“Just wanted the hurt to stop,” he whispered so low I wasn’t sure he actually admitted it. He coughed. “It’s so dark . . .”

I helped him to his feet and over to the front pew. When he said nothing else and my heart settled down to a manageable gallop, I focused on hiding what had just transpired —placing the overturned stool by the piano, coiling the heavy rope and tossing it out the door with the intention of burning it later, and sweeping up the splinters of wood scattered on the altar and floor.

Breathless from Pa’s botched hanging and the rush to hide it, I plopped on the pew beside him. We both focused on the damaged wood beam overhead for a long spell. A lot of time went by with Pa regarding the beam in such a defeated manner, shoulders hunched, mouth in a harsh frown, that I began to grow restless and worried if he was figuring out how to give it another go.

“You can’t, Pa. You can’t do that again.”

On a long sigh that ended with a raspy chuckle, Pa rubbed the side of his neck and winced. He quickly dropped his hand, giving away how bruised he really was. I felt quite bruised too.

“Yeah, you’re right. Guess that answered my question.”

Scared to look at him, I studied the scratches in the floor. “What question?”

“The beam is weak.”

Ya think? Of course it would be too weak to hold the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound man trying to dangle from it. My sarcastic remark remained trapped behind my clenched jaw.

Sighing, my gaze flicked to the buckled chunk of wood. It now had fingers and was barely managing to grasp on to some semblance of the solid structure it once was. Sneaking a glance at the man sitting beside me from the corner of my eye, I didn’t miss the ironic similarities to him and the busted beam.

“Why were you wondering about the beam at one in the morning?”

Pa’s thick eyebrows puckered as he sought out the small clock by the piano, apparently having no clue to the time. The man just seemed to have no clue, period, as of late. “I . . .” He scanned the sanctuary and stopped on the giant magnolia wreath propped against the wall, pointing at it with a shaky finger. “I wanted to surprise Charlotte by hanging that up.” He offered the excuse as if it made perfect sense. It was, after all, a skill we’d all perfected —hiding behind the pretending and excuses.

I gave up on getting a straight answer and turned my attention to his neck. He was holding it at an odd angle, clueing me in on it hurting him pretty badly. The rope burns were getting angrier and purple splotches were blooming all the way up to the scruff of his beard.

“Do I need to take you to the ER?”