“I can hardly blame you.” Anne accidentally snapped her Chiclet with her tongue and spat it out into the dregs of her vodka cran. “The Church has always been this way. Women are either held up to this impossible standard, this Madonna, this perfect, docile, weeping figure of complete subservience. Or we’re held in the same company as the whore with the heart of gold. Iniquitous, feeble women with the lone hope of our Savior. I hope you agree there’s more to women than that.”

“Of course there’s more to it—”

“We’re all born of women, right? All raised by women?”

“Ma’am, it’s late, and I’m not going to argue this for the sake of arguing.”

“Please, Father, you’re not a bishop yet. Sorry if I don’t kiss your ring.” Anne tried to convince herself that this was what Thomas More would say to rebuke Wolsey or insult Cromwell. “But I think you’re afraid of women and that’s why you deride them.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“The worst thing that happened to our Lord was he had twelve men for followers!”

“Good night, and please don’t ever—”

“I’m sorry, Father, I’m not trying to be rude,” Anne interrupted. That wasn’t true, but she wasn’t finished. “We’re not the enemy, Father. We’re the mothers of this Church and all its sons.”

“Thank you for your call. I will pray for you.”

“And I am praying for all our clergy to realize the respect women deserve.”

“No one is disagreeing with you. You are arguing with yourself.”

“So you agree I’m right? I’m not even coming with the hard stuff, Father. That if God made us equal, women should be allowed to be priests.”

“Ma’am . . .” Timmerman sounded tired, Anne thought.

“Focus your homilies on something besides this whole blame-your-spare-rib routine.”

“Good night.”

“Good night. Remember: we’re not all whores, Father—”

And he was gone. Anne Malone placed the pink Southwestern Bell Trimline receiver back in its cradle, like closing a plastic oyster. She stood and walked to the screen door and flicked on the back porch light, scattering a few crickets. She forced a self-satisfied smile and looked out on a veranda that was still a concrete-slab patio.

October 9

[ OCTOBER 9 ]

Mr. Oglesby marched into his classroom. Thumper, a long, narrow dowel, painted gray, with a rabbit’s foot chained to one end, marked his strides. He pulled his green-bottle-colored copy of Lord of the Flies from his army knapsack, found a nib of chalk, and wrote out the following line from Golding:

“‘Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!’”