Page 43 of The Witch's Orchard
“Yes,” I say.
He opens his mouth to say something, then stops and shuts it, sighs through his nose.
“I wanted to ask you about that time. I understand the Andrews family attended services here.”
“That’s right. Janice Andrews was raised in this church.”
“You knew her that long?”
“I came along in ’81. She was a child at the time. Her family were dedicated parishioners.”
“And her husband?”
He gives a noncommittal shrug and we both watch the proceedings in the basement for a minute. A gangly man with a big smile and a threadbare gi instructs the kids, showing them the movements for a new kata. The kids follow along, stepping when he steps and arranging their arms like his.
“Greg was a biology teacher,” Bob says, still watching the class.
“Does that preclude a person from spiritual belief?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Not at all.”
And that’s the end of that.
We watch as the karate teacher swipes his hand and forearm through the air like a sword. The kids follow.
“How well do you know Mandy and Tommy Hoyle?”
“Not well at all. I’ve seen them around, that’s about it. I believe Mrs. Hoyle has used our food bank before, perhaps the Christmas present fund.”
“And Kathleen Jacobs and her husband, Olivia’s family?”
He sighs through his nose again. Longer this time. He’s still looking in the direction of the karate kids, but that’s not where his brain is. His eyes take on a defensive sadness.
“Yes,” he says. “Kathleen and Arnie both attended until a few years ago.”
There’s a long pause while he chews on the inside of his cheek. I wait it out.
Eventually he says, “Olivia’s uncle is the sheriff, you know.”
“I do.”
“We tried to help Olivia.”
“How so?”
“We laid on hands. The whole church, when she was little. Her parents brought her in and asked us to pray for her and so we did. We sent up our prayers to the Lord but…”
“No change,” I say.
He shakes his head.
“Were you expecting one?”
His eyes swivel down to me now, and they go narrow like he’s trying to read a map but the print’s too small. Eventually he gives up, looks away again. Doesn’t bother answering my question.
“Jessica Hoyle was taken from this church,” I say, hoping to catch him off guard.
“From the playground by the parking lot,” he corrects, without missing a beat. “She’s still in our prayers.”
