The girls of Cowikee’s were inside, making themselves ready. They applied makeup to their faces and sprayed perfume, primping themselves for a big night. Marigold watched them from the porch. She saw them through the windows. They were prettier than she was. They were more alive than she was. Sometimes she wished she were one of them. Their lives were so exciting, so free. But she was not like them. She was forever bound to her purpose in life. She was charged, somehow, with the task of being something altogether different.

She knelt before a washtub, scrubbing dishes with Helen. Abe sat beside them, whistling. He’d gotten good at making music with his mouth. He could whistle “Oh My Darling Clementine” and “Oh! Susanna,” and Marigold could even make out his melody.

“That’s good, Abe,” Helen said. “But how ’bout we try another song before we all go try to drown ourselves?”

“Like what, Mama?”

“Anything different will do,” said Marigold. “Try singing ‘The Crawdad Song.’”

“I don’t know that one.”

They sang it for him, and their weak voices made them laugh. They sounded like two Labradors with chest colds.

They were interrupted by the sounds of footsteps. Two men came walking the dirt path in the darkness. She could hear them before she could see them. Their feet crunched on the ground. She expected them to wander toward the front of Cowikee’s like all men did on Friday nights, but instead they approached the porch.

They were young men, with trim hair, wearing slacks, pressed shirts, and loosened neckties. These were not Cowikee’s customers.

“All business is up front,” said Marigold. “We don’t take customers unless they go through the front.”

The men exchanged uncomfortable glances. They walked toward her and placed a paper flyer on the porch. “We’re not here for that kind of business, ma’am.”

The paper had a drawing of a large circus tent on it. The words Holy Ghost Revival were printed in large letters, surrounded by crucifixes and angels. There was an illustration of a man with a square jaw and steel-rimmed glasses.

“Who’s this man?” she said.

“Why, you’ve never heard of Reverend J. Wilbur Chaplain?” one man said, glancing at his friend with big eyes. “He’s God’s man for our time.”

“Revival is coming to Alabama, miss,” said the short man. “It’s happening all around you. All the towns are getting ready for an outpouring that’s gonna set all paths straight and make the rocks cry out and the trees bow down, and stuff.”

“Outpouring?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. There’s a Holy Spirit revival just south of town tomorrow night.” The tall man handed her another flyer.

“‘Holy Ghost Revival,’” she read aloud. “‘E. P. Willard and His Full Gospel Troop,’ tomorrow night.”