clasped together and their voices lifting, drowning the sounds of hate, feeling the resonance of each word, sending comfort, while trying to offer a little of that elusive substance to themselves.
A few inches away, on the other side of the wall, Margery O’Hare lay motionless on the bunk, her hair stuck to her face in damp tendrils, her skin pale and hot. She had lain there for almost four days now, her breasts aching, her arms empty in a way that made her feel as if someone had reached inside her and simply ripped out whatever kept her upright. What was there to stand up for now? To hope for, even? She was unnaturally still, her eyes closed, the rough hessian against her skin, listening only dimly to the crowd hurling abuse outside. Someone had managed to throw a stone through the window earlier and it had caught her leg, where a long scratch remained, livid with blood.
‘Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes,
